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

by McPhail, Melissa

He was a fascinating enigma.

  The Lord Abanachtran had sent word ahead of Işak’s arrival requiring her to assist the man to the limits of her skill. Being that their purposes were aligned toward capturing Ean val Lorian, who had proven far too resilient against her efforts alone, and being that the Lord Abanachtran’s punishment for failure was severe, the Karakurt was not unwilling to collaborate. When the man arrived, however, she found a new enigma to occupy her considerable mental talents, for the mystery of Işak’s origins and background intrigued her greatly.

  Işak Getirmek was not his real name—no, this she knew, for she spoke the desert tongue and understood his name to mean ‘light-bringer.’ Ironic, she thought, for there was a darkness clouding his mind which she had rarely witnessed outside of the Prophet’s horrific Marquiin.

  Oh, she well knew the signs of compulsion patterns laid upon a man—certainly she was no stranger to their use—and the symptoms of compulsion were especially evident when a man, such as Işak, attempted to fight the pattern’s domination.

  But in the several chances she’d had to explore Işak’s mind—tentatively, gently, so as not to rouse his awareness of her probing—she had seen strangenesses even she did not understand.

  The Karakurt had a keen sense of people. Much of this, she admitted, was drawn from her nature as a truthreader, which gave her an innate perception of a multitude of human conditions. A truthreader’s early training was more about honing innate instincts and perceptions than ever it was about learning the Truths or working Tellings. The Karakurt could sit within a room of hundreds and read each individual man’s mind—providing their thoughts were loud enough, and what na’turna ever learned to guard his thoughts?

  Yet Işak was na’turna and a wielder—a rare combination. She would know more of his training, but the man guarded his thoughts as rigorously as if he harbored the map to the Kandori fortune within his ken. This secrecy intrigued her immensely.

  Too, he was nothing like the cold-eyed leader of the Saldarian mercenaries who accompanied him, a man named Raliax, whom she trusted not at all. Which is not to say she wouldn’t have hired Raliax—and might still, if he lived through the coming conflict—for he was an efficient and merciless killer who harbored no illusions about honor or his motivations. Such men were a boon to the Karakurt, for they negotiated easily enough and had no qualms about dealing death to the innocent.

  But Işak was not Raliax. Whereas the latter had clearly never known a shadow of nobility, she perceived that Işak had somehow fallen from grace—no, not fallen, she corrected herself. Rather…it is as though grace has been stripped from him.

  She wondered who Işak had been before he became Işak’getirmek, before he drew swords within the ranks of the Lord Abanachtran…for everyone came away changed by the Lord Abanachtran’s touch, a part of them permanently lost from the light.

  Upon this thought, the Karakurt closed her eyes and exhaled a fluttering sigh. She knew too well that beneath the Lord Abanachtran’s burning gaze, even the halest of souls shriveled like weeds in the relentless Avataren sun. Yet for all the lord’s fierce intensity, the man left her feeling cold inside. So very, very cold. Oft times after he left her company, she would lie before a roaring fire letting the flames sear her bare skin and still feel naught but the chill of his touch worming eternally within.

  She caught sight of Işak passing suddenly outside her window, sparing her more dire musings. Her colorless eyes followed him as he walked the long balcony of her borrowed manse in Rethynnea’s exclusive hills. He had just returned from a task in the city, one of many such expeditions he took upon himself without seeking counsel or assistance. The man was a lone wolf among a pack of hyenas whom he sought neither to lead nor to dominate, yet who followed him all the same.

  Seeing Işak, a thought occurred suddenly, a moment’s inspiration. Just that morning she’d received interesting news. Now she would put it to brilliant use. The Karakurt removed her headdress and veil and rose to join Işak on the balcony.

  Işak Getirmek was a handsome man despite the scar that marred his cheek and the slight limp that bespoke of hardship in a foreign land, or possibly at sea…some place Healers were scarce. There was a story behind these tarnishments, and the Karakurt wished to have that tale—indeed, she craved Işak’s story more than any other in recent months.

  For she collected men’s stories as her own sort of jewels. Within each man’s story was a key, the secret to manipulating him, shaping him to her will. This was a specific talent of hers—discovering and then catering to a man’s deepest desires, twisting his objectives to align with her own ends. It was her particular strand of unique poison, and she had yet to confront a man immune to it.

  Her namesake, the actual karakurt, was a desert spider in her homeland; bulbous, spindly-legged, noxious, capable of killing a camel with a single bite. She fashioned herself more potent still.

  She and Işak had spoken but few times since his arrival to her borrowed mansion, and never in private, for often wherever Işak stood, Raliax hovered. Now it was but the two of them alone, a flawless opportunity.

  The Karakurt flowed toward Işak in diaphanous crimson silks, her thick black hair bound in golden bands. Her womanly curves were undeniably attractive, and she took great pleasure in knowing how few men might resist her charms. So also was it a great privilege to gaze upon her face without her headdress and veil. This much she suspected Işak understood.

  As she approached, he was resting muscled forearms on the limestone balustrade and gazing out toward the bay. His long fingers were occupied with a length of string, absently tying it into elaborate knots.

  “Işak’getirmek,” she murmured in her low, husky voice as she neared.

  “Madam,” he replied without turning his gaze from the view, his voice distant and cold.

  She leaned back against the railing to better look upon his face, upon his wavy black hair sweeping back from a wide brow—at his piercing eyes that shifted between blue and grey. The scar that marred his cheek had been neither stitched nor Healed but rather left alone to become a constant pale flame of reminder. He might’ve grown a beard to hide it, but apparently he chose to ignore its existence, shaving instead whenever the fancy struck him. It had not for many days, for a dark scruff shadowed his jaw.

  “What do you want?” he asked when she said nothing more, merely watched him with the ghost of a smile hinting upon her lips.

  A great many things...she thought as she considered him appreciatively, but she replied, “How proceeds your hunt for the prince?”

  His eyes flicked to her and away again, and she inwardly smiled. How could he know that she might read so much in a glance?

  “I know no more than you at present.”

  Nothing in his manner invited further questioning—indeed, each answer seemed to conclude the conversation with brusque finality. It was a manner oft adopted by princes and kings, though she perceived that Işak used it instinctively to widen the moat between himself and any who might seek to know his mind. Yet she sensed no fear of her within him, no matter that she was a truthreader. This, also, told her much.

  Who are you really, Işak’getirmek, and what truth do you hide so desperately from the world?

  She turned and joined him in gazing out across the mansion grounds toward the Bay of Jewels in the far distance, a brilliant expanse of azure gleaming in the strong sunlight. “Ean val Lorian,” she said then, musingly, allowing her voice to reveal the smallest hint of her own annoyance that they might bond in sharing this mutual frustration. “He is but a boy, for all I have heard of him, barely twenty years. It should be a simple thing to find such a one.”

  “I hear he is a wielder.”

  “One hears many things. Certainly he has the help of wielders.”

  This drew his eye to her—fierce eyes, pale-blue just then in the bright sunlight. “You do not think it so? He broke the bond between the Prophet and one of his Marquiin. How was this done if not with the lif
eforce?”

  “A particularly intriguing question,” she noted agreeably. Her gaze drifted across his shoulder into the room where her servant Pearl deliberated with Raliax. She did not think their ideas of value. “You are a wielder, yourself,” she said to Işak, arching an ebony brow in challenge. “Surely you have no fears of facing this northern prince. He cannot have been trained except in the most basic of patterns, but you…” and here she gave him a smile suggestive of admiration, “you have trained for many years.”

  He gave her another piercing look at this. “You know nothing of me.”

  “I would know more, to be certain,” she admitted. “The Lord Abanachtran informed me I am to work with you.” She let a small, derisive laugh escape her as she added, “I work alone.”

  “As do I,” he growled.

  “Yet here we are,” she said equitably, opening her palms to the sky. He had not moved once save for the hand that absently wove its knots, save to shift his gaze to her. This, too, told her much. Her lips parted in a smile as she inquired, “What shall we do, Işak?”

  She could see him deliberating. Oh, he was an intelligent man, to be certain. He could see as well as she that they were getting nowhere on their current tack—weeks of searching for Ean val Lorian had delivered nothing save the location of the villa where he’d once stayed. There was speculation, and even the hint of possibility that he had been involved in the disaster at the Temple of the Vestals, yet this could not be confirmed despite ardent attempts. For all intents and purposes, the prince had vanished from the realm.

  Which was not, in itself, an impossibility.

  This avenue was also being investigated—of course it was, the Karakurt left no idea unexplored. To this end, she had well-paid contacts within the Espial’s Guild who had just that morning proven more than useful. That the information they delivered had not directly concerned Ean val Lorian’s whereabouts by no means made it dross.

  The Karakurt knew there were avenues open to them beyond sitting and waiting—which Pearl and Raliax were far too content to do—but she wanted to see if Işak would come to the same conclusions she had already reached.

  It was infinitely better to have someone else do her work for her.

  “I need your information,” he growled finally, all the admission she was likely to get out of such a man. He straightened and turned to her then, pocketing his string, and added with narrowed gaze, “And you want the protection of my name upon the act…when it comes.”

  She broke into an appreciative smile. So he had worked it out then. Bravo! “Indeed,” she agreed, giving him a look of admiration.

  He still held her gaze, and she admitted there was force within those grey-blue eyes, enough to make even such as her wary of crossing him. Here was a man who inherently commanded power, more perhaps than he knew himself. His tall form only contributed to his imposing strength of presence. “Where do we go from here?” he asked tightly.

  “Your men think there is nothing to be done until Ean val Lorian is found,” she noted. “Mine seem unfortunately to agree.”

  “My men,” he growled, casting her a deliberate stare. “The best of them are naught but cutthroats and spies.”

  “Then what does that make you, their leader?” she inquired with an amused look.

  He turned away from her. “I do not lead them.”

  “Yet they follow you.”

  This drew his gaze again, fast and stinging with sharp scrutiny. “Speak your terms or leave me be.”

  The best Ma’hrkit toreadors knew when to bait the bull and when to step aside. She backed down, the better to draw him closer. Bowing her head slightly, a subtle nod to his superiority, or at least a feigned implication of her submission to it, she moved away from the railing, saying, “Might we adjourn somewhere more private to discuss the details of our accord?”

  Wordlessly, he followed.

  She could feel his eyes hot upon her as she led him to her personal chambers, windowless and bare-walled, the only place where she could be certain none of Raliax’s men might overhear and where even her own people left her alone.

  There she served him rare and expensive wine. They sat beside a giant fireplace that dominated her drawing room, though the hearth was gaping and cold on that overly warm winter day. Settling into an armchair, she looked him over quietly. “An accord with the Karakurt is sealed with truths. From me to you, from you to me. If we are to understand each other—if we are to work together—this is how it must be.”

  His eyes were wolfish in the room’s muted light, their mystery made more so by the shadow of his brow, by the fall of his black hair. Always it was the wolf cornered and fierce who lurked within Işak’s gaze, never the solitary wanderer. This told her much of the hardships he’d faced. Işak never let down his guard.

  He shifted in his chair, looking uncomfortable in civilized surroundings though they seemed somehow more fitting to his person than the rough company of ‘cutthroats and thieves.’

  “Well, what do you offer?”

  Her lips spread in a slow smile. “New information. A way to flush out Ean val Lorian no matter where he hides—to bring him to us.”

  She could tell that he held her in suspicious regard, but this did not discourage her in the least. If a camel could fall from a single tiny bite, so could her unique poison seduce or coerce a man into foolishly trusting once again, even one so clearly ill-treated as Işak’getirmek.

  He watched her narrowly, mistrustfully, too wary and careful to be drawn into her web with ease. “What do you require of me?”

  “A sharing of knowledge, Işak’getirmek,” she replied. “You are looking upon my unveiled face, looking into my eyes. You know then that I cannot lie. You know also that I will know if you attempt to lie to me. Thus are we on even ground.”

  His expression darkened, and she caught but the barest shards of fractured thoughts slipping beyond his vigilant control. He guarded his secrets carefully and well—as was to be expected from a man of his craft—but the Karakurt could read a man’s expressions as easily as his thoughts, and she knew she was making progress.

  “I have given you much already,” she continued as she took a sip of wine, regarding him over the rim of her goblet. “You know me now to be a truthreader. This fact alone might be traded with my enemies to grave result. Surely you understand why.”

  “There are not so many female truthreaders in the land,” he answered, holding her gaze intently, “and fewer still with their first Sormitáge ring,” and his eyes strayed to indicate the thin gold band she wore on her ring-finger.

  So you noticed that, too—my, my! Her truthreader’s ring was but one of many she wore—the least of them in weighted worth—though the engravings upon the slender gold band were elegant work. That he noted the ring at all among the many others that graced her fingers told her he knew how to spot a Sormitáge ring. Indeed, it told her much also about his other acquaintances.

  “So you see what I have given you already, Işak,” she returned quietly, a tiny offering to coax the wolf into the open. “What will you give me in kind?”

  She could see him begin an internal struggle at this question. Here was a man who shared no secret willingly, for so much had clearly been torn from him already.

  Oh yes, this she knew unequivocally. There was a specific feeling to a man’s mind when he built walls to keep prying minds out. Such often seemed a thick and impenetrable fog that molded and reformed around an intruder, never revealing the hidden secrets. But this was not the mental shield Işak had erected—not solely. Beneath the obligatory obscuring mists erected by any wielder trained in the art, deeper walls stood rigid, as dense and impervious as the moss-eaten battlements of the ancient fortress of Kjvngherad. Yet the Karakurt sensed that Işak’s shields had been erected not to keep others out so much as to keep his own memories within.

  So tormented…but what secrets haunt you?

  That he agreed to answer her at all was impressive. That he did so
without a hint of anguish crossing his features or in his tone was more impressive still, for surely the anguish lurked there among the gnarled and bloodied roots of his past. Yet his gaze was hard and cold as he replied, “What would you know?”

  The Karakurt set her goblet upon the table and fixed her colorless truthreader’s eyes upon him. She was enjoying this immensely. “Tell me, Işak,” she said, lacing her words with the barest touch of the fourth strand, “What vendetta do you harbor against the val Lorian reign?”

  His expression twisted at the question—hurt, betrayal and hatred flashing in one fierce glare. He could not deny the truth in her accusation, and in his discomfiture, turbulent thoughts burst forth, revealing much. The Karakurt was pleased with her efforts, yet she needed more of the story to make sense of this explosion. She would have the secret out of him, but not by compelling it—no, no, he knew too intimately the twisted dagger of compulsion. Much better to coerce and coddle.

  “Shall I tell you what I know of you already?” she offered while he battled his demons amid a dense cloud of fury. She draped an elbow on her crossed knee and leaned forward. “A truthreader learns the tell-tale signs of a man who is under compulsion—especially one who is trying with every breath to fight it.”

  He stared balefully at her, the wolf brought to bay.

  “I do not know the extent of the compulsion upon you, but perhaps…with the right encouragement, I could help you…modify it.”

  Işak gritted his teeth and looked away. After a long, brittle silence, he pushed from his chair and stalked awkwardly across the floor to stand in the archway between her drawing room and bed chamber. His hands clenched at his sides, and his shoulders hunched forward as if to contain an explosion of emotion. Finally, he said, “There is nothing you can do.”

  She was aware that he now held elae—likely an instinctive response for one who was ever under attack from within—and knew she must tread carefully. She did not esteem him a violent man by disposition, but the compulsion patterns he fought were volatile indeed. “Patterns can be altered—”