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

by Melissa McPhail

  The other realms had different names for Cephrael and Epiphany, for the one the people of Alorin called the Maker, and even for the strands of elae—albeit every realm that joined the Council was required to agree to a codification of the strands for ease of communication among the Seats—but once she’d been willing to look past names, Alshiba had found the same core truths represented across the worlds.

  Of Malorin’athgul, however…

  She was finding the task more daunting than she’d imagined. Alorin’s own Sobra I’ternin spoke of these Unmakers, primarily in the Qhorith’quitara—an excerpted collection of writings considered too dangerous for mass public knowledge. These apocryphal volumes were not to be found in Illume Belliel’s archives—though they were certainly of immense importance—but were locked away in the vault of the Empress of Agasan.

  This fact made her wonder what other valued works from other realms were also locked away in their own private vaults, perhaps considered too dangerous to share.

  This idea troubled Alshiba immensely. She believed now that the Malorin’athgul were a true threat—though she had only the word of two men saying so. Yet Franco had been genuine in pledging his troth, and Raine would never lie to her.

  Moreover, such a cataclysmic threat made sense of Björn’s betrayal.

  Well…if it didn’t truly make sense of it, at least it offered the faintest flicker of candlelight by which to inspect the Fifth Vestal’s actions. Even this spark was preferable to the darkness she’d dwelled in for three centuries.

  But where were the records that spoke of Malorin’athgul? It seemed unconscionable to her that someone would have knowledge of beings of such godlike power and not share this knowledge with other worlds.

  Yet…Alshiba was just as culpable as the rest. At any point she might’ve called for copies of Alorin’s Qhorith’quitara to be brought to Illume Belliel, but she never had. Why? Because she feared they were safer where they were.

  All of the realms must’ve been doing the same—keeping their most feared texts ‘safe’ in their own vaults.

  And of the threat the Malorin’athgul posed?

  Could the realms really fall to these ancient and volatile beings simply because everyone who knew of their existence was scared to say their names openly, too afraid to trust others with the knowledge for fear of the few who would find this information and try to use it to destroy? Yet not offering the knowledge broadly meant the creatures were free to do that very thing, and without a hint of awareness from those who might stop them—unmaking the world right beneath their noses.

  That this indeed was Alorin’s plight seemed tragically all too probable to her.

  And that Björn had foreseen it from the beginning…well, she didn’t bother even questioning this truth.

  None of this explained why he’d made T’khendar, slaughtered the Hundred Mages—his own sister among them!—and ripped Tiern’aval from the world. It didn’t explain why he’d allowed Malachai in his madness to nearly destroy their race, or why he now prevented three Vestals—himself included—from returning to the realm they were sworn to protect.

  And it didn’t explain why he hadn’t trusted her with the truth all along.

  But the candlelight which the explanation of Malorin’athgul shed did make it a little harder to hate him in the darkness of her thoughts.

  “My Lady, is there anything else?” Her steward exited the study and waved the servants out of her drawing room.

  She realized she was still standing just inside the door. “No.” She smiled. “Thank you, Harryl.”

  He nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

  Alshiba took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her eyes scanned her drawing room and the books and scrolls piled everywhere. Björn’s once-immaculate apartments now resembled a scribe’s back room.

  Walking into her study and over to the sideboard, she poured a glass of wine and raised it—

  “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

  Alshiba dropped her glass and spun with a gasp. The glass shattered against the marble floor, but nowhere near as badly as her composure. She stumbled into the sideboard while her other hand reached for the wall and she ended up somewhat crammed in the corner, wedged between shock and disbelief.

  “This—you!—”

  “This, me,” he agreed with a smile.

  Impossible! Impossible! cried her mind. He’s come! He’s come! shouted her heart. Call the guard, you ridiculous woman! screamed all logic.

  And there he stood as though not a day had passed. His blue eyes were just as sparkling, his dark curls just as glorious, his smile every bit as devastating. What traitor had any right to be so handsome?

  “Björn—” She couldn’t tell if she’d said his name as a cry, a scream, a gasp or some embarrassing combination of all of them. “How—?” but she didn’t bother asking how he’d found his way into her apartments. He might’ve walked right in through her front door, for she’d never changed the trace seal he originally put there. Not that a trace seal would’ve stopped him.

  His cobalt blue eyes looked her over, but the smile never left them.

  Oh, to truly look upon his face again! To know this moment wasn’t just another spectral visit, a dream that would leave her heart shattered and agonizing anew.

  In all their years apart…through outrage and fury and the agony of his unconscionable and inconceivable betrayal…for eons she’d tried to stop loving him, only to know in that moment that all of her efforts had been a foolish and fruitless waste. If only she could’ve believed the things she and Raine had made up.

  Yet…how dare he come to her like this! After she’d endured so much in his name. After so long? She wished she hadn’t dropped her glass, that she might’ve thrown it at him.

  Instead she reached a trembling hand and poured another. As she watched the sanguineous liquid filling the crystal, she tried to find breath enough to speak like a natural person. Her heart was a painful lump in her chest. It couldn’t decide whether to beat again with joy or to quit altogether and free her from this excruciating moment. “I would that Cephrael had banished you through thirteen hells, Björn.”

  He leaned against the mullioned glass doors and crossed his arms. “That would be an interesting trick.”

  She glared at him over her shoulder. “It would be a kinder fate than you deserve.”

  “For hurting you? Unquestionably.”

  Alshiba slammed both hands on the sideboard. “Don’t!” Couldn’t he see her heart was breaking all over again? Damn him, of course he could. She clenched her teeth and stared at her glass and hissed, “You’ve no right—”

  “To apologize for the pain I caused you?” He straightened and came across the room. “To explain why I abandoned you?” He reached her side, though she dared not look at him. His lips brushed her ear as he bent close. “To say how sorry I am that I saw no other way?”

  Alshiba wanted to scream. Instead, she spun with a hand raised to strike.

  He caught her wrist and pulled her into his arms.

  “Stop!” She struggled, but he would’ve been stronger than her even without the fifth pouring into him. “Let me go!”

  He held her gently but firmly.

  “Three hundred years!” She slammed her fists against his chest. She might’ve fought stone for all the harm it did. “You can’t just come to me after three hundred years!”

  He pressed his cheek against her head, smelled her hair, trailed his lips down her neck. She felt his own ache in these actions, his own longing. She thought she would shatter into a thousand pieces.

  “If I could give us back those years, Alshiba, I would.” His voice came low in her ear, husky…desirous.

  “Please.” She stopped struggling and laid her forehead against his chest. Desperation held her far more tightly than his arms. “Please…let me go.”

  His arms fell away, but he made no move to bring distance between them.

  She closed h
er eyes and tried to breathe through the thousand emotions making a battleground of her heart. Surely her ribcage would at any moment burst from the pressure.

  The cloth of his coat felt soft against her forehead. He’d always had the most exquisite taste…so odd the thoughts that flashed to mind when your life seemed at its precipitous end. “Have you come to finish me?” she whispered.

  He stroked her hair. “I’ve come to ask your forgiveness.”

  She wanted to pull away, but fear rooted her for that second’s pause, the thought that this might be the last time she ever stood completely lost in his arms…that she might never again know his love. Then she closed her heart and took a step away. “You can’t have it.”

  She turned her back on him and retrieved her wine. It was truly appalling how badly her hands were shaking. She needed both of them to lift the goblet.

  He came and laid hands on her shoulders. His lips found her neck again. “Do you think you suffered alone?”

  She jerked free of him. “Don’t talk to me of suffering.” Her feet carried her across the room towards a chair, but her body balked at sitting. The idea of being still made her want to scream.

  He poured himself some wine—damn him for having such steady hands!—and turned her one of his elusive smiles…the kind that simultaneously melted and infuriated her—mostly infuriated because it melted.

  She eyed him over the rim of her own goblet and conceived of a number of patterns she might’ve used to help his contrition along. But he stood shielded in the fifth—of course he did. He knew her well enough to know he wouldn’t be safe in her company, not while she thought him a traitor…and not even thereafter—assuming she ever changed her mind, which she saw no reason to do at the moment.

  Unlike her, Björn seated himself comfortably with his typical grace. She wanted to strangle him. Instead, she said, “Return my Vestals unharmed and I’ll seek clemency from the Speaker on your behalf.”

  Björn laughed. “I’m holding none of them against their will, Alshiba.” His eyes danced as they watched her. Oh, yes, she must’ve looked quite the specimen of dignity, all wine-spattered and needing two hands to hold her goblet.

  “I noticed you’re attempting to replace one Vestal already. Do you intend to replace me too?” His eyes sparkled with mirth.

  She glared in narrow accusation. “You think a traitor can’t be replaced? No matter what power he claims?”

  “I just marvel it took you so long to try.”

  She really considered hurling her goblet at his head but decided her wine would be better served calming her nerves than adorning his coat.

  “So…Niko?” He arched a brow above a humorous half-smile. “He was the best you could come up with to replace Dagmar?”

  “I see I got your attention at least.”

  “Ah, there it is.” He winked knowingly at her. “So you haven’t lost your head.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Is that what you thought?”

  “Isn’t that what you wanted me to think?” The smile flickered again, irreverent, impertinent…alluring. His finger drew an idle pattern on the chair arm. “What will you do with Niko now that your ruse has successfully lured me into the open?”

  She cast her gaze around the room and took a sip of wine. “I don’t see my Vestals returned as yet.”

  “They’re safer in T’khendar.”

  Her pulse quickened at these words…at the meaning behind his gaze. He wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. She knew this unequivocally.

  “Surely you’ve noticed, Alshiba.” He took a slow sip of wine while he let her think on what she was supposed to have noticed. “How many seats stand empty in the Hall of a Thousand Thrones? How many of those should belong to fifth-strand Vestals? The fifth strand is always the first to succumb to their influence, tied as it is to the Balance.”

  Alshiba sank down on the edge of the nearest chair. Sitting now seemed like an excellent idea, especially since her breath seemed to have found more hospitable places to be than inside her chest. “I’ve noticed growing absences of Seats over the years, but…” She shook her head and pressed her lips together. She didn’t see how Alorin’s problems could be affecting all of the Realms of Light. “Our realm is out of Balance, Björn, not all of the Realms of Light.”

  His eyes upon her were sincere, intense. “Once you let the plague inside your house, closing a curtain won’t keep it from spreading.”

  She barked an incredulous laugh. “You’re saying their presence in Alorin can affect the entire cosmic Balance? That’s bold.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “I see I need convince you of nothing.” His gaze scanned the room and her piles of books—useless tomes. She’d get more value throwing them at his head. “You’ve seen already how Illume Belliel might be destroyed.”

  Her face fell at this remark. Damn him for always reading her so deeply, for seeing her fears when she herself was too afraid to face them head-on. “That day is not yet, and Alorin is worlds away.” It was a vain protest, summoned out of spite. Never mind that she’d experienced the very premonition he intimated just minutes ago.

  “They need only find their way here once, love, and the door will be eternally open to them.”

  Her gaze flashed back to him. “How? How would they travel here?”

  “Shadow.”

  Now she really stared. “Shadow is a dimension—” but oh…now she saw, or thought she saw. Shadow was the name the Sobra gave to the space between the realms, that connective tissue that bound the worlds together. If the realms were beads upon a chain, and the welds connecting the realms were the chain itself, Shadow was the air around them all. It permeated everything because it was a dimension, not a place. Theoretically it bound not only the realms but time itself, existing eternally from the beginning to the end of days.

  She didn’t know how the Malorin’athgul could use this dimension to travel, but she recognized the possibility. And if anyone would know and understand such a truth, Björn would. She didn’t doubt him for a second.

  Then it hit her like a punch to her stomach. By Epiphany’s Blessed Light, Björn was sitting in her study—his study, once. She had to think the thought three times for it to sink in. Finally, she pushed a strand of hair impatiently from her eyes and settled him a heated look. “Why are you here, Björn?”

  He chuckled. “Assuring myself of your mental welfare isn’t enough?”

  “As if you believed for a minute—” Yet…if he didn’t truly think her out of her mind for naming Niko to the Vestal Seat, why had he come?

  She glared at him in frustration and pushed out of her chair. Emotion came in waves—one minute ebbing with heartbreak, the next rising with fury. The result was an embarrassing inability to find any semblance of graceful comportment. She walked behind her chair—she could at least ground herself by holding onto the back of it—and stood there watching him watching her.

  In all the years, he hadn’t changed. No matter what accusations, what names, what excrement of vindictive slander was slung at him, he stood remote, untouched and unsullied.

  But the personal affront to her trust, to her heart…this clung to him like bitumen. Indeed, it clung to both of them, binding them at two ends of betrayal.

  Could such poisonous tar ever be dissolved?

  He must’ve seen it in her eyes, seen the way her emotions in that moment tumbled over the edge, drawing her into a frothing cauldron of anger and indignation.

  “Alshiba—”

  “I’ve heard enough.” She walked to the wall and a tasseled cord. She stared at him flatly as she pulled it.

  Björn broke into a broad grin and pushed to his feet. “What a joy to see you haven’t changed.” He walked to the double doors and opened them.

  “Two dozen Paladin Knights will be here in moments.” Her tone held more gloat than warning.

  He turned her a brilliant smile. “Then gaze upon the sunset with me until they arrive.”

  Oh, his hand held
out to her, the soft entreaty in his gaze, his incomparable smile…she could never resist him when he actually tried to charm her.

  She walked over and accepted his hand. “I really despise you.”

  He wrapped her in the circle of his arm and kissed her hair as he drew her outside. “I know, love.”

  Her balcony overlooked a narrow strip of land far below, while beyond this stretch of manicured grounds, pink sand abutted an aqua sea that was turning to mercury as she watched. The orange sun hung low, caught between the chalcedony water and a flaming sky. These had been his apartments before they were hers…still some of the best in the cityworld.

  “We have oceans in T’khendar now,” he murmured against her hair, his arm holding her body close to his strong form. She even smelled his familiar scent—oh, how this moment tormented her! “But they’re wild seas,” he went on, “treacherous, still pummeling the bedrock into sand. One day we’ll have beaches like this.”

  “If the Council doesn’t destroy T’khendar first,” she groused.

  He chuckled and laid his cheek against her head. Both arms moved to encircle her and draw her closer in front of him. He tucked her head beneath his chin. “You won’t wish to destroy T’khendar once you’ve seen it.”

  “I’ve seen it.” She tried to pull away, but crisscrossing arms bound her body like love bound her heart. “Or do you forget those days?” She certainly couldn’t. She’d nearly died in that city of basalt.

  He kissed her head and then shifted away slightly to aim a molten smile at her. “You saw Malachai’s creation, not mine.”

  Yours would be different? she thought of retorting, but she only gritted her teeth and looked away instead, for she knew anything of Björn’s devising would be…damn him, it would be as near to perfection as man could achieve. And a good deal more perfect even than that.

  A distant commotion thundered suddenly, and the far doors burst open, disgorging Paladin Knights into her drawing room.

  Björn stole a kiss from her lips. Then he swung himself up onto the railing.

  Her eyes went wide. “What are you doing?”