Paths of Alir (A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book 3)

by Melissa McPhail

  Malin led them to an alcove beneath one of the high, stained-glass windows along the west wall. Felix looked up to see rainwater running in rivulets down the panes. For a moment he envied it such escape.

  A wielder’s lamp illuminated two armchairs and a reading desk piled with notebooks. “So this is where you’ve been spending all your time?”

  Malin gave him a telling look. In the lamp’s pale glow, the haunted darkness in his gaze seemed even more brutal. “Let’s eat. I’m famished.”

  “Yeah, so you mentioned.”

  Felix sat and pulled out several bundles from his satchel. It was everything he could scrounge from Evans’ dining room without drawing undue attention. Malin fell to eating with the fervor of the condemned, drawing a smile in true from Felix. For a little while he felt like things were almost back to normal between them.

  As he was munching on a leg of chicken, Malin stared at Felix’s Devoveré ring. Felix followed his gaze to the thin gold band, which gleamed like a ray of sunlight twined around his pointer finger. A closer look would reveal the faint etchings of patterns that bound the ring to Felix’s life pattern. The ring would never fit another person, and he was the only one who could remove it from his finger.

  Malin frowned. “Felix…you’ve made a stanza segreta, haven’t you?”

  Felix nearly choked on his bread.

  Malin lowered his rather gnawed chicken leg to regard him seriously. “I know you must. Traveling twisted nodes? Already Devoveré with your ring at fifteen? Come on—admit it. You’ve made your coach.”

  No secret was more taboo among second-stranders than a stanza segreta, otherwise knows as a coach. Never mind that any Nodefinder worth his salt made one as soon as he could master the necessary skill. Coaches were Nodefinder’s lore and better left to myth—if you’d made one, you certainly didn’t confess to it. Epiphany forbid some na’turna bureaucrat actually believed a Nodefinder could pin a leis to his own life pattern and start poking around into what a coach could be used for.

  Felix glared at him. “You’re a bastard for asking me.”

  The darkness in Malin’s gaze faded slightly, and his lips curved in a smile. “I knew it. You really are a prodigy, aren’t you?”

  “Bloody Sanctos on a stake.” Felix kicked at him. “Tell me what this is all about and get it over with already.”

  Malin rubbed his Maritus bracelet, absently turning the heavy links in a circle around his wrist. Felix recognized the habit—not so long ago he’d worn the same bracelet. His wrist still felt empty without it.

  “Do you ever wonder who you were before?” Malin glanced up at Felix from beneath his brows. “I mean, if you could figure it out—what if you were someone famous, like Arion Tavestra?”

  “Tavestra was fifth-strand.”

  “But you know what I mean.”

  “No, I really don’t.”

  Malin lifted his chicken leg to his mouth, then lowered it again, his expression pensive. “Do you think Adepts ever remember their past lives after they Awaken? If we’re always reborn to the same strand…you’d think something of what we knew would come back eventually.”

  “So what if it did?”

  Malin gave him a long, unreadable look. “Well…that would explain prodigies like you, wouldn’t it?”

  “Not really.”

  “No—think about it, Felix. If we’re always reborn to the same strand, it follows that we’d keep the same variant traits.”

  “No one knows why certain Adepts are born with variant traits. That’s why they’re called variant traits.”

  “That’s not exactly true, Felix.” Malin waved an arm nebulously toward the stacks looming like mountains in the gloom. “There’s centuries of research on variant traits. Back in Cyrenaic times, the Quorum of the Sixth Truth devoted themselves wholly to the study of those with the ability to see patterns. They were all fifth-strand adepts with that particular variant trait.” He seemed to finally remember his chicken and pried off a crusty bite, which he then chewed thoughtfully. “You know…you’d probably have learned much of this yourself if you spent more time in study and less time trying to get noosed traveling forbidden nodes.”

  “Like the ones I took to get here tonight?” Felix retorted. He leaned back in his chair and eyed Malin irritably. “Is this what you’re doing your Devoveré thesis on—variant traits?”

  Malin frowned. “Well…it’s where I started. But then…” He cast Felix a fretful look. “Well, it’s just…then I found this.” He pulled a large bundle from beneath the stack of notebooks and laid it on Felix’s lap. It was unnaturally heavy.

  Casting Malin a wary look, Felix unwrapped the dark cloth to reveal a leather-bound book. It looked old. Really old. Like the Sobra I’ternin old. Intricate patterns covered the heavy leather binding, while the gilt-edged vellum pages had that particular gleam only acquired after centuries of sitting on a pedestal. Felix noticed that if he looked hard at any one pattern on the cover, his eyes started playing tricks on him, making the patterns seem to twist in painful ways.

  Felix’s hand slipped inside his shirt, and his fingers absently rubbed the Sanctos amulets he wore, bearing the effigies of his ancestors. Since the day he’d been born, Felix had worn the long-nosed effigy of Sanctos Frangelica, his many-times great aunt who’d died of a broken heart, and whom his mother, in her infinite wisdom, had decided would be the best ancestor to watch over him. He’d also personally chosen the Sanctos of his great-great-great-grandfather Dominico, who’d died fighting pirates. In Felix’s estimation, the only thing more awe-inspiring than to die fighting pirates was to live to talk about it.

  Still…he doubted even the sanctified spirits of his ancestors could protect him from the thing resting on his lap. The longer he stared at the patterns, the more they seemed to move.

  He lifted a daggered glare back to Malin. “What by the Sanctos is this thing and why do you have it?”

  Malin had that haunted look again—the one he’d been wearing around for the past fortnight like a death’s head brand on his forehead. He visibly swallowed. “It’s one of the books of the Qhorith’quitara.”

  “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  Malin looked immensely culpable. “The Qhorith’quitara are the apocryphal books taken from the Sobra scriptures.”

  Felix started in his chair. He felt suddenly like the book was burning a hole in his lap. “The Lost Books of the Sobra I’ternin—are you insane?” He hastily rewrapped the bundle and shoved it at the older boy. “Put it back wherever it came from!”

  Malin took the book and rested it on his knees. “I will, Felix. It’s just…” His brow furrowed as he looked down at the cover. “I found something in it…”

  “Bloody Sanctos on a stake, of course you did!” Felix stood and walked to the edge of the circle of lamplight. He felt like the book was sucking all the air out of his lungs. Pushing a hand through his hair, he turned to stare at his friend. “How’d you even get it, for Epiphany’s sake?”

  Malin looked tormented. “Maestro Greaves allowed me to look at a section of it for my thesis research. He told me to look at only that section and then replace the volume on its shelf, but I…hid the book instead and took it with me when I left.”

  “Malin!”

  “I only wanted to look through a little more of it. Maestro Greaves is always talking about the apocryphal books of the Sobra. You know…the ones they’re ashamed of…or afraid of. I never expected to find…what I found.”

  Felix’s curiosity finally pushed its head out of the sand. “Which was what, exactly?”

  Malin’s expression rivaled that of an innocent man walking to his own hanging. “You’ll never believe it, Felix—Lord and the Lady, I don’t believe it. I’m sure the maestros won’t believe it. But I know I’m right, Felix.” He dropped his voice to a bare whisper and leaned closer. “There’s someone extremely dangerous here at the Sormitáge, a man who’s not who he says he is, and I’ve been so—”r />
  They both heard the footfalls in the same moment. Felix spun even as Malin stood up from his chair. They exchanged a silent look of alarm.

  Felix’s expression asked a desperate, What do we do?

  Malin set the book down on his chair. “Stay here and keep out of sight.” He bravely straightened his shoulders and headed off in the direction of the noise.

  Felix lingered, plagued with indecision. On the one hand, Malin being caught in the restricted section of the Archives would get him a slap on the wrist, while Felix’s presence would not only likely result in expulsion from the Sormitáge but would also raise a host of unwelcome questions as to how he got there to begin with. Myriad resulting scenarios washed through his mind, each leaving a stain of bloody consequences.

  Still…

  What if the thing walking nearby wasn’t just a literato out for an evening stroll among the horrid stacks? What if it was some kind of gruesome vampire who liked to feast on the flesh of Adepts too stupid to realize that the literatos knew something they didn’t? What then? Was he to let Malin face the undead alone and not even get to see him being decapitated and his brains sucked out?

  At this thought, the malady which possesses all Nodefinders—that being an innate lack of good judgment and common sense—kicked in, and Felix set off after his friend.

  He could just make out Malin’s dim form about eight stacks down as the latter turned between the shelves. Soon a man’s voice floated out of the darkness. Then came Malin’s murmured reply, urgent but low.

  Suddenly a feeling of foreboding broke like a wave over Felix.

  He sprinted down the corridor, stacks flashing by. Reaching the row where Malin had turned, he grabbed the edge of the massive bookshelf for stability and slung around the edge, only to stagger to a halt.

  The row stood empty.

  Four

  “Eat a live toad first thing in the morning and nothing worse can happen to you for the rest of the day.”

  – The Hearthwitch’s Handbook

  Perhaps Phaedor had cast a spell upon the boy, or perhaps it was merely due to the needs of a growing lad who’d had an incredible day of discovery, but Tanis slept soundly all through the night.

  And as the glow of dawn gilded his lids, the dream came…

  “Tanis love,” his mother said. She touched him gently upon the shoulder.

  He opened his eyes to see her standing above him. She wore a gown of blue, and her long hair was caught in a loose plait seeded with tiny pearls. The soft tip of it tickled his skin as she bent over him. Her smile held the grace of divinity in his estimation, and in her colorless eyes he found all of the stars of the sky. She brushed her hand across his forehead and hair. “Welcome home, my darling son.”

  Tanis wanted to reach out to her, but he felt a great weight pressing him into the bed. Even as she said the words she began to fade, still smiling so lovingly upon him, until he could see the patterns in the silk paneling on the wall behind her. One pattern glowed brightly beneath a long shaft of sunlight.

  Then her image faded completely…

  And Tanis woke. He opened his eyes to the light of dawn feeling warmth suffusing him, body and mind. Yawning prodigiously, the lad sat up and rubbed his eyes and looked blearily around. A rose-gold hue tinged the air, hinting at a brilliant day on Agasan’s Caladrian Coast. He noticed then that a fire had been lit in his hearth and a morning tea service left upon a round table. The zanthyr had spoken the literal truth: morning had come, and the villa staff with it.

  Still tingling from the dream of his mother, Tanis looked back to where she’d been standing in his dream and—

  He blinked. Then he blinked a few more times. Funny, but that same pattern looked like it really was glowing. He rubbed his eyes and stared harder, but the vision remained.

  Tanis threw off the covers and walked to the wall. He paid particular notice that time to the hundreds of patterns that decorated the silk panels of his room. They were formed of delicate silver, hand-painted on a field of cerulean blue, and each pattern had its own unique design, though all were about the size of his palm. As he drew nearer to the pattern of interest that morning, Tanis realized it really was glowing. His heart started beating faster, and a sudden anticipation hummed through him.

  Wondering what it could be, he reached a hand and touched the silk…

  “Hello, Tanis love,” said his mother.

  Tanis spun around.

  She stood in the middle of the room.

  “No, my darling son, I’m not really here,” she said, not quite looking at him. “What you see is but a working of the fourth strand, the illusion of my presence. Breathe now,” she advised, smiling gently, “calm your heart. This vision shall not evaporate so quickly as your dream just now.”

  Tanis stared at her image with his heart thudding in his ears. He thought of sitting down—for his knees felt like noodles and he was suddenly burning up—but nothing stood nearby to collapse upon. So he rubbed uneasily at one eye and watched the apparition in the middle of the room with a nervous feeling in his stomach.

  She looked completely real.

  From the way her sun-streaked hair shimmered in the morning light like dark honey, to the faint flush upon her cheeks, right on down to the silver charm strung on a delicate chain around her neck. “Come,” she said, holding out a hand. “Let us sit together, and I’ll explain.”

  Sure he must still be dreaming, Tanis walked to the bed and took a seat, and she came over to sit beside him. Even up close, she looked utterly corporeal—Tanis almost reached out to touch her.

  Illusion…

  He knew it was true, for though she sat beside him, she caused no indentation in the mattress. The lad gazed in awe. The fourth strand of elae compelled the energy of thought and therefore could be wielded to form illusions, but having seen only the illusions crafted by Master o’Reith, Tanis had no idea they could feel so real—that every sense could be fooled into believing in that reality.

  “Now then,” his mother said brightly, “I have attempted to anticipate some of your inevitable questions. I apologize, my love, if I do not answer them all here today. All knowledge must be gained in its proper order and time, lest it be misunderstood, misconstrued or otherwise misevaluated. So I beseech your patience and give you my promise that one day you will gain a fuller understanding of not only the events of your own life, my dearest son, but also of the path that lies ahead.” She seemed to be looking directly at him, her starry eyes so brilliantly complex and lovely in their strangeness. “Do I have your agreement then?”

  Clearly his mother was waiting for a reply. It made no sense to Tanis how any of this was happening. Surely they couldn’t have a conversation…could they? Still, what else could he do but answer, “Yes, my lady,” in a tiny voice full of awe.

  She smiled, and the room filled with radiance. “Let us proceed then with some preliminary questions that one need not be a seer to envision.” She seemed to place a hand upon his own. His heart jumped, but then it fell because he hadn’t actually felt her touch.

  With this, she stood and walked towards the windows. The silk taffeta of her elegant blue gown rustled softly with each step. “First,” she began, “I would have you understand that you are my son.” She turned him a look over her slender shoulder, and her gaze conveyed her deep and unwavering love. “That another woman raised you was necessary for reasons I cannot yet explain, but you remain my son and your father’s heir. This is why you were never allowed to take another family’s name.”

  With a throat gone dry, Tanis nodded, though he knew his mother couldn’t see him.

  “Second, I cannot promise that we will meet again,” and she turned away from him at this. “Many days and nights will have passed before you receive this message. But I believe, my darling…and I trust.” She stopped beside the east-facing doors and turned to him with the sunlight streaming in behind her. In that moment, Tanis imagined he’d never seen anyone so beautiful as his mother. “F
aith is a powerful propellant, Tanis love. Never fail to use it as an agent toward your aims.”

  Standing sideways by the mullioned doors, she seemed to brush aside the curtains, though they were already open. The long fingers of her left hand played about the charm on her necklace as she gazed out at the sea. “Now then,” she said, “we come to the reason for our reunion. You will hopefully have learned much already of our craft, but there are things only I can teach you. This is the purpose of the lessons to follow.”

  She blessed him with a smile, and then she vanished.

  Tanis sucked in his breath in a half-audible gasp. “No!” Suddenly heartsick and desperate to understand what had happened, he spun around looking for her elsewhere in the room. “Where’s the rest?” She’d spoken of lessons, but then she’d disappeared.

  He jumped off the bed and ran back to the first pattern, but it appeared as ordinary now as any other. Tanis tried pressing on it, slapping at it, alternately tapping it with both hands, beating at it with his fist…but nothing happened. He wasn’t sure what had triggered the first illusion and had no idea how to get it back.

  He thought of running down the hall to find Phaedor and asking him about the illusions and how to bring them back, but what if he left and his mother returned? Besides, the idea of facing the zanthyr, with his scrutinizing gaze and inevitable piercing questions, was too disheartening.

  Tanis sat for a while on his bed wishing the pattern would come back to life, but eventually he grew cold and decided he’d rather do something than sit there feeling glum. So he half-heartedly threw on a robe and washed his face and drank a cup of tea, which was oddly still steaming though it had clearly been sitting there since before dawn. He felt slightly cheered by the idea that his mother’s home might hold other magical things…like teapots that stayed warm all through the day, but it was only a reluctant interest. Finally, Tanis sank down on the edge of his bed again and tried not to feel so dismayed.