“As a boy he was touched by the Lords. We all knew it,” snapped Ce’Aret. “Never did this prince demonstrate any gift of his family. He killed without mercy and did not care if the victim was Zhid or Dar’Nethi or Dulcé.”

“And where was it the beastly child finally found some affinity?” asked Ustele. “With our brother Dassine who had just returned from three years-three years!-in Zhev’Na. Dassine, the only Dar’Nethi ever to return from captivity. Dassine, who then proclaimed wild theories that contradicted all our beliefs, saying that our determination to fight the Lords and their minions was somehow misguided, that training our Prince in warfare was an ‘aberration.’ And when he could not convince us to follow his way of weakness, of surrender, he took the Heir and hid him away. What more perfect plot could there be than for the Lords of Zhev’Na to corrupt our Prince?”

The others talked and shouted all at once: denials, affirmations, and accusations of treason.

“Impossible!” shouted Exeget, silencing them all. “D’Natheil has done that for which we have prayed for eight hundred years! The Gates are open. He has walked the Bridge, healed the damage done by the Lords and the chaos of the Breach. We have felt life flow between the worlds. He has foiled the plots of the Lords that would have destroyed the Bridge. All we ask is to understand it. His duty is to lead us to the final defeat of the Lords of Zhev’Na and their demon Zhid. We only want to hear how and when that will come about.”

I couldn’t understand why Exeget was defending me. Their arguments had me half convinced.

“We’ve all heard the rumors of what passed in the other world,” said Ce’Aret. “That D’Natheil allowed three Zhid warriors to live, claiming to have returned their souls to them. That the only ones slain in that battle were the loyal Dulcé Baglos and a noble swordsman from the other world. Has anyone seen these Zhid who were healed? Was D’Natheil successful? Perhaps the victory at the Gate resulted from the sacrifice of another of the Exiles and not D’Natheil at all. Perhaps the Prince failed at his real task-his traitorous task-of destroying the Bridge.”

The accusation hung in the air like smoke on a windless day. Gar’Dena’s broad face was colorless, his eyes shocked. “Tell them these things are not true, my lord,” he said softly. Exeget spread his arms wide, waiting for my answer. Madyalar’s face was like stone. Even Y’Dan’s head popped up. They were all waiting…

Permit no questioning. Keep silent. Dassine stood just behind me. Though his fury beat upon my back like the summer sun, he held his tongue. No one spoke aloud. Yet from every one of the Preceptors came a similar pressure, the throbbing power that was so much more than spoken anger or demanding trust, the battering insistence that I speak, that I explain, that I condemn myself with truth or expose myself with lies or justify the faith some held in the blood that filled my veins. These seven were the most powerful of all Dar’Nethi sorcerers. I felt myself crumbling like the wall of a besieged citadel. I had to end it.

“Master Exeget, I’ll not explain myself to you…” I began, wrapping my arms about my chest as if they might keep me from flying apart.

“You see!” said Ce’Aret, shaking her finger at me. “Dassine has made us a tyrant!”

“… until I have completed my time of recovery with Master Dassine. Then I will appear before the Preceptorate to be examined. If you find that I am indeed who I claim to be, and you judge me worthy of my heritage, then I will serve you as I have sworn to do, following the Way of the Dar’Nethi as holy Vasrin has freed us to do. If you find me wanting in truth or honor or ability, then you may do with me as you will.”

Dassine exploded. “My lord, they have no right! You are the anointed Heir of D’Arnath!”

I turned on him, summoning my convictions as a flimsy shield against his wrath. “They have every right, Dassine. They-and you are one of them-are my people, and I will have only trust between us.”

I believed what I said, and though it might have been wise to press the point with Gar’Dena and Madyalar and even Y’Dan, I had no strength to argue. I had to get out of that room. “I cannot say how long until I am recovered fully. I ask you all to be patient with me and to tell… my people… to be of good heart. Now, I bid you good morning.” I turned my back on them and fled.

The Dulcé opened the door for me. I believed I saw a glint of humor in his almond-shaped eyes. Unable to shuffle my bare feet fast enough to suit me, I made my way along the route we had come. The stark simplicity of my little cell welcomed me-the barren stone that offered no variation to the eye, that kept the air quiet and stable and blocked out the clamoring questions that had followed me down the passage. My only evidence that I fell onto the bed before going to sleep was that I was in the bed that afternoon when Dassine roused me to begin our work again.