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

by McPhail, Melissa

  “Indeed.” The Shade regarded him solemnly. “Do you feel rested? Recovered?”

  “Yes.” Ean reminded himself in every moment that this man was not his enemy despite what his instinct was shouting. “Very much so.”

  “That is excellent news. The First Lord is pleased to know it. If it would not be too unpleasant for you to walk with me, I will escort you to him now.”

  “No, definitely not,” Ean replied. Then he grimaced at the unwitting ferocity in his tone—as if his subconscious still held some misplaced animosity. “I mean, it’s certainly not unpleasant for me,” he hastened to add. “It’s just that when I saw you…” Suddenly tongue-tied, he tried to find the words.

  “It is only reasonable for you to wish me ill,” Reyd observed gravely.

  “Oh, for Epiphany’s sake!” Ean pushed a hand through his hair and gave the Shade an imploring look. “You saved my blood-brother from the permanence of death. I should feel naught but…gratitude.”

  “I also assaulted you, took you hostage, threatened you and punched you in the mouth.”

  Ean cracked a smile. “I supposed I deserved it—at least that last part.”

  They stood staring at one another for a moment more, and then Ean motioned them onward, mostly because he couldn’t stand feeling so awkward and unbalanced. “Would you lead the way?”

  The Shade acquiesced with a nod.

  As they walked in silence, Ean’s tension ebbed. Somehow, in that brief moment of reconciliation—even as clumsy as it was—some part of him had yet been…righted.

  In recent weeks, he’d been feeling like every piece in the game of Kings that was his life had been tumbled upon the board. Now, one piece had been placed back in position, rightness restored to that small degree. Things were becoming—oddly, it seemed that things were becoming…as they should be.

  It was the strangest experience.

  “How long have I been asleep?” Ean asked. He had the sense that he’d lost a day or two since staggering across the node with Franco.

  “Six days,” Reyd answered.

  “Six days?”

  “The First Lord felt you needed the rest and commanded you into the dreamless sleep of healing. You rose only to eat and drink twice a day but never woke.”

  “Six days,” Ean said again, both startled and amazed. “I don’t remember anything.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. Such is the nature of the healing sleep.”

  “Are the others here? Creighton? Franco Rohre?”

  “The Nodefinder left some days ago on an errand for the Second Vestal, and your blood-brother is on assignment. Ironic, because he spent every night at your bedside in case you woke early, and now upon the day he has been set to task, you rouse.”

  They passed through a vast atrium brightened by a glass-domed ceiling. “He is glad you are awake now, however,” Reyd added, glancing Ean’s way.

  The prince must’ve looked confused, for the Shade clarified, “All Shades are connected via the shared mind. Was this not explained to you?”

  “I suppose Creighton said something about it,” Ean muttered, “but I barely understood half of what he told me. Everything happened so quickly…” Ean shook his head, realizing how many holes he still had in his knowledge.

  “It is well that you have come here then,” Reyd said, glancing at him. “The First Lord will make many things clearer.”

  Ean thought of how long he’d been desperate for answers and how most everyone who’d advised him only seemed to provide whichever information most suited their own agendas. Would he even be able to accept them if Björn offered him real answers? He thought of mentioning this concern to the Shade, but just then they reached a pair of immense doors. Seeing them, Ean forgot everything else.

  Exquisitely carved with scenes of the Genesis, all manner of creatures and men seemed to explode out of them. Ean stopped short in their shadow, captured not merely by their beauty and expert craftsmanship. No, he was startled because—

  “I’ve seen these doors before.” He extended a hand tentatively toward them, somehow wary that if he touched them they would vanish like the dream they seemed.

  “They are the Extian Doors.”

  Ean turned to him. “I don’t mean I’ve seen something like this,” he said, staring hard at the creature. “I mean I’ve seen these exact doors—I’m sure of it—but…” He looked back to them and pushed a hand through his hair, grabbing cinnamon waves into his fist as he gazed with wonder. “But that’s not possible, is it?”

  Reyd waved to the doors and they opened, swinging inward with stately silence. He walked through and then looked back to the prince. “Come, Ean val Lorian. The First Lord would greet you in the Hall of Games.”

  Ean followed, but he suddenly felt the entire Kings board wavering under him again, his single tiny knight fighting to stay upright.

  Björn van Gelderan.

  Ean remembered how the zanthyr had spoken of him so long ago. How he’d so quickly roused to anger when Ean, in all innocence, had spoken ill of the man. He remembered the way Raine D’Lacourte’s diamondine gaze filled with frustration at the mere mention of Björn, the way his manner shifted from calm determination to anger and dismay, radiating his inability to outthink the Fifth Vestal as much as his guilt and resentment over it.

  And he remembered all of the stories he’d ever heard about the man—not a one depicted him as anything but a heinous traitor—and he recalled Raine’s account of the sacrifice of the Citadel’s Hundred Mages…

  What in Tiern’aval were you thinking coming here?

  He’d betrayed everyone to join Björn. And why? For Creighton? Because through Björn both of their lives had been spared? Because the Fifth Vestal could teach him to use his talent?

  Because Björn is fighting the same people I’m fighting.

  But Ean knew the intensity of feeling that drew him to Björn van Gelderan ran far deeper even than these reasons.

  This is what you wanted all along—to seek him out, to confront him.

  But back then Ean had blamed the man for Creighton’s death. Now he knew that to be a terrible misconception, knew that Björn had been helping him all along.

  And yet…a glimmer of truth still demanded acknowledgment: he had wanted to seek out Björn. He’d felt the need pushing at him since the very first moment the Vestal’s name was restored to his consciousness as a living man instead of a myth.

  Well, now it’s done…you’ve gone to him. But as he pushed on, following the Shade, Ean faced so many unknowns that everything inside him was trembling.

  The Hall of Games spread expansively, its black and white marble floor playing counterpoint to soaring ceilings and gigantic alabaster columns. The far wall of arched windows overlooked a garden patio, and beyond it, the whole of Niyadbakir. Between the windows and Ean, groupings of chairs and tables offered players a space to congregate and partake in any manner of games.

  At that time of the morning, only a few of the tables hosted occupants. Ean looked around as he followed Reyd, taking in the scene with wonder riding the tide of his apprehension until—

  He saw her.

  She stood near the balcony doors talking to two men. A black silk blindfold concealed her eyes and bound her long chestnut hair, and she held a raven-black staff as tall as she was. Her simple yet elegant dress gleamed with hues of the deepest, richest wine.

  Ean stood transfixed.

  He didn’t even realize he’d stopped walking, the sight of her so riveted him. His heart caught in his throat, and he felt a painful compulsion to go immediately to her side. These emotions were incredibly strong, inexplicable, and disconcerting. Most of all, he felt an overwhelming jealously toward the other men standing with her, simply because they had her attention.

  Reyd prodded Ean’s elbow with a gentle touch, and the prince, mesmerized, starting walking again. While Ean watched, a black-haired man whose back was to him kissed the woman on both cheeks and said something too quietly for Ea
n to hear. She smiled tenderly at him and cupped his cheek in her palm. Then she placed her left hand upon the arm of a robust man with silver-white hair, and he led her away.

  Ean thought his heart would break to see her go, but then the dark-haired man was turning and Ean stood face to face with Björn van Gelderan.

  A memory came unbidden…

  Ean looked up at the stranger, and taking a deep breath, he stepped upon the bridge. He knew his path now led across the bridge, but still he trembled in the knowing. “Can we…walk together?” Ean asked the blue-eyed man.

  “If you would have me at your side…”

  There was no denying it…Björn alone had drawn him back from the steppes of death, where even the zanthyr had not ventured.

  Ean could not bring himself to take a single step more. He stood paralyzed by apprehension, by doubt…by gratitude and regret, and strange feelings of lingering resentment that seemingly had no place.

  Björn crossed the distance between them in five long strides and grabbed Ean into an embrace. “Ean, at last!” he exclaimed, hugging him tightly. Pulling back, he took the prince by both shoulders. “Be welcome!”

  As Ean gazed at Björn, a flurry of emotions choked him. He inexplicably felt another knight right itself upon his game board. Though he didn’t know why or how, he knew this was not a meeting.

  It was a reunion.

  The terrifying realization held staggering connotations.

  Björn seemed perceptive to Ean’s delicate mental state, or perhaps he was used to people standing speechless in awe of him, but he held Ean’s gaze with infinite compassion. One hand squeezed the prince’s shoulder. “Come…will you break your fast with me?”

  When Ean didn’t object—verily, he couldn’t find words of any sort—Björn nodded to Reyd, who left them, and then the Vestal led Ean out onto the sundrenched patio.

  Ean had never witnessed such an impressive display of creation. The alabaster city, the deep lush valley, the jagged emerald mountains all around. It seemed like…paradise.

  Björn led Ean toward a marble table that had been set with a meal, and Ean slowly sank into a chair feeling dazed.

  Could he really just eat? Just like that? He had so many questions, but they all seemed to demand justification in the answering, and Ean couldn’t bring himself to demand such from this man—not now that he’d met him in the flesh.

  As Ean stared numbly at his plate, he realized that he’d felt such antagonism toward this man’s name—Björn van Gelderan—for so long that he couldn’t reconcile his feelings. The name represented ideas that were very different from who the man was. Ean saw that now.

  Standing face to face with Björn had instantly recalled powerful emotions that seemingly had no source—feelings of profound loyalty and friendship, and of the immense weight of duty.

  Everything seemed so disjointed, his mind was spinning… spinning…

  “Have a drink, Ean,” Björn advised, watching him in a quietly intense way that was very much like the zanthyr’s in manner.

  Ean shifted his gaze to meet Björn’s. His eyes were quite impossibly blue. It was the first thing Ean had noticed about him, even before he noticed how striking he was, even before the force of Björn’s presence jarred him to the bone.

  “Ean?”

  Ean realized the man was trying to hand him a goblet of something, so he took it, and he drank all of it, noting after the fact that the wine had been strong. It warmed his stomach and brought some color back to his cheeks, but it couldn’t quiet the storm of his thoughts.

  The Vestal put a plate of fruit in front of him. It looked just like ordinary Alorin fruit, not something born of a heretical realm of darkness and shadows led by a traitorous villain. Ean felt the fool just sitting there, but he couldn’t bring himself to eat—his stomach was too tumultuous, his mind a hurricane of confusion. He had so many questions, but he couldn’t conceive of where to begin.

  And then there was that feeling of reunion. Ean couldn’t even think about that.

  He wondered suddenly what the zanthyr would say if he saw him sitting there so frozen by his own insecurities. But thoughts of the zanthyr gave him a way to open the conversation at least.

  “Is Phaedor…” Ean heard his own voice as if it were far away, drowned by the waves of anticipation rising with the question he meant to ask. “Is he sworn into your service?”

  Björn was slicing a pear. “Yes.”

  Ean drew in a slow breath and let it out again. The confirmation strangely pained him. “Wholly?”

  Björn glanced his way, and the intensity of his gaze was unsettling. “Phaedor is my most trusted companion.”

  Ean forced a swallow. So Raine had the right of it. That much of what he said was at least true.

  “Thus did the zanthyr aid you at my behest,” Björn added quietly. “I hope you were benefited by his service.”

  “I was—am,” Ean corrected, feeling bruised and bare beneath the Vestal’s acute inspection. He looked down at his lap. “Very much so.”

  “To carry the oath of a zanthyr is the greatest of responsibilities,” Björn said by way of acknowledgement. He set down his knife and folded hands in his lap, regarding Ean seriously. “They do not give such oaths lightly. Knowing an eternal creature is yours to command, that even while doing your bidding they’re depending on you to care for their eternity and all this implies—that they must live forever with the choices they make on your orders—this knowledge drives me in my purpose every day.” He looked at Ean, adding, “It is intolerable to imagine disappointing him.”

  “I know what you mean,” Ean muttered, feeling as though he’d done little else. He considered Björn’s words as he stared at his plate. Ean could hardly imagine the zanthyr swearing into service of anyone, much less a traitor to his own race. There had to be much more to the story than he knew—than anyone knew. Björn’s side.

  He thought of others who served the First Lord: Franco, Creighton…Dagmar.

  Ean drew in a deep breath and asked, “Do all who serve you do so willingly?”

  Still regarding him with hands in his lap, calm and relaxed and yet exuding a confidence unlike anyone Ean had ever known, Björn replied simply but with conviction, “I would have no man’s oath otherwise.” The intensity of Björn’s presence was unmatched. It was like sitting next to the sun.

  Ean pushed a hand through his hair and looked off over the city toward the mountains.

  “Have something to eat, Ean.”

  Out of respect, Ean made an attempt at the plate before him, but the food tasted empty, his mind too preoccupied.

  Björn watched him intently as he refilled Ean’s goblet for him. “Everything you’re feeling, Ean, is likely in some way justified.” Ean gave him a tormented look, and Björn continued, “Often in the past few months the truth was denied you, while in other circumstances you were intentionally misled. Balance is a dangerous game.”

  “Forgive me,” the prince countered, feeling frustration welling at the familiar comment, “but it seems terribly convenient, this excuse of Balance.”

  Björn broke into a rueful grin. “No doubt it does. In truth it is highly vexing.” He captured Ean’s gaze with a compelling look as he admitted, “How simple it would’ve been to approach you, explain the situation, tell you how much danger you’re in and from whom and why, tell you how we intend to help you Awaken, get your agreement and be done with it.”

  Ean’s emotions flew into sudden turmoil again. He knew the Vestal wasn’t making light of his comment, but an undertone of challenge certainly laced his reply. “And why couldn’t you?” he asked tightly.

  “In point of fact, that’s exactly what we did—the first time.”

  Ean felt the blood draining from his head. “The…first time?”

  “Indeed,” Björn confirmed, and the prince didn’t doubt his veracity for a moment.

  “And…what happened?”

  “You died.”

  “I see.”
The prince reached urgently for his goblet. He gulped down the wine, wishing it was a stronger stuff now. “I see…” he whispered again.

  All those dreams…memories of dying.

  He’d only glibly believed in the Returning. For most people of Dannym, the Returning offered a reason not to grieve. It provided hope for those who remained when loved ones were lost. Even after realizing that he’d Awakened—even after Dagmar had explained that his pattern indicated his own wrongful death—Ean had never connected what that would mean in a broader sense. He certainly had never imagined himself as having Returned…as already having a role in the Fifth Vestal’s game.

  Now the idea had become entirely too intimate.

  Björn went back to his meal. “Now the second time—”

  “The second time?” Ean protested weakly.

  “—we were much more careful,” he said, glancing up at Ean under his brows. “We approached you via intermediaries. We helped you come to your own conclusions. You had already Awakened and were eager to use your talents in aid of the realm. You sought us out.”

  “But it didn’t matter,” Ean said. It was easier if he didn’t think of this conversation as truly being about him—in some other life!

  “No,” Björn answered gravely. “We had still interfered too greatly. We’d overstepped the Balance again.”

  “What makes it different this time?” It wasn’t a heartening idea to ponder, that his death might already be foreordained by the ultimate checks and balances system of the universe.

  “Many things,” Björn assured him.

  “I’d like to believe you,” Ean said with a gulp. He felt like a harp strung too tightly, needing only the slightest sharp pluck to snap. “It’s…a lot to take in.”

  “In time, more will become clear.” Björn observed the prince’s morose expression and reached to lay a hand on his arm. “You have a choice, Ean,” he said in reassurance, his gaze ever compassionate. “Even now, on the brink of a critical juncture in the game… should you choose to walk away, none of us will stop you.”

  He didn’t have to say that others might—the Duke of Morwyk, Malorin’athgul—that Balance might. Ean knew these truths already.