Carol Berg - The Bridge of D'Arnath 2 - Guardians of the Keep

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GUARDIANS OF THE KEEP

Book Two of The Bridge of D’Arnath

CAROL BERG

ISBN 0-451-46000-6

For the boys. And you thought the garage was tough. . . .

The builders did bow before the castle lord and say to him that his fortress was complete. But the lord

declared the castle not yet strong enough, for his enemies were powerful and many. And so the lord

commanded the builders to set an iron ring into the stone on the battlements at each compass point of the

keep, and he chose his four strongest warriors to sanctify his fortress with their lives. One of the four was

chained to each of the rings and charged to watch for marauders who might appear from any point along

the sweeping horizon. At every hour the watch bells were rung to ensure the warriors did not sleep, and

none were allowed to speak to them lest they be distracted from their duty. Through burning autumn and

into bitter winter the four stood watch, allowed no shelter, no comfort, and no respite, believing that their

faithfulness and honor would protect their lord’s stronghold long after their eyes and ears had failed. And

when they died, they were left in place until their dust had filtered into the stones and mortar. They were

called the Guardians of the Keep and are said to protect it still, and the symbol of the Four Guardian

Rings is the shield of Comigor. Indeed, the four must have been potent warriors, for never in six hundred

years has Comigor fallen to its enemies.

The History and Legends of Comigor Castle

CHAPTER 1

Seri

My driver rang the bell for the third time. No doubt the castle was in mourning. Black banners flew

from the squat towers alongside the duke’s pennon. And the severe facade of the keep’s entry tower,

broken only by the tall, narrow glass windows near its crown, was draped with myrtle branches, wound

and tied with black crepe. But for all the activity I could see, one might think the entire household dead

instead of just the lord.

At last, almost a quarter of an hour after we’d driven through the unguarded outer gates, one of the

massive doors was dragged open. A red-faced under-housemaid carrying a water pitcher on her

shoulder gestured frantically and disappeared into the house, leaving the door ajar.

Renald hurried back across the courtyard to the carriage, scratching his head. “The girl says you’re to

go right up to her mistress’ rooms. She didn’t even wait to hear my introduction.”

“How could they know I was coming today?” Not waiting for Renald’s hand, I jumped from the

carriage and directed him to the kitchen wing where he might get refreshment and perhaps a bit of gossip.

I ran up the broad steps. Thirteen years since I’d been banished from this house—

A blood-chilling wail from the upper floor precluded reminiscing, as well as any puzzling over the lack

of proper guards at the gates of a wealthy house with a newly dead lord. Hurrying across the tiled floor

of the entry tower and up the grand staircase, I followed the commotion through a set of double doors at

the end of the passage and into a grand bedchamber.

The chamber, larger and airier than most of the dark rooms in the old keep, had once been my

mother’s. But only the location was recognizable. The graceful, Vallorean-style furnishings had been

replaced by bulky, thick-topped tables of dark wood, ornate gilt chairs, and carved benches of a lumpish

design with thin velvet cushions added for “comfort.” The bedstead sat on a raised platform, bedposts

reaching all the way to the plastered ceiling. Heavy red draperies hung at the windows, blocking the

bright sun and soft air of the autumn morning, and a fire roared in the hearth, making the room dim, stuffy,

and nauseatingly hot.

The place was in chaos. A gray-haired woman in black satin hovered near the bed, waving

ineffectually at a host of chambermaids in black dresses and winged white caps. The girls ran hither and

yon with basins and towels, pillows and smelling salts, while from behind the gold-tasseled bed-curtains,

the screams faded into whining complaints punctuated by great snuffles.

The gray-haired woman regarded me with dismay. “Well, where is the physician, then?”

“I know nothing of any physician. I’ve come to wait upon the duchess and the young duke. What’s

the difficulty here?”

Another wail rose from the bed.

“You’re not with the physician?” The woman spoke as if she were sure I was mistaken or as if

somehow it were my fault that I was not the person expected.

“No. But perhaps I could be of some help.”

“Has Ren Wesley come, Auntie?” came the voice from the bed. “Truly, I cannot get a breath.”

If breathing were the problem, I thought a clever application of the damper at the hearth and a brief

wrestling match with the iron casements might improve the patient’s health considerably.

“It’s a stranger, my pet. Walked in bold as a thief. Says she’s here to see you and the young duke,

but she’s not with the physician.” The black-clad woman wagged a bony finger at me. “You’ve no

business here, young woman. Leave or I shall call the guards.”

“I’ll die before he comes, Auntie. I shall expire with only you and the servants and this thief to attend

me. I shall die here in this wretched house and what will become of Gerick, then?”

The old woman poked her head between the bed-curtains. “Now, now, child. It is quite possible you

will die, but you will have me beside you every moment.”

“Where is the damnable physician? And where is that cursed Delsy who was to bring me brandy?”

I made my way through the fluttering maids to the side of the bed and peered over the old woman’s

shoulder. She was dabbing a towel on the brow of a round-faced young woman, whose fluffy white bed

gown made her look like a great hen, roosting in a nest of pillows so large an entire flock of geese must

have sacrificed their feathers for them. Long fair hair was piled atop her head; teasing curls and wisps

floated about her pink, tear-streaked cheeks. I saw nothing to explain the mortal predictions I’d heard,

though the thin red coverlet couldn’t hide the fact that my sister-in-law was most assuredly with child. I

doubted Tomas had even known.

I nudged the bed-curtain open a little wider. “Excuse my intruding unannounced, Philomena. When I

heard your call, I came up straightaway. May I offer assistance?”

“Moon of Jerrat!” The young woman removed the handkerchief and stared at me with her great green

eyes, all present agonies seemingly forgotten in shock and recognition. My brother and I had resembled

each other closely. And she’d seen me often enough.

My long estrangement from my brother Tomas had never allowed me to become acquainted with his

wife. Only in my ten years of exile after my husband’s execution, when I was forced to appear once each

year before the king and his courtiers to renew the parole that spared my life, had I met her face to face.

Each year during that ritual humiliation, my giggling sister-in-law had used the public questioning to pose

the most vulgar and intimate queries.

I reminded myself that I had not come to Comigor for Philomena, only for the boy. “I sent word,” I

said. “I promised Tomas I’d come. Are you ill?”

“Who is this woman, child?” asked the woman in black, scowling at me. “What kind of impudent

person disturbs a poor widow so near death from her travail?”

“Well, I’m no thief and assuredly no stranger to this house,” I said. And the invalid looked nowhere

near death, though I didn’t insult either of the ladies by saying so.

Philomena poked out her rosy lower lip. Her tears flowed freely, though exactly what sentiments

induced them remained a question. “Tomas said he’d never lose a match, that I’d never be left alone in

this vile place. Bad enough he was forever away, but at least he would take me to Montevial in the

winter. And now I’m so ill, and it’s just as well I should die, for by the time this is over, it will be almost

spring. I shall be fat and ugly and everyone at court will have forgotten me. Curse him forever!”

With every shuddering sob Philomena set the twittering chambermaids aflutter like a flock of birds

disturbed by a prowling cat.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” said the old woman, patting Philomena’s coverlet. “You must calm yourself or

the child will be disfigured, even if you should manage to bring it alive this time.”

Philomena howled. Half the maids wailed in unison with their mistress.

Neither affection nor sympathy persuaded me to take charge of the sickroom, but only purest

pragmatism. If I couldn’t speak with Philomena in a rational manner, then I couldn’t discharge my

obligation and get on with my life.

It was my duty—and my wish—to tell Tomas’s wife and son how he had died with the honor befitting

the Duke of Comigor, the Champion of Leire, the finest swordsman in the Four Realms. No matter now

that he had never been intended to survive the battle that took his life, that he had been a pawn in a much

larger game than the challenge of some petty chieftain to his king. No matter that his hand was fouled with

the blood of those I most loved. In the end, set free of his madness, he had asked my forgiveness, and his

last thoughts had been of his son. I had promised him I would tell the boy of his regard. In some way I

did not yet fully understand, the enchantments that had corrupted my brother’s life had been my

responsibility, and I liked to think that fulfilling his last wish might in some measure repay him for what had

been done to him.

“Look here, madam,” I said to the old woman, drawing her away from the bed, “this excitement is

doing your niece no good. And you yourself look exhausted. I’m a relation of the late duke—family, just

as you are—and I’d be happy to look after Her Grace while you take a rest. For her sake, you must

take care of yourself, must you not? Take you to your room for an hour. I promise to call you at the

slightest difficulty.”

“Why I could never— Who do you—?”

I caught the arm of a passing maid and ordered her to escort Philomena’s aunt to her chamber, seat

herself outside it, and wait upon the lady’s every whim. I then commanded the hovering attendants out of

the room, sending one to make broth to be brought only at my call, another to polish all the glassware in

the house in case the physician was to need it, and one to count the clean linen for when it might be

wanted. Only one quiet girl called Nancy did I keep with me. I asked Nancy to hang up my cloak, open

a window, and keep everyone out of the room so her mistress could rest. Then I pulled up a chair to the

side of the huge bed and waited.

It was not surprising that my sister-in-law was difficult. Her father was the Chancellor of Leire. A

political marriage that obliged her to live in a place as removed from court as Comigor would seem like

slow death for a pampered young woman reared amid the royal intrigues and scandals of Montevial.

After a brief interval of steadily decreasing moaning, Philomena took a shaking breath and looked

about. “Where is everyone?” She sniffed and blinked.

“I told them that their highest duty was to serve you, and that they’d serve you best by giving you

room to breathe. Now tell me what’s the matter. You’re not giving birth, nor look even close to it.”

Philomena wailed again. The serving girl jumped up from her seat by the door, but I waved her away.

I folded my hands in my lap.

The wail ended with a hiccup. The duchess dabbed her eyes. “It’s dreadful. If I’d not lost the others,

you see . . . The physician tells me I must stay abed or I’ll lose this one, too. To suffer such wicked

travail and have them all dead, save for Gerick, of course, my darling . . . though he’s not quite as

affectionate as one might want, nor at all interested in the things he should be, and such a vile temper . . .

The physician Ren Wesley tells me to stay abed, so Aunt Verally says he must think that I will die, too.

Then today I wake with such awful pain in my back that I know the end must be near.”

“Ah. I understand now. How many have you lost, then?”

“Two. Both stillborn.” I handed her an embroidered handkerchief from a stack of them beside the

bed. She blew her nose.

“It’s a terrible thing to lose a child at birth.”

Philomena glanced up quickly, as if it had just occurred to her who was sitting at her bedside. She

pulled the red satin coverlet tightly to her chin.

“I mean you no harm, Philomena. What Tomas did wasn’t entirely his fault. Certainly, I hold neither

you nor your son responsible.”

Months ago, even before Tomas was free from his corrupting blindness, he had begged me to return

to Comigor, hoping that I could protect his child from some unnamable evil. I had refused him then. I had

seen no reason to heed my brother’s fears when my brother had watched my husband tortured and

burned alive for being born a sorcerer. I had seen no reason why I should care for my brother’s child

when my brother’s knife had slit my own newborn son’s throat, lest he inherit his gentle father’s magical

gifts. How had Tomas reconciled what he had done? Madness, enchantment—I had to believe that. It

was the only way I could forgive him.

She averted her gaze. “Tomas’s men brought your message when they brought the news that he was

dead. I thought you were trying to make me afraid.”

“Let’s not speak of those things now. If the physician has sent you to bed, then I’m sure it’s for the

child’s health, and not because of any danger to your own. If your back hurts, perhaps it’s because you

have so many pillows so awkwardly arranged.” I reached around her and pulled about half of them

away, straightening the others so she could change position without being smothered. I had Nancy bring

a warmed towel, which I rolled into a firm cylinder and inserted behind Philomena’s back.

“Oh! That’s marvelously better.”

“Good. Nancy can replace the towel whenever you wish. Now you should rest. When you’re awake

again, I’ll tell you and your son what I’ve come to tell you of Tomas.”

“It won’t bring him back,” said Philomena, settling into her nest and yawning.

“No,” I said, feeling guilty at the joyous anticipation that prickled the boundaries of my skin. Ten

years after his horrific death, my husband had indeed been brought back to life, a mystery and a marvel I

could not yet fully comprehend. Only a few months had passed since Midsummer’s Day, when a

sorcerer prince with a damaged memory had intruded on my life. Only a few weeks had passed since the

day I realized that somehow Karon lived again within that prince, and a sorcerer named Dassine had

confirmed my guess. At the end of that day, when the two of them had walked through the fiery Gate of

D’Arnath’s Bridge and vanished, Karon could not yet remember either his own life or that of D’Natheil,

the Prince of Avonar, in whose body he now existed. But Dassine had assured me that Karon’s recovery

was only a matter of time and work and sorcery. He would come back. He would know me again.

Sighing deeply, Philomena dropped off to sleep. To look on her drew me back to the lingering grief

that even such a miracle as Karon’s life could not allay. Philomena had a living son.

Appointing Nancy to guard the bedchamber, I wandered out into the passage and gazed from the top

of the stairs into the great echoing well of the entry tower. Hazy beams of sunlight poured through the tall,

narrow windows. This tower was young by the standards of Comigor history, but Tomas and I had

found it marvelous as children. The giant black and gray slate squares of the floor tiles had been a

magnificent venue for a hundred games. Our favorite was chess, and we were forever coaxing servants,

visitors, dogs, and cats into our games as living chess pieces. When the light was just right, the thick,

leaded panes of the high windows would transform the sunbeams into a rainbow. I would sit at the top of

the stair and let my imagination sail up the shafts of red and blue and violet to places far beyond the lonely

countryside of my home.

At no time in all my girlhood dreaming had I ever imagined anything resembling the strange courses of

my life, or the mysteries of a universe that was so much larger than I had been taught. Wonder enough

that I had married a sorcerer, reviled as evil incarnate by the priests and people of the Four Realms. But

in these past months I had learned that another world existed beyond the one we knew—a world called

Gondai, embroiled in a long and terrible war, a world of sorcerers, the world of my husband’s people,

though he and his ancestors, exiled in this most unmagical of realms, had forgotten it.

Lost in reminiscence, I made my way down the stairs. Just off the entry tower, near the bottom of the

stair, was my father’s library, one of my favorite rooms in the house. I laid my hand on the brass handle

of the library door. . . .

“Now just hold there a moment, young woman,” spoke a crusty, quavering voice from behind me. A

familiar voice. “Might I ask who you are and what business you have in the duke’s library, much less

ordering the servants about like you was mistress here?”

I smiled as I spun about to face her. “Was I not always the one to get my way, Nellia?”

The elderly woman was propped up on a walking stick, but she came near toppling over backward in

surprise. “Seriana! May the gods strike me blind and dumb if it not be my darling girl . . . after so long

and so dark a road . . . oh my . . .” She fumbled at her pockets.

I caught hold of her and guided her to a leather-covered bench. “I was beginning to doubt there was

any familiar face to be found here, but if I were to choose one to see, it would be yours. It makes me

think the place must be properly run after all.”

“Oh, child, what a blessing it is to see you. There’s none but me left that you’d know, to be sure. The

mistress”— the word was dressed with scorn enough to tell me the old woman’s opinion of Tomas’s

wife—“brought mostly her own people from the city. She was of a mind to dismiss us all. But His Grace,

your brother, wouldn’t allow her to send me away, nor John Hay nor Bets Sweeney, the sewing woman.

But you can see as things are sadly out of sorts. The new girls care only for the mistress and her things.

John Hay died two years ago, and Bets is pensioned off to live with her daughter in Graysteve, so I’m all

as is left. Little worth in me neither. But these eyes is good enough to see my little sprite come home

when I never thought she would.”

She patted my knee and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “Shall I have one of the girls open

up your room? I’ve kept it set to rights in hopes you and your brother might make it up between you. We

never believed what was said about you. Great wickedness we were told, but I knew my little Seri could

no more do a great wickedness than she could eat a frog. The master wouldn’t speak of it. And

mistress—well, she has little good to say of anybody— and so’s Bets and John Hay and myself would

never credit ought she said of you.” Quite breathless, Nellia stopped. Waiting, perhaps. . . .

The tales she’d heard of me were likely quite wicked— treason, heresy, consorting with sorcerers

and all the evils attendant on such sordid association—crimes that would have cost my life had my

brother not been the boyhood friend and sword champion of the King of Leire.

I wrapped my arm about her bony shoulders. “You mustn’t worry about anything you’ve heard. It

was all a terrible misunderstanding. And I appreciate so much that you’ve cared for my things, but I’m

not to stay. I’ve only come to speak to Philomena and her son. I was with Tomas when he died, and all

was well between us at the last.”

Nellia’s pink-rimmed eyes filled with tears. “I’m glad to hear it. He was always a prideful boy, and

the same as a man. Never learned to bend. Came by most everything as was his desire, but he’d no

peace from it. Broke my heart it did, who knew him from a babe, to see him so high, but troubled so

sore.”

“But his son—he spoke of him with great affection. Surely the boy brought him happiness.”

The old woman frowned and shook her head. “You’ve not met the young master, then?”

“No. I’ve been here only half an hour.”

“It’s right to say the duke—may holy Annadis write his name—took pride in the boy and had great

hopes for him, but he’s not an easy child.”

“Tomas and I weren’t easy either.”

The old lady chuckled. “No. Easy was ne’er a word used in the servants’ hall about either of you, but

this one . . . Well, you must meet him.” She glanced up and wrinkled her brow. “Shall I find out where he

is?”

“I think it would be prudent if we were introduced in Lady Philomena’s presence.” I desired no

personal relationship with the boy.

“That mightn’t be easy. He’s not one to sit at his mother’s knee or—” She broke off and waved a

hand. “Ach, I’m too free. You must be perishing thirsty, and hungry, too, I’d guess. Shall I have a tray

brought to the library?”

“That would be marvelous. And it would be kind if you would send someone to your mistress’s room

to tell Nancy where I can be found. I’d like to know when the duchess wakes.”

“Done, my dearie.” Nellia wiped her eyes once more, patted my hands, and hobbled away.

My father’s library was almost the same as I remembered it—leather chairs, dark woods, and

ceiling-high shelves stuffed with leather-bound books and rolled manuscripts. On the end wall farthest

from the hearth was his giant map of the Four Realms: our own Leire colored in red, subject kingdoms

Valleor in blue, Kerotea in brown, and the ever-rebellious Iskeran in yellow. And yet a great deal of dust

lay about, along with a general air of neglect. The tables and desks had seen no oil or polish; the brass

lamps were tarnished; and my father would have threatened to behead the hapless servant who had

allowed the bindings of his books to crack or his priceless maps to curl in their display.

My father had been, first and foremost, a warrior. For twenty years he had fought his sovereign’s

battles with skill and pride, always with more notches on his sword than his most grizzled veterans. But

even more than fighting and glory, he had relished strategy and tactics, the marvelous interplay of soldier

and general. Though not a scholarly man, he had accumulated a library of military history and philosophy

unrivaled even at the University in Yurevan. He had collected maps, too, of all known lands and seas,

ranging from ancient, primitive brushstrokes on silk or parchment that would crumble at a whisper to the

most detailed, modern charts made by King Gevron’s military cartographers.

But long before the books and maps held any fascination for Tomas and me, we were drawn to the

library by the contents of two glass-fronted display cases. The treasure inside was a wonder unknown in

any other house of our acquaintance—hundreds of miniature soldiers, cast in such perfect detail that you

could read the expressions on their tiny lead faces and distinguish the individual links in their chain mail.

Foot soldiers and cavalry, knights and flag bearers, trumpeters and generals, heralds and kings were

crafted in every possible position. There were horses, too: battle chargers rearing, racing, wheeling, and

beasts of burden laden with water casks the size of a thumb or pulling tiny baggage wagons. Along with a

miniature flotilla, awaiting a young admiral’s command, were armaments enough for a nation of

finger-sized warriors.

Sometimes we would find the diminutive hosts deployed upon the maps of some ancient battlefield,

poised to relive a day of blood and glory. Sometimes they were arrayed on the long, polished library

tables as our father considered a new plan for smiting the enemies of Leire. But we couldn’t touch the

armies if they were in use, so our delight was to find them captive in their velvet-lined cases. Then had we

released the leaden hordes and devised our own games.

The soldiers were the first thing I looked for in the library. To my delight, the cabinets were just as I

had last seen them, flanking my grandfather’s suit of plate armor. One cabinet held an army painted silver

and blue, and the other a host of red and gold. I pulled open the door and reached for a silver

swordsman and a horse caparisoned in blue, but passed them by when I saw the silver king, his sword

still raised in royal majesty and his crown still bent from the days when Tomas and I would forever fight

over him. Beside him was his herald, blowing an invisible trumpet, his instrument lost when Tomas sat on

him in the dining room to hide from our father his terrible crime of removing a piece from the library.

“You’re not to touch them!”

I turned in surprise, still holding the silent herald, and glimpsed the shadow of someone sitting in the

window seat, all but his boots obscured by green velvet draperies.

“But they do no good, sitting so quietly in their case. They are meant to be out and about, defending

their king from his enemies, are they not? No soldier hides in his encampment forever.”

“You needn’t speak to me as if I were five.”

“I had no such intent. I just believe that it’s a shame when any things so fine as these soldiers are left

idle. Someone ought to use them, whether to give military insights or just for the pure pleasure of playing

with them.”

“No one plays with them.”

“More’s the pity,” I said.

“Who are you?”

“When your mother is awake, we can be properly introduced.”

“One of her friends. I might have known. Are you here to steal something from us?”

“It’s not my habit. Have there been a rash of thefts in the neighborhood, that everyone here seems to

suspect a stranger of thieving?” I drifted to my left, trying to get a glimpse of the boy in the niche, but the

glare from the window behind him left him in shadow.

“Why else would anyone come here?”

“To visit your mother?”

“No one enjoys visiting her. And now she’s a widow. Not worth knowing.”

“To visit you, then?”

“I can grant no favors yet.” How old was this child?

“Then perhaps to visit this marvelous house and the beauteous lands of the north?”

“No one—”

“No one would consider them marvelous or beautiful? I’ll not dispute your assessment of your mother

or even of yourself, but I will argue with any attempt to discount the attractions of Comigor Keep. Once

you’ve held one of the Guardian Rings and imagined what it was like to be chained there for months on

end with everyone you valued depending on your faithful watch, or hidden in the secret room in the north

tower and watched the colors of the hills and sky change or the lightning dance across the roof as a

summer thunderstorm rolls through . . . Well, I’ll hold it up to you for marvels any day of any week. But

for now, I’ll leave you to your business. Excuse me for intruding.”

Without waiting for a response, I left the library, narrowly avoiding a collision with a young footman

who bore a tray loaded with jam pots, butter, and steaming oatcakes. “I’ve changed my mind,” I said.

“I’ll sit in the music room. Leave the door ajar, if you please, so I can see if anyone looks for me in the

library.”

The footman set the tray on a low table, and I sat where I could see the library door. After only a few

moments I saw a thin face peep out of the carved double doors that led to the library.

Tomas had said his son had our looks. There was no disputing that. The boy could have been his

father as a child or a masculine version of myself at ten or eleven. Deep brown eyes, too large for the

immature face, a body gangly and bony, already starting to get his height. Shining hair that waved about

Carol Berg - The Bridge of D'Arnath 2 - Guardians of the Keep

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