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

by Melissa McPhail

  And throughout, the whisper-thin presence that was the Endoge drank it all in.

  When the deluge had exhausted itself, each lesson finding its place within the whole of Tanis’s understanding—completely without his conscious thought, denying all explanation and leaving the boy reeling—the Endoge’s presence in his mind became a blinding light seeking further answers.

  Still struggling to comprehend the experience, Tanis bobbed helplessly on the waves of his own confusion while the Endoge pried into the private rooms of his mind. Yet when the man sought to open the golden-wood box that contained the treasured letter, Tanis started back to awareness and slammed the door upon his thoughts with such force that the Endoge actually recoiled.

  The lad understood the older truthreader’s angry response; he observed as the Endoge beat repeatedly upon the door of his inner mind. But the lad wouldn’t allow him into that room again, no matter how intense the fire of the Endoge’s determination; no matter how blunt the force of his battering skill. Tanis sheltered behind a door of granite as solid as the zanthyr’s own, and there was no chinking it, much less getting past it.

  Either with indignation or the fervent insistence of his curiosity, the Endoge became ever more furious to see what lay behind that door. Finally, when Tanis could sense the man tiring and knew it would become dangerous for him to persist, the lad cast the Endoge the thought, Sir, the knowledge behind this door is not for you or anyone else to know. It is my own, and my mother’s, and you haven’t been granted the grace of this truth.

  The Endoge stilled at this, though his mental presence remained strong. And then, abruptly, he withdrew and released Tanis’s hand.

  The lad opened his eyes and shook out his fingers; he looked uncertainly at the older man.

  Sweat soaked the collar of the Endoge’s robe, and his bald pate glistened with it. He sat in his chair wearing a gritty expression. Tanis could see that their brief mental battle had disturbed him greatly.

  Abruptly he pushed to his feet and walked to a sideboard, where he poured himself a glass of wine and drank it swiftly down. Turning to Tanis, he said in a low voice, “I apologize, young man. I saw something within your memories…” He looked into the empty bowl of his goblet and shook his head. “I should not have pressed you so. It is quite a deplorable display of ill manners. I’m grateful that your skill allowed for self-protection.” Looking up again, he added regretfully, “It isn’t often that I’m denied.”

  Tanis summoned his composure from its place of hiding beneath his chair. “What’s next, sir? Have you more tests for me?”

  The Endoge gave him an unlikely grimace. “Lord and the Lady, no.” Suddenly he pinned Tanis with his gaze and asked with a passionate curiosity, “Tanis youth, who is your mother?”

  Tanis felt the threads of a Telling binding him, forcing him to answer, but he had no answer to give—at least not the answer the Endoge was seeking. “All I know is that my father called her Renaii.”

  The threads of the Telling resonated such that they both felt the truth in this.

  The Endoge dropped his gaze and looked away.

  “Is there some problem, Liam?”

  Tanis turned to look around the back of his chair and found the High Lord standing in the doorway. He seemed every bit the elegant image of royalty in his thigh-length dove-grey coat with his hair swept back just so. And his thoughts radiated such concern for Tanis that in that moment the boy realized if he couldn’t have the zanthyr’s sure companionship, the protection of Marius di L'Arlesé was not a poor substitute.

  “Tanis,” said the Endoge, looking pained, “might you wait for the High Lord downstairs?”

  “Of course, sir.” Tanis nodded to Marius, and the High Lord moved aside to let him pass.

  ***

  “What happened?” Marius’s demand came fiercely the moment Tanis was out of earshot. “When the currents went awry—”

  “I bear the fault, Your Grace.” Liam poured himself another goblet of wine and arched a rueful brow before partaking of it. “I apologized to the boy.”

  “You apologized?” Marius turned a look over his shoulder toward the stairwell Tanis had vanished down. “I feared the boy had done something—”

  “Oh, he did,” Liam assured him with sudden vigor. He wandered back to his chair, sat down and exhaled heavily. “I pressed him while in rapport, Your Grace…and he shut me out utterly.”

  Marius stared at him. “A boy of fifteen?”

  “Verily.” Liam’s gaze strayed toward the unlit hearth as he sipped his wine. After a moment he asked, “Are you aware, Your Grace, of the Order of Emridala?”

  “A vague recollection. They were engaged in experimentation with the first strand.”

  “Not just the first. Will you join me, Your Grace?” The Endoge indicated a chair across from him, and Marius moved to take it. “The Emridala operated on the premise that a young mind learns more rapidly than an aged one. Members of the Order started instructing their youth at eight months of age.”

  “Valentina began Princess Nadia’s training at the age of two years,” Marius noted, frowning thoughtfully at the comparison. “What results from the Emridala studies? I cannot recall.”

  “They discovered that while information might be placed in the mind of a youth, the child seemed to lose access to it after a certain age. It was as though a curtain were pulled across all such lessons. Even when contacted again with the help of a Reading, the lessons remained garbled, perhaps stunted by the lack of language at the time it had been taught. Inevitably, in the rare case when such lessons were remembered with clarity, the child was incapable of application.”

  “So they failed,” Marius concluded.

  “The Emridala were unsuccessful.” Liam lifted his colorless eyes to meet the High Lord’s. “Tanis’s mother was not.” He raised a hand in response to Marius’s arched brows. “I make no implication that the child is a product of the Emridala, Your Grace. I only relate that Tanis was similarly taught from the earliest of ages. Yet where the Emridala failed, the lad’s mother succeeded in spades.”

  Marius gave him a sharp look. “How successful?”

  Liam arched brows as if to reply, you have no idea. “The boy seems to have a firmer grasp upon the initial Esoterics than some of the first-ring truthreaders I’ve known. He worked a Telling and pulled a latent truth from a third-hand memory.” The Endoge looked in bemusement at the High Lord. “I’m in the unusual position, Your Grace, of needing to place Tanis with the Devoveré Thesis students, simply because I’m afraid it would draw too much attention to the boy if I let him test immediately for his ring.”

  Marius sat back in his chair and stared wordlessly at Liam. After a moment, he inquired, “Who is the boy’s mother—surely you recognized her?”

  Liam shook his head. “That’s the strangest part of all. Tanis clearly recalls his mother in their lessons—this knowledge resonates in his recollection. Yet when I looked in upon those same lessons in his memory, I saw no one.”

  Marius rested his chin in hand in utter fascination.

  Still clearly shaken by the experience, Liam pinned Marius with a telling look and repeated, “He shut me out, Your Grace. In my enthusiasm to understand how the lad’s mother had so skillfully taught him, I sought too deeply into his secrets. In that moment, he imposed a barrier that I couldn’t break, even using every craft available to me.”

  Marius glanced to the three rings Liam wore on his fourth finger and felt a thrill of excitement pass through him. It had been centuries since an Adept was born with such ability—could it mean the Balance was finally shifting?

  No wonder the zanthyr has such an interest in the lad. If only…

  Marius finally realized what man Tanis reminded him of. He, too, had been a vibrant talent. Marius searched his memory for another who might make the same connection; alas, he could think of no one in Faroqhar who had known the man.

  Except the zanthyr. But no assistance would be found in that qu
arter, to be certain.

  Even so…at best, Tanis could only be a distant relation; yet if that man had any extant bloodline at all, Marius would pay dearly to know of it.

  Shelving these thoughts for a later time, the High Lord pushed to his feet. “I promised to see Tanis fully enrolled and the hour grows late, Liam. In which Hall will you place him?”

  The Endoge stood as well. “The younger Maritus and Devoverés reside in Chresten Hall, Your Grace, only…”

  “Yes?”

  The Endoge frowned. “I’m suddenly of the unwelcome recollection that there are no rooms available in Chresten, unless…” his colorless eyes flicked to the High Lord’s. “I hesitate even to ask, but would Your Grace be averse to placing Tanis in Malin van Drexel’s room? I’m afraid his is the only empty bed in Chresten.”

  Malin van Drexel.

  Marius’s every sense crawled with a sudden sense of kismet.

  He knew that when the angiel Cephrael worked His hand upon the realm, the fabric of the great pattern vibrated. A lucky few could perceive that vibration. The even more fortunate had learned to recognize it—Marius among them. He’d long ago stopped questioning his instincts when he sensed the angiel’s involvement—in such a time, for good or ill, the only course was to continue on.

  The High Lord held the Endoge’s gaze. “No, Liam, I don’t mind your placing Tanis in Malin’s room.”

  “I do apologize again, Your Grace,” the Endoge murmured. “I will see to it at once.”

  Marius sent Vincenzé and Giancarlo to help Tanis get moved into Chresten Hall and himself went quickly to join the Empress. He knew her mind, knew where she would be taking the zanthyr, and his instincts were rewarded upon his return to the palace, for he learned that she and Phaedor were already en route to the Tower and their unusual prisoner.

  Arriving outside the chamber where the prisoner had recently been quartered, the High Lord looked to the line of Praetorians standing before the doors. “Is the Empress within?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The lead Praetorian bowed and stepped aside.

  Marius traced an intricate pattern in the air to release the trace seal and sent the fifth into the doors to open them. As he walked within, Marius felt his ears pop, and he shifted his jaw slightly to clear the sudden pressure from a host of layered wards—a necessary discomfort endured for everyone’s safety.

  Dominating the center of the chamber stood a stone slab to which the prisoner had been chained. As Marius approached, the zanthyr’s dark form was bent in inspection of the prisoner, while Valentina, standing beside him in a beaded gown of silver, stood as brilliant as a captured star.

  The Empress turned at his approach. “Marius.” There was much said in her tone…and in her eyes as she looked upon him.

  “Aurelia.” Marius bowed in reverent greeting. He gained her side and looked upon the unconscious prisoner, who was six times enfolded with iron manacles.

  “He fell into a trance while you were at sea,” Valentina murmured.

  The zanthyr appeared to be engaged in deep inspection of the man. He stood with eyes closed and one hand upon the man’s forehead. The High Lord walked to the other side of the table, opposite the zanthyr, and frowned down at the prisoner. “The necrosis seems to have spread.” He glanced up at Valentina.

  “We’ve learned much about what was done to him since you left, Marius. We’ve attempted to reverse the process, yet in vain, for his flesh continues its transformation.”

  Indeed, the man’s bare flesh had become almost entirely black. He might’ve been formed of stone as ebon-dark as the deadly Merdanti blade strapped to the zanthyr’s hip. In the few spots upon his person where natural flesh remained, it showed red and suppurated. What had at first appeared a leprous affliction now proved some parasitic form of necromancy.

  This thought had just occurred to Marius when Phaedor opened his eyes and removed his hand from the man’s head. His gaze remained fixed there, his expression intense.

  “Well?” asked the Empress. “I would know what you learned of him.”

  Phaedor lifted his gaze to her. “I learned that you’ve been keeping him alive and in so doing have allowed the pattern to spread.”

  Valentina shook her head. “We had little choice. This man is our only link to whoever worked such foul craft upon him.”

  “No doubt you will discover that soon enough.”

  Marius bristled, but Valentina replied only, “What would you have us do?”

  Phaedor held her gaze. “Kill him—while you still can.”

  Marius gazed at the zanthyr with his teeth clenched. It would do no good to argue, debate or protest—this he knew. Phaedor only ever said what it suited him to reveal. Marius drew breath to convey his displeasure—or at least remark critically upon the zanthyr’s obdurate nature—but Phaedor preempted his comment with an upraised hand and a warning flash of emerald eyes. “Say no more in this creature’s presence.”

  The Empress frowned. Her gaze swept everyone in the room, but it lingered longest on the unconscious prisoner. “Let us retire to my chambers to speak more of these matters.”

  As the three of them walked amid a cloud of Praetorians back to Valentina’s apartments, Marius couldn’t help but wonder why Phaedor had really come to Faroqhar. The zanthyr only ever acted upon his own motives, which seemed wholly unknown to anyone except the Maker, yet Valentina trusted the infuriating creature to the extreme limits of Marius’s patience. While she obviously honored some agreement with her departed father, Hallian IV, he had no obligation to place any faith in Björn van Gelderan’s zanthyr. Phaedor was the most elusive man Marius had ever come into contact with, and likewise the most difficult to understand, command or influence. That he was going along with Valentina’s wishes so compliantly made Marius highly suspicious.

  Reaching the Empress’s chambers, Valentina took a seat and turned her gaze to the zanthyr. “You must know that my Sight—”

  “Is clouded.” The zanthyr pinned her with his emerald gaze. “If you would know why you cannot see the path, seek ancient names long hidden, much feared. One is harbored in the head of that man, your prisoner. It is all he knows.”

  “He spoke nonsense syllables only,” Marius said, staring at him. He liked not at all the threat lacing the zanthyr’s words.

  Valentina turned the High Lord a concerned look. “Perhaps they were not nonsense?”

  The zanthyr gazed darkly upon her. “And the word?”

  “Shalabaanaaatra,” she said. Abruptly she lifted her gaze to Marius. “It is like a resounding shout, without end, this word, stretching from creation to infinity. It has neither beginning nor ending in his thoughts, encompassing the entirety of his mind.”

  “Shalabaanaaatra,” Marius slowly repeated with a frown. Giancarlo had just been speaking this word to the boy Tanis, but Marius didn’t know how the subject rose between them.

  “You do not recognize it?” Phaedor asked Valentina. “Too long have their names been hidden from the world if Hallian, your father, spoke nothing of them to you. Or perhaps if I say the Qhorith’quitara, you will recall.”

  Valentina sat back in her chair. “Can it be,” she said in a low voice fervent with disquiet, “that you speak to me of Malorin’athgul?”

  The name sent a shock coursing through Marius. He looked up under his brow at Valentina. “The first volume of the Qhorith’quitara,” he said, low and fierce. “It’s the book Malin van Drexel removed from the vault. It still has not been found—Sanctos Mordaani,” the curse escaped him like a hiss of foretelling, for he should’ve seen the same connections.

  “So you begin to see,” the zanthyr murmured.

  “I see a picture, but it makes no sense to me.” Marius shook his head and went to pour himself a glass of wine. “Assuming Malorin’athgul do exist,” he remarked then, too unsettled by the idea to discount it outright, “how would they have entered our world?”

  The zanthyr pulled out his dagger and fingered the blade. “W
hat’s done is done. Seek instead to learn what games they are upon, for one of them surely plots against you.”

  Marius’s frustration bristled. “If you know so much of their activities, speak plainly.”

  The zanthyr turned him a cool eye. “Where was this man, your prisoner, uncovered?” He tossed the dagger idly, making it flip three times before catching it by the point.

  Marius’s expression darkened. Damn the creature for knowing so much and revealing so little! “He was discovered wandering the palace halls.”

  “Adepts materializing, others vanishing…” Phaedor flipped his dagger again. “It would appear your security is showing its holes, High Lord.”

  Marius gritted his teeth. “You tell me how they’re traveling the realm without leaving traces on the currents!”

  Phaedor caught his dagger fiercely between fingers and thumb and cast Marius a severe look of censure from under his brow. “At least in following this line of inquiry you would be asking the right questions.”

  Valentina traced her lips with her forefinger. “I don’t understand…what would Malorin’athgul have to do with the Extian Doors?”

  “The Extian Doors?” Marius blinked at her. Then, noting her expression, he repeated again, more emphatically, “The Extian Doors?”

  “Or a fair representation of them. The Order reported while you were at sea: the Extian Doors were raised in Köhentaal—raised, they believe, on the eve of Adendigaeth.”

  Marius swiftly looked to observe the zanthyr’s reaction to this astonishing news, but as usual, the creature gave no indication that he cared one way or another. Marius shook his head in bewilderment and looked back to his Empress. “How—and for what possible reason?”

  Valentina grunted. “I’m more concerned with who. The list of wielders with that kind of skill is short indeed.” She shook her head, and her gaze became clouded with uncertainty. “Would that the Sight had not abandoned me. Instinct says Markal had some hand in it, but…”