Daughter of Ancients by Carol Berg Read Free Book Online

with which he practices our Art.”
    â€œNothing could reassure me so well,” I said. “But you must call him Karon now. He no longer answers to your late prince’s name.”
    T’Laven dragged a green-cushioned bench up beside my chair. “Now, lady, if you would please tell me the course of his illness. I see how heavily it lies on him, and I would not rouse him from Prince Ven’Dar’s enchantment just to tell me what another might report as well.”
    The Healer shook his head gravely when I finished my description of the past three months. “So long . . . unfortunate . . .”
    â€œI understand the cost of the delay, Master T’Laven, and I’ll not hold you to account for the workings of fate any more than a Dar’Nethi would do.”
    â€œI’ll do everything I can for him, madam.”
    As T’Laven stood up and unpacked a small silver knife and a strip of white linen from a leather case attached to his belt, Gerick at last took his hands from his eyes, unfolded himself from the floor, and came to stand behind my chair. The Healer bowed and extended his palms, his expression politely neutral.
    â€œT’Laven, may I introduce our son Gerick. Gerick, this is T’Laven, a Healer sent by Ven’Dar.”
    I could not see Gerick’s expression or whether he offered any greeting in return. The Lords had taught him that the Dar’Nethi were greedy, conniving, and cowardly, unworthy of the great talents they hoarded and constrained. His only experience of the Dar’Nethi beyond his father and Kellea had been as the master of Dar’Nethi slaves during his cruel childhood in Zhev’Na and as their reviled prisoner in Avonar. Knowing that half the population of Avonar would put a spear through his heart and the remainder recoil in horror at the first hint of his identity, one could not expect him to have endearing thoughts of his father’s people . . . his own people.
    â€œIf my father falters while you do this work”—Gerick’s words were soft and cool—“give me a sign. I can sustain him. I don’t think it will interfere with you.”
    T’Laven’s sharp gaze told me how dearly he wished to ask how Gerick might do such a thing, but no note in Gerick’s chilly offer invited him to make the query.
    So the Healer nodded and turned back to Karon. T’Laven made an incision in Karon’s arm and his own, and bound the wounds together to mingle their blood. Whispering the Healer’s invocation, he stripped away the barriers of Ven’Dar’s winding and created his link into Karon’s mind and body. Karon stirred restlessly but did not open his eyes.
    The evening birds whistled and chittered in the flowered grotto just outside the tall windows. As the daylight faded, Aimee returned. With a touch of her finger, she caused an ivory globe painted with delicate brushstrokes of green to cast a soft light across the expanse of floor. Paulo accompanied her, carrying in a tray laden with a crystal carafe of water, three stemmed glasses, a pewter pitcher, and several mugs. He set the tray quietly on a small table, filled a mug from the pewter pitcher, and gave it to Gerick.
    As Aimee drew Paulo out of the room once again, whispering of a light supper for later in the evening, Gerick sat on a footstool beside my chair and took my hand. Callused with his work in the Bounded, scarred by his years in Zhev’Na, his strong hand unraveled the knots inside me. After a while he closed his eyes. Frown lines about his eyes told me he was not asleep.
    More than an hour later, a pale T’Laven, his narrow face glazed with a sheen of sweat and his skin showing the transparent aspect of a Dar’Nethi Healer who has expended every scrap of his gathered power, untied the strip of linen that bound his scarred arm to Karon’s. I knew better than to question him right away. He had lived with Karon’s