Pelas frowned. “Indeed?”
Tanis could tell his question had finally impinged, and he asked again, using all of his truthreader’s power, “What would you choose if the choice was given you, sir?”
Pelas turned him a swift look, for he felt the compulsion and was not immune to it. “I…” his gaze became puzzled, intense. “I don’t…know.” Abruptly his expression softened, and there was even a little admiration in it. “I will think upon it, little spy.”
“Do that,” Tanis grumbled. Then, as they started walking again, he asked, “Do we head—” but the words never made it off his tongue, for that’s when things went from miserable to disastrous.
They had just emerged from a path bordered by high boxwoods onto an open lawn. But rather than distant statues, as Tanis had thought at first glance, seven armed men were fanning out across the lawn with clear ill purpose.
Pelas slowed at their approach, and Tanis felt the man’s thoughts go still.
“Sir?” Tanis whispered. When Pelas didn’t answer, the lad asked uncertainly, “Can you fight them the same as you did the thieves in the Solvayre?”
“These men carry Merdanti weapons,” Pelas murmured ominously. “If I tried that trick I’d lose my hand.”
Tanis stared fretfully at him and whispered, “Can’t you use your power?”
“He knows I won’t,” Pelas hissed without removing his gaze from the approaching men. “I can’t afford to reveal myself here any more than he can.”
Now Tanis felt really frightened, and the men kept coming closer. Seven men carrying Merdanti blades, when even one could mean Pelas’s death.
Tanis had no choice. He hurriedly drew his dagger from inside his boot and pushed it into Pelas’s hand.
“What…?” Pelas’s eyes went wide, and he gaped at Tanis. “Where did you get this?”
“It’s mine,” Tanis insisted defensively.
“I can see it is the same blade, yet—” But he pursed his lips and shook his head, knowing now was not the time to question the mystery. He turned and focused a calculating gaze upon the men, who were but twenty paces away now, and remarked, “You may have just saved our lives, little spy.”
He shrugged out of his coat and handed it to Tanis, explaining, “It is always preferable to fight unencumbered, and to imagine each of your opponents is your most hated nemesis.” His gaze narrowed dangerously as he gazed at his attackers. “I shall be envisioning both of my brothers, for either of them could have cast this net. Run now into the thicket, and do not emerge until I call for you.”
“Be careful, sir,” Tanis cautioned with earnest concern.
Pelas gave him a wondrous look. “Go!”
Tanis fled back onto the boxwood path and forced his way through the hedge, whose branches in return scratched deeply enough into his flesh to draw blood. Concealed on the other side of the thicket, Tanis hurried to find a vantage where he might peer back through.
He saw the men drawing near, saw Pelas go tense as a panther about to pounce, and then it began.
Pelas closed with the nearest man, blocking his advance with Phaedor’s dagger. They struggled, and Pelas kicked him off, but he did not gain his blade.
Two more came at him. Pelas caught the upraised arm of the first of them and twisted into his guard while spinning his dagger and slamming it unerringly into the second man’s heart. Pelas grabbed his sword as the man fell and swung upwards through the upraised arm of the first man. He fell back with a scream and Pelas turned to met the next two men.
He took them both together, wielding blade and dagger, and beat them into a retreat using powerful rapid strokes. One faltered and met his end with his throat and chest torn asunder. The second darted in as Pelas was turning and may have marked him in the motion, but Pelas finished his turn and chopped his head off, snatching his falling blade as his body toppled.
He sensed an attacker rushing up behind him and dropped to one knee. He parried the man’s downward rushing blade his two swords crossed over his head. Then he spun on his knees and swung both swords around, cutting the man in half.
The armless men had found his feet and was staggering away. Pelas threw his sword and took him through the back. He slammed forcefully forward into the grass. The seventh man tried to flee, but Pelas caught him with his second blade thrown so powerfully that the man sped through the air and into a tree, where he remained, staked gruesomely to the bark.
The night grew still, as if drawing in a deep breath. Pelas got to his feet and began collecting up the men’s blades. He pitched them onto a cloak belonging to one of the fallen, hoisted the make-shift bag up over one shoulder and looked unerringly to where Tanis watched. “Come little spy. We must away.”
His voice remained tense, taut with senses on full alert, and Tanis perceived a lingering danger. So the lad hastily pushed his way back through the boxwood, hissing a curse at the spiteful hedge, which grabbed hold of his boot in the end and nearly tripped him. He stumbled up to Pelas looking frazzled.
Pelas received him with laughter in his eyes. “I do believe you fared worse than me.” He called his doorway then, drew Tanis close within the circle of his arm, and spun them through.
They stood alone in the endless darkness, where the only sounds were the pounding of their hearts and the rush of their breath.
“Where do we go?” Tanis whispered.
“Not home. Not right away. The location of my home should be a secret, but I cannot trust that it hasn’t been compromised.”
“Where then?”
Pelas pulled him closer within the circle of his arm, reassuringly close, though his embrace was perilously cold. “I have an idea.” His doorway appeared, slicing down through the lightless dark, and then they stepped out into a shipyard.
Tanis blinked in the bright sunlight, whose warmth was a welcome relief. Pelas looked quickly around, assured himself they were alone, and then turned the boy a smile. “Ready?” Without waiting for an answer, he led away.
Thirteen
“The hottest fire forges the sharpest steel.”
- The Second Vestal Dagmar Ranneskjöld
Işak Getirmek stood upon the balcony of Niko van Amstel’s Bemothi manor gazing into the mist. The morning was tepid and damp, the air heavy from a late-night shower, and the mist rising out of the jungle enveloped the world in haze. Işak awaited Dore’s permission to leave with an eager anticipation that he smothered beneath feelings of guilt—for he dared not let the man know his true thoughts.
The binding Dore had placed upon him so many years ago bound Işak to Dore and made his mind vulnerable to the wielder’s inspection. That this working did not bind Dore to Işak in return was perhaps the only grace allowed him. To endure a mutual bond with Dore Madden would surely have driven him mad.
Işak felt cold. So cold. Cold enough that his fingers and lips were blue, despite the balmy jungle climate, too cold to work the knots of his string as he whiled away the torturous hours. Standing in the rain through the night had leached all the warmth from his blood, but he welcomed the numbing chill, for it soothed the ever-constant, ever-painful fire that was Dore’s bond.
He’d been waiting for more than a day on Niko’s private balcony, waiting for his master to release him, but Dore remained upset about the episode with Franco Rohre, days earlier. Işak had tried explaining why the Espial had so revolted him, but there was no explaining things to Dore—even had he been telling Dore the truth, which he patently had not.
Dore had punished Işak for his disobedience, punished him with blood and with pain laid in through the pattern of binding until Işak wept, until he’d crawled, stripped and bleeding, to weep at Dore’s feet, begging him for reprieve. Dore had finally relented, but it was long after he’d made Işak beg him to punish him more, long after he’d sworn to his master that he deserved whatever Dore meted out. In Dore Madden’s eyes, everyone deserved due punishment. Nor did any subsequent healing offer redemption, for Dore made the experience as
painful as possible, that no part of it might be a release.
Ironic, Işak thought bitterly. Had Franco chosen any other manner of revolting pastimes to focus upon, Işak could’ve easily ignored them, for he’d been privy to the worst sort of filth in N’ghorra. Ill-chance alone led Franco Rohre to pick sodomy to accost Işak with—oh, clearly the man had recognized Işak’s fourth-strand patterns and retaliated; Işak almost respected the Espial for that—but Franco’s visions had been…
Işak closed his eyes.
Such vivid images were agonizing reminders of the shadows lurking in Işak’s own past, memories long repressed—long hidden from Dore lest he exploit them ruthlessly. So he’d fled the room—even knowing his sure punishment—rather than risk Dore unearthing such memories and subsequently using them to destroy the last vestiges of his humanity.
A wind blew, raising gooseflesh on Işak’s already frigid skin, and he shuddered as the wind raked across him. But it wasn’t the air that chilled him now.
Memories drew forth that numbing ache, that clenching fear that accompanied the rending of hope…memories of an adolescent who’d lost his innocence in the salt mines of N’ghorra, at the hands of a cruel man who saw beauty and wished to destroy it, who thought nobility an outrage and honor an affront.
Many years later, Dore had repeatedly raped Işak’s mind like the prisoner had raped his body, and now he couldn’t decide which man he loathed more.
It was mid-morning before Dore appeared, but Işak hadn’t moved—how could he when Dore had forbidden it?
“Işak, come,” Dore commanded, and Işak pulled himself away from the railing. His muscles cramped violently after so many hours of stationary use, but his face revealed none of this pain, nor did his thoughts betray the depths of his hatred for his master.
“Niko will take you to the Cairs today,” Dore told him. “We have reason to believe the prince is there. You will have the help of powerful allies loyal to Niko, loyal to me,” and this last he stressed with a jolt upon the bond, a not-so-subtle warning that while Işak might soon be on his own in the world, he would still be watched. “You will have the Karakurt’s network at your disposal and a company of Saldarians to aid in your task.”
“Mercenaries,” Işak growled.
“Skilled agents sworn to our cause,” Dore corrected with a scowl and a lick of his spider-thin lips. “Radov has used the services of their leader many times. Now he loans them for our use.”
“How magnanimous of him,” Işak muttered ungraciously. The last thing he wanted was a host of spies watching his every move. “They are under my command?”
“I’ve said as much,” Dore grumbled. He settled Işak a piercing look. “You will find the prince, and you will bring him back to Tambarré for questioning. You will do everything in your power to apprehend Ean val Lorian short of killing the boy.”
“I doubt he will come willingly, or easily.”
“Bind him to you from the outset,” Dore advised. He licked his lips. “It is the most effective way.”
Işak admitted this truth, but he also knew bindings were difficult to manage in the thick of battle. “And what if there is no way to gain him except through death?” he queried. “What then would you have me do?”
Dore scowled ferociously. Clearly he did not want to admit the possibility of failure, but Işak knew the man was no fool—never mind that he was entirely insane. “If there is no other way,” Dore said finally, leveling his reptilian gaze upon Işak, “if he cannot be bound to your will and defies all attempts to apprehend him, then and only then, shall you slay him. If your only choice is mortal, you will stand over this upstart prince until his body is as cold as a campwhore’s tit.”
Işak felt the stroke of compulsion laying itself upon him, new thorns of iron twining within the pattern of binding, spearing his already bleeding soul. Thus was Işak set to Dore’s will like a clock wound each night, with no choice but to count the endless hours until dawn, until time had all bled out and naught but emptiness remained.
“Go now,” Dore murmured, eyeing him iniquitously. “Glory awaits.”
Fourteen
“The more outrageous a belief system, the greater
the probability of its success.”
- The royal cousin Fynnlar val Lorian
Kjieran walked the long hall of his dormitory wrapped in a linen robe, his body damp from the baths. Though he’d soaked for the better part of an hour, he still felt unclean.
Earlier that day, he’d been called upon to attend three candidates testing for Bethamin’s Fire, and none had survived the testing. Each time Kjieran watched another truthreader succumb to the Prophet’s corruptive power, he saw the end of their race approaching. Easily as many truthreaders died as lived to become Marquiin—perhaps more—and Kjieran feared that at this rate Bethamin would destroy the entire strand of Adepts singlehandedly.
Yet even as he watched such men writhe and scream upon the pristine marble floor, he couldn’t help but feel a measure of envy. They were the lucky ones.
It was Kjieran’s job to dispose of such men, who were deemed unclean as a result of their failure to endure the Prophet’s malignant attack upon their consciousness. Kjieran always handled his brothers of the fourth with the deepest sympathy and regard, whispering the Rite for the Departed over their bodies as he carted them to the crematorium. And while he knew he’d done as much as he could to guide them to the Returning, he still felt guilt. Guilt because he couldn’t save them from being chosen, because he regularly stood by while the Prophet continued his wholesale slaughter of Kjieran’s race—of his own Adept strand.
Guilt because he was so desperately relieved that he hadn’t been the one being tested that day.
With such memories so fresh on his mind, Kjieran thought the worst when he saw the Ascendant standing outside the open door of his bed chamber. Had they found him out? Was he being taken for questioning? He did a quick mental survey of items in his room, wondering if anything could incriminate him—yet he was always so careful! He slowed his approach, wondering if it was too late to turn around. But of course it was. The man had no doubt noticed him long ago.
“Ascendant?” Kjieran asked with downcast eyes as he neared.
“It is well that you have bathed, acolyte,” remarked the Ascendant, “for the Prophet calls you to his chambers.”
Remembering the last time he was called to attend the Prophet, Kjieran hesitated to ask, “May I dress, Ascendant?”
“I should hope so,” the man grumbled, looking Kjieran over like some kind of heathen.
Kjieran hurried to don his acolyte’s tunic and pants and then followed the Ascendant to the Prophet’s chambers. Once again the man stopped just before the towering doors, leaving Kjieran to find his own way.
This time the Prophet awaited him at a stone table set with a meal. Kjieran knelt at the Prophet’s feet and bowed his head. “My lord,” he murmured with his colorless eyes fixed on the marble tiles.
“Hello, Kjieran,” came the Prophet’s deep voice. “Take that seat there. You shall dine at my table tonight.”
Kjieran received this news with a sinking feeling of dread. He obediently stood and took his seat as instructed, keeping his eyes downcast. The plate before him held a varied display of Saldarian dishes, the aromas rich and heady after so long eating the steady diet of beans and bread they served at the acolytes’ tables.
“You may eat, Kjieran.”
“Yes, my lord.” Kjieran ate in silence, all too aware that the Prophet was studying him the entire time. He suddenly felt like a wild animal coaxed from safety with the promise of food only that the hunter might observe it more intimately. The idea made him shudder, and the food became suddenly unpalatable, but he didn’t dare stop until the Prophet required it or the plate was empty.
“I would know more about you, Kjieran,” the Prophet said after a long time of just watching him.
Kjieran settled his hands in his lap, eyes downcast, but deep
within he trembled. He bit the inside of his lip to keep himself focused, to keep above the raw desperation, for he’d realized while he ate—the special attention, the late night rendezvous, this meal…
The Prophet was courting him.
“Tell me your story,” Bethamin commanded with only the slightest hint of compulsion to sweeten the order. Even that feather-light touch made Kjieran almost heady with the need to tell his lord everything. Raine’s protection alone allowed Kjieran to see these patterns for what they were—to at least be able to acknowledge they were at work, even if he often could not resist them. In both cases, the knowledge was disheartening, but at least he was not tormented with guilt—as so many others were—over why he loved a man that was so dreadful in every way.
Somehow finding the courage to speak, Kjieran told his lord of growing up in Agasan, of training at the Sormitáge, and of his assignment to the Court of Dannym. He did not embellish, but neither did he make the story too thin, for he sensed that the Prophet was searching for deeper things. He asked questions of him that were tender and painful. He wanted Kjieran’s most intimate thoughts and dug them out forcefully like deep-rooted tubers, leaving him feeling raw and gaping in the retelling.
When Kjieran was finished, the Prophet asked, “Do you resent this king for releasing you from his service?”
“How could I, my lord,” Kjieran replied quietly, “when his expulsion brought me to you?”
“Of course,” replied the Prophet dismissively, “but do you desire his death as retribution for how he wronged you?”
Kjieran thought fast to form a reply—only a truthreader knew how easily one might avoid an answer without seeming to do so, how a skilled conversationalist could speak one thing and mean something else entirely. “I desire that he should receive his due reward for the many crimes enacted during his reign.”
The Prophet considered his answer, and then he stood and slowly approached Kjieran, giving him ample time to appreciate his perfection of form. He stopped, and Kjieran slipped from his chair onto his knees before the man, knowing this was expected.
The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light) Page 19