Carol Berg - The Bridge of D'Arnath 4 - Daughter of Ancients

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DAUGHTER OF ANCIENTS

Front Cover

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DAUGHTER OF ANCIENTS

Gerick was stolen away as a child by the evil Lords of Zhev, who sought to make him

one of them. Years later, he seeks refuge in a strange, sunless land of outcasts—but he

still fears the dark power of the Lords' dying curse and returns to Avonar only when he

is forced to by tragic family business.

In Avonar, Gerick is asked to investigate a woman who stumbled out of the desert—the

ancient king DArnath's own daughter, held captive by the Lords of Zhev'Na for a

thousand years...or so she claims. Gerick's tormented past with Zhev'Na proves vital as

he attempts to discover whether this mysterious woman is truly free of their evil taint.

But as he comes to know the charismatic D'Sanya, Gerick believes he has at last found a

woman who can understand him and what he suffered at the hands of the Lords.

Entangled in bonds of love, family, and secrecy, Gerick attempts to unravel the

mysteries of ancient kings, ancient evil—and the dreadful truth of his own destiny.

Praise for the Bridge of D'Arnath novels

"Gripping....The Characterizations are altogether superior."

—Booklist

"Suspenseful...will keep you up long past your bedtime."

—The Davis Enterprise

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DAUGHTER OF ANCIENTS

Other books by Carol Berg

The Rai-Kirah series

TRANSFORMATION

REVELATION

RESTORATION

SONG OF THE BEAST

The Bridge of D'Arnath series

SON OF AVONAR

GUARDIANS OF THE KEEP

THE SOUL WEAVER

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DAUGHTER OF ANCIENTS

DAUGHTER

OF ANCIENTS

Book Four of

The Bridge of D'Arnath

CAROL BERG

ROC

logo

A ROC BOOK

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DAUGHTER OF ANCIENTS
 
Contents
PROLOGUE 
 
1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10  11  12  13  14  15  16  17  18  19  20 
 
21  22  23  24  25  26  27  28  29  30  31  32  33  34  35  36  37  38  39 
 
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DAUGHTER OF ANCIENTS

It's time to acknowledge all those who have helped me bring Seri, Karon, and Gerick to

life. First and foremost, Linda, the eternally patient listener and perceptive questioner,

Pete, who told me all the right things and consulted on myriad technical issues, and

Andrew, who asked the magical question, "Have you written any more of that story,

Mom?" Then there are the Word Weavers old and new for being my extra eyes, Markus

the Fighter Guy and his henchwoman Laurey and henchman Bob for assistance with

combat, and Susan and Di for additional horse lore. Much appreciation to the New York

crew, as well: Lucienne Diver, Laura Anne Gilman, and Anne Sowards. And roses all

around for my faithful readers all over the world, especially the Roundtable and the

Warrior group. You, too, are family, and your enthusiasm and encouragement brighten

every day.

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DAUGHTER OF ANCIENTS

PROLOGUE

J'Savan stared, unblinking, at the dark blotch moving slowly across the dune sea, out

where fingers of green grass were reaching into the desert. The young Gardener stared,

not so much because he was concerned or felt any urgency about his assignment to

watch for Zhid stragglers; after all, no Zhid had been sighted in southern Eidolon for

almost two years. But he knew that if he so much as lowered one eyelid, the utter

boredom of his post was going to put him to sleep. A man could appreciate only so

much of the burnt copper sun and the heady scent of moisture, and the cool storm clouds

the Weather Workers sent out from the Vales ensured that the blustering wind never

ceased. The reawakening desert was beauty transcendent, life reasserting itself over the

dead lands of Ce Uroth. But enough was enough.

He squinted into the western brightness. The blotch was likely a wild goat or perhaps a

lame gazelle—too slow and erratic for a healthy one. At worst it was a scavenger wolf.

The creature disappeared behind a dune, reappeared, vanished again.

J'Savan yawned and stretched out on his back, propping his head on his rucksack. The

grassy dune underneath him was warm and comfortable, the day pleasant, but he would

have preferred to get back to his regular duties of digging, planting, and coaxing the

earth to do his will. He enjoyed his work. Even better would be an early start to his

coming leave days and his planned visit to the charming young Singer he'd met at his

aunt's house before the autumn's turning. Her waist was plump, her laugh as musical as

the patter of spring rain, her spirit tart and flavorful like new-cut limes. Yawning again,

he lowered his chin to rest on his chest, closed his eyes, and envisioned her breasts . . .

soft . . . curving above the neckline of her gown like a sweet sunrise . . . flushed . . .

warm . . .

"Kibbazi teeth!" he yelled, as a fiery sting on his neck startled his drooping eyelids

open. "Who are you? What do you think you're . . . wait . . ."

He scrabbled his feet for a moment, but fell still at once when a few warm droplets

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DAUGHTER OF ANCIENTS

dribbled down his neck from the sharp edge pressed against his throat. A filthy, ragged

woman of indeterminate age hunched over him, rifling his pockets with one hand while

threatening his heart vein with the other. A scavenger . . . but no wolf.

She wrenched the small leather tool packet from his belt, sniffed it, and threw it aside,

then yanked his rucksack out from under his head. She needed both hands to untie the

leather thong that held the sack closed. J'Savan used the opportunity to scramble away,

backing up the reclaimed dune like a nervous spider until he was out of her reach.

She didn't seem afraid of him, now she had his things. Greasy tendrils of hair hid her

face as she ripped the sack open and pulled out the stone water flask. After yanking the

stopper, she cradled the flask in trembling hands and took a sip, no more than a taste.

She moaned faintly.

"You can have it all," said J'Savan, peering at her anxiously, desperate to see her eyes.

No matter how much he would rather run away, he had to discover if she was Zhid. He

was responsible for his fellow Gardeners' safety, for the camp . . . Summoning power,

he shaped a simple enchantment of confusion and delay, holding it at the front of his

mind lest she attack again.

The woman set the stoppered flask aside and rummaged in the rucksack. She stuffed a

crumbling biscuit into her mouth, and after it the bruised pear J'Savan had decided not to

eat earlier as he didn't like them so ripe. Only after she'd consumed every morsel,

thrown down the empty rucksack, and taken a second sip from the flask did she seem to

remember the young Dar'Nethi. She stood up slowly, clutching the water flask in one

hand and her knife—a crudely worked strip of bronze—in the other.

She was tall for a woman, so thin that her sunburnt skin stretched over her bones like

silk across the spars of a sailing ship. Sand caked her arms, her bare feet, and her legs

that stuck out from her stained, shapeless gray tunic. A dirty cloth bag the size of a

man's fist hung from a thong around her neck. She moved toward the Gardener.

J'Savan backed away slowly. "Who are you? Show me your face. I can get you more

water and food, but I'll defend myself if need be. I don't mind what you took . . ." His

tongue would not be still, as if chattering might set her at ease—or maybe it was for

himself. She was so mysterious, so intense. ". . . or where you've come from. I can help.

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DAUGHTER OF ANCIENTS

Find you clothes. Are you hurt? Are you . . . ?"

She stepped closer, using the hand with the knife to push the salt-stiffened locks of hair

from her face, and J'Savan's voice dwindled away. Her eyes might have been windows

on the sky. Huge, blue, limitless. So young, much younger than he'd thought, no older

than himself. Her cracked lips moved slightly.

"What? Sorry, I couldn't— What did you say?"

"Regiri. S'a nide regire." Her soft voice was as dry as the rocky wastes.

She was clearly Dar'Nethi, not one of the warrior Zhid or their Drudge workers. Her

eyes said it all. Yet she was not a Dar'Nethi slave, freed by the victory over the Lords,

for she wore no collar nor the wide terrible scar from one. Perhaps a Dar'Nethi fighter,

lost in the last battles? Surely not. Not after five long years. And her language was

unfamiliar, some corrupt dialect, just on the verge of understandable.

"Regire. Desene, s'a nide regire." Even rough with thirst, her voice was commanding,

urgent.

"I'm sorry. I don't understand you. Look, come with me to the camp. There's water—all

you could want— and food. Not a quarter of an hour's walk from here. We'll help you.

Find someone who can understand what you're saying." Never quite turning his back on

her, he beckoned, using gestures to guide her toward the Gardeners' camp. He breathed

easier when she trudged after him, her steps weary and slow, as if she didn't believe he

could help, but had nothing better to do.

It was difficult not to run ahead. No one would believe this, someone wandering out of

the wasteland after so long. Rumor had it that Zhid still lurked in the jagged mountains

of Namphis Rein, the Lion's Teeth, far to the north. But in these first years after the fall

of the Lords, the Zhid had been aimless and leaderless. Everyone believed that those not

captured were long dead. Was this woman even real?

Quickly J'Savan turned and swept his mind over the woman. Her lank hair had fallen

down again, masking her marvelous eyes. But she was no illusion. He sensed no

enchantment about her at all.

When the woman squatted down and began pawing at the sand in the middle of the

rootling grove, J'Savan averted his gaze, embarrassed to keep staring at her when she

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DAUGHTER OF ANCIENTS

clearly needed privacy. He walked through the slender trees more slowly for a few

moments, until he heard her plodding along behind him again.

The other Gardeners spotted them while they were still five hundred paces from the

camp. Three women and two men stood up from the mounds of dark earth they were

working and shaded their eyes. A gust of wind snatched away their calls of greeting.

"Eu'Vian!" shouted J'Savan. "This woman's come out of the Wastes. She's starving and

parched. Sun-touched, I think." He ran toward his comrades in fits and starts, slowing

whenever he glanced over his shoulder to make sure the woman hadn't vanished, then

speeding up again.

A sturdy, capable-looking woman in a dusty yellow tunic and brown trousers stepped

out from the other Gardeners and extended her palms to the stranger.

"Welcome, wanderer," said the gray-haired Eu'Vian. "How may we help you?"

"Be careful!" said J'Savan. "She's not Zhid, but she's fierce. Those stains on her

tunic . . ." He hadn't noticed the rust-colored blotches earlier. His neck hadn't bled that

much.

The woman pushed her straggling hair aside and looked from one kind, curious face to

the next. "S'a nide, regiré."

"That's all she's come out with," J'Savan said. "I can't understand her speech."

Eu'Vian crinkled her brow, but did not lower her voice. "It's just an ancient mode. She's

asking to be taken to the regiré, the king."

"But—"

"Hush, lad." Eu'Vian's face fell into puzzled sympathy.

The warm wind fluttered the strange woman's rags and the wide hems of Eu'Vian's

sandy trousers as the Head Gardener spoke haltingly with the woman. At the end of their

brief exchange, the stranger dropped the water flask and bronze knife to the grass,

closed her eyes, and clenched her fists to her breast. "Regiré morda. . . D'Arnath

morda. ..." She sank slowly to her knees and began a low, soft keening.

"I told her we have no king in Avonar, that we honor D'Arnath so deeply that no

successor has taken any greater title than his Heir," said Eu'Vian quietly. "Then she

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DAUGHTEROFANCIENTSFrontCoverfile:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Berg,%20Carol%20-%20Bridg...h%2004%20-%20Daugh\ter%20of%20Ancients%20(v1.0).html(1of455)22-12-200620:36:19DAUGHTEROFANCIENTSGerickwasstolenawayasachildbytheevilLordsofZhev,whosought\tomakehimoneofthem.Yearslater,heseeksrefugeinastrange,sunlesslan...

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