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

by Melissa McPhail

  “And how is that?”

  Immanuel arched a resigned brow. “That our paths were as set as grooves in stone.”

  Franco flinched. He cast the painter a pained look and pushed away from the railing. “I can’t linger here.”

  Immanuel followed him down the steps and into the gardens.

  As they walked side by side, Franco shoved hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. His head felt like an anvil enduring a brutal pounding. “You came looking for me,” he muttered, glancing at the painter. “Why?”

  Immanuel met his gaze, but then he frowned and glanced away again, and for a long time the only sounds were the crunch of their feet on the gravel path. As they reached the lawn, Franco cast the artist a sidelong look of inquiry. “Well?”

  Immanuel broke into a rueful smile. “Trust is an intriguing commodity, is it not?”

  “I don’t take your meaning.”

  The artist shrugged simply. “For me to answer your questions, and for you to answer mine, we need to trust one another, and yet…” He gazed regretfully at Franco. “We have no reason to do so, even if we are free to speak our minds.”

  The unexpectedly familiar phrase recalled to mind the memory of another night, not long ago, when Raine had truthbound Franco before the First Lord. Franco had opened his eyes after the binding was laid to find both the Fourth and Fifth Vestals staring at him.

  ‘I trust you implicitly, Franco,’ the First Lord had told him. That statement itself had unnerved him more than Raine’s binding. ‘You are free to speak your mind. This truthbinding is only for your protection.’

  Raine had advised, ‘You will find you can answer any question when offered of your own free will, but if the information is forced, coerced…’

  ‘Then you will find my patterns there to protect you,’ the First Lord had finished.

  With the First Lord’s words still echoing in cadence with the throbbing in his skull, Franco glanced to Immanuel again. He wanted to trust the artist—it would be a relief to be able to confide in someone. And yet…he wasn’t sure he even knew what trust felt like anymore. He certainly didn’t trust himself with the sharing of secrets that might affect the Balance of the First Lord’s game.

  “Well, if it isn’t the illustrious Franco Rohre!”

  Franco came to a sharp standstill.

  Belloth’s bloody balls, this is just adding insult to injury…

  He clenched his teeth and turned to face the Nodefinder Demetrio Consuevé, who was coming across the lawn with four armed men spread out in a line behind him. Instinct drew Franco’s gaze in the opposite direction, where five more men were approaching. All carried blades so dark against the night that they might’ve been folded of shadows instead of steel. Merdanti.

  “This looks tediously familiar.”

  Franco turned Immanuel a look of sharp inquiry at this comment, but the artist merely shook his head.

  “Franco, Franco…” Demetrio approached with the moonlight limning the silver tracings on his baldric and the hilt of his rapier. As Consuevé neared, Franco saw a violet plume curled around his wide-brimmed hat. Beneath this dandified accoutrement, Consuevé sported the oiled moustache and goatee made so popular by the Archduke of Rimaldi, his liege, yet it was not so oily as his smile.

  “I’m honestly surprised to find you here, Franco.”

  “Really?” Franco eyed the nine armed men even then surrounding him and Immanuel. “It seems a bit like you were expecting me.”

  Demetrio leaned on one foot and rested a hand rakishly on the hilt of his rapier. “See, now there’s where you’re wrong about me, Rohre. He said you’d try to slip away unnoticed from our little soiree, but I said, ‘Rohre—he’s a prudent man, cautious. He’d never be so stupid.’” Demetrio spread his arms, revealing dual daggers on a belt beneath his coat. “Yet here you are.”

  Franco gazed at him wishing he was armed, wishing his head wasn’t such a torrent of agony, wishing he’d been better prepared in this moment to exact his anger against Demetrio Consuevé—Raine’s truth, the man deserved it—but fate had delivered him thusly. He’d seen neither hide nor hair of Carian and Devangshu, and their notable absence left him wondering what trouble the pirate was getting into. He hoped he was faring better.

  To Consuevé, Franco said, “Who sent you for me? Niko?”

  Demetrio twirled the corner of his moustache with thumb and forefinger. “Oh, we mustn’t sully our newest Vestal’s reputation by association with a name like yours, Rohre.”

  Franco grunted. “Dore then. I might’ve known.”

  Demetrio’s teeth flashed in a cutting smile. They were very white in the moonlight. “He certainly knows you. I’m shamed to say I doubted him.”

  Franco saw Consuevé as naught but an over-proud rooster perched atop the henhouse making noise. “As pleasant as this reunion is, Consuevé, what do you want?”

  “Well, see, we have some questions for you. But first, let’s address your friend here.” His eyes swept Immanuel. “Is this the pirate we’ve been hearing so much about?”

  “This is the famous painter Immanuel di Nostri,” Franco growled before Immanuel could answer. “He has nothing to do with this. Leave him be.”

  “So he can raise an alarm and bring your friends—assuming you have any?” Demetrio barked a laugh. “You take me for a fool.” He jerked his head to his men. “Bind them.”

  Franco felt hands grabbing his arms, forcing them behind his back. He gave Immanuel a fierce look of apology, but the painter seemed calm, unruffled, as Consuevé’s men bound his wrists behind his back. Then they shoved a foul-smelling hood over Franco’s head, and he saw nothing else for a long time.

  Demetrio dragged Franco and Immanuel across two nodes and then crammed them in the back of a coach for an hour spent on a twisting road of torturous hills. When they finally pulled off Franco’s hood, he blinked painfully against the light and looked around, trying to get his bearings.

  They could’ve been anywhere in the realm, but the luxuriant architecture of the grand salon in which he stood hinted that Consuevé had taken him to the Cairs. Consuevé and his men collected around Franco with blades still held ready, their eyes watchful and alert. He wasn’t sure what they expected him to do, being both weaponless and bound. Their obvious confidence in his talents would’ve brought a smile to his lips had his head not remained such a pulsating torment.

  For the next turn of an hourglass, they stood facing a single, empty chair styled as a gilded throne. Demetrio and his men made crude jokes to pass the time while studiously ignoring Franco and the still-hooded Immanuel—ignoring, that is, save to deliver daggered glares of warning.

  Finally, a painting on the far wall swung open, taking part of the paneling with it, and a procession of unusual characters emerged.

  The man who led the group with a flowing stride walked tall and broad of shoulder beneath desert-styled crimson silks. Black cord bound his long ebony hair, which hung nearly to his waist, and three red-gold hoops adorned each ear. His strong forehead shielded dark eyes and accentuated the shadowed angles of his jaw. He might’ve been Bemothi for the coloring of his skin, but Franco decided that his height and build set his origins closer to Myacene.

  A woman came next in the odd procession. She wore an elaborate headdress in the shape of two long-necked birds, and a pearl-studded veil that completely covered her face. It blended into the silken folds of her sunrise-hued robe, which was embroidered with colorful birds and flowers.

  Third walked a dark-haired man with kohl-lined eyes and a spider tattoo on his forehead, followed by two men dressed in wielder’s blacks. Then emerged a succession of bodyguards in red pantaloons, and lastly, a bald, bare-chested giant with an enormous scimitar at his hip. He was definitely Avataren.

  They must keep that one on a short leash, the voice in Franco’s head smirked. Sadly, the effects of Niko’s wine had worn off during their rough ride—inebriation had done little to help his aching brain but
had at least muzzled the lunatic he rather ironically referred to as his conscience.

  The leader sat down on the throne ten paces in front of Franco, leaned back, and crossed his legs with a rustling of silk. “Well, well, well…”

  Franco felt the man’s eyes flowing over his skin, tasting of him with his gaze. But when the stranger’s perusal of his person lifted to his face and their gazes met, Franco knew him with a certainty that stilled his breath. The power behind the man’s dark eyes was too like that of Rinokh, who still haunted Franco’s dreams. He couldn’t now mistake the predation in a Malorin’athgul’s gaze, nor the malevolent intent behind it.

  “This then is the Espial Franco Rohre,” the man remarked.

  “The very one, my Lord Abanachtran,” answered Consuevé.

  The Lord Abanachtran turned and cast the woman on his right a critical look. “A shame your other quarry is not so easily claimed.”

  She bobbed a murmured apology, causing the tiny bells on her headdress to jingle.

  The lord looked back to the assembly and waggled one finger at Immanuel. “And who do we have here?”

  Consuevé yanked the painter’s hood off his head. “The artist Immanuel di Nostri. Poor bastard has wretched timing.”

  Immanuel shook his head to flip the hair from his eyes and settled his gaze on their captors.

  The Lord Abanachtran took one look at him and emitted a low chuckle that rapidly grew into bold, dark laughter. If the painter understood why his name had engendered this response in the Lord Abanachtran, his face revealed no sign of it. He remained, instead, remarkably self-composed.

  Franco wondered what thoughts must’ve been tumbling behind the painter’s cool, copper-eyed gaze and held a deep appreciation for Immanuel’s collected deportment.

  Finally the Lord Abanachtran’s laughter faded, though his eyes still gleamed with malicious delight. “Let us proceed.”

  “My lord,” Consuevé said with a bow. He turned to Franco. “Franco Rohre, you are charged with complicity in the destruction of Rethynnea’s Temple of the Vestals and in aiding in the escape of Prince Ean val Lorian. Do you deny these charges?”

  Franco wished Consuevé would at least remove his violet-plumed hat, which made it nearly impossible to take him seriously. He exhaled a sigh. “I can’t speak about what occurred in the Temple of the Vestals for reasons that should be obvious, Consuevé.”

  “Truthbound,” murmured the veiled woman standing beside the Lord Abanachtran. “Like the others.”

  The lord gave her a sideways glance, either in acknowledgement or to convey his simmering irritation.

  “Our lord doesn’t care about the bloody temple, Rohre,” Demetrio growled meanwhile. “Tell him where to find Ean val Lorian.”

  Franco eyed him irritably. So this then was their play. He well remembered Dore’s unnatural interest in Prince Ean during their last misfortunate confrontation. This encounter seemed unlikely to fare any better. “I’ve no idea where the prince is.”

  “We know you serve Björn van Gelderan, even as the prince does!” Demetrio pulled his rapier and leveled the point at Franco’s chest. “You disappeared from Calgaryn Palace while still employed by Raine D’Lacourte—”

  “Technically I was never employed—”

  “Don’t tempt me, Franco.” Demetrio pushed the rapier into the soft hollow of Franco’s throat. “Dore has spies everywhere. He examined the reports, compared the evidence. We know you were Called in Calgaryn—summoned to serve beneath the oath Björn van Gelderan bound you with on Tiern’aval—and you answered that Calling with your soul, for here you remain, alive and well, while more honorable men have refused and died.” With this, he moved the rapier’s point to press over Franco’s heart and said through a sharp smile. “You need confess to nothing.”

  “Very well, since you insist.”

  Demetrio bared his teeth in a snarl.

  “You don’t seem to understand the severity of your position, Franco Rohre,” the woman noted from afar.

  Franco shifted his gaze to her. “Perhaps you would kindly explain it to me, khânum.”

  She paused at the polite address of madam made in the desert tongue, and Franco saw that he’d surprised her. “You have a good ear for accents, Mr. Rohre. Mine is but a trace upon the common tongue. Nevertheless,” she seemed to note in that moment the Lord Abanachtran’s eyebrow twitching with impatience, “your situation is precarious. Answer our questions, and we may let you live. Deny us, and your end will be long and painful.”

  “Thank you for the clarification.”

  Demetrio growled an oath and pressed his rapier point more forcefully—and admittedly, painfully—into Franco’s chest. The situation struck Franco as surreal, and for a moment he merely pondered it with morbid fascination.

  Did any of these Adepts realize they served a creature whose sole purpose was the destruction of their very realm? Such depravity seemed outrageous to him…until he remembered Dore Madden and recalled that some men could sink to incomprehensible lows…places so debased that they could hardly be called men any longer.

  The Lord Abanachtran’s gaze remained fixed upon him, and Franco felt his energy waning beneath the man’s inspection. He wondered if the Malorin’athgul was somehow draining elae from his veins even then.

  “Where can we find Ean val Lorian?” asked the lord in a low rumble.

  Franco felt a thread of power lace into him, and his head exploded with pain. He doubled over and braced himself with hands on his knees. “I don’t know!”

  “We think you do.” Demetrio watched him with a cold smile. “We think you know much more than you’re saying.”

  “Read him,” the woman ordered.

  Franco closed his eyes against the pain still coursing through him. When he straightened and opened them again, one of the black-robed Adepts was standing before him. He pinned colorless eyes on Franco at the same time that his hand reached for Franco’s face to take the truthreader’s hold. The moment reminded him of the many times he’d watched Raine D’Lacourte questioning a man, though this truthreader wore but one Sormitáge ring.

  Franco rarely found the humor in impossible situations, but he also greatly resented the imposition of these people, who seemed to think they had some claim to his person and his thoughts. Recalling his most recent truthbinding at the hands of Raine D’Lacourte, he gritted his teeth and flashed a humorless grin. “You’ll be disappointed with what you find.”

  The truthreader smiled icily in return. “We’ll see.” He looked to Demetrio. “Hold him.”

  Demetrio’s men grabbed Franco by both arms, and then a blinding pain shot through his skull. A truthreader could make his craft nearly painless, or he could rip through a man’s mind like a scythe through wheat. Franco shut his eyes and clenched his teeth, forcibly swallowing back a cry.

  For a moment, pain raged through his consciousness, and it took all of his mental strength to concentrate on anything but the fire of its passing. Had the reading not been so agonizing, he might’ve found humor in the futility of the Adept’s attempt to gain his thoughts. As if a mere single-ringed truthreader could break a truthbinding laid in by the Fourth and Fifth Vestals!

  As was his wont, Franco sought refuge in retaliation. He forced coherent thought through the searing fire in his head and summoned images of the Adept attempting this mental rape. Gaining at last a clear picture of the man in his mind’s eye, he proceeded to engage his imagination with images of the Adept’s robes burning, his flesh melting.

  The slightest intake of breath from his tormenter rewarded his effort. Franco opened his eyes to find the man scowling at him. He grinned and ground out through clenched teeth, “Going…well…so…far?”

  The truthreader snarled a curse and dug his fingers into the flesh of Franco’s face and the fourth into his mind, not merely seeking to break through the wall that bound Franco’s memories but using barbed daggers to do so. Thus followed a mental contest of wills, silent save for their
gnashing grunts of effort.

  Yet the deeper the truthreader probed, the more Franco felt the fourth collecting around him. His entire body was soon tingling with it, the hair on his arms electrified and standing on end. Close before his blurring vision, the truthreader’s face grew redder, his grunts of effort more desperate. Sweat beaded on his brow and ran like tears down his temples.

  Finally, the throbbing in Franco’s skull grew so powerful that he felt it searing down his arms and legs as bolts of lightning through his veins. He knew he was losing consciousness the instant before it happened. Pain blinded him, and the world went white…

  ***

  While Franco stood in the dark embrace of the black-robed truthreader, Pelasommáyurek gazed at his brother Shail. He’d never imagined, when he allowed himself to be taken captive, that Shailabhanáchtran would sit at the other end of Demetrio Consuevé’s barbed hook.

  How very interesting…

  Franco was writhing tragically beside him when a voice intruded on his mind in the manner of communication he and his brothers were accustomed to using in the void.

  Hello, Pelas. Shail’s cutting mental drawl conveyed his delicious enjoyment at finding Pelas at his mercy.

  Shail, Pelas’s responding tone held cool indifference in return.

  What are you doing here?

  I might ask the same of you.

  Shail’s gaze shone with cold mirth. You should not have allowed yourself to be taken. Why did you?

  To see what manner of creature lurked at the end of this snare.

  Shail mentally tsked at him. No vice closer courts disaster than curiosity.

  Speaking of misplaced fixation, why are you so concerned with Ean van Lorian? I notice you sent Rinokh after the prince to his demise. I thought at first it was just an expedient means of ridding yourself of him, but now I realize it’s a fervent obsession. Afraid, brother?

  Shail’s eyes flashed. He considered Pelas for a moment in silence, his gaze scrutinizing. Ean val Lorian is but a pebble in our shoe, yet one I would remove when opportunity presents. But soon even he will be of no consequence, for Darshan raises an army of eidola at Tal’Afaq, and none from this plane can long stand before it.