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

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Paths of Alir (A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book 3) Page 22

by Melissa McPhail


  Pelas had postponed his intended visit to Tal’Afaq, but an entire army of eidola? That he had to see.

  This game is beyond your depth, Pelas, Shail meanwhile warned. Swim back to safer waters or lose your life to the waves. Should you surrender your will to me, I will allow you to continue life on this plane.

  Pelas barked a mental laugh. Surrender my will to you? Can you be serious?

  Perhaps you mistake my offer. His tone dripped with threat. Surrender now, here, or declare yourself an enemy.

  Pelas’s eyes glittered with defiance. I accept your challenge, brother. Let us see who will be the first to join Rinokh—

  A piercing scream shattered the silence, and the truthreader staggered away from Franco. To Pelas’s surprise, he appeared to be the one screaming.

  The Adept stumbled three paces backwards emitting that tortured shriek. Then he collapsed onto his back, pitching with convulsions. Pelas barely had time to process the curious event before the man jerked violently amid an ear-splitting snapping of bones and then stilled.

  “Three bloody rivers!” Demetrio took a step towards the man but drew up short, uncertain, as he gazed in revulsion at the blood fountaining out of the Adept’s every orifice. The other black-robed wielder and one of Demetrio’s men both ran to the truthreader’s side, but the Adept was quite obviously dead.

  Pelas turned a curious look to Franco, who was slumped in the arms of Demetrio’s men.

  Shail demanded into the general commotion, “Who did this? What happened?”

  The wielder straightened wearing an expression slack with awe. “Do you see, my lady?” he addressed the veiled woman. “The currents show the pattern of the working but not the signature of the wielder who cast it.”

  “Impossible,” Shail growled.

  “Nearly so, my lord,” the woman agreed. She turned to him with a jingle of bells.

  Pelas knew her from her reputation as much as her famous headdress. What he hadn’t known was how deeply she suffered. He easily saw the darkness consuming her like an apple rotting at its core; elae’s light had all but left her.

  So my bother lays his bed with the Karakurt. Now that is intriguing…

  The Karakurt advised, “The difficulty inherent in the undertaking of hiding one’s presence from the currents makes its craft more legend than fact.”

  Fury darkened Shail’s expression, and he fixed his eyes on the wielder. “Explain these deeds.”

  The Adept held a hand to Franco. “It would seem the truthbinding upon the Espial held also some dormant pattern of protection, my lord.”

  Shail shifted his dark gaze back to an unconscious Franco and frowned. “Rohre did this?”

  “Nay,” said the Karakurt. “The wielder who truthbound him planted this seed, my lord. Rohre may have had no knowledge of the pattern at all.” She walked towards Franco, and Pelas saw her face more clearly through the veil as she neared. She looked younger than her reputation made her, and was not unattractive, with the dark hair and features of the desert tribes.

  She reached Franco and took his slumping head in her hand, lifting his chin. Pelas watched her look him over and then fix her hand across his face in the truthreader’s hold. Whereupon he also noted the two Sormitáge rings on her fourth finger, partly hidden beneath a large ruby.

  No doubt you keep that truth a guarded secret, Pelas thought. There were not so many female truthreaders in the land, and a female truthreader with her second ring could easily be identified from a search of Sormitáge records.

  “What can you learn of him?” Shail rumbled.

  After a silent moment of concentration, she shook her head with a jingling of bells. “This work defies even my skill.”

  Pelas arched a brow. Especially with elae so far from your reach, my dear.

  She released Franco and turned to Shail, and Pelas noted the fear in her voice as she replied, “Whoever is protecting Rohre—whoever is protecting these secrets—is a worthy adversary, my lord.”

  Shail shifted in his seat, frowned, and tapped one finger against the arm of his chair. “The same man who hides Ean val Lorian from us?”

  “Perhaps,” she agreed.

  “Who?” Shail’s impatient tone conveyed his indignation. Pelas found the moment immensely satisfying, for his youngest brother was unused to being outwitted and out-maneuvered. “Who would have the skill to lay a dormant pattern within a truthbinding—one strong enough to kill anyone that challenged it, yet leave no signature upon the currents?”

  The Karakurt walked a few paces with her thoughts and then stilled. She looked back to Shail amid a whisper of silk. “This is legendary talent, my lord. We must look for a wielder the likes of Arion Tavestra, Markal Morrelaine, or Björn van Geld…” The name gave her pause, and she turned a swift look back to Franco. “Björn van Gelderan,” she murmured then with dawning realization, her tone colored by awe, “The man Franco Rohre is reportedly sworn to.”

  “Conjecture,” Shail groused.

  She turned to him at once. “Rohre’s sleeping mind is full of thoughts of the Fifth Vestal. I could not glean much else but this.”

  Shail eyed her skeptically. “Björn van Gelderan, the Fifth Vestal. A name from dusty texts.” He frowned, grunted. “From all accounts, the Vestal betrayed the realm, and if recent rumors be true, he’s returned to carry out Malachai’s work and hasten the extermination of the race.”

  His gaze shifted back to Pelas and he added with meaningful menace, brother to brother, I would count Björn an ally.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time an enemy has purposely propagated misinformation, my lord,” the Karakurt cautioned.

  The black-robed wielder snorted. “Facts are facts, my lady.”

  Shail turned her a considering look nonetheless. “Björn van Gelderan…” He repeated the name as if tasting of its authenticity, but Pelas knew his brother was tasting of possibility.

  Until that moment, Pelas hadn’t envisioned anyone from this world knowing of their true nature and purpose. Yet to think on it now, the very idea seemed naïve—to imagine no one knew of their existence? That no one would be working to counteract their efforts? It seemed folly beyond compare.

  More the fools, he and his brothers. The price of their arrogance.

  Still…it was a bit presumptuous to propose that Björn van Gelderan was actually an unseen adversary, working behind the scenes to thwart their efforts. The man had been gone from the realm for centuries, had he not? And all accounts placed him, as Shail had said, as one who might be counted an ally to their own cause.

  “Björn van Gelderan aside,” Shail remarked, “who else could’ve done this?”

  She shook her head in a jingle of bells. “Of bracketed or rowed wielders in the known, Viernan hal’Jaitar counts among our allies, yet I daresay this working hangs above his skill. The High Lord of Agasan and others of the Empire might possess such talent, but it seems unlikely the Empress or her Consort would involve themselves in this effort. I know of a few others out of legend who could’ve managed it,” and she added pointedly, “but all of them were sworn to the Fifth Vest—”

  Suddenly she spun a look at Franco with a jingling of bells. “He’s awake.”

  ***

  Franco regained consciousness the way one sometimes wakes from a dream, with reality and illusion blurred. He heard the Lord Abanachtran speaking while he drifted in and out of lucidity, but mention of the Fifth Vestal’s name shocked him more fully aware. He listened then, eyes closed against the pain in his throbbing head, inwardly cringing as the woman spoke the truth so nearly.

  Bitter regret filled him. To know himself responsible for alerting a Malorin’athgul to the First Lord’s game…

  “He’s awake.”

  His bluff called, Franco opened his eyes and lifted his head. Only then did he see the truthreader splayed flat on the floor in a pool of blood. Franco stared.

  “You see,” said the woman, nodding towards Franco, “he didn’t know.”
<
br />   “It matters little now,” the Lord Abanachtran muttered. “He’s useless to us if his information can’t be gained. You know what to do, Consuevé.”

  Demetrio grinned at Franco. “Gladly.” He twirled and lunged and stabbed his rapier into Franco’s gut.

  “No!” Immanuel gasped even as Franco uttered a pain-stricken exhalation and collapsed forward, hung between the arms of Demetrio’s men.

  Demetrio pulled free his slim blade. He looked at the crimson-stained steel and scowled. “Blast. I missed his liver.”

  “I did not say do it here, Consuevé,” the Lord Abanachtran growled irritably. He settled his piercing gaze on both captives, and for a moment his eyes narrowed. “Traitors deserve a slow demise. Bind Immanuel,” he emphasized his name with a sneer, “in the goracrosta and dump them together in a hole somewhere. I would each watched death’s creeping shadow claiming the other.”

  Franco managed one last blood-tinged glance at Immanuel, who finally looked fretful, and then swirling darkness claimed him.

  Fifteen

  “He has not embraced life who does not every day surmount a fear.”

  – Dhábu’balaji’şridanaí,

  He Who Walks the Edge of the World

  Alyneri woke in the early evening. She lay still beneath diaphanous layers of netting while the crickets sang and a passing breeze carried the scent of rain through the rippling tent walls.

  For the first time since arriving at the Mage’s sa’reyth, the lovely Jaya wasn’t waiting at Alyneri’s bedside with a meal and then a command that sent her tumbling right back into healing sleep. Looking around that time, Alyneri found in Jaya’s place a claw-foot tub of steaming water.

  She bathed and dressed in the gown Jaya had set out for her, its silk as rich in hue as the deepest wine, and then she stared at her reflection in a standing mirror as she combed fingers through her damp hair. A cursory glance showed a slender young woman with long, pale hair and lambent eyes, but closer inspection revealed dark circles beneath a haunted gaze and shadows that hollowed her cheeks.

  Inside, Alyneri still trembled. The shock of her separation from Trell dominated her thoughts, and the wounds of their parting remained fresh and weeping no matter how many days passed. She found it so strange being in that place of lavish comfort, receiving the care of immortal drachwyr, while Trell lived in mortal peril, and Fynnlar…well, Jaya had told her that Fynn would recover, but it troubled Alyneri that he hadn’t yet woken, and that she hadn’t been allowed to see him.

  She felt a strange duality as she stared at her reflection, as if she lived two lives, or at least had two faces. In the way a river’s smooth surface often concealed dangerous currents, Alyneri’s own demeanor hid a riotous fear that rushed through the depths of her consciousness.

  Jaya had repeatedly encouraged her to rest and recover, but how could she sleep when Trell might be dying? How could she lie idle when she should be doing everything in her power to find him?

  Alyneri exhaled a tremulous breath. The truth was, she had nowhere else to go. But…perhaps Jaya already had more news.

  Alyneri set off to find her. After a confusing journey through the labyrinthine complex of tents, she finally found the Rival of the Sun sitting on a divan reading a book.

  The drachwyr looked up when Alyneri entered, and her serene face lifted in a smile. “Ah, sweet Alyneri, how are you feeling?” Jaya set aside her novel and patted the cushion beside her for Alyneri to sit down.

  “I slept again, thank you. I just…” she bit her lip and slowly lowered herself onto the cushion. “Is there any news at all?” She pushed a trembling hand to her forehead and whispered, “I can't seem to stop shaking.”

  Jaya plucked at a strand of Alyneri’s hair in a motherly way. “Let not your heart be troubled, soraya. Rhakar found Trell of the Tides once before; he will find him again. He is very good at finding those who are lost.” Taking up Alyneri’s hand, her oddly tangerine eyes widened and she observed gently, “My, but you are shaking. You must have more nourishment. You sacrificed so much of your own strength to save your friend—your pattern was terribly frayed.”

  “I would fray it again if it meant finding Trell,” Alyneri whispered.

  Jaya stood and tugged on Alyneri’s hand to bring her to her feet. “Come. Some food will do you good.” As she led her off, Jaya’s face brightened. “Oh, but ‘tis well you’ve awoken! For my brothers and sister return ere sundown, and they’ll be anxious to speak more with you now that your health has been restored.”

  “And I them,” Alyneri admitted. She had yet to see any of the others who’d greeted her upon her arrival at the sa’reyth, though she remembered them indelibly: the imposing and mysterious zanthyr named Vaile; the youth Balaji, who spoke with such command; and the compellingly handsome Náiir…

  Yet she couldn’t think of them and not think of the circumstances that had driven her to seek their aid. Alyneri hugged arms to her chest. “Jaya, has Fynn woken yet?”

  Jaya turned her a look. Then she seemed to decide something. “Come. I’ll show you why he sleeps so your mind may be at ease.” She led Alyneri to a room that had been closed off with a black curtain. Jaya swept it aside and drew Alyneri just within.

  In the center of the room, Fynn lay on a bed surrounded by an odd light. Alyneri turned a look around, trying to determine where the light was coming from, but it had no visible source. It merely hovered around Fynn in a pale nimbus while tiny motes seemed to dance within. Alyneri moved towards Fynn, but Jaya tugged her hand to remain.

  “Don’t approach too closely. He lies separate from us while he heals.”

  “Jaya?” a woman’s voice coming from behind them held a note of alarm.

  Alyneri turned to see a tall woman with flowing dark hair and brilliant blue eyes.

  “Mithaiya.” Jaya smiled brightly. “Sister, meet Alyneri d’Giverny, betrothed of Trell of the Tides.”

  Mithaiya cast Alyneri a fleeting look of welcome, but her gaze rapidly returned to her sister. “Jaya, what have you done?” Her tone sounded more accusation than inquiry.

  “It’s but a simple pattern.”

  “You’ve woven the third all about him!” Mithaiya peered critically at the nimbus of light surrounding Fynn and gave Jaya a sharp look. “You’ve timebound him, Jaya!”

  “Only that he may heal within days instead of weeks.” Jaya tilted her chin defiantly.

  Mithaiya’s eyes widened, and she hissed, “How is this not testing the Balance?”

  Jaya arched an indignant brow. “If Phaedor can play with time, so can I.”

  “Only ever at her behest would he do such a thing!” Mithaiya’s tone was rife with disbelief and disapproval. “Never on his own advisement.”

  “Think you really to lecture me on the motives of the Mage’s zanthyr, Mithaiya?” Jaya tossed her head primly. “Next you will say he shares his mind with you.”

  “I’m not—“ Mithaiya opened her mouth and shut it again. “I would never make such a claim.” Her blue eyes returned to a sleeping Fynn, and a furrow marred her brow. “By the Lady’s light, Jaya…it’s just so dangerous.”

  “The game progresses, Mithaiya,” Jaya said unrepentantly. “It is possible you may have to take a side.”

  Mithaiya sucked in her breath with a hiss.

  “But this is no fair reception for young Alyneri.” Jaya patted Alyneri’s hand while angling her sister a chastising look. “The youngling shouldn’t be made to suffer our ancient bickering.”

  Mithaiya’s tense expression abruptly softened. “You’re right.” She gave Alyneri a smile while her gaze conveyed apology. “You seem much restored since first I saw you sleeping.” Her blue eyes flicked to Jaya. “I wonder now did my sister timebind you, too?”

  “Blame Balaji’s cooking if you must. I did only encourage her into enduring sleep. But come,” she let the drape to Fynn’s room fall closed and drew Alyneri off again. “We go to find nourishment for the frail flower of our Trell’s eye. H
ave the others returned, Mithaiya?”

  Mithaiya walked on her sister’s other side. “Balaji and Náiir came with me. Ramu remains with the Mage, and Rhakar…”

  Alyneri caught Mithaiya’s hesitation and her heart skipped a beat. She came to a sudden halt, tugging against Jaya’s hand. “Did he—”

  Mithaiya shook her head. “We’ve no more news of Trell, sweet one, only that he’s been taken to Radov, or his wielder, Viernan hal’Jaitar. M’Nador has many prisons, however, and we cannot know which one conceals your Trell. The Mage’s contacts must seek your prince now, for Tal’Shira lies beyond Rhakar’s purview.”

  Alyneri pressed one hand over her mouth and gripped Jaya’s hand fiercely with the other.

  “Vincal, Mithaiya.” Jaya gave her a scalding look. She tugged Alyneri into motion, and the three of them headed off again. Under her breath, she muttered, “Might you have waited for a better time to state this truth?”

  “You would have me torment her with the secret, now she knows of it?”

  Jaya cast Mithaiya a sidelong look. “I would have you be less transparent about its possession to begin with.”

  “She has a right to know these things. All mysteries are not for keeping.”

  Jaya rolled her eyes. “Try telling that to the Mage’s zanthyr.” She swept aside another curtain and led them into a large tent set with numerous groupings of sofas and armchairs. Alyneri was beginning to wonder if the sa’reyth had a limitless supply of rooms.

  “When I want a lesson in futility I’ll speak to Phaedor,” Mithaiya remarked as she followed behind them. “From my own sister, I expect the light of reason.”

  “Back only minutes and already at it, I see,” a male voice commented humorously.

  Alyneri looked to one side and saw a man standing before a long table set with platters of food. She recognized the drachwyr called Náiir, whose eyes of wheat made her breath catch as they fixed upon her.

  He finished pouring his wine and came across to them, and his sculpted lips twitched in a smile as he neared. “Can you two not mend your fences even to show kindness to a guest?” Reaching Alyneri, he plucked her hand from Jaya’s grasp and looked deeply into her eyes as he kissed her fingers. “Alyneri d’Giverny, what a pleasure to finally meet you properly.”

 

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