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

by Melissa McPhail

  At an intersection of corridors, Franco peeled away, murmuring “Gratitude,” though the steward seemed indifferent. Then he quickly lost himself within the maze of servants’ corridors. Finally, when he was certain no one followed, he leaned back against a wall, pressed his head to the plaster, and exhaled a tremulous breath of relief.

  He had to pull himself together. A confrontation with Alshiba seemed inevitable, and what in Tiern’aval was he going to say? She would want to know what had become of Raine, what had really happened in Rethynnea, where Björn was now, what his plans were…

  And whether these truths were bound to his tongue by magic or by honor, he wouldn’t be able to voice any of them.

  Franco was inventing some new curses when distant music caught his ear. Because its source lay further away from Alshiba, he followed its lilting stream through the maze of servants’ corridors until one opened onto an elegant salon. Four musicians were performing on Caladrian lira da gambas, bowing rich tones out of the large, multi-stringed instruments hugged between their legs.

  The rapid movements of their bows formed a raging melody that captured Franco’s attention and drew him along on a river of tumbling notes. He stood in the shadows at the room’s edge, letting the ever-developing harmony wash over him…through him…wishing he might’ve had the peace of conscience to enjoy it.

  That’s when he saw the man.

  He stood leaning against the far wall with arms crossed. The long fingers of his right hand braced his jaw, while his forefinger idly stroked his lower lip in time with the music. Between his elegant clothing and his refined repose, he seemed the height of civility.

  Franco couldn’t say why the man had so captured his attention. It seemed as if his presence demanded his interest so completely as to have compelled it on the tides of elae.

  As he stood watching the stranger, he noticed that his weren’t the only eyes that lit upon the man and strayed away, only to return moments later. It seemed others, too, were drawn by some mysterious allure.

  In that moment, the stranger turned his gaze and looked directly at Franco—indeed, his eyes fixed so assuredly upon him that he could only have felt the heat of Franco’s inspection and followed its trail right to him.

  For a moment Franco felt pinned, caught like a boy staring unwholesomely at a lady’s bosom, and a sudden unease beset him for no reason he could identify. Feeling unsettled by the man’s gaze, he smiled uncomfortably and nodded a hello. After a tense pause, the man nodded politely in return, though he didn’t immediately release Franco from his attention.

  Then the musicians finished their tumbling concerto, and the salon erupted with applause. The stranger slowly turned his gaze back to the performers, freeing Franco from the pinion of his inspection, and Franco drew in a breath of relief.

  As the applause was settling, a steward appeared in a doorway across the room, rang a bell, and announced into the spreading hush, “My lords and ladies, please assemble in the Grand Hall for the Vestal Address.”

  A bubbling hum of anticipation followed this announcement, and everyone rose from their seats and started en masse for the doors.

  The man of Franco’s interest put one hand to his forehead and then swept it toward the musicians in an elegant gesture of appreciation. They bowed and smiled in return, beaming now. Observing the exchange, Franco imagined no acknowledgement held quite so much reward as one coming from that man.

  Reaching the Grand Hall, Franco plucked another goblet from a steward’s tray and took up an unobtrusive spot beside a column at the back of the room. From there, he had a clear view of the dais but remained mostly hidden from the sea of people filling in between him and the stage.

  Sipping his wine, which tasted of rancorous anticipation, Franco cast his gaze around the wide hall, keen to any flashes of white that would indicate Alshiba or her knights. Yet his attention kept returning to the stranger. Who was he, and why had he felt so drawn to him? He found his eyes constantly straying from their task, searching instead for the man who’d so captured his interest.

  Suddenly a male voice said into his ear, near and close, “Excuse me…but have we met?”

  Franco nearly choked on his wine. He pushed a forearm across his mouth and turned to lock gazes with the stranger from the hall. “Your pardon,” he somewhat gasped.

  The man stood close enough that a swift dagger to the gut would’ve gone unnoticed between them. His eyes searched Franco’s face intently. “You seemed to recognize me in the salon, but I can’t place where we might’ve met.” His manner was polite, his speech cultured, yet Franco sensed an unnerving disparity between his innocuous tone and his copper-eyed gaze.

  “My error, sir. I…” Shade and darkness, what had he been doing? “I mistook you for another.”

  “Ah.” The man smiled, and in this conveyance his gaze softened. “That would explain it. Another then.” It was his smile that held Franco captive now, for it radiated such compelling amiability as to melt away any fears Franco might’ve harbored—even to imply how absurd his suspicions had been. “I suppose introductions are in order then. If you will permit,” and he held elegantly ringed fingers to his chest, “I am Immanuel di Nostri.”

  Franco blinked. “Di Nostri—the artist?”

  The man made a humble nod. “I’m honored to find you know my work.”

  Franco stared at him. Immanuel di Nostri was one of the most famous painters of the Fourth Age. His masterworks graced every level of the Sormitáge’s Primär Insamling museum, and he was rumored to have personally painted at least half of the University’s Grand Passáge, which was inarguably the greatest artistic achievement of the time. But the artist hadn’t been heard from since the wars—at least, not that Franco had been aware. He’d thought him long dead.

  “Thirteen hells, di Nostri, I thought—” Franco stifled his outburst with a grimace. “Never mind what I thought.” He stared somewhat ineptly at the man.

  Immanuel smiled. “And you are?”

  Franco realized he hadn’t introduced himself in return. “I beg your pardon.” He shook his head then, noting that he seemed to be doing naught but apologizing to the man. “I’m Franco Rohre.”

  Immanuel’s copper eyes crinkled as he examined Franco over the rim of his goblet. “I’ve heard much talk of a Nodefinder with this name, often mentioned in association with a temple in Rethynnea and a certain fallen Vestal.” He sipped his wine and then turned his gaze out across the room. “Depending on who is speaking, this Nodefinder has either the luck of the devil or is one incarnate.” His eyes shifted back to Franco, innocuous but inquiring. “Perhaps you can say definitively which?”

  “Only under duress,” Franco muttered.

  Immanuel chuckled. “So…” Taking another sip of wine, his eyes darted to the dais and back again. “You’re a companion of the realm’s newest Vestal?”

  Franco grunted dubiously. “With a capital C.”

  “Close friends then,” the painter quipped, keen to Franco’s rather lackluster esteem for their host.

  Franco inwardly cursed his imprudence, fearing he’d said too little and intimated too much. He remembered how Niko had boasted about being a patron of the arts. If Immanuel di Nostri depended on Niko for his livelihood…

  His gaze darted back to meet the artist’s and found the latter watching him compellingly. Franco looked away again with an uncomfortable swallow. “Niko and I were roommates at the Sormitáge, long ago, but…”

  “But?”

  Franco cast him a long look. Then he let out a slow breath. “But time makes heroes of traitors and fools of the wise.”

  “So sayeth the Immortal Bard Drake di Matteo.” Immanuel raised his glass to acknowledge Franco’s quote—or perhaps to note his adept maneuvering away from answering the question.

  Hoping to direct the conversation elsewhere than his own activities, Franco held up his goblet in return. “I know your work from the Sormitáge, but where’ve you been since the wars? I confess…I
thought—”

  “Me dead?” Immanuel’s eyes glittered. “After I finished my work on the Grand Passáge, I spent many years exploring, experiencing the treasures of the realm.” He grunted then. “Would that I had spent those years in study at the Sormitáge instead.”

  “You regret your travels?”

  “Rather the lost opportunity. But I’ve made good of it in recent months. I still have friends in the Sormitáge, and they’ve proven more than true in helping me recently.” He added with a rueful grin, “I’ll admit it’s an odd experience, though, walking so oft beneath my own imagery…and without the opportunity to correct its many flaws.”

  Franco shook his head. “I saw none, surely.”

  Immanuel offered a smile of gratitude. “But what of you, Franco Rohre? What calls you to this gathering if not to congratulate an old friend?” His gaze and tone implied there could be numerous answers to this question.

  Franco muttered into his wine, “The same as anyone, I suspect.”

  “Oh, indeed.” Immanuel seemed to find this amusing. “Niko van Amstel has become quite the patron.” He put the Veneisean accent upon the word, emphasizing its meaning. “I have spent many evenings here in the company of artists and philosophers,” and flashing a shrewd look, he added, “as well as cutthroats and thieves, and men far worse than even these.”

  Most notably our host, Franco’s conscience sneered.

  For once, Franco was in accord.

  “I see many such personages here tonight,” the artist continued, gazing out across the assembly. “Do you think they all share your reasons for attending?”

  Acknowledging his point with a pained look, Franco took another sip of wine and gazed out over the hall. On the dais, the Paladin Knights were assembling an honor guard in preparation for Niko’s appearance. Franco watched the crowd in the room with ever-growing consternation.

  “Your face betrays your thoughts, Franco Rohre.”

  Franco turned a swift eye back to Immanuel.

  The artist gestured with his goblet, indicating the room at large. He leaned close as he murmured low into Franco’s ear, “You see the web, don’t you, my friend? Countless strands, each with its own wily spider.” He angled Franco a meaningful look. “How many spiders do you see?”

  Franco let out an explosive breath. “Too many.”

  “Just so.” The artist saluted him with his empty goblet. “Too many.”

  Franco held Immanuel’s gaze. “Then you hold no allegiances here?”

  The painter’s copper eyes glittered secretively. “I’m an artist, Franco. I but observe the world so as to capture its colors.”

  “Do you portray them all equally,” Franco pressed, “or favor one over another?”

  The painter laughed. “How careful you are—do you really think Niko van Amstel would take me into his confidence?”

  Franco’s eyes had but to sweep the artist once to concede his point. Niko loathed anyone likely to be more popular than himself, and Immanuel di Nostri possessed an effortless charm that Niko had no hope of matching.

  Franco considered Immanuel for a long moment in silence then. A great part of him desired to confide in the painter. The man had admitted that he harbored no allegiance to Niko, and Franco’s instincts certainly hinted that Immanuel was genuine in this statement. They’d barely met, yet Franco liked him.

  Still, no matter how much he desired to trust Immanuel, he couldn’t bring himself to do so. He wondered if he would ever be able to trust anyone again.

  Turning away, Franco posed with some asperity, “So you’ve come here to observe the decline of the Adept race.” He shook his head and cast the painter a rueful glance. “At least by your favored hand, our ugly end will be immortalized with its true complexion.”

  Immanuel frowned at this remark. “I’m dismayed to imagine myself so callous as you’ve just painted me, Franco, yet…” he tapped a long finger against his chin. “The light casts many wavering shadows. How does one know which are true?”

  Franco was pondering the meaning of this comment when Mian Gartelt appeared, plopping out of the crowd as if it had tasted a morsel of her and spat the rest out. To Franco’s intense disconcertion, she saw them immediately.

  “My Lord di Nostri! And…Franco. Why, I didn’t see you there only moments ago, but…you two are acquainted?”

  “Only just, dear Mian,” Immanuel replied with cool civility.

  Mian slipped her arm presumptuously through his and turned a vapid gaze up at him. To Franco, she seemed a fungus clinging offensively to the root of a majestic elm. “We are so blessed to have you back among us, my lord,” Mian told Immanuel. “Do share with us your visions for your next project. You have taken on a new commission, have you not?”

  Immanuel selected a full goblet from a passing steward. He held Franco’s gaze over the rim as he replied in a tone thick with meaning, “A number of paths lie open before me.”

  Franco stared at him.

  Whereupon a gong rang out, and the room fell silent for Niko van Amstel’s Address.

  Fourteen

  “His narcissism is surpassed only by his rutting for adoration.”

  – The Espial Franco Rohre, on Niko van Amstel

  The Grand Hall broke into frenzied applause yet again. Niko van Amstel received his audience’s admiration with a smile that made Franco’s hands clench into fists. As Niko had been speaking, Franco had searched the crowd for faces that mirrored his own staid expression, his own barely concealed disgust. Too many were lifted to the dais with vapid adoration. Even knowing this lot were hand-picked from the barrel of poor judgment, still it sickened him.

  The applause at last quieted beneath Niko’s paternal smile. On the dais, two rows of Paladin Knights now stood behind him, forming a resplendent backdrop for his speech. Niko raised his hands to the crowd, embracing them with open arms, with a smile that gleamed as white as the knights’ surcoats.

  “My friends! A new day is dawning!”

  Applause immediately erupted again, and a vainglorious Niko drank it in. Franco admitted the man certainly played well the part of the charismatic leader, what with his cap of blonde waves and ingratiating smile.

  Niko held up his hands to quiet the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, friends, brethren of the guild…thus far, I’ve told you some of the changes we can look forward to with my ascendancy, but now I must call to your attention a less pleasant truth.”

  The room went silent, all eyes glued to the tall, fair-haired man commanding the dais.

  “My friends…too long have we wallowed in fear of what tomorrow would not bring, frightened for our children’s future—for our very survival—living but as shadows of our former selves. Too long have those responsible for our race’s decline gone unpunished!”

  A chorus of agreement greeted this declaration, and Niko let it continue until the negative emotion became a palpable energy thrumming through the crowd.

  “Our enemies flourish while we wither. They thrive in their bastard realm—a product of the heinous rape of our own blessed Alorin!—feasting on a stolen harvest, while our people struggle to right the Balance.” Niko walked the dais with hands clasped behind his back and his brow deeply furrowed, the father troubled by his son’s misdeeds. “Fewer Adepts are born to us each year, while T’khendar’s inhabitants multiply, safe beyond their twisted nodes. Now, I must ask you, is this fitting? Is it just? Is it tolerable while even one more moon shines over our children’s slumber?”

  A rumbling erupted among the masses.

  “Let me be the first to declare it.” Niko planted his feet and faced the audience. “Let me tell you the truth none other will speak, and the answer is no! It is not just. It is not right. Our mother world should not succumb in an effort to feed the voracious hunger of its undesired spawn!”

  The roar of outrage that greeted this sentiment made Franco’s head throb.

  “My friends,” Niko called over the noise, using elae to fuel his voice now, “I g
ive you my oath—even as I swore upon this ring to oversee the proper use of my strand—” and he held his oath-ring for the assembled crowd to see, “I swear to you that these atrocities shall be ended!”

  The room erupted with thunderous applause.

  Franco felt sick. His vision blurred with a future where events spun rapidly out of control—or perhaps it was his own head spinning from the toxic mixture of too much wine and defamatory slander of the people actually attempting to save their realm.

  Niko’s booming voice rose above the melee. “As your Vestal, I will do what should’ve been done three centuries ago! I SHALL CALL UPON THE FORCES OF ILLUME BELLIEL TO DESTROY THE ABOMINATION THAT IS T’KHENDAR AND SEE THE BALANCE RIGHTED!”

  The crowd went wild.

  Franco had heard all that he could stand. Orders be damned—he wouldn’t last another second in that room, at least not without inflicting bodily harm on Niko. With a glance at Immanuel, who stood listening with a frown, Franco set down his goblet and slipped unnoticed out of the hall.

  He made his way quickly through the manor, despite his throbbing head and leaden feet. Niko’s intent to destroy T’khendar seemed an unconscionable rending of all that he found noble. As he exited onto the patio, the staggering weight of this possible outcome and all of its ramifications crashed upon him. He braced hands against the stone railing and hung his head, trying to breathe through the combined pressure of his multiplying fears and the clenching fury in his chest.

  “Franco?” Immanuel stepped out onto the patio behind him. “I turned and saw you’d gone and worried I was too late.”

  Franco lifted his head and gazed off across the lawn, jaw clenched. Desolation gripped him; the feeling reminded him too keenly of that moment three centuries ago when his entire path had changed. “It’s been too late for me for a long time, di Nostri.”

  Immanuel joined him at the railing. “I once thought as you do.” He glanced to Franco, and Franco saw understanding and compassion both in his expression.