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

by Melissa McPhail

  Marius leveled the historian an acute stare then. “Giancarlo will go with you to ensure your immediate compliance to these orders, Monseraut.”

  The historian’s gaze flickered fearfully to the stone-faced truthreader and back to Marius. “Your will, High Lord.”

  Twelve

  “Few vices are more blinding than ambition.”

  – Errodan, Queen of Dannym and the Shoring Isles

  The acolyte Orkan Banh followed Dore Madden into the Prophet’s chambers with the specter of death looming close behind. He felt its ominous presence hovering in delight, as if waiting for him to make some calamitous error and offend the Prophet.

  Most who entered Bethamin’s private chambers never reemerged standing but were carried out on stretchers, or wheeled out in a tangle of grey-limbed bodies by the two silent brothers walking behind Orkan. He only hoped they weren’t following him just to watch him die.

  Orkan’s greatest desire was to Ascend, to receive the Prophet’s blessing and go out into the world to spread Bethamin’s doctrine with a Marquiin at his beck and call—at least, that was his expectancy, gleaned from his limited view of Ascendants and their Marquiin—but none Ascended who did not first please Dore Madden. Thus any time the Prophet’s Advisor called upon him, Orkan jumped to attend.

  He could just make out the Advisor across the dim hall. Orkan felt uncomfortable in the Prophet’s chambers. The towering marble columns seemed placed there merely to emphasize the dark spaces in between…vast spaces, as empty and cold as the Prophet’s distant gaze.

  A slimy tongue of fear licked along Orkan’s spine at the thought of meeting the Prophet’s eye. He suppressed a shudder and forced his legs to move faster.

  The men following Orkan matched his increasing pace with shuffling steps. He cast an uncertain look over his shoulder at them, noting a pair of round, dull faces typical of the Saldarian peasantry—the kind of inbred hill folk that mingled their blood with M’Nador’s Bedouin tribes. This pair looked too stupid to have the Sight, so Orkan decided they must be accompanying him for some other reason than his imminent demise.

  Then he wondered: could it be that he’d pleased the Advisor already? Mayhap the Prophet intended to grant his Ascendancy even then! Surely he’d shown his dedication, proven his devotion in his unflinching service.

  Orkan felt the specter of death receding. He straightened his shoulders, cast a haughty look at the two stupid-faced men behind him, and marched taller to the cadence of the Advisor’s quick steps.

  Eventually they emerged in a long, open-air gallery. A rain-drenched wind whipped in through an arcade of arches open to the storm. Every night that week Tambarré had seen another storm, as like the elements shared the Prophet’s ill mood of late.

  On a balmy night, the sunset would’ve illuminated the chamber with golden light and set flame to the many low couches, divans and ornate curule seats arranged throughout the room. But with the tumultuous sky and lashing rain pelting the balcony beyond the arches, the space seemed to stand on the verge of the world as if to bear witness to its imminent end.

  The naked bodies lying face-down on the floor somewhat intensified this unsteady sensation.

  Orkan thought it odd they were both prone with their naked cheeks mooning him. Though Death’s grey flag had staked its territory upon their flesh, their buttocks still showed bluish bruises in the shape of fingertips—and not just buttocks but backs and arms and any number of other places where Bethamin had clenched them.

  Verily, the Prophet had worked these men hard, claiming their bodies for his indifferent pleasure before apparently sating his hunger on their doomed souls. Orkan wondered grimly if those brands of the Prophet’s attentions would cling to the dead men all the way into the Returning.

  The Advisor stopped before the bodies and looked Orkan over with eyes like dark pools. “Are you ready to prove your worth to the Prophet, Orkan Banh?”

  Orkan crossed arms before his chest and bowed reverently. “I live to serve the Prophet, Advisor.”

  Dore’s black gaze licked over him again. “We’ll see.” He reached inside his robes and withdrew a bulbous rubber syringe, crudely forged, with a long, hollow snout. This, he extended to Orkan.

  As Orkan took it from him, he noted the two stupid-faced men shuffling up behind him. He looked blankly from the syringe in his hand back to Dore. “What am I meant to do with this, Advisor?”

  Dore’s gaze swept the naked dead. The tip of a pink tongue feathered across his lips as if tasting sweetness , and his breath came faster. “The Prophet has expended his seed in these men. You must retrieve it.”

  As if on cue, the silent brothers withdrew their hands from their robes, each one holding a glass tube with a cork at its open end.

  Orkan felt blood rushing to his face. He didn’t want to understand what was being asked of him. “I’m not sure I…” He looked back to the dead men, and his face twisted with revulsion.

  Dore placed a hand on Orkan’s shoulder and leaned close. His spindly fingers undulated as they squeezed the joint, like the massaging tentacles of an octopod. “The Prophet’s seed is valued beyond measure, Orkan Banh.” He brought his mouth close and whispered, “Only the most revered might be entrusted with reclaiming it.”

  Orkan’s stomach turned, but whether this response came from contemplation of his task or from Dore’s probing touch remained unclear.

  “Every orifice must be meticulously probed,” Dore whispered. Abruptly his hand dropped and clenched Orkan’s genitals.

  Orkan drew in his breath sharply.

  Dore squeezed. “Leave not one precious drop of the Prophet’s seed unclaimed.” His tentacle fingers undulated at Orkan’s loins before releasing him. Then he departed without another word.

  Orkan dropped his chin to his chest. His breath came painfully, clenched by disgrace. The specter of death may have receded, but only so humiliation could step into its place.

  The peasants behind him began snickering, and Orkan’s face reddened. He knew they’d be watching with impunity as he performed yet one more detestable, ignominious act in the Prophet’s name.

  ***

  Darshan was standing beneath a rain-swept portico that adjoined his private chambers when the sensation of Dore Madden’s nearing presence interrupted his thoughts.

  Ever the man reeked with the smoke of unwholesome desires. Wanton lust clung to his breath, making every exhalation a noxious fume of the darkest enticements, while the aftertaste of palpable need laced his thoughts. The Prophet compelled devotion from his followers—all that is, except Dore Madden, for Dore already thrust it forth like seed spilled from his withered loins.

  Darshan traced the edge of his chin with one long finger while casting a penetrating gaze into the storm. Dore undoubtedly thought he concealed his deepest desires behind screens of the fourth, but no mortal could hide their thoughts from Darshanvenkhátraman, Destroyer of Hope.

  He knew Dore lusted not for his affections but for his submission. The man dreamed of dominating the Prophet as the Prophet dominated his lovers. Often these boiling urges came to Dore while in the Prophet’s company, and they gave vent to unbridled imaginings that Darshan found faintly repulsive.

  A gust of wind brought the damp breath of rain sweeping beneath the portico and across Darshan’s bare arms and chest. It was the season for storms, but Darshan’s thoughts lingered on a different sort of storm.

  “My lord, you summoned?” Dore’s lust preceded his person as the man joined the Prophet under the vaulted limestone canopy. Even the wind and lashing rain couldn’t cleanse Dore’s reek from the air.

  Darshan clasped hands behind his back. The wind whipped through his fine linen pants, reforming their shape around his muscular legs, but it barely stirred his heavy mane of hundreds of long braids.

  “I’m concerned what my brother Pelas knows of my activities.” Darshan aimed a look at Dore. “He cannot be allowed to interfere.”

  Dore’s pale pink tongue
flickered across even paler flesh. “Would you do another binding, my lord?” His eyes gleamed with the prospect. Compulsion patterns were Dore’s favorite.

  Darshan’s gaze tightened, the only conveyance of his displeasure. “No. The existing binding you suggested has already fomented too much contention between us.”

  Dore took a step forward, and a dark light came into his eyes. “No doubt you’re right to suspect him, my lord. My informants tell me the Lord Pelas has been seen often at Niko van Amstel’s manor, posing once more as that painter, Immanuel di Nostri.”

  “I don’t need my own perceptions validated by you, Dore Madden.” The Prophet’s words lashed like a whip.

  Dore ducked his head and backed off, whispering, “Yes, my lord,” but his thoughts quivered with pleasure.

  Darshan turned away with a scowl. “What can be done besides binding Pelas? How else might I stop his inevitable intervention?”

  “Perhaps…” Dore sought the Prophet’s favor with an unctuous smile, both ingratiating and corpselike. “This is only an idea, my lord…but…might you take away his power?”

  The Prophet’s eyes flashed. “Our power is not extended and denied as a woman’s affections, Dore Madden. We are immortal; likewise our ability. Yet…” Darshan exhaled a slow, contemplative breath, and his gaze narrowed as the idea took on a dangerous attraction. “I confess…a helpless Pelas appeals to me mightily. I mislike his intimations of late. He means to betray me.”

  The wind gusted beneath the portico, bringing a sting of rain. It pushed Dore Madden’s pale hair into his eyes. He licked his lips once more. “There is a way it could be done, my lord.”

  The Prophet looked to him sharply. “Tell me how.”

  Dore brightened. “Trickery. Deception. The same principles that worked the first time in claiming Lord Pelas’s mind will aid you again. We must act quickly and call upon the Lord Abanachtran to be certain the trap is effectively laid.”

  As Dore continued explaining the details of his idea, Darshan felt a lingering dissonance smoothing inside him. His recent interchanges with Pelas had formed a discordant harmony, but this…surely this solution would resolve Pelas’s fractious belligerence into melodious obedience.

  Yes…Darshan saw at last the two of them working side by side to claim this world and exact their purpose upon it. The idea pleased him mightily. Darshan stroked his chin with thumb and forefinger and idly contemplated what he and his brother might accomplish once they were reunited in purpose.

  “Pelas must be contained and brought to me,” he ordered, seeing already a new future expanding to the horizon. “This should not prove difficult, for he maintains a foolishly innocent trust of others—” and he added with a glance at Dore, “even of me. Even now.”

  Dore’s eyes burned with dark delight. He bowed, murmured, “Your will be done, my lord,” and departed to become the mortal hand of his master’s divine intent.

  Thirteen

  “Time makes heroes of traitors and fools of the wise.”

  – The Immortal Bard Drake di Matteo

  Franco paused at the jungle’s edge overlooking the impressive length of lawn. It spread like a luminous, silver-dark skirt around Niko van Amstel’s candlelit mansion. As he stood there battling with indecision, a sudden flare pulsed along the second strand and sent a current of additional pain through his still-pounding head. A moment later, the pirate stepped across the node behind him.

  The stone archway at his back was one of many that newly graced Niko’s estate. Franco could see three similar portals from his high vantage, each demarking a node rerouted from elsewhere in the realm directly to Niko’s door.

  Just like Illume Belliel…

  Franco watched a group of men arrive through an archway nearer the house and join the end of a long line snaking out from Niko’s front door. He doubted even a fraction of Niko’s guests knew how the arrangement of archways mimicked the nodecourts on Illume Belliel. With typical outrageous presumption, Niko was setting up his home as Alorin’s unique version of the cityworld—Shadow take the arrogant bastard.

  “You never mentioned he was so popular,” Carian observed as he moved to Franco’s side.

  Franco turned the pirate a rueful eye. The islander looked uncharacteristically venerable in a formal velvet jacket and matching waistcoat of muted grey. With his wild hair neatly plaited into a club and his usual five-day beard shaved clean, he could nearly be mistaken for a nobleman—except for the ear and nose-rings, which somewhat sullied the effect.

  “Niko cultivates popularity like cooks grow tomatoes,” Franco muttered. He looked back to the mansion wearing a sour expression.

  “Sounds like a real charmer.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  Carian sucked on a tooth and eyed the distant manor. Guests crowded against the illuminated windows and spilled out onto terraces bordering the lawn. “So…what’s our plan, Admiral?”

  Franco cast him a strained look. The pirate insisted on calling him admiral despite his protests. “What makes you think I have a plan?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Trying to outthink Niko’s megalomania results in unpredictable outcomes, Carian. I’ve found it best to play things by ear.”

  “So we’re sailing it close to the wind, eh?” Carian grinned and elbowed him in the arm. “No worries, Admiral. I’ve got the helm.” He sauntered off down the hill with his usual long-legged gait.

  Franco followed, cursing silently to himself.

  They made their way inside via one of the terraces and began the tedious process of maneuvering through the throng. Already feeling like one of a thousand carp in an overstuffed vat of brine, Franco chose a goblet of wine from an offering steward and nodded to Carian to follow him towards a drawing room. He stopped just without the archway and scanned the guests inside with an eye for faces known to him. Guests milled like trees shifting in the wind, and through a break, Franco saw a gathering of Companions.

  Coldly beautiful, a tall woman stood talking to another, portly and shorter, who stood with her back turned but whose round form was unmistakable. “The blonde woman is the Healer Laira di Giancora,” Franco murmured to Carian as he took a sip of wine, “and her companion is the Healer Mian Gartelt. They’re two peas in a poisonous pod.”

  Just beyond the women, the darkly bearded truthreader Gannon Bair was casting his colorless gaze across the top of his goblet as he drank amid a circle of well-dressed men. Loudest among them was the ever-rakish Demetrio Consuevé, whose very presence made Franco’s wine sour on his tongue.

  If ever Dore Madden had a protégé, Consuevé was it. He’d been the type of twisted boy to put a hungry rat in a box of mice and watch the creature feast, the type to pull the feathers from a bird’s wings and then drop it from a roof to see if it could fly. Consuevé’s dark sense of humor had appealed to Dore, and Franco had often seen them together in the Sormitáge halls, with the elder Dore whispering gleefully into the younger boy’s impressionable ear.

  During the wars, Consuevé had been too young to fight for the Adept resistance and too unreliable even for Dore to have involved him in their failed coup. He’d stayed at university while his compatriots died. Franco loathed him.

  “Recognize anyone else?” Carian asked low into his ear.

  “The truthreader in the kilt is Gannon Bair. He hails from Hallovia, but he serves in Queen Indora’s court in Veneisea alongside the man on his left, Elien ap’Gentrys, who is one of Indora’s wielders.”

  “What about the dark drink in the middle there? Is he their leader?”

  “That’s Demetrio Consuevé,” Franco growled, not caring to keep the disgust from his tone. “He’s an Espial for the Arch Duke of Rimaldi and in our day was Dore Madden’s favorite disciple.” Franco took a long draw on his wine, but he couldn’t wash away the aversion that flavored it now. “We should go.”

  Carian peered curiously at him. “If we’re supposed to be gathering intelligence, we’ll have to start som
ewhere.”

  “Not here.” Franco nudged the pirate away, taking care to avoid the Companions’ notice.

  The press of guests moving through the mansion pulled Franco and Carian along, and they followed the flow of others ogling Niko’s vast art collection. The current of bodies took them into a long gallery split down the middle by marble sculptures set on identical bases of black onyx. Along the ceiling and walls, colorful oil paintings depicted august men and scantily clad women frolicking within their gilded moldings.

  “Franco Rohre.”

  Franco turned at the familiar voice—one of few he actually welcomed—to see Devangshu Vita approaching through the crowd. The Bemothi Nodefinder wore a knee-length emerald coat covered in gold embroidery. Dark-haired, caramel-skinned and brown-eyed, Devangshu walked with challenge at one hand and cunning at the other, imparting him with a roguish demeanor that his aristocratic blood only partially dampened.

  He eyed Carian speculatively as he took Franco’s arm and said low into his ear, “I thought I saw you head this way. Half the hall is on the lookout for you.”

  Franco clasped wrists with the Nodefinder and then held a hand towards Carian. “Devangshu Vita, may I present the Nodefinder Carian vran Lea.”

  Devangshu did a double-take on the pirate. Then he turned a fierce look back to Franco. Abruptly he snared both Franco and Carian by their elbows and moved them rapidly into an isolated alcove, half-obscured by a curtain. He whispered, quick and low, “I’ve heard your two names mentioned often of late, and among company that I daresay you’d not want speaking of you at all.”

  Carian smirked. “Is that so?”

  Devangshu eyed him critically. “Coincidence, perhaps, that your names are both spoken of in association with the destruction of Rethynnea’s Temple of the Vestals, and now here you appear together?” When neither Carian nor Franco said a word to deny this, Devangshu hissed, “By Cephrael’s Great Book, if there’s any truth to these rumors you can’t be seen together here. You’re the talk of three continents. Franco, Seth is loudly declaiming you’ve allied with the Fifth Vestal and curses your name to anyone who will listen—which is quite a few among this bunch.” He turned his dark Bemothi eyes to look over the pirate. “And you, Carian vran Lea, he won’t say what role you played, but he’s got the entire Guild on the lookout for you.” Devangshu grunted incredulously and shook his head. “Alshiba herself is here, Franco, and rumor has it she hasn’t come for Niko but in search of you.”