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

by Melissa McPhail

  Trell headed over and offered his help to the keeper, and together they corralled the pigs into a smaller pen while the keeper fixed the trough. All the while the man barely looked at him, adopting the diffident manner of peasants the world over, though he thanked Trell profusely when they were done.

  As he headed beneath the gate, ignoring the hostile stares of the Nadoriin guards, Trell wondered how much these people knew of his identity. Taliah had many times imprudently named him Prince of Dannym before her mutes and Captain Fazil. Guards talked, and Fazil wasn’t the only Nadoriin who looked upon him with a contempt that far surpassed disdain for a mere prisoner.

  Trell wondered what the guards whispered among themselves. If they knew he was a prince of Dannym, then they knew they were holding prisoner the son of an allied king. What had they been told of him to justify such an act, or didn’t it matter to such men?

  These questions more intrigued than disturbed him; it was just that he knew something was being said about him because of the way the keeper had treated him. Trell had no more right to the keeper’s deference than any slave, yet the man had offered it as if it remained his due.

  The fortress of Darroyhan clung greedily to its island—in some cases, such as with Trell’s tower, the land all but disappeared at high tide—but the south end hosted fingers of basalt that extended out into the sea.

  Trell sat bare-chested on the foremost of these, letting the Nadori sun bake his skin and remembering how often he’d wished, during those sweltering days of entrenchment at the River Cry, that he might’ve stripped similarly down. But had he done so there, he’d as easily have caught a Veneisean arrow as the wind in his hair, which would’ve somewhat dampened any pleasure to be gained in the experience.

  For part of the day he watched ships passing on the far horizon. For a time, he listened to the waves and tried to hear the song of the sea as Fhionna had taught him to find the song of the river; the sea sang a very different melody from the Cry, but Trell thought he heard Naiadithine’s haunting whisper from time to time.

  Mostly, he spent the day thinking.

  Taliah would have him believe she’d usurped all power of choice—she tried diligently to make it appear so—but it wasn’t choice that bothered Trell that day so much as the compromise he made of his honor in choosing to comply.

  Thus far, his compromises had only affected his pride—if she thought she could break him by simply forcing him into menial labor and scanty apparel, she was badly mistaken. But how many more compromises would he be forced to make as their match of wills progressed?

  For all intents and purposes, Taliah owned him. But he had to believe she didn’t own his will…that some investitures of his Maker were truly inviolate. It troubled him, though. How long would it be before compromise became a way of life? Before he stopped choosing to comply and simply did as she required, fully and wholly indoctrinated, his will buried or lost beneath a fear of overwhelming pain?

  He could’ve chosen the route of pain that morning, for as long as he could take it, but he’d learned that she could make it last far longer than his capacity to endure. Then he would’ve been in agony and serving her on his knees. But would choosing pain have proven she hadn’t broken him?

  How did he determine where his will ended and hers began?

  As the sun was falling in the west and pulling the tide jealously with it, Trell dove off the rocks and swam out to the break where a reef caught the waves. He could see five towers of the massive fortress from that vantage point; likewise the patrols manning its high, crenellated walls. They kept an eye on him, but they knew—like he knew—that he wouldn’t swim past the reef. Beyond lay only miles of open sea, sharks and sure death.

  But it made him wonder…why did he cling to this life? What right had he to imagine he would ever escape it?

  Trell dove beneath the waves and drifted there, gazing up at the wavering patterns of shadow and light that danced on the surface of the sea. If he couldn’t escape, would he spend the rest of his mortal days fighting Taliah in a battle of wills?

  He swam towards the surface and spat water from his mouth as he emerged. He doubted Taliah would find him as intriguing, or his cock as inviting, when his flesh was flabby and his bones gone brittle.

  Not much liking that thought or where it took him, Trell rolled onto his back and let the saltwater buoy him weightlessly between sea and sky. The heavens above remained a deep, endless blue, more depthless than the ocean beyond the reef. He couldn’t see the stars, for the daylight masked them…but what fool imagined they weren’t still shining?

  Trell felt a wave rise and lift him, and the sensation made him think of Naiadithine as she’d carried him to safety on the shores of Kai’alil. He remembered little of his near-drowning, but he recalled her image in the shape of the waves, and he remembered her command.

  Follow the water, Trell of the Tides.

  He had no reason to imagine he would ever escape Taliah.

  But he’d no reason to think his gods had abandoned him, either.

  Trell rolled onto his stomach and swam back to shore.

  He returned through the south gate into pandemonium. A quick glance around told the tale. The sows had torn the trough off the wall of their pen again, and this time they’d taken the stakes down with it. Nadoriin guards ran hither and yon trying to catch the pigs and going about it all wrong, while the Captain of the Guard, Fazil, whipped out his displeasure upon the poor keeper instead of letting the man do his job.

  Trell hurried over and showed the guards how to use planks to round up and channel the sows into the other pen. Then he walked to the captain and the keeper.

  The latter had fallen to his knees against the wall. His shirt lay in shreds across his bloodied back, and he screamed wretchedly with every lashing. Fazil raised his whip to cast another.

  Trell caught the captain’s arm. “He’s had enough.”

  The Nadoriin jerked free and slashed again.

  Trell caught the whip that time, feeling its sting as it lashed into a coil around his hand. He stepped between Fazil and the pig keeper, his gaze hard. “I said he’s had enough.”

  The captain looked murderous. “He’s had half of what he deserves.” He yanked on the handle to free his whip.

  Trell held firm. The braided leather pulled taut between them, tense as the thread that bound their mutual gazes. “Then I’ll take the rest.”

  The Nadoriin’s lip curled in a sneer. “You’ll—” Then he must’ve realized Trell meant it, for a malicious excitement brightened his expression. He kicked the keeper away and motioned Trell into his place. “Hands on the wall.”

  Suddenly wondering what lunacy had possessed him—did he seek pain now?—Trell tossed his shirt aside and pressed his hands to the cool stone. He closed his eyes, braced himself, and sought his soldier’s practiced calm.

  The first stripe of the whip landed with ice and fire. After five lashings, only the fire remained. But Fazil didn’t stop at five. Trell clenched his teeth so hard he thought his jaw would shatter. Honor bade him take the keeper’s punishment, but he only swallowed his screams out of pride.

  “Stop this!” Taliah’s fury shattered the air into shards.

  But that wasn’t all it did.

  The captain gasped and dropped to his knees. The whip fell from his hand, and he toppled, twitching, onto his side. His face contorted in a gruesome rictus.

  Trell pressed his forehead against the stone wall and slowly lowered his trembling arms. Just this motion exploded more fire across his back. Even breathing was painful.

  Taliah released Fazil from the torture of her anger as she reached them. “What are you doing, Fazil?” Her voice cut like a crystal knife, sharp with incredulity and reproach.

  The captain slowly pushed to his feet, his eyes murderous. “He’s a prisoner and a traitor,” he spat at her. “You treat him like a paramour.”

  “A traitor? A traitor?” She laughed at him. “How ripe. Did my father te
ll you that?”

  The Nadoriin went ashen.

  Taliah plugged her fingernail like a dagger beneath Fazil’s chin and looked into his eyes. “Do you imagine I wouldn’t know you report on me to my father, trying to prove yourself a worthy spy? But Viernan hal’Jaitar will not make you Shamshir’im. My father would cut out his own heart before he trusted a man like you with the secrets of his dark brotherhood.” Her nail dug in beneath the cleft of the captain’s chin as her eyes dug into his soul. She looked back to Trell. “Our sweet prince is no traitor. We are the traitors.” She grabbed Fazil’s jaw roughly and added in a hiss, “And I will do what I please with my own property.”

  The yard had quieted during this display. Guards, servants—all stood rooted as if fearing Taliah would level her ire upon them next. Trell thought about turning away from the wall to face her, but he was fairly sure he couldn’t stand up without its support.

  He felt her fingers twining into his damp hair, and she murmured close in his ear, “You and I will have words later.” Then she turned to the Nadoriin. “Fazil, you will carry Trell to the infirmary and see that his wounds are cleaned and salved. Report to me when it’s done.” Then she left.

  Trell thought he could hear Fazil’s teeth grinding, but the Nadoriin called for a stretcher, and he was gentle enough helping Trell onto it.

  The two guards laid Trell face-down on a table in the infirmary, and then Fazil sent them to fetch an attendant.

  As their footsteps were receding, the Nadoriin crouched in front of the prince. “Why?” A storm of confusion darkened his expression. “Why do you submit to the witch?”

  Trell managed a snort of disbelief and whispered, “What would you have me do?”

  Fazil’s murderous gaze answered that clearly enough.

  Trell closed his eyes. Such fire flamed along his back…he could barely think. “I would you might succeed, Captain, for even my imagination has failed.”

  The captain said nothing for a long time. Trell lay with eyes closed trying not to think about the fire in his flesh, trying not to imagine what his back must look like to radiate such pain.

  Finally he felt two fingers press gently at his shoulder. Fazil’s. And next the words: “Barat doa mikonam.” I will pray for you.

  Trell managed a nod.

  The Nadoriin left. His departing footsteps mingled for a time with the attendant’s approaching ones, and then the woman arrived with water and ice and cooling salve, and Trell sank into blessed oblivion.

  He woke to a hand shaking his shoulder and looked up into the eyes of one of Taliah’s mutes. The man extended a hand to help him sit up.

  As he complied, Trell realized the fire in his back had faded to embers. Taliah must’ve healed him while he lay unconscious. The skin of his back felt whole again, but every motion stung—doubtless meant to be a not so subtle reminder of Taliah’s enduring displeasure.

  The mute waved him to follow.

  Trell looked down at his naked body. “My clothes?”

  The mute motioned more insistently.

  Exhaling in resignation, Trell pushed off the table and followed the man to attend his mistress.

  Taliah sat waiting for him in the middle of a wide hall. Two men were on their knees before her, also naked, with their hands bound behind their backs. Recognizing them, Trell got a bad feeling about what this meeting would entail.

  Taliah cast the prince an arch look. “This man,” she said, indicating the pig keeper, “has explained what happened. Fazil has confirmed it. Both have been given a chance to tell their stories. I have sat in judgment and found their acts equally unworthy.” Her gaze swept Trell, and an unwholesome gleam lit her dark eyes as she admired his naked form. “You will decide which one will keep his life this night.”

  Protest and concern flooded him. “If this is about my—”

  “I have not asked your opinion yet!” She slapped him with her words and her power, bringing a hot sting to his cheek and an ache to his jaw.

  Trell pressed his lips together tightly and forced his hands to relax at his sides. If he succeeded in making a fist, he feared what he would do with it.

  Taliah held a hand towards the keeper, who was pale of face but staring fiercely at the floor. “This man failed in his duty. His pigs escaped and made havoc in the yard, damaging property and destroying stores. Fazil’s men were forced to abandon their posts due to the keeper’s incompetence.”

  Trell wanted to point out how such an act hardly deserved death in reprisal, but this wasn’t about justice. It was just another of Taliah’s games, another way of forcing him into her misshapen mold.

  “Fazil,” she said then, indicating the naked Nadoriin with a nod, “took it upon himself to damage my personal property.” She looked back to Trell significantly. “Which of them shall live and which shall die? You will decide and carry out my will.”

  Trell drew in his breath and let it out slowly. “No.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Choose.”

  “I won’t sit in judgment on these men, Taliah.”

  “I have already found them both lacking. That should be enough for you.”

  Trell shrugged.

  She sat back and looked at him. “The keeper’s pigs caused a fortune in damages. He cannot make reparations except with his life. This is our way.”

  “It isn’t my way.”

  Taliah’s eyes flashed in reproach. She sent a spear of power into his stomach and twisted it in fury.

  Trell fell to one knee and pushed a fist to the floor for support.

  “You have no way,” she spat at him, “you are my property. I can make you kill them.”

  Trell looked up under his brow. His gut roiled with such stabbing pain that he had to gasp to reply, “You can make me wish I’d done it.”

  Frustration sent her out of her chair. “Why must you continue to fight me?” She glared furiously at him. “We walk mor’alir together! We’re already far down the path, yet you persist in acting as if you stand at the crossroads! You have no choice in this, Trell. Accept it!”

  Abruptly she moved to him and bent to cup his cheek with her hand. She brought her face close, her brown eyes so dark as to be nearly black. She might’ve been pretty if she’d retained an ounce of humanity, but Trell only saw a dead thing possessed now by a serpent’s soul.

  “Accept it, and I will free you from the pain.” To encourage him, she made it worse. The blade that had been twisting in his gut now scissored violently from side to side.

  Trell gagged on the pain. He braced himself on hands and knees and dragged in shuddering breaths.

  Taliah took his head and pressed her lips to his ear. “Choose.”

  Trell clenched his teeth and shook his head.

  Her hands tightened, nails biting into the thin flesh beneath his hair. “Pick one,” she hissed, “or they both die.”

  It took the gravest force of effort to summon breath. He turned his head and met her gaze. “I won’t become…the weapon…of your spite.”

  Her eyes grew agate hard. She shoved away from him and back to her feet and screamed madly, “You will be whatever I make of you! Choose!”

  Trell pushed fists painfully into the tile floor and held her gaze defiantly. “You can demand it all you like…my honor forbids it.”

  A little puff of disbelief escaped her, but then she smiled as if suddenly satisfied—never a good sign. “No, Prince of Dannym.” She turned to reclaim her chair. “It is your pride standing in the way.”

  Taliah sat down again with a sideways sweep of her gown. “Pride has no place on the path of mor’alir. We don’t seek that brazen light or its false brightness. Pride, arrogance, vanity and pretention…these lie upon hal’alir. Humility, penitence… these guide the mor’alir Adept.”

  Finally she released him from the agony of her distemper. Trell inhaled a shuddering gasp and fell onto his side, drenched in a wave of relief.

  “Obedience, subservience, self-abnegation.” Taliah gave him a qui
et smile while her eyes licked lustfully across his form. “These are the qualities of a mor’alir Adept.”

  She motioned to her mute, and the man grabbed Trell under the arms, dragged him forward and plopped him limply before Taliah’s chair. She hooked her pointed-toe shoe beneath his chin and forced him up on his knees. Her eyes sought his gaze. “Do you not see how the qualities you seek and admire—the qualities you find so honorable—lie on the mor’alir path? If you would truly know honor, Prince of Dannym, you will choose, as I have commanded of you, for you serve me now.”

  Trell clenched his teeth. Ever she attacked him with twisted logic, seeking to ensnare and corrupt him during tides of pain and weakness, when his resolve stood at its lowest ebb. “Then make of me your weapon—you’ll still be the one killing them, Taliah.”

  “But the choice to save one will have been yours.”

  He flipped the hair roughly from his eyes. “An untenable choice.”

  “Life is untenable!” Abruptly she exhaled a frustrated breath and motioned to her mute. “Slay the peasant.”

  He grabbed the man by the hair and slit his throat.

  Taliah turned her dead-eyed gaze on Trell. “One day you will give me similar obedience.”

  The certainty in her tone made him cold.

  She flicked a hand to indicate Fazil. “Release him.”

  The mute complied, and Fazil got to his feet, but his lips were compressed in a tight line, and shame for his nakedness pinned his eyes to his feet.

  Trell pitied him. A man like Fazil, who sought approval and honor, would shatter on Taliah’s mor’alir anvil.

  “Return to your post, Fazil,” Taliah said, “but attempt again to gain my father’s favor, and I’ll keep you lashed to my table until you’re begging to serve me, until the very thought of defiance is so far from your soul that you would rather slit your own throat than disobey.” Her gaze licked over him. “Remember: you live free by my mercy and no other’s.”