The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light)

by McPhail, Melissa

  Much to Kjieran’s chagrin, the Prophet took Dore’s bait. “Indeed? How?”

  “There is a man—my most prized student—whom I’ve been working on for some years now. With the right compulsion patterns, I have succeeded in waking him to the currents of elae.”

  “Elae,” the Prophet hissed. “An abomination.”

  “Indeed, indeed,” Dore clucked, “but one must do things in their proper order, my lord. First my protégé had to learn to sense elae in its natural channels. Then he could be taught to work its patterns and then, my lord,” and here he leveled his snake-eyed gaze at the Prophet’s back, “then he could be taught to work your power.”

  The Prophet turned to him. “A common man?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Dore replied, eyes alight with fervor. “But we are yet in the early stages of this sequence. Still, I have succeeded in my use of compulsion. I have made a common man into a wielder.”

  “A fine accomplishment,” the Prophet noted. “I do not see how he could be brought to work my Fire. A man is but a man.”

  “Yes, my lord, but there is a way.”

  Dore had the Prophet’s full attention now. “Tell me how.”

  Dore’s black eyes veritably glowed with malice. He licked his lips and offered, “Long have we dreamed of a force of wielders, an army worthy of carrying your sigil, an army to spearhead our vital quest to rid this world of the offensive abomination that is elae and all of its accursed children.”

  “Indeed,” remarked the Prophet in annoyance. “Do not sermonize to me on my own cause, Dore Madden.”

  “My lord,” Dore continued unctuously, “such a force exists already, though they are small and of no use to us. Yet they work a similar power to your own—deyjiin it is called.”

  The Prophet’s expression darkened. “What army is this?”

  “The Shades, my lord,” Dore whispered with dutiful awe. He licked his lips again. “Long have Shades dwelled in the anathematized realm of T’khendar, bound to the Fifth Vestal, Björn van Gelderan. We cannot use them for our purposes, no, but we can learn from the Fifth Vestal’s skill—indeed, indeed,” he added then, rubbing his hands together and gazing up at the Prophet with wild-eyed glee, “for three centuries I have been working to discover the patterns the Fifth Vestal used to bind the Shades to him—for make no mistake, my lord. They are not merely under compulsion, as your Marquiin, with only a small tendril of power available to do your great work. No, the Shades are bound to Björn van Gelderan body and soul. Through him, they are able to wield his dark power in all its fullness.”

  “Deyjiin,” murmured the Prophet, and Kjieran shivered from the ominous interest in his eyes. Abruptly Bethamin focused his gaze upon Dore. “You have found these patterns?”

  “Not entirely.” A momentary frown flickered across Dore’s cadaverous features. “But my work progresses at great speed.” He licked his lips again. “It won’t be long now, my lord.”

  The Prophet regarded him intently. “And the man who vilified my Marquiin?”

  “Yes,” Dore said, drawing the word into a hiss. “This Ean val Lorian—he must be brought to face your justice, my lord. The job of retrieving him will be a most fitting quest for my star pupil—a most fitting quest—and a proving ground for his newfound skills. You will see, my lord.” Dore licked his lips and rubbed his hands with savage delight. “You will see then how our plans may finally be achieved!”

  Kjieran inwardly swore, for the news was both baffling and grave. A host of faction already sought Ean’s death. Now to have Dore Madden after him as well? And how in Tiern’aval did Ean unbind a Marquiin? From what Kjieran knew of the young prince, he had no Adept talent.

  I must get word to the Fourth Vestal at once.

  Bethamin meanwhile was considering Dore with his darkly piercing eyes. At last, and much to Kjieran’s mounting horror, he said, “Let it be done.”

  Dore’s expression came as close to ecstasy as a cadaver could look, as though death had claimed him in the last moments of coitus, just as release shuddered through him. “Thank you, my lord.” Dore bowed eagerly and headed off.

  The Prophet turned to look directly at Kjieran then, and the truthreader had no doubt that the man had known he was there all the while. “Come, Kjieran,” he commanded.

  Kjieran exited the vestry into the nave where the Prophet stood wreathed in haze. He seemed an unearthly creature with his braids like serpents and his bare chest as muscled as the finest marble statue, with his dark eyes and exotically handsome features. The Prophet was terrible and bewitching and darkly compelling, and Kjieran had never been so afraid of any living man.

  What disturbed him the most was that though he knew Bethamin to be wholly without compassion and intent upon the destruction of their world—Kjieran saw the corruptive influence of his Fire and the horrific anguish it caused—yet still he was drawn to the man in spite of these!

  Yea, what terrified Kjieran van Stone the most about the Prophet Bethamin was the sure knowledge that he was no more immune to the Prophet’s seductive power than anyone else.

  Kjieran knelt before the Prophet, head bowed. “My lord,” he whispered.

  “Kjieran, you told me you were trained in Patterning,” said the Prophet.

  Kjieran kept his eyes on the floor. The Prophet misliked the colorless eyes of a truthreader, yet he kept a few unsullied ones around to advise him, as if knowing that his Marquiin, once touched by his own fell power, were tainted and thereby useless for discerning the truth. The hypocrisy sickened Kjieran. “Yes, my lord. I trained in Agasan’s Sormitáge.”

  “Dore would have me believe there is such a pattern as he describes. Is it so?”

  “If there is, I do not know it.”

  “And these Shades of which he spoke? They exist?”

  “I have never seen one, my lord, but they were a terrifying force during the Adept Wars. Dore would know them better than I, my lord. He survived the fall of the Citadel and is one of the Fifty Companions.”

  The tragedy of this anguished Kjieran no end. That Dore Madden had survived while so many good men fell—it was a bitter irony how the treacherous walked unharmed while thousands of innocents went to their deaths.

  The Prophet reached down and took Kjieran by the chin, guiding him to rise. His touch felt as deeply cold as a river stone long caressed by the glacial melt; achingly cold, like flesh held too long to the snow. Kjieran kept his eyes downcast while the Prophet considered him, only praying that whatever Bethamin found in his countenance would please him enough to let him be on his way again.

  In the privacy of his chambers, the Prophet liked to experiment with the darkest of workings—bindings and compulsions and corrupted first-strand patterns that tormented rather than healed—and he maintained the utmost reserve throughout the process, no matter how insanely a man or woman screamed. Kjieran saw no rhyme or reason to who was chosen for these intervals, nor even any way to predict who would survive them. He merely prayed that Fate would close its eye to him while his heart beat frantically and he sipped his breath in tiny measures.

  The Prophet at last released Kjieran’s chin. “Thank you, Kjieran. That will be all.”

  “Your will be done, my lord,” Kjieran managed, barely able to mumble the words for the ache in his jaw. He retreated to the vestry as quickly as he dared and then raced down the hall and into a prayer alcove, pulling its curtain roughly into place. He collapsed against the wall then, shaking uncontrollably and fighting back the tension and fear that clenched his chest in a death-like vise. Sliding down to the floor, Kjieran hugged his knees to his chest and wept in silence. He wept in relief and he wept in despair.

  For in that moment when the Prophet held him fast, an overpowering yearning to please his lord had possessed him. It felt wholly wrong—he knew this—a compulsion laid upon him so expertly that he couldn’t tell anything was being worked at all. Yet he had been unable to resist it—to resist him. Kjieran knew that had the Prophet asked him in that mo
ment to do anything—anything—he would have done it willingly. So Kjieran wept in gratitude that Fate’s hand had passed him by, and he wept with the terrible understanding that the next time Fate’s eye fell upon him, he might not be so graced.

  Two

  “Seek not to know where the path may lead,

  only to keep your feet upon it.”

  - Isabel van Gelderan, Epiphany’s Prophet

  Several days ago…

  As Tanis walked along Faring East following the man with the fiery eyes, the lad wondered if he was perhaps in a trance, if the dark-haired man in the amber cloak had somehow enchanted him and now he was spellcast to follow him without any determinism whatsoever, like those tales of Fhorg blood magic where people are possessed by demons under the command of the Fhorgs’ Red Priests.

  Certainly it made no sense to be leaving his Lady Alyneri, still in the apothecary next door, without even a message to say where he was going, and he knew the Lord Captain Rhys would be furious. Yet these thoughts were but crumbs left behind on the café table where Tanis had been sitting, for the lad now knew only a driving sense of duty.

  Whether or not it was fell magic that drove Tanis after the imposing stranger from the café, the lad did have enough sense to understand that following this man was dangerous. So he trailed a good half-block behind him, keeping him in sight through the crowd, but only just. Luckily the man was easy to spot with his striking black hair and elegant amber cloak, not to mention the way the crowd inexplicably parted before him as the seas gave way to the prow of a ship.

  Tanis was keeping well back of him when four men emerged from a store and fell into step just behind the stranger, forming a phalanx. Their cloaks obscured the quivers on their backs, but the outline of them was clear enough, as were the blue tattoos that adorned their bald heads. Seeing them, the hair rose on the back of Tanis’s neck, and gooseflesh sprouted down his arms like an evil rash, for there could be no mystery as to their origins.

  Fhorgs.

  Tanis thought it an uncomfortable coincidence that he had just been thinking of Fhorgs and now here were four of them. The Wildling race was well known for exploring occult arts, and pieced with the visions Tanis had plucked from the stranger’s mind, it seemed they were all involved in evil work indeed. Suddenly frightened anew, Tanis knew there could be no wisdom to this decision, yet he couldn’t bring himself to turn back.

  A moment later, all of them were gone.

  Tanis’s heart nearly stopped. He sprinted through the crowd, pushing past commoner and noble alike, coming to a skidding halt as he passed a narrow alley that appeared as a mere crevice between the buildings. He thought he saw movement in the dimness beyond, so he slipped in to follow.

  The confined space smelled dank and foul, and Tanis swallowed his unease at the nearness of the slimy walls, which ended high above in only the barest strip of sky. He walked carefully on the muddied earth and cringed as his boots squished with every step—sure they would hear him following. Though it felt like an eternity, he soon saw the walls opening ahead where the two adjacent buildings angled away from one another. He slowed just in time, for near voices floated back to him.

  Tanis inched his head around the corner until he saw the five men standing ten paces away. The stranger held up one hand, Tanis saw a flash of silver slice down through the air, and then they all stepped forward seemingly into the wall.

  Tanis rushed after them, but he found only empty brick covered with yellow-green ooze. He pushed one hand against the slimy rock, but the wall was impenetrable. He spun around in frustration looking for any other way in and spotted an opportunity further down: a basement window low to the ground, its glass long shattered.

  The opening was boarded over from within, but a stout kick proved the wood rotten. A few well-placed thrusts then with his boot gained entry, and moments later he was pushing through the opening, which was just large enough to accommodate his slender frame.

  He fell five paces and landed in an ungraceful heap upon the earthen floor, covered in cobwebs. Coughing, Tanis got to his feet and pulled the sticky cobwebs from his face. He wondered if he’d gone completely insane. Never mind that he didn’t know if he was even in the same building as the stranger and his men, but what did he think he would do when and if he found them? The trancelike state—or whatever it had been—was fully worn off now, and any novelty of a grand adventure had evaporated beneath the gritty reality of the moment.

  Yet that feeling of duty remained.

  Berating himself for his obscenely foolish choices, Tanis glowered around in the dimness wondering what to do next. His Lady would’ve told him to turn around and leave. Rhys would say he never should’ve left the café to begin with. Prince Ean would probably ask why he felt compelled to follow the man, and the zanthyr…

  What would the zanthyr tell him?

  The truth was, the zanthyr probably wouldn’t say a word, expecting Tanis to work it out on his own.

  You’ll never accomplish anything one way or the other if you just keep standing here, he told himself. Then he realized there was someone else who might advise him, and the idea cheered him. If Fynnlar had been there, he would no doubt have said, ‘Well, Tanis lad, you’ve already come this far. Might as well keep going and dig your grave deep enough to keep the damned coyotes away.’

  Heartened then that at least one of his companions would be on his side, and despite his many misgivings, Tanis mustered his courage and inspected the dim room, eventually spotting a rickety-looking staircase. It seemed so decrepit and fragile…hardly able to support a mouse. He gazed fretfully at it debating whether to risk it, but eventually he decided it was the only way out. To his relief, the steps held his weight, and he made it to the floor above.

  No sooner had he gained the dark hallway than he heard voices from down the nearly pitch-black passage. Feeling along the wall, he followed the sounds until he grew close enough to realize that what he’d thought was mumbling was actually men speaking a different language. Eventually he saw flickering torchlight reflected on the passage walls ahead. Tanis instinctively held his breath as he edged his eyes around the corner of the doorway through which the torchlight spilled. Thus he made no sound when he saw the shocking scene.

  He faced a cavernous warehouse, empty now of all storage save a few crates upended and used just then as chairs by a couple of the Fhorgs, who sat with their backs to him. The other two stood near the stranger, who held a torch low to the earth, the three of them peering down at the floor as if trying to read some inscription there. But the sight beyond them made Tanis’s flesh crawl.

  She hung from chains attached to the high ceiling, her body swinging slightly. She wore only in her own blood and the deep gouges of their foul craft—long gashes across her arms and thighs…and other places, crueler places that Tanis’s eyes shied away from. Blood matted her long brown hair and stained her pale flesh. But when he saw her twitching and realized she was still alive…that’s when he knew the intimacy of real fear.

  Tanis saw what had been done, though his innocent mind rebelled against the knowledge. They’d bled her carefully, strategically, and now they studied the pools with discerning gazes, her blood lit by the stranger’s torch held low. Tanis felt sick, both of stomach and of heart. Who was the poor woman that had endured such torment? And why had they put her to it?

  The terrors he’d seen in the stranger’s eyes flashed back to mind, and Tanis understood them better.

  Suddenly the stranger stiffened. He spun in a swirl of his cloak, and his hand flashed outward, fingers splayed.

  Tanis abruptly sank to his knees in the earthen floor—in the floor!

  Letting out a little shriek, the lad pulled frantically at his knees, but the unyielding earth had closed again around his legs. Clawing at his thighs, his heart pounding, Tanis felt a chill descend like the bitter wind that precedes winter’s first storm, and when he looked up, the stranger was standing over him.

  “So…” he said,
staring down at Tanis with those fiery eyes pinning him as surely as the earth around his legs.

  The others came to see what their master had caught, and in the torchlight, Tanis saw their faces more clearly. Tattoos covered them; blue inscriptions in long lines of daemonic symbols reaching from forehead to chin and beyond.

  Tanis shuddered.

  “Aw, ‘tis nawt bu’a laddie,” one of them noted in the common tongue, though so heavily accented that Tanis could barely make out what he’d said.

  The stranger leveled Tanis a narrow look. “No…” he determined, “it’s the boy from the café.” He also had a strange accent that Tanis couldn’t place. “You followed me? Why?”

  Tanis knew he couldn’t have answered even if he’d thought of something to say.

  The stranger grabbed his arm and pulled sharply. Tanis yowled, expecting his legs to be torn from his knees, but the man must’ve reversed his working in the same moment, for the lad found himself standing—if weakly—on the floor again. He craned his neck to look up at him, for he was really quite tall.

  The stranger leaned to ask quietly in his ear, “What are you doing here, boy?” His breath was ice on the lad’s neck, his hand was a vice around his arm, and the terrible intimacy of his whisper made Tanis shudder again. “Answer me truthfully, or you may yet see the same fate as the Healer we’ve just bled.” His grip tightened painfully, and he shook Tanis hard, demanding again, “Tell me! Why have you followed me? Who sent you?”

  Tanis tried to work some moisture into his mouth, but still he barely croaked out the words, “N-no one, milord. I just…I was just…” Gods and devils—what was he doing? “I just…just follow people…sometimes.”

  “This is no idle game!” the stranger hissed, emphasizing his point with yet a third squeeze of Tanis’s arm, and this time his nails drew blood. Tanis felt wet warmth spreading, but it was a welcome contrast to the awful cold of the man’s touch.