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

by Melissa McPhail

  As Tanis gazed upon the mare, a furious sense of loss accosted him. For something to have defiled such a majestic creature…it felt so very wrong.

  “I found her here,” Dional told Phaedor.

  The zanthyr knelt next to the mare and placed his hand on her bloodstained neck. She snorted at his touch and tried to lift her head.

  Fury, fear and grief all intermingled with the halted breath in Tanis’s chest.

  “Was it a boar did it, my lord?” Kendir asked.

  “Not likely.” Dional looked grim.

  “You know what did this deed, Huntmaster,” the zanthyr murmured without removing his eyes from the mare’s. He stroked her neck, and Tanis somehow knew the Healer in him searched her wounds for answers.

  “Then it’s as I feared: a drogue wolf.” Dional spat in the dirt and ground his boot over the mark.

  “The mountain wolves have never ventured into this valley before.” Kendir’s voice sounded strained.

  “The dome sings too loudly,” Phaedor said by way of agreement. “Only a crazed thing, half out of its mind already, would stay within the arc.”

  Dional cast the zanthyr a tense look. His thoughts were loud, and Tanis imagined the words must be ready to come, but something stayed his tongue so that only his thoughts shouted, A rabid drogue wolf on the prowl. Lady of the Rivers help us all.

  Seeming equally disturbed by the same unspoken conclusion, Kendir cast a predatory eye around the forest and fidgeted with the longbow slung across his chest, clearly itching to use it.

  “Come, Tanis.” Phaedor waved him over while still holding the dying mare’s lambent gaze.

  Tanis slid awkwardly down the embankment and knelt at his side, whereupon the zanthyr murmured, “Place your hand on my shoulder and follow my thoughts. See how we trace this deed to its source.”

  The zanthyr had never before offered to share his mind with Tanis. Made somewhat nervous by the prospect, the lad placed his hand as Phaedor instructed and closed his eyes.

  Instantly he felt swept away.

  The zanthyr was immersed in the currents—a wild, rushing river of colorful light—and his agile mind swam upstream at incredible speeds. Tanis latched onto him as a minnow to the salmon, feeling the force of the current pushing him backwards while Phaedor’s powerful intention pulled him inexorably forward.

  Soon the zanthyr had isolated a single current and was following it off onto a tributary river that seemed vaguely greenish in hue. Tanis knew—because Phaedor knew—that they were now tracing the third strand solely, and within that, one particular life-thread. In nearly the same moment, the lad felt a wash of warmth that he soon identified as the first strand, which the zanthyr was using somehow to cross-index the third-strand thread he was following with the horse’s own terrible experience.

  All of this occurred in less than a teaspoon of sand’s passing through the hourglass—mere moments—and Phaedor had found the answer he sought.

  He moved his hand from the horse’s flank to her brow, and because Tanis still had his hand upon the zanthyr’s shoulder, he understood the foreign words when Phaedor whispered in Old Alaeic, “Go Lilionath. Go into the Doors of Morning. Take with you the gilded memories of your life; let your children carry forward the blood of your ancestors while you find your path anew.”

  Phaedor paused there, letting the rush of elae’s currents wash over them, letting elae swirl and press, but the zanthyr was now the rock, solid and unyielding, and the flow merely altered its course around him.

  Feeling buffeted by the unyielding energy as if standing in the pounding surf, Tanis wondered what they were waiting for…and then, finally, a breath of warmth flowed past them on the currents, and Tanis knew—because the zanthyr knew—that the mare’s spirit was departing on elae’s tides.

  Phaedor withdrew from rapport.

  Tanis opened his eyes and let his hand fall to his side. The horse exhaled a long sighing breath, and all of the tension that bound her to life eased gently into the night. Silence embraced the darkening forest, a fitting homage to the lovely creature whose spirit galloped away on the crest of twilight.

  The zanthyr stood and looked down on the horse. In his stillness, the shadows of the evening collected around him. “Burn her.”

  Dional shifted from foot to foot, looking uneasy. “What of the beast that did this, my lord?” Tanis sensed the tension in his tone and felt his thoughts lying heavy and troubled.

  Phaedor turned his gaze into the darkening forest. After a moment, Tanis saw the faintest tightening around his eyes and knew he’d gained knowledge of the beast. “He lingers within the arc.”

  Dional grunted. “I’ll call a party to the hunt.”

  “Set traps,” Kendir added.

  “No traps.” Phaedor turned him a swift and penetrating look.

  The man started at the intensity of his gaze. “My lord? I only—”

  “A drogue wolf is a thinking beast.” Dional’s critical tone held rough censure of his subordinate. “Even a rabid one has the wits to lure its prey into any trap we set for it.” The huntmaster looked back to Phaedor. “No traps, my lord. We’ll track it from here. Lady of the Rivers willing, we’ll find him tonight.”

  Phaedor gave him a long look. “Perhaps the goddess will grace you this eve, Huntmaster…but don’t count on it.” With that, he spun away and in two quick leaps had cleared the ravine.

  Tanis gazed after him wondering if he would ever come to understand how much of the future lay at the zanthyr’s easy disposal.

  “Come, Tanis.” Phaedor’s voice floated down from the darkness above.

  With one last glance at the hunters—who seemed less than enthusiastic about their ill-fated task now that the zanthyr had doomed it from the outset—the lad followed, scrambling up the leaf-strewn hill to rejoin the regal shadow that was bound to him body and soul.

  Five

  “He conceals his honor beneath a cloak of shame.”

  – Isabel van Gelderan, on the Espial Franco Rohre

  Franco Rohre pressed fingertips to his brow just above his left eye, where a vein throbbed painfully. He’d been having recurring headaches ever since beginning work on the Sylus node. Dagmar had assured him the headaches would fade now that Franco had completed this task, but the Great Master had also been frustratingly vague as to how long such recovery would take.

  That’s what happens when you stand in place of a node, you idiot. This wasn’t the first and it won’t be the last time you nearly kill yourself trying to appease the First Lord’s demands.

  Franco grimaced. It seemed he was increasingly having full conversations with his conscience. He might’ve worried about his sanity if he hadn’t already been sure that he’d lost it.

  Ha! That’s a certain text! No man in his right mind would swear an oath to Björn van Gelderan.

  Franco gritted his teeth and tried to focus on something besides his own insanity. He let his gaze stray across Björn’s elegant gallery, noting the rain-spattered windows, the armchairs of misty velvet, and the colorful paintings on the dove-grey walls with equal disinterest. Who knew headaches could be so all-consuming? He wanted nothing more than to drown his brain in wine and pass out on the bed.

  The high-minded dreams of the inebriate.

  His gaze fell upon the Nodefinder Carian vran Lea, who stood across the long gallery talking to the Great Master. Franco still hadn’t decided what he thought of Carian. The pirate certainly seemed capable in their mutual craft—brilliantly so, considering he’d had no formal training—but could he be trusted beyond his own self-interests?

  Can anyone? Can you?

  Franco pinched his brow with thumb and forefinger.

  At that point, his only interest was self-preservation, for it seemed the only goal left to him. If Björn hadn’t demanded he work the Pattern of Life centuries ago on Tiern’aval, he’d have taken his chances in the Returning by now.

  And where would you be then? Just one more Adept that never Awak
ened?

  Franco banged his fist against the arm of his chair and pushed to his feet. Better to intrude on the conversation of others than to continue this one inside his own skull. He walked to where Dagmar and Carian stood talking.

  The Vestal turned at Franco’s approach, and his features lifted with a smile. “I apologize for pulling you from your own affairs so soon, Franco, but thank you again for joining us here. I don’t think we’ll need wait much longer for the others to arrive.”

  “I’m happy to be of service in any way required, my lord.”

  Liar.

  Dagmar clapped him amiably on the shoulder by way of acknowledgement. Then he nodded to the pirate. “Carian and I were just discussing the theory behind laddering nodes, but perhaps you’d like to share with him your recent work on the Sylus node instead?”

  Yes, go on. Tell him how for that endless moment you became one with the Pattern of the World—oh wait. Two worlds.

  Franco pushed his fingers to pinch his brow, wishing he might purge the headache and the inane chatter of his conscience along with it.

  “You look knackered, mate,” Carian observed. “Perhaps you should sit down again.”

  Dagmar gave Franco a compassionate smile as he explained to the pirate, “Franco is feeling the aftereffects of plus-crossing nodes.”

  Carian’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Plus-crossing—you mean two doublebacks?” He spun a look from Dagmar to Franco and then threw up his hands and exclaimed, “Ho-ho—I am your most humble servant! Let me get you some wine, Admiral!” He made a bow of shameless reverence before skipping off to fetch Franco a drink.

  Franco cast a pained look after the retreating pirate. “I suppose you had to tell him about that.”

  “Carian will be a needed ally, Franco.” Dagmar’s lips twitched with a smile as he watched the lanky pirate literally waltzing back to them with a bottle and goblet as his partner.

  Carian came to a halt and poured the wine with a flourish. He shoved the goblet at Franco. “Drink up, my handsome. Björn’s wine is the best around.”

  Franco eyed him uncertainly, but he took the wine.

  “Ah, good, you’re all here,” came a voice from behind them.

  Franco turned to find the Fifth Vestal entering from the gallery’s far end. In his wake followed Dämen, Lord of Shades, and the Fourth Vestal Raine D’Lacourte.

  Franco stifled a grimace. He couldn’t look at Raine and not also see the face of his own many betrayals while in service as the Fourth Vestal’s Espial, or the hundreds who fought and died at the Temple of the Vestals…or the look on the Malorin’athgul Rinokh’s face as Creighton’s Shade pulled him across the node Franco was holding open while Ean hung onto his life-pattern, unmaking the man in the crossing…

  “Franco, I hear you completed the Sylus node.” Björn looked his usual immaculate self as he joined their group. Franco couldn’t remember ever seeing him discomposed—at least not since that fateful night on Tiern’aval. The First Lord gave him a pleased smile and gripped his arm. “Admirable work, from everything Dagmar has told me.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I’m grateful for your confidence in my ability.”

  “Are you?” Björn arched a sardonic brow, reminding Franco with a jolt that colorless eyes did not solely the truthreader make. No man in history had accumulated more Sormitáge rings than Björn van Gelderan. They didn’t make enough rings to account for what he knew.

  And with that skill, Björn seemed to have easily plucked from Franco’s thoughts the truth of his devastated state and the many fears that plagued him. No doubt the man knew his mind better than Franco himself did.

  Franco cleared his throat and dropped his eyes to the goblet in his hand. “Well…my lord, I suspect you know what I mean.”

  “Indeed, Franco Rohre. Would that I had less personal experience myself with the feelings that plague you. But it’s my hope this will bring you some cheer at least.” He turned to Dagmar. “Have you the letter?”

  Flashing a sudden knowing smile, the Vestal withdrew an envelope of black leather from inside his coat and extended it to Franco.

  Franco noted the sigil embossed in the leather with rising unease. He hadn’t seen the Citadel’s seal since Tiern’aval, when a marble version of it had come shattering down from a crumbling dome.

  Franco drained his wine. While the liquid was still flaming his throat, he somewhat gasped, “…What’s this, my lord?”

  Dagmar pushed it towards him insistently. “Isabel bade me deliver this to you once you finished the Sylus node.”

  Franco darted a glance at Björn as he handed Carian his goblet and reluctantly took the envelope from Dagmar. Then he opened it and drew out the small velvet pouch it contained. But when he emptied the pouch’s contents onto his hand, his eyes flew back to Dagmar. “Great Master…” The words barely scraped out through vocal chords frozen in shock. He looked from Dagmar to Björn, seeking explanation. “But…First Lord, you stripped me of my rings on Tiern’aval.”

  “And now the High Mage of the Citadel returns them to you.” Dagmar grinned broadly at him.

  “You’ve earned them, Franco.” Björn graced him with a smile of equal measure.

  Franco stared at the three thin gold rings lying in his palm while his eyes grew hot and a painful clenching constricted in his chest. Prior to the wars, his two Sormitáge rings—so long sought and hard-earned—had formed the core of his entire identity. When Björn had stripped him of the right to wear them, Franco felt like his soul had been flayed.

  He managed a dry swallow and pointed out weakly, “Um…there are three rings here, my lord.”

  The First Lord nodded to the envelope in Franco’s other hand. “I believe Isabel included a message to explain the presence of the third ring.”

  Indeed, Franco saw a sheet of parchment inside the envelope. The letter detailed his many accomplishments—a surprisingly long list, even to his own eyes, and most of them since his Calling—but all he really saw was the last line of investiture, and beneath this, Isabel’s signature between the official seals of the Citadel.

  Franco lifted his gaze back to the Vestals. His hands shook.

  Dagmar grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the Third Echelon of the Guild of Espials, my friend.”

  Carian let out a whoop and grabbed Franco’s hand, shaking it vigorously, and then a sudden storm of congratulations descended on him. Smiling faces swirled around him, hands and arms embraced him, but all his blurry eyes really saw were three gold Sormitáge rings.

  Once congratulations had been adequately conducted, Björn lifted his gaze to include everyone in the group and his expression sobered. “On to our next matter. Based on the strength of your work, Franco, and yours, Carian, Dagmar recommended that I call you both to attend this council today.” He motioned them toward a grouping of five chairs, and each of them took a seat. Björn said as he settled, “Dämen will explain.”

  The Shade came to stand between Björn and Raine. His chrome features reflected the storm beyond the long windows, shifting in sequence with the clouds. “The First Lord’s contact in Illume Belliel informed us that Alshiba has granted a vote to Niko van Amstel to be elected as the new Second Vestal.”

  “Balls of Belloth!” Carian leapt to his feet. “Great Master! We have to stop—”

  “It’s done,” Björn said quietly. “They voted.”

  Carian spun hotly to the First Lord. “Who voted? I didn’t!”

  Dagmar said, “Niko only needed a majority of guild members.” He frowned at Carian and waggled his fingers for the pirate to sit down again.

  Carian shoved his wild wavy hair behind his shoulders and complied, but he looked disgruntled about it.

  “It came to our attention some time ago how Niko intended to gain this majority,” Dagmar informed them then. “Working with the Guild Master of Rethynnea, a man named D’varre, Niko succeeded in redefining the status required to sit as a voting member of the Espia
l’s Guild.”

  Carian shifted disagreeably in his chair. “Which is?”

  “Rings.”

  Franco felt a sudden hollow pit open in his stomach.

  “Sormitáge rings?”

  Franco’s head throbbed in accompaniment with his sinking hopes. He leaned an elbow on the arm of his chair and braced his temples with thumb and middle finger. “That would limit the number of voting guild members to less than what?” He looked up at Dagmar beneath his hand. “Five hundred?”

  The Second Vestal nodded. “So we think. Of those brothers of the strand who Return, fewer each year seek formal instruction.”

  Björn gazed severely upon them. “Once the Guild included thousands of voting members. Now five hundred is a fair estimate.”

  Franco exhaled a slow breath. “Niko could easily have mustered the manpower to contact a majority of voting members and invite them to sell their souls.”

  Carian launched out of his chair again, all flailing arms and indignation. “Niko can lick my hairy arse—he’s not the Second Vestal! That great man sits there!” And he slung an emphatic finger at Dagmar.

  “While Dagmar no doubt appreciates your loyalty, Carian,” Björn noted, “we’ve assembled not to argue the legitimacy of Niko’s claim but to determine what we must do to intercede between his ambition and the sanctity of our realm.”

  Caught mid flail, Carian sort of stared at him. “Oh...” He sat back down.

  Franco remembered seeing the Alorin Seat Alshiba Torinin in Mark Laven’s home, remembered her calm rationality in the face of the avieth Seth Silverbow’s belligerence, remembered the dual sense of duty and devotion she’d emanated. It made no sense. “How could she do this?” he muttered.

  Raine seemed keen to his thoughts. “Alshiba never would’ve ratified Niko’s claim if she’d known of his crimes on Tiern’aval. This is an act of desperation.”