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

by McPhail, Melissa

  Seth shot him a fiery glare. “You don’t seem overly concerned about the welfare of your companion, Fynnlar val Lorian. Perhaps you were complicit in his disappearance. A traitor in our midst would certainly explain some things.”

  The royal cousin belched gratuitously. “Phaedor already told us what happened to the lad,” he pointed out. Not that Fynn believed the zanthyr outright, but it was always convenient to blame things on him.

  Seth glowered at Fynn and then shifted his gaze and glowered instead at Phaedor, who stood like a shadow leaning against the wall, coolly disinterested, as if he couldn’t be bothered even to yawn. When it became clear to Seth that Phaedor wasn’t going to speak simply because he glared at him, the avieth demanded, “Well?”

  “Well what?” replied the shadow that was the zanthyr. Only his green eyes glowed from beneath his raven curls, bright among the darkness that hovered around him.

  “What news of the boy?” Seth snapped.

  “If I had any news of Tanis, Vestal, I would’ve told you already.”

  “You’re the one who claims some kind of connection to the boy,” Rhys pointed out—he always sided with Seth if it pitted him against the zanthyr.

  Phaedor flipped his dagger and caught it by the point. “Tanis lives.”

  “How very new and insightful,” Seth noted blackly.

  Fynn often wondered…if the zanthyr didn’t intend to give them any information or be helpful in any way, why did he bother coming to the meetings? Then he realized it was probably because he wanted to keep an eye on the rest of them. Shadow take the insufferable creature!

  “What do you hope to hear from me, Vestal?” Phaedor meanwhile remarked. “I have already told you Tanis won’t be found until he’s ready.”

  “You imply he’s purposefully hiding from us,” Rhys growled, “that the lad went off willingly.”

  The zanthyr arched a raven brow and spun his dagger by its point on his middle fingertip. It whirled like a top, deadly and straight.

  “I just can’t believe that of him,” Rhys complained. “What would make him wander off in the middle of the city and never return?”

  “Finally, a question worthy of consideration,” the zanthyr remarked.

  Fynn regarded him sourly. He really had no question about who actually led their motley group—Fynn would be the first to admit this, so long as he didn’t have to admit it out loud. He could deny it all he wanted, but he knew that as soon as the zanthyr declared something to be done, they would all spring to action. Fynn just wished the pretense of it all could be put behind them so he could get back to the Villa D’Antoinette and Ghislain’s excellent wine.

  Except…he’d been spending so much time at the Villa D’Antoinette of late that Ghislain was starting to drop not so subtle hints about his playing Kings with her. As no game with Ghislain could ever end pleasantly, and since Fynn was attached both to his coin and his pride, he had long ago vowed to never—ever—become involved with Ghislain D’Launier over a Kings board. Which left him in an uncomfortable limbo with none of his prospects looking exactly desirable.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Seth meanwhile demanded of Phaedor.

  As if Seth hadn’t spoken at all, the zanthyr said, “Tanis is beyond your reach, Captain. You would better serve your prince by searching for his brother.”

  Rhys gave him a belligerent look. Despite Fynn’s insistence, the obstinate man refused to believe Trell was alive. Not that Fynn cared what Rhys thought.

  Fynn had his own people working to find Trell, and he was fairly sure that if they couldn’t find any trace of him, the Captain certainly wasn’t going to. Fynn also felt certain that that damnable Carian vran Lea knew perfectly well where Trell was hiding. If only Carian hadn’t taken it upon himself to permanently vacate the realm, Fynn would’ve happily strangled it out of him.

  “No,” Rhys muttered, looking uncertain and sounding completely lost. “We need to stay here in case her Grace or the boy turn up.”

  “An effective use of your time,” the zanthyr remarked darkly.

  Seth glowered at him. “Well, what would you have us do?”

  But the zanthyr steadfastly refused to advise them—as usual. Fynn half expected he would blame it on Balance—if he ever deigned to explain himself at all—or some other such obscure excuse that none of them might understand anyway.

  As if in response to this thought, the zanthyr shifted his emerald eyes to Fynn, and the decidedly knowing look in his piercing gaze made Fynn sprout gooseflesh from head to toe. Belloth take the bloody creature! he thought as he suppressed a shudder, violently wishing he could be anywhere else—or at least that the zanthyr might be.

  Surly at Phaedor’s insolent mistreatment of him, Seth turned to Fynn and demanded, “What about you, Fynnlar val Lorian? What of your task?”

  Feeling slightly sick to his stomach—mainly from contemplating the zanthyr reading his mind and what this might mean to his immediate future—Fynn drank the last of his wine and pushed out of his chair. “I’ve already requisitioned two Nodefinders and the Guild Master of Rethynnea to look at the node.” He walked to pour himself more wine from the sideboard. “I’m not going to chase down another one willing to brave those crumbling ruins just to so he can tell us again that the bloody thing can’t be traveled.”

  The Temple of the Vestals was all but destroyed, and all of Rethynnea was up in arms over it. Of course, none but those in this room had any idea what had caused it, and the zanthyr had made Fynn swear an oath to silence on the matter. Even his reluctant oath wasn’t enough for the creature, though—which fact would’ve rankled if it wasn’t so justified. Phaedor had done something while Fynn gave his oath—worked some kind of pattern on him. He could feel it sitting there any time he put attention on the thought, and if he so much as conceived of the idea of telling someone else, he got the abominable sensation of live worms squirming in his stomach. Fynn didn’t dare push it further to see how much worse the feeling became. He liked his wine inside his body.

  “But it can be traveled!” Seth retaliated. “I saw them cross it! I almost had Gwynnleth—”

  “Raine was all about how that node had been tampered with,” Fynn cut in. He turned back to Seth as he poured more wine. “Whatever Franco did to the node, he obviously constructed it to self-destruct or something once they were across. If the Guild Master of Rethynnea himself says it can’t be traveled, it can’t be traveled, Seth.”

  Seth turned and glowered at the zanthyr as if he was somehow to blame, whereupon Fynn noted that the zanthyr’s eyes were still fixed unerringly on himself.

  “I’ll be at the Villa D’Antoinette,” the royal cousin grumbled, finally deciding that he’d rather endure Ghislain’s ridicule than spend another moment as the focus of the zanthyr’s omniscient gaze.

  ***

  Alyneri and Trell reached Rethynnea in the early afternoon. Their route brought them down into the city from the surrounding hills, and they soon joined the thronging crowds along the Avenue of the Gods, which overlooked the city from its high and winding vantage. Alyneri gazed wondrously at the many temples they passed on the long boulevard. She’d always wanted to visit the Temple of the Vestals, and might’ve had the chance to do so if not for that untimely meeting with Sandrine du Préc. As they were passing the black marble temple of the Wind God Azerjaiman, Alyneri straightened in her saddle in anticipation of finally seeing the temple—and gasped.

  A great giant seemed to have stepped down and crushed the vast structure that had been the Temple of the Vestals, leaving only shards of crumbling white marble, piles of sand and shattered glass. A constant crowd of people ogled the destruction. Some of them had ventured up onto the edge of the rubble to look down upon the lower levels within, but most stayed prudently distant, letting their eyes and whispers do the exploring instead.

  Trell looked to her when he heard her intake of breath. “What is it? What is this place?”

  “It was the Temple of the V
estals,” she whispered, turning to him wide-eyed.

  “I take it the place was still standing when you left.”

  She nodded.

  “Any idea what happened here?”

  Alyneri felt a little sick to her stomach, for instinct shouted what had in fact transpired—or at least who might be to blame. “I have an idea.”

  Trell looked back to the ruined temple, and his brow furrowed. “Let’s push on. Perhaps the Mage’s emissary can tell us something.”

  They continued past the crumbling remains of the once-great structure, but Alyneri couldn’t get past the feeling that Ean had somehow been intimately involved in the disaster. On the upside, it meant he had finally recovered, and she tried to take some solace in that idea.

  The Mage’s missive was addressed to a woman who lived on the Rue de la Mer, a long road that wound along the highest hill at the west end of the city. As Alyneri and Trell soon discovered, it commanded impressive views and played host to some of the most luxurious and exclusive homes in all of Rethynnea.

  They stopped at the gates of their destination, which were incongruously open compared to the many others they’d passed. Trell looked upon the number engraved in an iron plaque set into the stone wall beside the gate. “Fourteen,” he said. “Here we are then.”

  They headed down the drive beneath an arcade of orange trees to reach a pink marble mansion, where a groom ran up to take their horses before they’d even dismounted. Trell withdrew a leather case from his satchel, took Alyneri’s hand, and headed up the steps to the double doors.

  He was just reaching for the knocker when the door opened to reveal a lovely brunette in a golden gown of shimmering silk. “Welcome to the Villa D’Antoinette, my lord and lady,” she said with a Bemothi accent exotic and heavy on her tongue.

  Alyneri stood somewhat in awe of her as Trell replied, “I have a message for the Lady Ghislain D’Launier. Is she present, madam?”

  “But of course. Come inside.” The brunette gave Trell a look that was wholly suggestive, and which Alyneri immediately tried to memorize in the vain hopes of ever imitating herself.

  The brunette turned and led them through the mansion, whose luxurious rooms played host to men and women of so many varied races that Alyneri immediately lost count. “Is your mistress throwing a party?” she asked.

  The brunette turned Alyneri a wanton look that reminded her uncomfortably of Sandrine but quickened her pulse all the same. “Always, my lady.”

  Alyneri cleared her throat. “I hope we are not intruding.”

  “There are no intruders at the Villa D’Antoinette,” the woman replied in her exotically throaty voice. “Only the most interesting people to make acquaintance with.”

  “Sounds like another place I know,” Trell murmured.

  The brunette led them up a grand, curving staircase to the second level and down a long corridor opening upon more rooms. Alyneri was beginning to wonder what Madam D’Launier did that she hosted so many people at all hours of the day, when they finally reached their host.

  Ghislain was reclining upon a divan, before which sat three men at three different Kings boards, but she straightened from her languorous repose when she saw them enter. “And who do we have here, Riselle?”

  “An emissary, my lady,” answered the brunette. She gave Alyneri a nod, Trell a shameless look, and took her leave.

  “An emissary,” Ghislain mused, eyeing Trell inquiringly. “Well then.” Clearly in her middle years, Ghislain stood to reveal an alluring figure framed by a fuchsia gown trimmed in black lace. She motioned them to come along as she walked toward a door at the back of the room.

  They followed her into a salon paneled in rich brown velvet, and Ghislain seated herself in an armchair whose upholstery matched the walls. “Very well,” she said then and extended her hand to Trell. “Let’s see what you have for me.”

  Trell handed her the leather case, which she untied and opened, breaking the seal upon the parchment within and unfolding it. Her dark eyes read it over, and then she settled the missive in her lap and looked upon Trell more carefully. “Have you some idea what this contains?”

  “Some idea, yes,” he answered. He squeezed Alyneri’s hand, and she sensed a tension building within him.

  Ghislain’s shrewd gaze swept Trell and appeared to note every detail, from kingdom blade to wolf-grey eyes. “Your name, sir—your true name.”

  “Trell val Lorian.”

  “Ahh…” she broke into a smile, dark and mysterious. Her gaze flicked to Alyneri. “And who might you be, dear girl?”

  “Alyneri d’Giverny,” she answered, cringing at how young and unworldly her voice sounded by comparison to Ghislain’s. She was grateful to still have hold of Trell’s hand.

  “Incredible.” Ghislain sat back in her chair and looked over the both of them with an expression of wry amusement. “Half the city seems to be looking for you, dear,” she said to Alyneri, and her eyes shifted back to Trell as she added, “and I would hazard to say a fair share of the spy networks of three kingdoms are on the hunt for you, Prince of Dannym, albeit more discreetly.”

  “We—I…” Alyneri cleared her throat. “I’ve been separated from my companions. We were hoping you could help us.”

  “To be certain, you’ve come to the right place.” She shifted her gaze back to Trell, and there was both challenge and the hint of amusement in it. She waved the missive in her hand lightly. “Would you like to read it?”

  Because she held his hand—because she knew him so well already—Alyneri could tell Trell was experiencing an intense emotional upheaval, though outwardly he seemed utterly calm. “Perhaps…yes,” he answered at last. Alyneri knew those words had cost him much to admit. She just didn’t know why.

  Ghislain handed him the parchment.

  Alyneri read it over his arm. There were only eight words printed there in a neat but flowing hand.

  Please see that he reaches his family, Ghislain.

  Alyneri’s eyes filled with tears.

  Trell swallowed and clenched his teeth. He handed the parchment back to Ghislain. “Why?” he asked tightly.

  Ghislain held his gaze. “Who knows the inner workings of a Mage’s mind?”

  Trell worked the muscles of his jaw. “Do you know him? Do you know who he is?”

  Ghislain’s reply was an elliptical smile. “He is a great man with many names.”

  Trell dropped his head, and Alyneri felt the tension bleeding out of him. “He is that,” he admitted, his tone intense though the words were softly spoken.

  “Come, darlings,” Ghislain said, standing then in a rust of silk. “I have something to show you.”

  She led them from the room without waiting for a reply. Alyneri followed somewhat in awe. Ghislain reminded her of Queen Errodan and the Fire Princess Ysolde both—also women of authority who bore their power quietly and without pretense.

  Ghislain led them through the mansion and into a salon that opened onto a small balcony. There, before a railing covered in bougainvillea, a man sat in profile to them. His shaggy hair all but covered his face as he gripped a goblet of wine and scowled at a King’s board. The game seemed to be dominated by the black pieces belonging to the other player, who was notably absent.

  “Have you made your move yet, my lord?” Ghislain asked as she neared.

  The man turned her a sudden scowl, and Alyneri gasped. “Fynn!”

  Upon seeing Alyneri in turn, Fynn did the unthinkable—he leapt from of his chair, actually dropping his wine, and threw his arms so fervently around Alyneri one would think she’d just rescued him from a hurricane sea.

  “I never imagined I’d be so happy to see you, Fynn!” Alyneri laughed as she hugged him tightly.

  “Your Grace, you have saved me from a fate worse than death!” Fynn declared. “I vow to you, Ghislain has already taken my coin and my pride. I was beginning to fear she’d set her sights on my very soul.”

  “You pawned that trinket long ago,
my lord,” Ghislain murmured with dark amusement.

  The moment of reunion duly honored, Fynn suddenly pulled back from Alyneri and took her firmly by the shoulders. “But where in the nine bloody hells have you been?”

  “Retrieving me, I think,” Trell replied soberly.

  Only then did Fynn take notice of the man standing just behind Alyneri, but when he did, he stared, and then he laughed boldly. “By all the bloody fortune in the thousand realms!” Fynn bounded three steps and threw his arms around Trell, shrugging him roughly from side to side in a bear of a hug. “Woohoo! I never thought I’d see the day! Welcome back, cousin!”

  “Trell, may I present your cousin, Fynnlar val Lorian,” Alyneri murmured.

  Trell happily but modestly received Fynn’s affections. “I think I remember something of you, cousin,” he observed as Fynn finally released him. Then he frowned. “Something about… mud pies?”

  “No, no—the pies were entirely Sebastian’s idea. He was a royal pain in the arse.” Fynn grabbed Trell by the shoulders and laughed again. “I knew it!” He shot Ghislain a telling look and declared, “I knew it was true!”

  “What do you mean?” Alyneri touched Fynn’s arm to gain his attention. “You knew Trell lived?”

  He released Trell and turned to her. “I’d gone to investigate rumors out of Veneisea, you may recall—after the attack on Ean. I returned with news of Trell the same night the rest of that bloody mess happened.”

  Alyneri went cold. “What bloody mess?”

  “Oh, Fortune curse us all—you don’t know?” Fynn looked from her to Trell and back again. Then he looked to Ghislain, the quiet voyeur behind their reunion. “It’ll have to wait,” he remarked with an accusatory glare at their host. “Some things aren’t safe to discuss even in the Villa D’Antoinette.”

  “And I was so looking forward to finishing our game, my lord,” Ghislain murmured. “You must return soon that we may complete our accord.”

  Fynn murmured something noncommittal and dragged Alyneri and Trell from the room.