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

by Melissa McPhail

  “In the beginning it always feels that way.” He smiled kindly at her. “In her teachings of the fifth, I hope Vaile is instructing you to use more discretion than she herself observes. Indiscriminately working the fifth strand is the surest suicide.”

  Alyneri smiled and dropped her gaze, remembering well those lessons. “She’s admonished me ardently.”

  “Khoob, that is well for the sun.”

  Oddly, Alyneri felt as if the waters of their conversation had calmed and it was safe to climb back in. She took a few bites of her stew and chewed contemplatively while Balaji diced tomatoes with quick, deft strokes.

  “Balaji?”

  He looked up from his dicing with an inquiring smile, and Alyneri felt a flush come to her cheeks. How could a man be so amiable and yet so deeply stirring at the same time? And for all that, he barely looked older than herself! She felt ridiculous at how nervous he made her—far worse than Náiir, even though the latter stole her breath with his candid gaze and disarming smile.

  “I was wondering…” She drew a swirl in her stew with her spoon while butterflies fluttered in her stomach. “You said once that you and the others weren’t players in the First Lord’s game.”

  “Yes, just so.”

  She frowned. Then she looked up at him. “I guess I don’t really understand what that means—or if I do, I don’t understand why.”

  Balaji considered her for a moment. Then he wiped his hands on a cloth at his belt and came and took a stool across the worktable from her. As he settled, he placed a tomato on the scrubbed wooden top and reached for a bowl of unshelled filberts from further down.

  While Alyneri watched bemusedly, he pulled the linen cloth from his belt and spread it across the table before him. “Imagine with me, Alyneri.” He lifted both ends of the cloth and pulled it tight. Then he released it and left it suspended in midair. “This is the tapestry of life,” he said, capturing her eyes with his own, “the field onto which the First Lord has directed his players.”

  She watched him curiously.

  “Place now our players upon this field,” and he nodded to the bowl of nuts.

  She put a few nuts at various points on the cloth.

  “Notice how each player makes an indentation in the fabric.”

  “Yes, I see that.”

  “This is the effect of a Player in the game, as opposed to pieces or pawns, who make no dent in the tapestry of the game. Each Player is like a small well. Any pieces near him will fall into his well, and he can direct these pieces to carry out his intent.”

  He directed her gaze to the cloth overall. “Notice how the fabric has many wells, but none pull too strongly upon the others?”

  “Yes.”

  “Balance works in this way. The right players on the field at the right time create balance. Each Player in his actions pulls upon the fabric, but if he’s working towards the same objective as his teammates, his actions won’t disturb the other Players or upset the tapestry of the game. Now…move two of our Players together.”

  She did so, placing a nut close beside one of the others.

  “See the indentation now? The way the well of these two Players tugs more strongly at the others?”

  She nodded.

  “Like a game of Kings, Players need to remain on their own squares. The more Players you bring together, the deeper the indentation in the fabric, the more they begin to pull the game out of balance.”

  “That makes sense, but…”

  He smiled inquiringly.

  Her brow made a little furrow as she tried to think it through. “But what happens if the tapestry becomes unbalanced?”

  “Advantage slides to the other side.”

  “Oh…I see.”

  He smiled. “Now place the tomato upon our field, our tapestry of life.”

  Giving him an odd look, she did so. The fruit sank into the floating cloth and pulled all of the nuts into its well.

  Balaji held her gaze intently across the cloth. “This is us, should we step upon the field.”

  She drew back as if slapped and stared at him. “But…why?”

  Balaji settled elbows on the table and clasped his hands. “We’re of the fifth, Alyneri. It birthed us, and it binds us to the realm with invisible threads of force. This connection gives us great power—some might say unbridled power, though that conclusion reveals a certain ignorance.”

  Alyneri motioned to the tomato in its well. “But it seems that by stepping on the field, you would make everything move in your direction. You would compel Balance to your will.”

  He gave her an acknowledging smile. “Yes everything—the good and the bad. We cannot step upon the field without creating that push and pull. Repercussions may not come immediately, but they will come. Balance doesn’t always snap back in predictable ways. It can sometimes throw back at you the things or people who were far across the field. It can throw people onto your path who otherwise wouldn’t have crossed it at all, simply because you stretched its limits just a fraction too far.”

  Alyneri exhaled a slow breath, understanding much more than she ever had before. But other things still made little sense to her. “The impact of stretching the Balance too far, I see, but I don’t understand why Balance affects you more than it affects others.”

  He let the cloth float down and leaned forearms against the table as it settled. “We’re immortal, Alyneri. The fifth-strand races aren’t meant to walk the tapestry of mortal life. That tapestry is too frail and our power too strong. We could as easily destroy the world as save it.”

  “But I thought you learned to measure your actions against how they affect the Balance? Mithaiya and Jaya speak of it constantly.”

  He sat back and gave her a considering look. “This cloth, our field,” and he waggled a finger towards the linen on the table, “imagine it covered in cobwebs. My siblings and I…we skirt the fringes, taking care not to disturb the webs. Some paths we can follow for a time, wandering carefully between the gossamer strands casting only a slight tremor.” He moved his finger around the filberts on the cloth to demonstrate this idea. “But were we to walk directly onto the field, the cobwebs would cling tightly to us. Our every step would stretch them, twist them, cause some to bind anew with others or to tangle and break.”

  Balaji picked up a nut and let it rest in his open palm. He gazed at it quietly. “Balance clings to us like cobwebs, Alyneri. We hover on the fringes of the First Lord’s game taking action where and when we can.” His eyes moved back to claim hers significantly. “But our every step must be inspected with the utmost care.”

  Alyneri exhaled a slow breath. “If you’re not meant to walk the tapestry of life, why are you here?”

  Balaji closed a fist around the nut and shifted his gaze off into the meadow. “You might say we drachwyr are the keepers of Balance—not as Cephrael, who wages judgment as fate.” His gaze shifted back to her, pointed and intense. “Balance clings to us like it clings to the Malorin’athgul, our immortal opponents in this game. It stretches between them and us like the cloth you just saw. We’re anchors at two ends of the spectrum. Our existence keeps the fabric of Balance tight.”

  “But doesn’t that mean…” Alyneri pressed fingertips to her lips. “Are you not just as powerful? Couldn’t—”

  “Yes, I know where your mind would lead you.” His eyes tightened slightly. “These are difficult concepts to express. The idea of us as anchors conveys but a fraction of who we are, yet for purposes of your understanding, it must suffice.”

  He stood and moved the nuts back into their bowl, one by one, as if each carried within it a delicate but dangerous secret. “If Malorin’athgul and drachwyr met in combat, Alyneri, the world would be torn apart.” He picked up his tomato and gathered his cloth. Pale golden eyes looked back to her. “Superior force will not decide this game. It is much too complicated for such mortal solutions.”

  Alyneri heard a chord of meanings in the word mortal: short-sighted, ignoble, moronic�
��.meaningless. A host of such words might’ve been substituted, for Balaji had said them all as he’d spoken the one.

  Her mind was reeling from all he’d told her—so much of such significance, yet she had to wonder…why.

  Why had he told her? It wasn’t like these creatures to offer their knowledge freely. The realization made her feel suddenly cold.

  She watched him replace the stool and return to his table, and her apprehension grew with every breath, such that at last she braved quietly, “Why have you told me this, Balaji?”

  His gaze shifted back to her as he picked up his knife again. His smile told her much, but his eyes told her more, for they were not smiling. “Some paths are aided by this understanding, Alyneri, daughter of Jair.”

  Alyneri’s breath caught in her throat. “…My path?”

  Then his eyes did smile as they shifted to look past her. “Ah, but look who comes.”

  She turned over her shoulder to see Vaile approaching.

  The zanthyr nodded to Alyneri as she came inside the tent.

  “How goes everything with the pirate?” Balaji asked Vaile. He started dicing his tomato. “The Mage would be vexed if Carian accidentally fell upon your blade.”

  “I’m well aware of it, Balaji.” Vaile chose a couple of figs from a bowl and lifted her gaze to meet Alyneri’s, but when she saw the look on Alyneri’s face, her smile faded and her brow arched considerably. She arrowed a look at Balaji. “What have you been telling her?”

  The day darkened as if a cloud had passed before the sun, yet the sun still shone brightly beyond their tent.

  Balaji arched a brow as he continued his chopping. “What have you been teaching her?” He lifted his gaze to her significantly.

  Vaile’s eyes narrowed like a cat’s.

  Just when Alyneri thought she could see clouds fomenting, the darkness evaporated as if it had never been. Vaile arched a defiant brow and ate her fig. Balaji smiled and returned his attention to his tomatoes.

  Alyneri had expected some kind of battle, yet it appeared to be over before it had begun. She had no understanding of the accusation so evident in the exchange, nor how or why it had resolved. But as she departed with Vaile to resume her practice, Alyneri couldn’t help wondering at Balaji’s last comment and what price she would eventually pay for the knowledge he’d bestowed upon her.

  Twenty-Five

  “Trust in Jai’Gar, but tie your camel.”

  – A popular caution among nomads

  The Adept wielder Viernan hal’Jaitar clasped hands behind his back and paced a lengthy square around the four lion statues demarking each corner of the hall. With every step, his thoughts grew darker, his gaze narrower, until all he saw was the shroud of his fury.

  The chamber where he paced offered as much privacy as could be found in the Palace of Tal’Shira—safe at least from the Prophet’s Ascendant spies. Hal’Jaitar trusted Bethamin about as much as he trusted a Valdére viper. Radov might’ve made his bed with that lunatic, but hal’Jaitar had no intention of sleeping under the sheets with the two of them.

  He didn’t believe in coincidence, but he did believe in Cephrael, Fate’s Hand, uncle to Angharad and Thalma, the desert goddesses of Fortune and Luck. In Viernan’s several centuries of life, he’d many times witnessed the angiel Cephrael throw His dice to the utter ruin of anyone who’d waged against Him.

  His detractors to the contrary, Veirnan considered himself a prudent man; he wasn’t apt to gamble on unwinnable scenarios or place a bet solely on the long neck of the underdog. And he most assuredly would not knowingly pit himself against Cephrael. Only a fool claimed no fear of his gods, and Viernan hal’Jaitar was no fool.

  Yet…it seemed he had somehow angered one of them—Thalma, Angharad… Cephrael. How else to explain the turn of the game?

  ‘If it was Cephrael delivered me to your doorstep…you can be certain He had his reasons…’

  Trell val Lorian’s comment still had hal’Jaitar reeling, and even more so after recent events. He misliked admitting it to himself—and would never deign to admit it aloud to others—but he feared it was no coincidence that no sooner had the lost prince appeared than had vanished an entire company of elite Talien Knights, along with Viernan’s wielder Kedar, the Prophet’s creature in Kjieran van Stone, as well as the King of Dannym and all of his knights.

  No trace of the company, which had set out from Tal’Shira bound for the location of their parley, had been found or heard from again. Their considerable tracks ended suddenly in the middle of the desert where the sands had been scoured clean.

  And of his scheme so carefully designed, his trap so artfully constructed…had any of it come off as planned?

  Radov’s company had broken away as expected and the Ruling Prince returned in secret to Tal’Shira, but what of the deaths hal’Jaitar had organized to follow? Of the parley site, only charred cloth remained—tents, stores, even a week’s supply of drink…all burned to tarry sludge.

  For the fate of the parley tents, he might’ve blamed his counterpart in the Akkad, Rajiid al’Basreh, or the Emir, Zafir al Abdul-Basir; but Viernan didn’t believe al’Basreh had the resources or the wherewithal to eliminate Kedar, the King of Dannym and his men, and an entire company of Talien Knights potentially within the same span of hours.

  Unless the Emir’s Mage had worked his unwelcome hand…

  “There are no coincidences,” Viernan groused under his breath, “only players acting beyond one’s purview of the board.”

  A zanthyr had told him that once. The only piece of advice any of the creatures had ever offered that proved worth the effort of gaining it. Hal’Jaitar loathed zanthyrs nearly as much as he loathed Marquiin, truthreaders and gypsies, though not necessarily in that order.

  “Hmm? What?” Sitting on one of the low couches across the room, Prince Radov roused from his stupor. “Did you say something, Viernan?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Oh.” The prince frowned at the empty glass in his hand, whereupon he seemed to determine that it was, in fact, empty. He stuck his nose inside and took a long sniff as if to discern what spirit the glass had once contained—as if he’d drunk anything but that vile absinthe since he’d made his pact with the Prophet many long moons ago. “Well…” Radov turned the glass upside down and watched a drop make laborious progress towards the rim. “What was it?”

  “What was what, Your Grace?”

  Radov shot him an irritable glare. “Whatever you said, Viernan.”

  “I was merely remarking upon a philosophical observation of fact, Your Grace.”

  Radov harrumphed. “Philosophy. A colossal waste.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Abruptly the prince launched unsteadily off the couch. “A ruler needs to know tactics! Swordplay! Some politics—it’s true, you must admit the knowledge a necessary evil, Viernan. A prince has only enemies.” He narrowed his gaze and surreptitiously peered around the empty hall. “Enemies who claim to be friends—those are the ones to watch with a hawk’s keen eye, Viernan, mark my words.”

  Radov looked down at his feet and observed meticulously, “And a prince has enemies whom he pins beneath his toe by might and power; enemies he subdues through bribery and villain—ry,” he wavered slightly on his feet, “and coercion. And enemies on the battlefield!” He shoved his hand to the sky as if it wielded a sword instead of an empty glass, “which a clear head and strong—” he paused, pushed a fist beneath his ribcage, belched and grimaced at the taste it brought to his tongue, “—sword…will righteously…overcome…”

  Radov slumped back onto the couch again.

  Viernan eyed the intoxicated prince with barely veiled contempt. “Poignantly put, Your Grace.”

  He’d considered monitoring the prince’s consumption of the absinthe, but a sober Radov held no greater appeal to him. At least keeping the prince in his cups dampened his volatility.

  “They’re all against me, Viernan. You know I speak the tr
uth.”

  Viernan cast him an intolerant eye. He wondered at what point his role had degraded from a prince’s wielder to a drunkard’s nanny; from Spymaster to chaperone, nursemaid and shepherd. “Who is, Your Grace?”

  Radov waved his glass airily and whispered faintly, “…All of them.”

  Viernan returned to his pacing.

  He found many distressing problems in the missing company. Had Kjieran succeeded in killing Dannym’s King? Had Kedar succeeded in killing them both? Had all somehow inadvertently fallen to the Saldarians dressed as marauders, who hal’Jaitar had sent in as a third contingency to divert and disrupt the lines to give Radov’s company time to break away?

  What had been the outcome of that battle?

  Or…had the regiment been ambushed by Abdul-Basir’s raiders? Or by his Sundragons? Or his Mage?

  And why had hal’Jaitar’s scouts found no trace of any of them?

  The loss of Radov’s knights could be overcome, but Kedar’s loss truly stung. Competent wielders didn’t grow as fruit, ripening from bud to delicate flesh in one or two seasons. Wielders had to be forged, tempered, honed and tested, a process that often required decades of dedication. Those of questionable moral fiber who were also talented in their craft were rarer to come by than a sentient Merdanti blade. Corrupting new ones took years!—years he didn’t have with a war still on his doorstep and an inebriate prince valuable only for the recourse of his royal name.

  And if the king of Dannym somehow survived…

  Hal’Jaitar clenched his hands more tightly behind him. Instinct whispered that Gydryn val Lorian had somehow gotten the better of him.

  Belloth take those damnable val Lorians.

  Hal’Jaitar’s eye twitched. Trell was proving surprisingly resilient to torture—either that, or he really had been suffering from amnesia all this time, like he claimed. Viernan recalled the eldest prince, Sebastian, being equally obstinate under the knife. Now it appeared the youngest, Prince Ean, was becoming a beleaguering problem for Dore Madden.