Rhys remembered that contest so well. Prince Sebastian had feigned weakness to draw him in, only to put him immediately on the defensive with a sudden fervent advance. The prince’s blade had flashed in the spring sunshine, his gaze determined and focused beneath his sweat-dampened raven hair. He’d forced Rhys nearly to the line before the king’s Swordmaster, Thale, had rung the bell for pause. Rhys had been so proud of him as he’d lowered his blade.
“T’was a bit showy, Your Highness.” Thale walked across the sparring ground towards them, rubbing at the fringe of salt-and-pepper scruff he called a beard. “Successful in this venue, but in battle, you’ll want to save your energy.”
Prince Sebastian turned to him. “I used the Randolph maneuver like you showed me.”
“Yes, but it’s intended for use when you have assailants before and behind you.”
“I was imagining they were, Sir Thale.”
A smile twitched in the corner of Thale’s mouth. “In a spar, you fight what’s there, my prince. You’ll have shadows enough haunting you in a real battle. Don’t get into the habit of making them up yourself.”
The prince considered this and then nodded. He looked back to Rhys. “Again?”
“Perhaps a break,” Thale said, with eyes on the captain.
Rhys nodded his appreciation. What his prince lacked in experience he made up for in stamina, and it was an unseasonably hot spring.
They’d retreated to the shade of a tent and a table of refreshments. Across the yard, the younger princes, Trell and Ean, stood side by side in the archery range, firing off arrows at a straw form. At eleven, Trell stood a head taller than Ean at seven, but both princes were all bone and lean muscle and not half an inch to pinch on either of them. The bows they were using were a bit too large—much too large for Ean. Most of their arrows flew wild of the mark, but they were clearly having fun, which was about all you could hope for with that pair.
Prince Sebastian leaned against a tent pole and watched his brothers while his left hand tied his ever-present piece of string into knots. As Rhys came up beside him, Sebastian shifted his gaze with a contemplative smile. His expression reminded Rhys so much of the king—they were two of a kind, King Gydryn and his firstborn, as close as a father and son could ever hope to be.
“What do you know of the desert races, Captain?”
Rhys sipped chilled wine. “I know they seem only to want to fight each other.”
“Father is talking of sending me as his Ambassador on the upcoming peace mission.” Sebastian turned with a faint frown marring his brow. “I feel like I know so little of their culture…” His gaze strayed back to the archery yard, where his brothers were now shouting at each other.
“Surely you’ve studied—”
“Oh, Master val Priven has tomes about the Akkad.” He waved a hand for emphasis of this point. “All about their history, the various tribes, their panoply of gods…but I feel like these are just words on a page. If I’m to treat with these people, mustn’t I know more of them than just the names of their dead kings?”
“You need know which end of your sword to lead with, Your Highness,” Thale said from behind them. “Their culture knows little but war.”
Sebastian turned him a look over his shoulder. “I think that view is part of the problem, if you’ll forgive my so saying, Sir Thale. The Akkad isn’t a culture of barbarians. Even the briefest glance at their literature speaks to this truth.”
Abruptly the young princes came barreling through the tent.
“You did!” Prince Ean yelled in his seven-year-old voice.
“I did not!” Prince Trell put the table between himself and his younger brother and glared at him. “You missed ‘cause you’re a poor shot.”
“I’m better than you!” Prince Ean dove under the table and scrambled towards Prince Trell, who spun and streaked away across the yard. Ean nearly knocked down Thale as he erupted out from under the table in pursuit.
Thale stared irritably after the boys while brushing wine from his coat.
Sebastian smiled. “Who were you saying were the barbarians, Sir Thale?”
The Swordmaster turned him a mordant eye. “I shall be speaking to Master val Priven as to his handling of your brothers, Your Highness. A proper teacher would have those boys collected and upon their studies.”
Prince Sebastian grinned. “You’d have an easier time corralling a pack of weasels.”
Thale pushed his hand in one last disgruntled sweep of his coat. “I quite agree in that regard.” He walked to join his prince and Rhys at the edge of the tent. “To address your earlier comment, Your Highness, I cannot speak to the learnedness of the Akkadian culture, only to their propensity to solve conflicts through bloodshed.”
Rhys grunted.
Prince Sebastian frowned at both of them. “Father says Prince Radov is somewhat difficult to treat with…that he’s not known for his diplomacy.”
Rhys grunted heartily at that, also.
Thale arched a resigned brow. “I would say His Majesty has the right of it.”
Sebastian drew in a thoughtful breath and let it out slowly. “My father thinks theirs is a conflict of ideologies, the Nadori and Akkadian peoples. He says that finding resolution when basic beliefs are at odds is difficult even under amiable circumstances.”
“His Majesty is ever wise,” Thale said.
Just then Sebastian’s attention was drawn back to his brothers. Rhys followed his gaze in time to watch Prince Ean climbing a high trellis with the alacrity of a squirrel. He gave barely a glance around him before he launched himself through the air at Prince Trell. Had he missed, he would’ve landed flat on his stomach and probably broken a few ribs, but his diving aim appeared to be better than that of his bow arm, for he landed squarely on his brother, and they both tumbled into a pile of hay that had been arranged for target practice. The bales collapsed on top of them.
Muffled squealing followed.
A smile twitched at the corner of Prince Sebastian’s mouth. “I’d best go dig them out.” He headed off across the yard.
“Let me call Master val Priven, Your Highness,” Rhys offered.
Sebastian turned and opened arms to the captain as he continued walking backwards. “No need, Captain. If I can be a successful agent of peace between my two brothers, helping the Akkad and M’Nador find mutual ground should prove simplicity itself…”
Prince Sebastian…he’d been such a bright star in their lives. How dark the world had seemed afterwards, without him.
Rhys wasn’t sure why he had remembered that conversation out of the many they’d shared. Perhaps it was because that was the first time he’d realized his prince’s conscientious and considerate nature, the first time he really saw the king’s reflection in Sebastian’s ideas. How he’d loved him! Even as if his own son…
And how treasonous he’d been to deny him in Tyr’kharta, no matter how different he’d become.
Rhys coughed in the hard straw and stared at Ivarnen’s moldy stones and wondered with every set of footsteps in the corridor if Death was finally coming for him.
He’d already come for his men.
Death in the guise of Dore Madden. Death in the guise of a demon with eyes like polished onyx. They’d come and claimed Dorin and Cayal and Brody—Dore Madden with his cadaverous frame and demonic eyes, and the demon itself, looking hellishly more alive than Dore.
It had spoken while the men were being chained together, told them what lay in store. ‘You will become as me,’ it had said in that ratcheting, inhuman voice.
Oh, they’d fought then, his brave men, but in futility.
And all during the grim display, Rhys had lain dying on his pallet and watched Dore Madden. The man had muttered like a lunatic, but Rhys had heard his words and understood.
Prince Ean had taken something very precious from Dore, and that something was his brother. He’d freed him from Dore Madden’s patterns and compulsions—the man had muttered vehemently on t
his point. And now Madden was punishing Prince Ean by turning honorable men into demons, setting up another trap for the prince in Ivarnen and holding Rhys as lure.
But…Prince Ean had freed his brother!
Somehow…somehow Prince Ean had saved the man from the darkness that had possessed him in Tyr’kharta. Rhys had hardly heard anything after this understanding sank in. Just the idea of it made him smile, even as he’d coughed into the bloody straw.
His men had each looked at him as they were being hauled out of the cell, their eyes full of fear and regret and contrition—things all noble men find in themselves in the end—but in their eyes, too, had been the unquestionable shadow of accusation.
Our prince abandoned us.
Oh…Rhys knew what fear was whispering to his men, but now he understood, even if they did not. As he’d stared back, he’d denied the men this charge against their prince, even knowing they were going to their deaths and this would be the last exchange between them. He wouldn’t accept their unspoken blame. He wouldn’t accept even that they’d offered it. He would take the memory of honorable men with him when he died.
Rhys had watched his men being hauled away to endure unconscionable torment, but somehow the only feeling he could find was vindication.
Prince Ean had done what Rhys had not, and he’d unknowingly saved Rhys in the doing. For the captain could rest easy now, knowing his princes were together. He wished he might’ve looked upon the two of them just once, side by side, but he knew Prince Ean would be too smart to walk into another trap.
Prince Ean hadn’t come for them, in the end. Rhys hoped he never would.
Thirty-Eight
“The heavens cannot tolerate two suns, nor this realm more than one master.”
– Shailabanáchtran, Maker of Storms
Isabel dreamed a true memory…
The Citadel’s Grand Ballroom was a whirl of glittering chandeliers and colorful silk as the orchestra’s enchanting music drew ever more couples into the dance. Isabel stood to one side sipping wine from a crystal goblet while she surveyed the room.
Arion and Björn had vanished somewhere—as was their wont—abandoning her to a never-ending procession of would-be suitors. Isabel denied them all graciously and watched in silence as they retreated from her presence wearing quiet looks of dejection.
Then her eyes fell upon a man in a suit of dark silk, stark against his pale blonde hair. She didn’t think he was coming to ask her to dance.
“My lady.” He pushed a hand to his heart and swept the other aside as he bowed to her.
She nodded to him in reply. “Dore Madden.” Her eyes looked him over. “I’m surprised to find you here.”
He bristled. “All were invited.”
She knew he took offense at everything—he was like a sea urchin, all poisoned barbs. “And all are welcome, but such frivolity is not your usual choice of entertainment, I suspect.”
His boiling dark eyes assessed her while his mind tried to skim the surface of her thoughts. He had as much hope of penetrating her shields as he did of becoming a Vestal, but Dore Madden was every bit as brazen as Arion—without a hint of Arion’s charm. “I noticed you’re not dancing either.” His tone inverted her words back against her as if an insult.
“There is as much pleasure to be gained in watching as in dancing, I often feel.” She smiled to ease his indignation. “Perhaps you feel the same.”
His dark eyes swept her again. “Arion shouldn’t leave you alone. If you were mine, I would never leave you alone.”
Isabel could only imagine—but she tried not to. “Important men are burdened with important matters.”
Something vicious and hungry flashed in his eyes at this. “Better I am unimportant then.”
She blinked and drew back. “I would hardly describe you so.”
“And how would you describe me?” He nearly glared at her in challenge.
Isabel considered him. Dore and Arion had many times butted heads—they were as opposite as night and day in every imaginable way save one: like Arion, Dore had a brilliant mind…perhaps too brilliant for his own good.
“Your work in researching the Ninth Esoteric has gained the Council’s eye.” She hoped her smile might defuse the misplaced ire burning in his gaze. “You’ve gained your first row and bracketed the next. Endless possibilities lay open to you.”
Dore held his fingers out in front of him to view the fifteen thin gold bands he wore. His expression darkened. “All, I suspect, save the one I want.”
Isabel wondered in that moment what he hoped to achieve by this conversation—a rare opportunity to speak with her. It bothered her immensely that he might’ve crossed the world merely for the chance to engage with the High Mage of the Citadel beyond the ritualistic interplay of Invocation Trials.
Isabel tried to look encouraging. “A rowed wielder has many paths open to him.”
“None that end in the Mage’s Council.”
She caught her breath, her mouth forming an oh, unuttered beneath her disbelief.
“I’m as qualified as any,” he pressed on, dark eyes alight now with fervent purpose, “and more than some—Jasyn ryn Tavenstorm has but one row.”
She finally found her voice beneath the pale shavings of surprise. “Having one’s first row isn’t the only qualification for the Council of Mages, Dore.”
“What qualifications am I lacking?” It was nearly a hiss. Indeed, such vehemence emerged in this demand, she felt a viper had just struck at her.
The room seemed to darken while Isabel held his gaze…or perhaps looking too deeply into Dore Madden’s eyes simply drew one also into the darkness that perpetually lurked there—echoes of mor’alir.
Still, he wasn’t unjustified in his query, for he had talent aplenty and passion to make up for whatever skill he lacked. Such energy possessed Dore Madden…yet often as not, he directed this considerable energy towards destructive endeavors.
Ever the two paths of Alir lay split before Dore’s feet. He walked with his left foot on one path and his right foot on the other. In the flash of a moment, Isabel saw the Hundred Mages split thusly if ever Dore Madden gained their ranks, and she vowed never to allow that vision to realize.
Perhaps because words so obviously failed her, Dore leveled her a look of seething resentment. “Some have begun to whisper, my lady.”
Isabel had the disturbing sensation in that moment of being sandwiched between two darkly shadowed beings, both of them reeking evil. She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder to see if indeed another lurked there in wait. Instead, she sipped her wine. “One cannot walk the Sormitáge halls without breathing in whispers; the air there is thick with speculation and rumor.”
“These speculations have teeth, my lady. They speak of corruption, of Mages walking the path of mor’alir…of dark patterns—inverteré patterns—in use.”
She stared at him. Foreboding raised the hair on her bare arms—but that’s exactly what he wanted, for her to feel threatened. She wouldn’t grant him that boon. “Teeth are harmless on empty air, Dore Madden. One must give them something to cling to first…”
***
The dream shifted.
Veils of shadow passed before Isabel’s dreaming eyes like sheets of rain streaming across the plains. She no longer saw memory. Now she saw only darkness. Out of it rose a creature more magic than man. It approached her with eyes as black as its thoughts and opened its mouth—wide, wider. Out crawled eidola like cockroaches. They swarmed across her, laughing with Dore Madden’s voice.
She turned to look where they were running and saw the lights of a castle on a lonely mountain. The eidola milled around its base, black as midnight water, their numbers growing as the thing behind her continued vomiting them endlessly out, until they surrounded the mountain in a writhing sea, until she floated helplessly among them. Four grabbed her and pushed her below the waves, and she saw that each one wore Ean’s face, now black as ebony.
Their numb
ers grew into a tidal wave that broke free of the shore and bore down across the surrounding land, burying towns, razing cities. She rode helplessly within the tumult, one of the many, until the wave crashed over a man—a statue—a god—he stood immobile as the eidola broke over and around him, but her hair caught in his stone fingers. Tangled…tangled in his hands, in his arms, tangled…
A crushing waterfall of images freed her from his arms. She fought to breathe beneath the onslaught—fought to remember each picture, for even then Isabel knew this was no dream—until the images exploded in a geyser of fire and roiling smoke, into boiling clouds of violent madness.
Suddenly she stood across from the statue again…shaking, freezing, staring into eyes that reflected a storm of light and shadow. Helplessly she walked to it. Her clothes dissolved beneath its gaze, and then she was dissolving, becoming as vapor…
A knife flashed to her throat…
She felt herself splitting, rending, and she saw…
Isabel woke. She sat up in bed and pushed a trembling hand across her mouth. It had been long years since her dreams reeked of foretelling.
She knew the room stood empty even without looking for Ean. He rose with the dawn now—if he made it to bed at all—to work with his brother, teaching him freely what Dore had only compelled.
Dore…
Her own words echoed in memory: ‘Teeth are harmless on empty air, Dore Madden. One must give them something to cling to first…’
Isabel pressed her lips together tightly. If only she’d known that she was foretelling her downfall—giving Dore the key to accomplish it, in fact.
…one must give them something to cling to…
And he had. Oh, it had been a bundle of lies, but so artfully crafted—ingeniously so—expertly designed to attack the Mages’ own insecurities, and with just enough truth to cast a shadow that clung to her name. They had believed it because they wanted to.
Paths of Alir (A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book 3) Page 58