Free Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath by Carol Berg Page B

time or why he has two lives when others
    have only one.”
    “So he does not yet know he was dead?”
    “No.”
    “And he does not remember me or our son?”
    “He has not ‘met’ you in his past as yet. Nor has he yet confronted the decision that caused his
    execution—the decision that abandoned your child and your friends to death and you to humiliation and
    exile. My aim is to restore the man that made that decision, not to change him into someone else whose
    choice might have suited you better. Can you leave aside your feelings about those events as you speak
    to him?”
    His gaze was penetrating, and as unrelenting as his harsh words. When he had been arrested, Karon
    had chosen not to use his power to save himself or the rest of us, believing that use of sorcery to injure
    others—even his captors—was a fundamental violation of the healing gift he had been given, sacrilege.
    Anger and bitterness at his choice had blighted my life for ten years. “My feelings about his decision are
    unchanged, Dassine, but neither would I change the heart that made it. I’ll wait until he is whole again to
    resolve our disagreement.”
    Though his eyes lingered on my face, the sorcerer jerked his head in satisfaction. “Understand that he
    also remembers nothing of the events of last summer or your journey together. They will need to be
    relived in their turn. He is, to put it mildly, in a state of confusion, a most delicate state which you must do
    nothing to upset. This is really not a good time to bring him. Not at all.” Clearly, this argument with
    himself was not a new dispute.
    “Then why did you?”
    Dassine sighed and leaned his chin on his white cane. “I know you think me cruel to have imprisoned
    Karon’s soul for so long, and wicked to have arranged D’Natheil’s mortal injury. And so I may be.
    What I do with him now is painful and exhausting as well. Every memory I give him must live again. Every
    sensation, every emotion, every sound, every smell . . . the experiences of days or months compressed
    into a few hours until his senses are raw. I press him hard, for though we have this interval that he won for
    us by his actions at the Gate, I don’t know how long it will last. ”
    “Your war is not ended, then?”
    “The assaults on Avonar have ceased—a blessing, of course. But our peace is uneasy and
    unaccustomed. No one knows quite what to do. The people of Avonar rejoice that the Heir of D’Arnath
    lives, and they know that he was somehow changed by his journey here in the summer and his victory at
    the Bridge, but they’ve not yet seen him. He has managed to put off the Preceptors with a brief audience,
    but their patience is wearing thin. And the Lords of Zhev’Na . . . our enemies, too, wait . . . and we do
    not know for what. I must use this time to bring back our Heir to lead us.” Dassine rapped his stick on
    the frozen ground as if some Zhid warrior were hiding under the snow. A rabbit scuttered out from under
    the bench and paused under a fallen trellis, twitching indignantly. “But I’ve no wish to kill him. He needs
    an hour’s respite . . . and someone other than his taskmaster to share it with.”
    “What must I do?” I said.
    “Follow my instructions precisely. Say nothing of your acquaintance and marriage. Nothing of your
    friends. Nothing—absolutely nothing—of his death. They are not his memories yet, and to mention them
    could do irreparable harm. If he speaks of himself—either self—then let him. As far as he knows, you
    are a friend of mine and know his history, but have met him only this year.”
    “Then what can I say to him?”
    “Be a friend to him. Ease him. You were his friend before you were his wife. Now go. He thinks I’m
    here to consult an old ally, but, in truth, I’m tired and plan to take a nap.”
    Before I could ask even one of my hundred questions, Dassine leaned back, closed his eyes, and
    vanished. There was nothing to do but walk toward