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

by Melissa McPhail

  Viernan admitted a certain disconcertion at this idea; it seemed a logical conclusion, but one that held unsettling ramifications. Viernan knew well of the Sundragon Şrivas’rhakárakek. He would not easily give up his search for Trell val Lorian, and thanks to Raliax’s bungling ineptitude, that search would lead Rhakar to M’Nador…to Tal’Shira…and directly to hal’Jaitar.

  Viernan hissed at this prospect.

  And what of the Emir’s Mage and his apparent interest in Trell?

  Hal’Jaitar had only heard rumors, but rumors often held a shard of truth. If Björn van Gelderan was indeed masquerading as the Emir’s Mage…well, Viernan already had his hands full dealing with Radov’s war against the Emir. He had no intention of fomenting new contention with immortal wielders and drawing their gazes directly to himself in the process.

  The Consul knew he’d best rid himself of the prince forthwith. Still, he feared drawing Cephrael’s eye by killing the man himself.

  He looked back to Taliah, who stood with downcast eyes waiting for her orders. “We should be done with him.”

  She drew in her breath sharply. “Father…” She dared lift her eyes to meet his.

  Viernan’s daggered gaze swept her in challenge. “You disagree?”

  “It’s only…” she dropped her eyes again. “Respectfully, father, the prince sent his Healer to a sa’reyth where the Sundragons are known to reside. By now they must know he’s in our possession. If you claim his life…will you not also earn their wrath?”

  Hal’Jaitar shifted in his chair. “He cannot stay here.” Not with the Prophet lurking about. Not as a lure for Sundragons or—Jai’Gar forbid—Björn van Gelderan himself.

  Taliah stared at him with palpable anticipation. “Then…?”

  “Take him to Darroyhan.”

  Her face lifted with delight. “And he’s mine to do with as I will?”

  Viernan eyed her with barely veiled disgust. “So long as he never lives another day of his own free will, I don’t care what you do with him.”

  Taliah reclaimed her solemn demeanor at once, but she couldn’t conceal the gleam in her eyes as she bowed and departed.

  Well and good.

  Hal’Jaitar sat back in his chair and folded hands in his lap. That had ended more providently than he’d envisioned. He would let Taliah deal with Şrivas’rhakárakek, Cephrael and all the rest of them. Fate was her problem now.

  Thirty-One

  “A man is insecure upon his path until he has honed his instincts on the whetstone of choice.”

  –Isabel van Gelderan, Epiphany’s Prophet

  Having been many times to Calgaryn, a city of respectable size and beauty, and to Rimaldi, which surpassed even the Cairs with its ornate, gilded palaces and elaborate parks, Tanis was expecting something of similar scale from Faroqhar.

  Morning had barely dawned as they closed in on their destination, and a still sleepy-eyed Tanis positioned himself as close to the bow as possible so as to have the first view. Yet as the coastline began enlarging before them, starting with the two snow-capped peaks that Tanis at first thought were clouds and growing into a mountainous landscape covered with buildings that clung to the steep hills, he began to see that he’d somewhat underestimated the Sacred City.

  And the view kept expanding.

  They passed four large marinas sporting forests of masts like bleached trees before they reached Iaspian Bay and the really big ships.

  “Valdaccio to starboard!” called the ship’s first mate, pointing toward the so-named harbor, and the crew hit the decks to make ready to take them into port. Tanis had never seen so many ships in his life. He wondered if all of the craft that ever sailed the waterways of Alorin were not at this moment moored or berthed in Iaspian Bay.

  They sailed past galleys from the southern islands, Free Cities’ caravels, huge Bemothi galleons and crimson-hulled carracks out of Avatar. The captain called for the oars as they entered a mammoth channel, and the sailors began stowing the sails while below-decks the rowing team kept a steady cadence.

  Closer inland, a massive, crenellated wall blocked the channel. As their ship approached the wall, an iron portcullis rose between the two guard towers. Red-cloaked Imperial Guards manned the walls while steely-eyed archers peered down. The guards appeared to salute Tanis as the ship sailed underneath, and it took the lad a heartbeat’s startled pause before he realized that the High Lord was standing just behind him.

  Beyond these high walls and their imposing towers lay the imperial fleet. Tanis had never seen one of the Agasi dregondar warships, but Fynn had spoken of them, and they looked every bit as formidable as the royal cousin had described.

  Finally they neared a majestic structure of white marble that dwarfed even the temples of Rethynnea’s Avenue of the Gods. From the colonnaded façade, a long, wide staircase led down to a jetty, where a row of imperial banners flapped in the breeze.

  Two dozen Red Guard awaited there in glistening splendor. Their silver armor sparkled in the bright morning sun, while their sanguine cloaks tossed and snapped in the wind. Halfway up the steps, two men lounged with legs outstretched. They looked to be dicing.

  As the ship was maneuvering towards the jetty, Phaedor came to stand on Tanis’s left. The zanthyr took in the Red Guards awaiting them and arched a brow above a shadowy half-smile. “Reinforcements, Your Grace?”

  The High Lord looked a little pained. “Moral support, I rather imagine. Valentina recalls well the returning state of the last ship we sent in uninvited search of you.” He nodded toward a soldier at the front of the ranks, a dark-haired officer. “As well does Captain di Alema, who made the journey.”

  Phaedor’s cool-eyed gaze fell upon the captain. “Di Alema struggles with darker dreams now than any I gave him.”

  Marius cast him a sharp look. Clearly the High Lord knew exactly what dark dreams the zanthyr was referring to. “Indeed,” Marius murmured after a pause. “The very reason I braved the unknown hazards of Vesper Bay in search of you.”

  Tanis caught a sardonic undertone in his words, but the rapid images his troubled thoughts conveyed were frighteningly incongruous with this levity. Tanis knew enough of Marius di L'Arlesé by then to understand that the wielder let not his thoughts be read save by his own accord. He wanted them to see these horrifying things.

  The zanthyr held the High Lord’s gaze. “And the currents?”

  Marius pursed his lips in a tight line. “I would know what your sight reveals, for I can make no sense of them.”

  “What do you see?”

  The High Lord shook his head bleakly. “Darkness. Shadows, where none ought to prey. Like and unlike deyjiin’s taint in the dark days of Malachai. Whatever its source, it emerges from Kjvngherad and rides the tides to Faroqhar and beyond, a permanent stain.”

  The zanthyr eyed him circumspectly. “You believe the Danes plan a revolt.”

  “I do.”

  “No doubt you are correct.”

  Marius exhaled a frustrated sigh. “Mayhap you can convince the Empress. Without proof, Valentina will take no action.”

  “Her Sight reveals nothing?”

  Marius gave him a heated look. “Her Sight is as clouded as the currents. We are both of us blinded.”

  “Ah…”

  In that single moment, Phaedor had the whole of it—Tanis saw it in the slight tilt of his head, in the sudden quiet of his gaze, in the way his eyes narrowed with introspection and then focused sharply with understanding.

  As if sensing Tanis’s perception of these things, the zanthyr placed a heavy hand on the lad’s shoulder. Something about the gesture seemed unhappily portentous.

  “I would know what you—” Marius began, but in that moment the ship came alongside the dock and crewmen started scrambling to secure the mooring lines.

  Soon the zanthyr was guiding Tanis to disembark. They headed down the gangplank and collected at the base of the walkway while the High Lord spoke with Captain di Alema and the crew bega
n unloading Tanis’s trunks.

  The zanthyr noticed the lad watching the two men dicing on the steps and murmured into his ear, “They are the High Lord’s men—his great-nephews, though centuries distant. The tall one is Vincenzé and the shorter Giancarlo. You can trust them even as Marius does.”

  Tanis thought it an odd thing for the zanthyr to say, and he didn’t like the implication—why should he need to trust anyone with Phaedor at his side? Still, the thrill of anticipation filled Tanis too fully for such thoughts to pierce and hold, and he visually explored his new surroundings with an appreciative gaze.

  First, he noticed how massive the buildings of this port were compared to other cities, how each marble facade—with its countless columns, friezes and statues all swirled together with innumerable quatrefoils—was so ornate that one’s attention could easily drown in its detail. How men had swarmed from nowhere and everywhere to attend the Empress’s ship. How the Red Guard stood at such immobile attention with their uniforms sparkling in the sun. How blue the sky seemed, how large the trees, and how green the hills behind the white buildings.

  The High Lord concluded his briefing with the captain and turned their way. “Phaedor,” Marius approached with swift steps, “the Empress left word for you to attend her upon arrival.” His tone betrayed the faintest hint of apprehension.

  Tanis suspected that all the days they’d spent aboard ship together had been in anticipation of this moment—or perhaps in denial of it—when the truth of intentions must be faced. The lad joined the High Lord in looking expectantly to the zanthyr, himself feeling the mounting tension that suddenly extended in taught threads among those listening. Even the men upon the steps had paused their game and were now alert and watchful.

  Phaedor replied in his deep purr-growl, “I will attend the Empress,” to which Marius visibly relaxed, and Vincenzé elbowed Giancarlo in the ribs and flashed a victorious grin.

  “But,” added the zanthyr, the single word eliciting a distressed look of alarm from the High Lord, “I must take Tanis first to the Sormitáge and see him properly enrolled.”

  Marius looked dismayed at the idea of such a delay. He cleared his throat. “With your permission, I would take the boy under my protection in your absence—that is, if you trust me to see to his welfare.”

  The zanthyr made a show of pondering this idea, but Tanis knew him too well to be fooled by the show—Phaedor had been expecting this outcome all along. Tanis couldn’t be certain, but he got the idea that the zanthyr had just accomplished some kind of coup. Certainly his gaze glinted with triumph.

  “Well, lad,” Phaedor posed, “do you accept the High Lord’s protection?”

  Tanis was so embroiled in trying to figure out just what the zanthyr was up to that he almost forgot to answer.

  “Tanis?”

  “Oh—oh. Yes, of course. I’m honored, Your Grace.”

  “I will give you a moment then.” Marius gave them a polite nod and walked to speak with his men.

  Tanis felt a little confused as he watched him go. Something was happening here—that much he recognized, but he lacked the understanding to pair all the pieces with their proper opposites. When he looked back to the zanthyr, it struck him that they were parting, and a grave unease flooded him.

  “My lord…why do I feel like this is goodbye?”

  Phaedor regarded him gently. “You must walk your path, Tanis. We have ever been upon it.”

  “But…” Tanis felt a too-familiar sensation in his chest. “But what about you? Must you now walk yours without me?”

  “I’ll be waiting when you return. But come.” He motioned them toward Marius and his men. “The High Lord awaits you, as the Empress awaits me.”

  When they rejoined Marius, with a confused Tanis now wondering at the zanthyr’s cryptic comment—when I return from where?—the High Lord placed a hand on Tanis’s shoulder and told Phaedor, “I will see him fairly tested and placed according to his skill.”

  “I would expect no less of you, Marius di L'Arlesé,” Phaedor replied. Then he vanished.

  Giancarlo hissed an oath, and Marius spun his head in search, but Tanis merely gazed upon the space the zanthyr had just vacated feeling the loss of his companionship as a sudden ache in his heart. “He does that a lot,” the lad remarked, feeling suddenly small and unreasonably abandoned.

  Marius turned him a faintly exasperated look. “I suppose…he’s gone to the Empress?”

  “He gave you his word, Your Grace.” In Tanis’s estimation, nothing more need be said.

  The High Lord seemed to agree. “Then we shall keep to ours as well.” He motioned to his men. “Tanis, this is Vincenzé.”

  Tall and broad-shouldered, Vincenzé bowed with a flourish of one arm and flashed a quick smile beneath bright blue eyes.

  “And Giancarlo.” Giancarlo stood shorter and stockier, with a cleft in his chin and mischief in his colorless gaze. Both were olive-skinned and somewhat rakishly dressed. Tanis liked them immediately.

  “To the Sormitáge then,” said the High Lord, and thus did they depart.

  The next hour became a blur of grand edifices, soaring passages of gilt and marble, and more languages than Tanis’s inquisitive ears could absorb. Yet the lad couldn’t find anymore that sense of excitement he’d first experienced upon making port.

  Parting with the zanthyr had left him feeling unbalanced. It wasn’t that he feared so much the indefinite path before him or how long their parting would be; rather he sensed that he was well and truly on his own. The zanthyr’s many recent cryptic hints and warnings haunted his thoughts, especially the way Phaedor had looked at him when Tanis had cavalierly mentioned giving away his new dagger. He got the distinct impression that if he fell into the soup with another of Pelas’s brothers, Phaedor wouldn’t be there to pull him out of the cauldron.

  Complicating the issue, Tanis wasn’t at all sure he even wanted to enroll in the Sormitáge—it wasn’t as if the zanthyr had asked him—and he certainly wouldn’t have so readily agreed if he’d known it would mean leaving Phaedor.

  Tanis could hear his new companions thinking about him…wondering, conjecturing. Tanis knew their questions—even had they not been obvious in Vincenzé and Giancarlo’s expressions, their thoughts were loud enough: Who is this boy? What makes him so special? And the clenching question that even Marius di L'Arlesé couldn’t quite conceal from him: Why is Björn van Gelderan’s zanthyr so invested in this boy’s welfare?

  To get his mind off Phaedor’s departure, not to mention Vincenzé’s incessant mental theorizing, which wasn’t always complimentary, Tanis asked the High Lord, who walked beside him, “Your Grace, what is involved in enrollment at the Sormitáge?”

  Marius cast him a pensive eye. “Invocation Trials have just ended, so we’ll request a special sitting for you.”

  “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I know nothing of these trials.”

  “Phaedor spoke nothing to you of Invocation?”

  “He must’ve forgotten to mention it.”

  Marius really frowned at him then. “The trials are held to determine an Adept’s level of ability, Tanis. Only then can you be placed in studies befitting your skill. With occasional exception, new students are typically assigned to Docian status, that is ‘yoked to the honest study of elae.’ Such Adepts wear the Docian collar until they pass the Catenaré Invocation Trials, usually a span of five to eight years.”

  “Eight years,” Tanis murmured. It seemed a grisly length of time to spend memorizing his Truths.

  As they neared a circle of tall pillars, Giancarlo tapped Tanis on the arm. “Ever crossed a soglia’re?”

  “No, sir, what is it?”

  “A node made into a bridge,” Vincenzé said, coming up on Tanis’s other side.

  “But one even you can cross, cucciolo.” Giancarlo mussed Tanis’s hair.

  “You sure landed a golden ticket, lad,” Vincenzé observed with a grin.

  “How do you mean?”


  “Being in the High Lord’s protection?” Giancarlo kissed his fingers and flung them to the sky. “There’s no greater personage to open doors and opportunities. You could go anywhere and do anything in the Empire beneath his name.”

  Oh… Tanis turned forward again, and his eyes became rounder as understanding dawned. No wonder the zanthyr had been radiating such triumph. It only made Tanis miss him more.

  Then they were crossing through a series of tall statues to reach the middle of the court, whereupon they traveled three miles and arrived at their destination in a single step.

  Emerging off the soglia’re, Tanis couldn’t help but stare up at the Sormitáge’s grand edifice. The sun flamed the limestone, and the many statues decorating the pediment seemed ready to come alive in its glow. Beneath the mammoth portico that dominated the building’s façade, pockets of students hung about, sitting or lounging on the long flight of fifty steps leading up to the entrance.

  As soon as one of them spotted the High Lord, the rest seemed to instantly follow—like a silent signal passed among migrating birds. Tanis watched a stream of whispers travel speedily through the crowd of students, so that while the closest were still bowing and murmuring polite acknowledgements, the news of the High Lord’s arrival had already flown into the university building.

  By the time they reached the top of the torturous flight of steps, a tall, slender man in a violet robe was waiting for them. “High Lord di L'Arlesé.” He gave a stately bow. “You honor us yet again. How may I serve you this day?”

  “I’ve come to enroll a new student, Liam.” Marius motioned Tanis in front of him and placed his hands on both shoulders. “Tanis, this is Liam van Gheller, Endoge of the Sormitáge.”

  The Endoge looked Tanis over in one quick sweep of colorless eyes. As he returned his gaze to the High Lord, the barest hint of a frown furrowed his aging brow. “Let us attend to your needs in my chambers, Your Grace. If you will permit me?” and he motioned them inside.