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

by Melissa McPhail

  Tanis turned to him feeling utterly elated. “Because she loved it?”

  “Because your father loved it.”

  Tanis arched brows over widening eyes.

  Phaedor hooked thumbs into his sword belt and gazed out over the water. “In this place, your father said he could feel the fifth in all its grandeur. He claimed it poured forth from the rocks and the water, from the wind and waves. He could feel it in the stones shifting beneath the tide and in the endless rocking of the sea.”

  Tanis looked up at the zanthyr as he said these things. Phaedor seemed ever the dark statue, marble-hard yet of profound grace, a pillar rooted to the bedrock of the world. In that magical place, Tanis sensed grave power collecting around the zanthyr, as if he called it to himself simply by being.

  Phaedor pointed to the break between the cliffs. “The sun sets between those two points, setting flame each night to the radiant water; and on a calm, clear evening when the sea is still, the heavens form a mirror, casting endless reflections of themselves.” He let out a pensive breath. “In such times, Tanis, one feels removed from this world. To be upon this beach and feel the tides of the fifth rise and fall…it is sometimes not unlike floating in the endless spaces between the realms, of a kind with planets and stars.” Giving Tanis a solemn look, he admitted, “The fifth is strong here, and your father sensed that.”

  In the silence that followed, Tanis absently moved closer to the zanthyr. They stood for a long time listening to the crash of the surf against the tumbling stones, to the wind whispering through the trees and among the long, grey-green grass. Tanis thought perhaps he too could feel the ebb and flow of elae’s elusive fifth strand. In fact, the lad was so enchanted—as much by the experience itself as by sharing it with the zanthyr—that he might’ve opted stay there for hours, or at least until hunger drove him forth, had he not been expecting a ship and a journey ahead of him yet that day.

  So when the zanthyr turned to go, Tanis followed in silence, careful not to disrupt the tranquility, choosing to leave the magical Cora Cove unchanged in any way, even should it only be from the power of words.

  But once they were on their way again, the boy was quick to ask a question that had been brimming for a while. “My lord,” he said as the carriage started off with a lurch, “is not the fifth strand strong everywhere in the realm?”

  “A reasonable assumption,” Phaedor noted as he settled back into his seat, “but think again upon it, truthreader. Your sense of the fourth strand comes from the constant process of thought. Everywhere in this realm, someone is thinking. Even the thoughts of dumb beasts, no matter their banality, yet have force. But the fifth…”

  He summoned a dagger from wherever he kept them magically hidden and balanced the razor-edged tip on his pointer finger. “The fifth, lad, is trapped in inanimate things. In stone and earth and molecules of air, in the rolling hills and tempestuous seas…in the languorous flight of the stars and the constant clutching of the jealous moon.

  “Much of the power of the fifth is dormant until called into a higher order of motion. We know these things have elemental power trapped within them, but until the fifth is roused from its near static state and channeled, it is often difficult to sense.” He handed Tanis the dagger and then settled him a look of inquiry, testing his understanding. “Places like Cora Cove are special, Tanis, for they remind us that there is vast power lying idle and still, sleeping all around us.”

  “I can see that, my lord.” Tanis looked down at the dagger in his hands and wondered how much power lay dormant within it. Merdanti, like all of Phaedor’s blades, this one was similar to the dagger he’d given Pelas, but slightly longer and with a fuller down the center.

  Tanis made to hand it back, but the zanthyr waved him keep it. “For that empty sheath you’re always wearing.”

  Tanis hesitated. “Another enchanted dagger, my lord?”

  “Yes, its magical properties include the ability to fend off an enemy, providing it is used for its intended purpose.”

  “Which is?”

  Phaedor gave him a bland look. “As a weapon.”

  “So I shouldn’t give it as a peace offering to the next Malorin’athgul I meet?” Tanis grinned tartly as he put the dagger into the sheath at his belt.

  “I do not recommend it, truthreader.”

  The dark undercurrent in the zanthyr’s tone struck Tanis still with his hand grasping the hilt. It was one of those times when he wished he could swim deeper into Phaedor’s thoughts that he might understand why he felt the words so ominous with foretelling—and then was really glad that he couldn’t.

  Tanis swallowed, finished securing the dagger in its sheath, and tried not to think on what Phaedor’s comment might mean.

  Vesper Harbor, as it turned out, lay just around the cliff west of Cora Cove, but they had to climb another mountainous hill to gain access to it. So it was that Tanis’s first view of the harbor came from on high. He gazed out over a great half-moon bay whose waters were as dark blue as the sea beyond the bordering cliffs. A long stone quay extended out into the deep water. At its edge, two men were unloading trunks from a wagon.

  As Birger began their descent down towards the shore, Tanis observed a single sailboat at anchor with some slight disappointment, for while lovely, it would need considerable renovation to resemble an imperial cruiser. He was just turning to ask the zanthyr about the matter when the tip of a mast came into view above the jutting rocks of the westernmost peninsula, followed soon thereafter by the bow of a ship.

  On round the head came a three-masted imperial draegoon, easily eighty paces in length, sleek and fast with red sails bulging. Just the sight of it filled Tanis with excitement. He watched open-mouthed as she glided into the harbor, and he gasped with delight when her thread-of-silver on white foresail caught the sun. The Imperial Diamond Crown shone forth from its center, the personal crest of the Empress of Agasan.

  It hit Tanis then. This ship belonged to the Empress of Agasan, and it was coming for them.

  Tanis’s coach reached the quay just as the ship did. The crew began throwing bow and stern lines to the men on the dock, and a general scampering ensued. Tanis watched the experienced men wrap the ship’s lines around the mooring bollards and tie them off with a certain hitch that Tanis had seen Pelas use many times during their sailing expeditions together.

  As the ship’s crew were extending the gangplank, Phaedor motioned Tanis on down the quay. They reached the end just as the dockhands banged the massive walkway down on the stone. Somewhat awe-stricken, Tanis looked up the plank to find a tall man standing at the other end.

  Flowing, shoulder-length black hair swept back from his forehead, while his patrician nose and classic line of jaw promoted his august bearing. Wearing a long, sky-blue coat over a white silk shirt and black pants, he seemed the quintessential Agasi nobleman.

  “Tanis, I believe the High Lord means to disembark,” Phaedor murmured.

  Tanis realized he was kind of blocking the way, and with a hurried apology, he stepped back from the foot of the walkway. As the High Lord descended, Tanis observed his carriage and commanding presence as much as the ten gold rings he wore, one on each finger. He came to a halt before them on the dock, at which point Tanis noted the slightest tinge of grey at his temples, but this only served to deepen his distinguished air. Truly, Tanis had never met a man so clearly born to rule.

  “Your Grace,” the zanthyr greeted with a polite nod. His tone was uncommonly respectful. Only the slightest hint of irreverence laced it.

  “Phaedor,” the High Lord returned with a slight frown. His voice was deep, his tone terribly polite. “I confess, I didn’t expect to find you so…easily.” He glanced at the pile of trunks and then looked back to the zanthyr, and only because Tanis was studying him so closely did he notice the flicker of confusion that crossed his brow. “Are you…heading somewhere?”

  “I’m taking Tanis to Faroqhar. The boy’s mother would like him to spend some ti
me in the Sormitáge.”

  “Indeed, indeed.” The High Lord’s frown deepened as he looked inquiringly then to Tanis.

  “Tanis, may I present the High Lord Marius di L'Arlesé.”

  The lad bowed. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.”

  The High Lord harbored an unrelenting furrow between his ebony eyebrows. “Forgive me,” he said, turning his gaze back to Phaedor and then around the empty bay, “but…where is your ship?”

  The zanthyr was playing with one of his daggers. He sent it spinning and made it flip three times before catching it by the point. “Oh, we imagined one would be along eventually.”

  “How convenient that mine happened to be passing by.”

  “Yes, it is most fortuitous, Your Grace.”

  Marius stared at Phaedor for a long moment of indecision. “Am I wrong to suppose you would not be unwilling to accept the hospitality of my ship in taking passage to the Sacred City—being that we’ve passed no other ships within twenty leagues?”

  “Tanis and I would be pleased to accept the Empress’s hospitality for our travels to Faroqhar. As you’ve so observantly noted, Your Grace, we’re all packed and ready to leave at your leisure.” Phaedor motioned to the gangway. “After you?”

  “No.” Marius frowned and stepped aside. “By all means…after you.”

  “As you prefer.” Phaedor swept up the gangplank with his raven cloak floating at his heels, and Tanis was left standing beside the High Lord, who looked mightily conflicted.

  “Your Grace,” the lad said quietly, “may I ask a question?”

  Marius turned him a startled look—as if he’d forgotten Tanis was standing there. “Hmm? Oh—oh yes, what is it?”

  “I was just wondering…how long ago did you decide to come here?”

  Marius did a double-take on the boy, whereupon his hazel gaze turned piercing. “Five nights ago the Empress commanded me hence.”

  Tanis exhaled a sigh. “Would you believe me if I told you the zanthyr knew more than a moon ago that you’d be coming here on this very day?”

  Still frowning, Marius looked back to his ship, where the zanthyr was now standing in conversation with the captain. “…I believe that I would.” He continued to stare at the zanthyr while the men finished loading the trunks aboard. After a while, almost more to himself than to Tanis, he murmured bemusedly, “I came here anticipating a battle.”

  “He will ever do the opposite of what you expect, my lord. It suits his temperament to be disagreeable in every way.”

  Marius turned him another slightly startled look, as if Tanis was a statue that kept unexpectedly speaking. “You seem to know him well.”

  “As well as anyone can,” the lad returned with a shrug. “Phaedor is perceptive to the way others receive him, and he responds to their perceptions…calculatedly.”

  “You say,” the High Lord grunted, frowning.

  “He will only let you see of him what it pleases him to, Your Grace.” Tanis looked back to Phaedor standing aboard ship and observed quietly, pensively, “His motives are his own…but you won’t find a truer ally, nor a person more devoted to the realm’s survival.”

  The High Lord really stared at Tanis then. “Is that so, truthreader? And how is it that you—a lad of ten and six at best—claim such uncommon knowledge of this immortal creature?”

  Tanis dropped his gaze. “I’m not sure, Your Grace.” He rested a hand on the dagger at his belt, but the contact only reminded him of how much he missed Pelas, so he released it again. Glancing back at Phaedor uncertainly, the lad caught his bottom lip between his teeth and muttered, “I think it may have something to do with the fact that he bound himself to me.”

  “Tanis,” the zanthyr called at that moment, his deep purr-growl floating down from above.

  At which point the lad gave Marius a fleeting smile and hastened aboard, leaving the High Lord staring after him in stupefied silence.

  Tanis loved the sea, but passage aboard an imperial draegoon was a very different experience from his intimate sailing with Pelas. The naval captain barked orders, and the sailors scurried to comply upon the instant. Yet for all the noise of brusque commands, the crew operated smoothly. It seemed a well-run ship.

  As Vesper Harbor was vanishing behind the head, the High Lord joined Tanis and Phaedor at the bow.

  The High Lord fascinated Tanis. It wasn’t just that he seemed to embody the ideal of nobility, father-figure, and king all in one; or the way that competence preceded him as his herald, but his presence commanded one’s attention—much like the zanthyr’s—and Tanis couldn’t help staring at him.

  The High Lord came to stand beside the zanthyr and turned at the railing to face him. “Is it true, what the boy said? You’re bound to him?”

  The zanthyr was staring out to sea. “You doubt the veracity of a truthreader, Marius di L'Arlesé?”

  “Not usually, no, but…” He turned a bemused look to Tanis and then back to the zanthyr. “But…may I ask why?”

  “Ask him,” Phaedor replied, indicating Tanis with the slightest twitch of one eyebrow.

  Frowning, Marius looked to the lad. “Why did he do this thing, lad?”

  Tanis leveled an annoyed glare at the zanthyr. “He promised my mother he would protect me, Your Grace.”

  “Your mother,” the High Lord repeated, staring at him, his hazel eyes intense. “Who is your mother?”

  Tanis sighed. “I don’t know her given name, but my father called her Renaii.”

  “I see,” said the High Lord, though he clearly did not.

  Tanis lifted his eyes to meet Marius’s gaze, noting how the fine lines around his eyes made his countenance seem all the more dignified. “Perhaps you might tell me something of her name, Your Grace. A…friend of mine said it was a term of endearment, like a nickname.”

  Marius seemed to be considering Tanis with a deep fascination. “Renaii translates to light of my soul. Our mythology claims the angiel Cephrael named his sister thusly. A nickname, like your friend said, but one with meaning.”

  “Would a husband refer so to his wife, Your Grace?”

  The High Lord regarded him carefully. “He would, if he held her in regard above all others.”

  Twenty-One

  “Shallow men believe in luck. Strong men see only cause and effect.”

  – The Agasi wielder Markal Morrelaine

  The thing Franco first noticed upon waking was the absence of pain. He opened his eyes to a bright blur. He felt muddled, confused as to where he was versus where he had been. It was difficult to string his thoughts together; shifting images like veils masked his memory, preventing focus, denying rationality.

  “Franco?”

  He heard the voice, deep for a woman’s, and thought he ought to have recognized it, but he couldn’t place it. Thinking at all required too much effort.

  A form hovered over him, dampening the too-bright air. He blinked at a face in shadow, framed by a halo of spun gold.

  “Am I…dead?” he barely heard his own rasping whisper. Surely the ethereal form standing between himself and the light was a guide to the afterworld.

  A hand pressed against his shoulder. “No,” she replied with a smile in her voice. “You’re very much alive.”

  She moved her hand to his forehead, and a cooling energy spread forth from her touch. He felt it sinking into his skin, swirling through the breath in his lungs, flowing through his veins—a sensation not unlike immersing his body in a pool of cool water—and everywhere the energy passed, he felt renewed. The stream of elae invigorated him, and in only moments, lucidity returned.

  As the Healer removed her hand from his forehead, Franco blinked and focused on the angel of his recovery.

  Alshiba Torinin straightened above him.

  Oh Gods—

  Horror lodged in his throat, and his heart leapt into a frantic rhythm urging flight. A sense of being trapped clenched within his chest.

  Get a hold of yourse
lf, man!

  Raine’s truth, his wits were all that would save him now. He pushed to his elbows and looked down at himself. He wore only a pair of thin linen breeches secured by a drawstring at his hips. Where Consuevé had stabbed him, just below his ribs, showed an irregular circle of new pink flesh.

  Alshiba walked across the room towards a chest. “You had quite the ordeal, I’m told.” A declaration, though her tone indicated she expected further explanation from him.

  He managed a swallow as he followed her with his eyes. Only then did he notice the silent specter that was her truthreader standing against the far wall. The blonde man wore white from head to toe, but the silver crest embroidered on his doublet marked him unmistakably as a Paladin Knight.

  Franco spun a look around the large, elegantly appointed bedroom, observing the walls upholstered in blue silk, a line of tall doors open to brilliant daylight, and a breeze fluttering in the drapes. Trying to calm himself, he asked, “Where are we, my lady?”

  “At Niko’s estate.”

  Franco pushed one palm to forehead and tried to blink away the cobwebs of unconsciousness that clung to him. Why in the name of Cephrael and everything unholy had Immanuel brought him back to Niko’s and right into the hands of Alshiba Torinin? It seemed the cruelest twist of fate.

  Alshiba poured wine into a crystal goblet and brought it over. She bent and helped him sit up, and placed the wine in his hands while she put pillows behind his back for support. Then she straightened and looked down at him, watching…waiting for some response.

  His eyes lifted to her. She wore her white-gold hair in a swirling crown of braids that accentuated her angled brows and upward sweeping cheekbones. Her Avataren features formed an angular symmetry that achieved a harmony with the power in her aqua-eyed gaze.

  Franco looked away again with a swallow. That palpable sense of desperation bade him guzzle the wine as if it were his last; yet Franco drank slowly, taking the opportunity to collect himself. As he lowered the goblet from his lips, he exhaled a measured breath, though he felt a realm away from calm.