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

by McPhail, Melissa

  Carnivále in the Cairs was an extravagant fete, a combination of traditions as celebrated by the disparate races and faiths who populated the city. The men and women from Rimaldi celebrated Carnivále with the reversal of traditional roles, where men dressed as women, women dressed as men, lords dressed as slaves, and rather more bizarre interpretations.

  Other traditions were represented in the vast party in the streets, in costumes or with toasts, in rituals by candlelit ceremonies or processions of singing and chanting celebrants. At one point Alyneri watched in baffled wonder as a host of dark-skinned maidens ostensibly bathed in a fountain—until Trell explained that the Solstice was the time when the Wind God collected the prayers of the people and delivered them to Jai’Gar. In Duan’Bai, this was a time of corporal purification, fasting and contemplation, but in the Cairs, where frivolity reigned, it seemed the ritual cleansing had been uniquely reinterpreted.

  The sun had nearly set when they arrived at the Rue Royale to find the party in full force. A parade celebrating the Bemothi Festival of the Sun was just passing as Trell and Alyneri exited their coach, and she stood in mesmerized awe at the majestic creations moving past. Puppets ten paces tall were animated by puppeteers, who wore their stilt creations upon their backs like inverse marionettes. The puppets dove and danced, spun and cavorted while their puppeteers moved in lively unison below. Both puppets and puppeteers wore amazing costumes of similar design, so they seemed merely extensions of each other.

  Trell held her hand firmly in his, and as the parade moved past, he tugged her on. He and Alyneri wore ‘his’ and ‘her’ velvet masks, which Fynn had reluctantly acquired from one of his many contacts—lovely, feathered things tied on with long silk ribbons. Trell’s grey eyes seemed unearthly behind his sapphire mask, while her dark eyes looked molten against sanguine velvet.

  Into the crowd Trell pulled her, the both of them smiling at the display. Music and laughter surrounded them, as much a part of the harmony of celebration as the clinking of glass or metal and cheers made in toast. Trell pulled them up short as a long line of running girls went streaming past, laughing and shouting, all of them wearing pale silk shifts that did little to hide their assets, their long hair tangled with flowers.

  “Would you rather see me in that?” Alyneri asked with a sly smile once the girls were gone.

  He leveled her a telling look. “I would rather see you in nothing.”

  That brought a bright flush to her cheeks, and she buried her head in his shoulder and giggled helplessly.

  He squeezed her hand. “Come. I hear music.”

  They made their way to a square where a troupe of acrobats were doing flips on a canvas trampoline held by their counterparts. Alyneri watched one of the lithe men flip and twist and corkscrew his way back onto his feet just in time to be thrown up into the air to perform another combination to a cacophony of cheers.

  Trell dragged her on toward a café whose tavernmaster had rolled out large casks of wine, and he bought them each a drink served in a painted wooden cup. At their next stop, Trell bought sweet cakes drenched in orange water and honey, followed by minced lamb pies from a street vendor and then pheasant tarts from a woman with a tray standing outside a taverna, whose street-side tables were packed to bursting with masked revelers.

  On and on they walked and ate and drank, mixing with the celebration and taking of it what they would. Night fell and the stars appeared, barely visible beneath the haze of torches and the smoke of fire candles, which had started going off almost as soon as the sun dipped to the horizon. At one point, Trell bought Alyneri a sparkler stick that utterly captivated her. The long, taut wick sprayed light from its tip in a slow burning coal that left one end desiccated while the flame continued its brilliant expiration.

  While it burned, Trell stood behind her with his arms tight around her waist, watching over her shoulder as she gazed in excited fascination. “That’s you,” he murmured in her ear, nodding to the brilliant sparkle. Then he pointed to the ashen end. “That’s me.”

  She elbowed him and he chuckled and pulled her closer.

  Shortly they found themselves in a small square off the main boulevard where musicians played upon a stage and masses of people danced with no particular rhyme or rhythm.

  Trell pulled Alyneri into the fray and spun her to the pulsing beat of bongos and tambourines. Lutists picked up the melody as the pipe-players released it, and their fevered strumming seemed to mimic the beating of Alyneri’s heart. Her face hurt from smiling, and she was lightheaded from the wine and sweets, from the constant nearness and heat of Trell’s body next to hers, from his smoldering gaze and irresistible smile.

  As the musicians all joined together and the music crescendoed, Trell grabbed her into his arms and spun them into the dance. Laughing as they turned, Alyneri held his gaze so as not to become even more dizzy. So it was that she saw the flash of movement behind him and knew the moment his eyes went blank, and she screamed.

  Someone had hold of her even as Trell was falling. They dragged her away from him into the shifting crowd. She yelled and struggled, shouting for Trell, but she was just one more overzealous partygoer.

  As soon as they had cleared the small square, her captors shoved her into a waiting coach. Inside, rough hands pinned her down in darkness while others tied her hands. She kicked and shouted and bit anything that came near her mouth—that is until they pushed a foul-smelling rag inside it and gagged her.

  It was dark in the coach, and the men kept Alyneri on the floor between three sets of boots. One set demonstrated its willingness to kick when she attempted to sit up, and after that she stayed down.

  He’ll come, she told herself as she alternated between cursing her own stupidity and chastising herself for ‘daring to live bravely.’ That the odious Lord Brantley hadn’t yet shown himself did not prevent her from blaming him, for surely this was of his devising.

  Trell will come, she assured herself again, and though the coach cleared the Rue Royale and turned downhill, heading for the harbor, Alyneri did not cry.

  ***

  Trell came to as rough hands were dragging him into an alley. He could still hear the musicians playing close by, so he knew he couldn’t have been unconscious for long. Their first mistake was in not killing him in the square. Their second was in not relieving him of his sword.

  He felt it securely at his side as the two men dragged him by his arms. He could hear the footsteps of others following. As yet, they had no idea he’d woken. By rights, as hard as they’d hit him, he probably should not have woken at all. If not for the Mage having ‘shored up his pattern’ as Alyneri phrased it, this alley would’ve likely been his final resting place.

  For a split second as he gathered his wits fully about him, Trell thought of these things, and how he owed his life to the Mage yet again. By the time this adventure was over, he would no doubt owe the man three lifetimes of service in exchange.

  The pounding in his head offered a powerful antidote to unconsciousness. As soon as Trell was sure of himself, he pulled his legs up beneath him, shoved his left foot forward to anchor himself, and swept his other leg in front of the man to his right, sending him stumbling. The man on his left cursed the other’s perceived clumsiness, and Trell used the momentum to wrench free of their hold.

  He drew his sword as he spun away and finished the turn, plunging his blade into the first man’s chest. His second assailant shouted and grabbed for him, but Trell sidestepped and sliced his blade down across the man’s back, opening his flesh to the bone. He elbowed a third man, who came rushing up behind him, catching him in the nose with a spray of blood, and he kicked away a fourth, who tumbled over one of the fallen and cracked his head on the stone wall.

  It was a close and fervent battle to dispatch the rest. Trell was quick and agile and skilled with his blade, and the men who’d been sent for him were naught but thick-necked ruffians willing to kill for coin. Trell felled them dispassionately, his only concern be
ing Alyneri.

  One he left alive for this purpose. As the man lay on the ground moaning around the hole in his gut, Trell grabbed him by the shirt and jerked his face close. “Where did they take her?”

  The man coughed and sputtered.

  Trell shook him, but when that seemed to send him toward unconsciousness, Trell hit him in the jaw instead. There would be no mercy for these fools. “Where?” he demanded when the man opened his eyes again.

  He seemed to focus somewhat, his dark eyes looking up, glazed with pain.

  “Your wound isn’t mortal,” Trell hissed remorselessly, “but I can fix that readily enough.”

  The man coughed again, but he was listening.

  “Where? Where are they taking her?”

  “…olivia…danae,” he managed. Then he passed out.

  Trell dropped him and ran.

  ***

  Alyneri boarded the Olivia D’ne bound and gagged, dragged between burly men with perpetual scowls and sour breath. Hairy hands pitched her aboard with all the ceremony of a bag of cabbages, and she fell to her knees and had trouble getting up again until a hand slipped beneath her arm to steady her.

  She would’ve preferred the Earl of Pent had left her on the decks.

  “How nice to see you again, your Grace,” remarked the earl as Alyneri pulled her skirt out from beneath her feet and straightened to face him. Thank Epiphany her mask had come off during the struggle, for it would’ve diminished the effect of her baleful stare. “It is with profound relief that I find you in such a healthy state,” the earl remarked then, boldly looking her over. “Alas, Lord Everly did not fare so well in the accident in Veneisea. We finally found him dead in a town several miles downriver.”

  A fitting end for the man, she thought ungraciously. I hope they found him stuck head-first in the mud.

  Lord Brantley untied her gag, and she spit out the foul rag with a shudder. He seemed to be waiting for some kind of thanks, but when she merely returned a level gaze, he frowned at her, grabbed her upper arm and said poisonously, “I had a late meal prepared for your arrival. We shouldn’t let it grow cold.”

  She went stiffly with him into the captain’s cabin—not that she had any choice. He shoved her inside, slammed the door behind them, and walked to a round table in the middle of the large room. “Now then. Come…sit,” and he pulled out a chair for her at the table. “There’s no need to make our voyage unpleasant. We have two long weeks ahead of us, and we might enjoy such time in conversation…or even dalliance.”

  When Alyneri merely stood rigidly by the door, Lord Brantley’s expression darkened. “Or, if you prefer, I can pitch you below decks to entertain the crew. They mislike having women aboard on principle, but I’m sure a lovely thing like you can find ways to make it worth their while.”

  Alyneri wondered if he would dare make good on this threat, yet she couldn’t put such a crime past a man who would sell truthreaders to Bethamin’s Ascendants. So she walked over to the chair and sat down with her bound hands stiffly in her lap.

  “Excellent,” Lord Brantley murmured. He took a chair across the table and draped a linen napkin across his knees, proceeding then to uncover the many plates of food that the ship’s cook had prepared.

  Alyneri admitted the food smelled wonderful, but she’d take her chances with the crew before she ate anything dispensed by the Earl of Pent. He didn’t seem to mind her reluctance to eat, clucking at her about nervous stomachs and women of delicate dispositions while he gluttonized himself.

  Throughout the meal, Alyneri stared at Lord Brantley and thought of Tanis and what would’ve become of him if not for Epiphany’s blessing, which somehow made him immune to Bethamin’s Fire. She thought of the Marquiin who’d died in Tanis’s arms, and the boy Piper, who was probably also dead by now, a victim of the Prophet’s corruptive Fire. For each of these crimes she blamed Lord Brantley, and the flames of her hatred warmed her stomach better than any wine.

  When the earl had sated his appetite for food, he sat back in his chair and wiped his longish moustache with his napkin, regarding Alyneri all the while. “Morwyk is anxious to make your acquaintance, your Grace,” he said as he settled the greasy linen back in his lap. The man seemed naught but an overgrown rodent with his long nose and the way his moustache twitched when his lips moved. “Imagine our dismay when we parted in Acacia, only to shortly thereafter learn of your impressive connections.”

  Alyneri just stared at him.

  Pinning her with his gaze, Brantley rose from his chair and moved to sit on the edge of the table next to her. He reached a hand to take up a lock of her hair, rubbing the strands between his fingers. “I never would’ve taken you for an heiress.”

  She shifted her gaze to meet his. “Do you know what the Kandori do to men who try to ransom the heirs to their fortune, Lord Brantley?”

  He settled hands in his lap and gazed eagerly at her. “Do tell, your Grace.”

  “They open up the bowels of such men and tie them by their intestines to the branch of a tree. If the men survive this punishment, the Kandori set smoke to drive out the carrion ants, who feast upon their organs. It is said to take many days to die in this fashion. By the time their hearts give out, such men are hardly recognizable.”

  “A fitting end, no doubt,” Lord Brantley said with a wan smile. “I think his Grace has other plans for you than ransom, however, my dear. A sweet virgin as yourself, as yet unwed, would make a fitting gift for one of his sons.”

  “I understood his sons to have wives already.”

  “Wives are easily dispensed with,” the earl pointed out with a sharp sort of smile. Just when Alyneri was deciding this meant she was safe from the crew, Lord Brantley continued, “That being said, if you were no longer in a condition befitting one of his sons, the Duke has mentioned other uses for an Adept of your talents.”

  Alyneri caught her breath. What he insinuated…she could only imagine what the corrupt and amoral Duke of Morwyk might do with his own personal Healer. First-strand patterns could be used to harm men as easily as heal them, and she knew many patterns that might be repurposed to cause pain or even death. No Healer would willingly sully herself by using the pristine patterns of creation to such degraded purpose, but Adepts could be compelled against their will…

  Alyneri knew too well…there were patterns for just about every insidious and dreadful thing a man could dream up.

  She must’ve paled at these thoughts, for Lord Brantley smiled with satisfaction. He reached a hand to touch her face, and Alyneri impulsively jerked away from him, her loathing beyond measure. This angered him, and he grabbed her head by the back of the head, pulling tightly upon her hair to force her to look up at him. “The sooner you come to understand who your masters are, Alyneri, the smoother this will go for you.”

  His fingers hurt her, and she feared him and his threats, but Alyneri determined not to succumb so easily to the earl as she had in Acacia. She supposed there must be worse things than having one’s body raped. The rape of the mind was infinitely worse.

  Whether or not the Duke of Morwyk had the means, compulsion at least was something Lord Brantley could not manage. “He will come for me, you know,” Alyneri said weakly, working hard to quell her tears before they fell.

  Brantley stared hard at her for a moment longer, and then he released her with a jerk. “Who?” he inquired, pushing off the table. “Your knight from the city? I think not.”

  He doesn’t know him, she realized with a swallow. Alyneri trembled as fear settled in deep, but she took some small solace in knowing Trell at least was safe from the earl.

  Brantley walked to pour more wine. “No, your bonnie knight was easily dispensed with, I’m told. By now he’s lying in an alley somewhere. The sooner you realize I am your last hope, the better this will go for you.” He crossed back to her and boldly ran a hand down her cheek, his eyes hungering for her in a way that made Alyneri cringe.

  She dared not defy him again in something
so benign, but his touch sent chills of revulsion coursing through her. No less disturbing was wondering if he spoke the truth about Trell, and yet…if Epiphany gave her one grace in this disaster, it was the sure hope that Lord Brantley had underestimated him.

  “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He stroked her chin and murmured, “I can even make things pleasant for you.”

  “I seriously doubt that, Lord Brantley,” Alyneri answered tightly, fighting back tears. Inside, her heart was in a panic, and her stomach was so twisted and anxious that she felt sick. The man was absolutely vile, and the idea of him touching her more intimately…

  “You say that now,” the earl remarked, his expression stony, “but you may reconsider before this is through.”

  Alyneri merely stared hatefully at him.

  He frowned at her while his moustache twitched, clearly deliberating on his tactics for swaying her affections. Then he seemed to decide something. “Look here,” he said, and he pulled a dagger from a sheath behind his back, “if you promise to behave, I’ll cut those bonds of yours. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Alyneri nodded in spite of herself.

  He cut her free and then sat there smiling at her, as if this simple act of kindness should entitle him to great rewards.

  A knock upon the door spared her his lascivious consideration, and he walked to open it. A man stood without. He murmured something too low for Alyneri to overhear. “Very well,” said Lord Brantley, sounding annoyed. “The drunkards likely got sidetracked. Leave them if we must sail with the tide.”

  The man muttered something else, and Lord Brantley closed the door. She saw him lock it and pocket the key. Turning to her then, the earl leveled her a hungry sort of smile. “Now then, where were we?”

  Thirty-One

  “The forgiveness that most often eludes us is that which we grant to ourselves.”

  - The First Vestal Alshiba Torinin