“What would be the point in such an effort? A man will believe what he will.”
“But…” Trell frowned.
“You don’t win a game by focusing on things you cannot control. You win it by focusing on those things that you can.”
“A game,” Trell mused, struck again by the familiar analogy. His eyes flew back to the zanthyr’s as he added significantly, “Pieces and players. The Mage wrote of such terms. What do you know of them?”
“I know much.”
“What will you tell me of them then?” Trell amended with a smile.
The zanthyr pinned him with one green eye, the other partly obscured by his raven hair as it tossed on the wind. Trell expected the man to artfully deny him, even as Balaji had so often managed, but he replied instead, “What would you know?”
Surprised and startled by his candor, Trell asked a question that ever hovered on the edge of his thoughts. “Why does the Mage want me to become a player in his game?”
After a moment, the zanthyr answered, “I do not know his plans for you. I do know that the First Lord’s game requires thinking men to act with foresight and conscience if we are to succeed, and I needn’t tell you there is a vast shortage of such men in the realm.”
Trell admitted that was likely truer than he’d care to think about. He looked out to sea, toward the ship nearly vanished in the west. “I do not know what it means to be a player in the Mage’s game,” he observed quietly then, “but I have this sense that the path I would choose is likewise the one he needs me to walk.” He shifted his gaze back to the zanthyr. “I’d always imagined my journey would end with the discovery of my name, but it seems it’s only just begun.”
The zanthyr regarded him steadily.
“And the path before me,” Trell added with a thoughtful frown, “I often wonder if it will lead me back to him, to your First Lord.”
“You can do no less than walk your path,” Phaedor advised, neither confirming nor denying the possibility, “wherever it leads.”
Trell managed a rueful smile. “Is it strange that I hardly know your First Lord, nor even truly the game he plays, yet…I believe I would give him my oath?”
“He would have it, Trell val Lorian, if you offered.”
Trell felt oddly gratified in hearing this. He gazed at the zanthyr in thoughtful silence. “Alyneri told me you saved my brother’s life,” he said after a moment. “I want to thank you for that.”
Phaedor cast him an unreadable look. “I did not do it for Ean’s sake.”
“Still,” Trell said, not quite sure how to take the comment, “in the end, it is the same. So, thank you.”
Phaedor gave him a barely perceptible nod, accepting of his gratitude, and looked back out to the sea. “Good-night, Prince of Dannym.”
And Trell knew he’d been dismissed. Strangely enough, as with his conversation with Ramu, he did not resent at all being dispatched like a child.
As he made his way back up the stairs and across the wide lawn, Trell considered the zanthyr. Phaedor’s presence gripped you. He was easily as compelling as Ramu, though far less accessible. The others he’d met—Rhakar, Naiir, Loghain, even Vaile, with all he’d seen her do—they couldn’t but cast a pale shadow of this man.
He is the closest I have ever come to gazing upon divinity…Alyneri’s heartfelt words, her vision of Phaedor.
As he made his way back to his rooms, at last ready for his bed and sleep, Trell decided that Alyneri definitely had the right of it.
Twenty-Seven
“Suspicion haunts the guilty. The killer sees assassins in every shadow.”
- Errodan val Lorian, Queen of Dannym and the Shoring Isles
The infamous courtesan Ghislain D’Launier strode into her third-floor salon to find a man waiting for her.
Ghislain could tell much from looking at a man. For instance, she knew that this man thought highly of himself, for he wore a longish moustache and pointed beard despite the style being out of fashion. This told her that he tried to show himself above courtly trends—or at least above the trends of the court to which he was supposedly sworn.
From the state of his clothing, Ghislain knew he’d been traveling for the better part of a month and that he spent much of that time ahorse. This same observation showed her that the man had little regard for others or for himself, for he hadn’t bothered to change his clothing before visiting the home of a famous courtesan. This could also mean he was in a hurry and possibly feared for his life.
Finally, she read from his brazen stance before a lady unknown to him that he was a man of dishonest temperament and likely harbored an ignoble nature.
“Lord Brantley, I presume,” Ghislain said in her deep voice as her assistant, the buxom Riselle, shut the door behind her.
“Indeed,” he clucked. “I am Lord Brantley, Earl of Pent.”
“And how may I help you, Lord Brantley, Earl of Pent? It is not every day that visiting lords whose acquaintance I’ve never made request to meet me in private.”
“I am told you are a woman of information, madam.”
“Among other things,” she agreed. She walked to the sideboard. “Will you share a drink with me, my lord? Perhaps you could use some refreshment after such a long ride.”
“I certainly could—” Brantley cast her a suspicious look as she turned with goblets in hand. “Who told you I was coming? How did you know where I’ve been—what did they say about me?”
“My sources are inviolate, I’m afraid,” Ghislain returned, handing him the goblet. She took a sip, eyed him over the rim, and then added with a smile, “But of course, you know that.”
Brantley accepted the wine and drank deeply of it. He seemed to have the manners of a stable hand and smelled similarly as fragrant. “I’m searching for a woman,” he told her once his goblet was well drained.
Ghislain settled demurely into her armchair. “Would this woman have a name? There are many women in our fair Free Cities.”
“Her name is Alyneri d’Giverny. She is the Duchess of Aracine.”
“I see. And what do you want with her?”
“That’s none of your concern,” Brantley remarked, twitching his moustache in irritation.
“Oh, but it is, my lord,” Ghislain corrected with a smile. “How else shall I gauge how much to charge you for the information on her whereabouts?”
Brantley stared at her for a moment, drank the last dregs of his wine, and finally cleared his throat. “Well…she is desirable to my lord.”
“And who would be this great lord?”
“His Grace, Stefan val Tryst.”
Ghislain fixed her dark eyes upon the Earl of Pent. “I am most interested to know what the Duke of Morwyk hopes to gain by apprehending the Duchess of Aracine. Did he not already attempt to kidnap her once?”
Brantley paled.
Ghislain gazed evenly at him. The man was entirely out of his element.
“I…I am not privy to the details of the Duke’s interest in the Duchess,” the earl hedged uncomfortably.
Ghislain took another sip of wine. “What then have you to offer me, Brantley, Earl of Pent? The whereabouts of the Healer Alyneri d’Giverny will not come cheap.”
Brantley took a step toward her. “I have coin—”
“The only coins exchanging hands within these walls, my lord, are gifts from my patrons, and I don’t believe your pockets are nearly deep enough to contract for that service.”
Brantley pulled uncomfortably at his doublet. “Then what…?”
“As you well noted, my lord. I am a woman of information. This is the currency I expect in exchange. Now,” she added as she settled more comfortably into her chair, “I will know why the Duke wants the Duchess so desperately. And while we’re about it, you can fill me in on his other plans. I am most interested to know when he expects his army to march on Calgaryn.”
Brantley went whiter than a winter hare. “I couldn’t…couldn’t possibly—”
&n
bsp; “Now, now, Earl,” she cautioned. “You need this information. You know it, and I know it. That is your first error in coming to me, for you have no leverage with which to wage your bargain. If I’m not mistaken, you need not return to Dannym at all if it is not in the company of Alyneri d’Giverny. So…which is more important to you, Lord Brantley, Earl of Pent? The girl or the information I require in payment?” Ghislain blessed the earl with a lovely smile, reminiscent of her younger years, but he was looking entirely too ill to notice its glory.
Not much later, Ghislain stood in the deep night shadows of the balcony outside her salon overlooking the Villa D’Antoinette’s yard, where Lord Brantley and his men were imprudently discussing their plans. Their words carried upon the evening breeze as if shouted in an amphitheater, floating to her ears with crystal clarity. She had often used the vantage to learn secrets too delicate to be spoken even within her walls. Unfortunately, on this night, the knowledge would be of little use to anyone.
“You told them where to find her, my lady?” asked the exotic Riselle as she came to stand beside Ghislain in the shadows.
“Of course,” Ghislain returned in a voice for Riselle’s ears alone. “The price was right. I have many contacts who will pay handsomely to know when Morwyk marches on Calgaryn—especially Morin d’Hain.”
“But what of the Mage’s missive?”
“The missive mentioned nothing of the girl. She will have to make her own way.”
Voices floated to them from below as Lord Brantley issued his commands, sending men to watch the villa where the duchess was staying.
“My lady,” Riselle said quietly then, “don’t you think the Mage would want you to protect the prince and his lady love?”
Ghislain sighed. “You know I cannot be seen to take sides, Riselle. And who am I to presume what complex twists drive the Mage’s game? Perhaps whatever happens with this Lord Brantley is important to the greater whole. One never knows such things.” She turned and headed back inside.
Riselle’s dark eyes remained troubled as she followed and closed the door, however, so Ghislain cupped her face tenderly with one hand. “We walk the paths we are upon, Riselle, taking things as they come. Seeking to know what lies around each bend only brings regret, as Epiphany’s Prophet has long advised. Trust to the river that carries us all—that is the best we can do.”
Riselle dropped her eyes. “Yes, my lady.”
“Now come. You have guests to greet, and I have many men waiting to be embarrassingly schooled in a game of Kings.”
And so did the ladies depart to their mutual entertainments.
***
Far across the realm in the Temple of Tambarré, Kjieran van Stone fell through the doorway of his room onto hands and knees, shaking uncontrollably. The Ascendants who’d carried him back from Bethamin’s courtyard dared say nothing to him, but he could feel their disgust radiating as they made their way off down the hall. They didn’t know what he’d just endured, and they wouldn’t have cared if they had. He kicked at the door until it slammed and then crawled on his elbows toward the chest against the far wall.
He was violently ill.
Kjieran never imagined such pain could exist within the realm of human perception, that his mind might share as much agony as the rest of his body and still be alive. Whimpering with every motion, Kjieran dragged himself across the room and then collapsed. His head was swimming. Suddenly he felt vertigo rushing up, and he rolled onto his side and vomited again, though nothing remained in his stomach. Still he couldn’t stop retching.
His organs felt ruptured, his lungs burned, and every vein in his body seemed to run with fire instead of blood. He was sweating profusely yet felt uncommonly cold—infinitely cold—cold like death long settled into his bones.
Think of your king!
It was all he could manage, this one thought, all that had kept him holding to sanity throughout the torture of Dore’s interminable working. It was what drove him to press on, to crawl, elbow before elbow, dragging unresponsive legs toward that chest and his last shred of hope.
When he reached it, he collapsed again with a shuddering sob and almost lost his resolve, almost gave in to the swarming darkness and the pain, but he knew he had to contain his despair a little longer. He could feel the Prophet’s binding heavy upon him, but without compulsion to guide it, the pattern lay dormant. If he could just get to Raine’s talisman…
Kjieran struggled up, fighting vertigo and near unconsciousness at every stage. He knew he took a chance working the trace-seal, for Bethamin might be watching even then through Kjieran’s own eyes, subverted now to become extensions of the Prophet’s own.
In the air before the chest, he traced the pattern he’d memorized so long ago. Nothing happened. He tried again to equal lack of effect. After the fourth agonized attempt, Kjieran finally realized that his hand was shaking too dramatically to form the pattern. He took hold of his right hand with his left then, and using one hand to hold the other steady, he traced the seal again. On the second attempt of this nature, he heard a nearly imperceptible click.
Kjieran tore out the drawer along the bottom of the trunk and grabbed the little amulet Raine had constructed for him. It was naught but a small silver disk inscribed with the iederal’a, the sign of the Adept race, a circle crossed by three lines forming an A, but the entire chain and amulet were a talisman, a focal point for elae. Drenched in patterns, the talisman protected the wearer from subversive fourth-strand patterns and had been crafted to stave off the deleterious effects of Bethamin’s dark power—as best Raine could provide, that is, which was not inconsiderable by any means.
Kjieran shoved the amulet over his head and fell onto his side, sucking in wheezing gasps around the overwhelming grief that gripped him. He wept then, letting the world spin, praying the talisman would have some power against the terrible things that had been to done to him.
He must have slept, for he woke in darkness with a scream. Bethamin’s bond was foremost in his mind, a cold and heavy weight of presence. When Kjieran realized his last many hours had not been an unimaginably horrible dream, he broke down again, and a sob escaped him before he found the courage to hold the rest back.
Everything was not lost.
He still had hold of his mind—for now. He could still act upon his own direction, so long as he did not seem to be working against the Prophet’s desires.
And he was being sent south to kill his king.
He knew Dore’s pattern had begun to change him already, but he felt slightly less overwhelmed by the knowledge, as if perhaps Raine’s talisman was at least slowing the process. The idea gave him hope. Perhaps something could be salvaged.
He was immensely relieved that he had written his last report before being claimed. Even so, there was more to add—Morwyk and Radov and a secret alliance! He would have to be very careful writing such a truth, careful that the Prophet wasn’t watching, but he could still leave it for others to take.
He would be departing soon for Tal’Shira—Dore was taking him there upon the nodes—but with Raine’s talisman staving off the ultimate end, perhaps there was some chance…some slight chance that he could salvage something of this disaster, even if nothing might be salvaged of him.
Twenty-Eight
“If life be art then paint me in vivid color. Let no shade hide from my ken.”
- The painter Immanuel di Nostri
In the days following their sailing expedition, Pelas took Tanis on a whirlwind tour of the realm that the lad might come to know just a smattering of the infinite experiences to be observed—from the bullfights of Vaalden, to the violent ball courts of Ma’hrkit, to the Wyr’Umjai Crater on the Agasi island of Palma-Lai, where a host of strange and wondrous animals thrived. He took Tanis to the ruins of Cyrene near the exotic city of Sakkalaah, then across the Fire Sea to the vast crystal caves of Vest. He even showed him the smoldering deserts of Avatar and their spontaneous smokeless fires that covered miles and someti
mes burned for years on end.
Even had every day not been wondrous and fascinating and somewhat manic at times, still Tanis would have willingly gone, for each day that Pelas spent entertaining him was a day he didn’t torture and kill one more of the realm’s treasured Healers. Tanis always lived in fear of this, for he knew Pelas’s darker side must eventually resurface. Every time he thought of the round-faced Healer at the party in Bemoth, who’d seemed so kind and so unaware of the deadly creature that lusted after her, he felt somehow burdened with her protection.
So he did his best to keep Pelas interested in showing him things, and to challenge him to question his doctrines. Tanis felt terribly small and inadequate to the task of changing a Malorin’athgul’s point of view. He knew enough about Pelas by then to understand that the man had lived for eons. How could a mere boy of fourteen teach an immortal creature anything of the truths of their realm? Yet if Tanis did not, who would?
The Fhorgs were certainly of no help. They just exacerbated the issue, always drawing their own blood in various grim ways for different rituals which were somehow vital for the sun to rise and set. Never mind most people in the world lived perfectly adequate lives without slicing themselves up on a daily basis. Try to explain that to a Fhorg, and he’d look at you like you were the most uneducated imbecile ever to walk the realm.
Tanis had several times wondered if the Fhorgs fueled Pelas’s obsession or if his fed into theirs. Whichever the truth, Pelas’s relationship with the Fhorgs sustained each of their mutual delusions.
They’d only recently returned to Pelas’s home when Tanis woke on an overcast morning to find Pelas gone. None of the Fhorgs knew where he was or when he’d left, and Tanis feared the worst. All day he moped about the manse with a sick feeling of dread, starting at the least little noise and jumping at shadows. Phaedor’s dagger had found its way back to him again, and he thumbed the blade all during the day’s idle exercise, though the cold black stone offered little by way of emotional support.
The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light) Page 36