He interrupted her with fury, spinning and snarling, “Can you work the fifth?”
The Karakurt drew back, startled enough by the revelation that her own mental shields faltered. It was an astonishing truth. Who could’ve worked the fifth upon him? “I…cannot,” she replied, staring at him in open disbelief, for he deserved that much honesty from her. She was more determined than ever to know his story in its fullness now, but she had clearly underestimated the task.
He seemed to gather himself while she gazed in wonder, and he returned to claim his wine. A long drink saw the cup emptied, whereupon he stared into the bowl and told her in a voice like gravel, “The vendetta you required from me? Gydryn val Lorian sent me to N’ghorra. A death sentence.”
She sat back in her chair, allowing him to note her surprise. “The salt mines of N’ghorra,” she repeated with the proper amount of compassion, sympathy and horror mixed in her tone. “Why?”
Işak turned her a bitter smile, full of anguish and snarling hate. “He blamed me for the death of his sons.”
One of whom apparently lives despite someone’s best efforts, she thought as her curiosity achieved perilous heights. “And you would slay the last of them in retribution. A fitting revenge.”
He opened arms in submission to this truth, but his smile was acrimonious and his eyes deeply shadowed by grief.
You are a complicated man, Işak’getirmek, the Karakurt decided. There was much more going on here than she had anticipated, but the mystery could not have been more compelling. Who were you before N’ghorra…before the compulsion patterns of a mysterious wielder stole away your will?
She stood and walked to him, for he was hurting deeply now. His thoughts spilled out in waves, and she gleaned much of his inner torment, if not the reasons for it.
She knew how to comfort a man though, and Işak was handsome for all he was clearly broken. A man such as he would not be unwelcome in her bed. She came up behind him and slipped the goblet from his hand. “I cannot rectify your plight,” she murmured in his ear, letting him know from her tone and inflection that he might take of her what he would. “I cannot repair your suffering…but I might offer some release.” She reached a hand to touch his cheek, and he grabbed it and spun her into his arms.
His kiss was heated, his mouth fastened hard upon hers, but she didn’t mind. Işak was alive and warm, and though his need was impassioned and his lovemaking fierce and without joy, he didn’t leave her feeling cold inside.
Thirty-Eight
“An idea is not made great merely because great men die in defense of it.”
- Loran val Whitney, Duke of Marion
The pirate ship Ransom returned Trell and Alyneri to Cair Xerses on the third day after Alyneri’s ordeal. Once ashore, they lingered on the harbor quay watching the Ransom and the Olivia D’ne making their slow way toward the horizon, the latter’s holds a fitting bounty for Hadrian’s aid. As she’d watched the ships vanish into the sunset glare, Alyneri recalled her last sight of Hadrian, who’d shaken the bag of Agasi silver tied to his belt, winked at Trell and bidden him call again any time.
They’d spent that night at a nearby inn, and the next morning hired a coach to return them to Rethynnea. After a long day’s ride, they finally neared the villa, though it seemed a lifetime to Alyneri since they’d left—so much had happened in a few short days.
Yet here they returned after surviving threat and jeopardy, and…nothing had changed. Alyneri still faced the same troubling future as before, and so did Trell: Tal’Shira…and the king.
The path almost seemed predestined to her now. Had they not encountered a multitude of alternate possible futures in the past few days, their road splitting again and again toward varying conclusions, only to arrive back upon the same demarcation point? Returned, as it were, to the doorstep of their initial future?
Yet going to M’Nador to meet King Gydryn somehow seemed no less perilous to Alyneri than the tragedy they’d just averted.
What would happen when they reached Tal’Shira by the Sea?
Trell had quickly become the most important person in Alyneri’s life. She didn’t even compare him to Ean anymore—the very idea seemed ludicrous. The two brothers were such different personalities, different men. Loving Ean had always been tumultuous, but loving Trell brought her peace.
Yet this newfound love presented its own set of problems. Trell would reunite with his king father and surely be recognized as the crown prince, and Alyneri…she despaired to find herself in the same position as before! Bound to a crown and a kingdom with no hope of ever pursuing her own goals.
One would think with so much recent adventure that I might’ve had my fill…but the truth was that it wasn’t adventure she craved so much as knowledge, skill, training in the Sormitáge…the chance to meet and learn from others whose ability far exceeded her own. What chance would she have if she was made Trell’s queen? Yet contemplating life without him seemed equally bleak.
For all she’d at first protested going to the Cairs with Ean, the decision had marked a turning point in her life. Even beyond the incredible things she’d learned, the people she’d met, and the understanding she’d gained of herself, Ean’s quest had taken her away from Calgaryn and the carping criticism of the Court; and it had freed her from King Gydryn’s constant oversight.
Not that Alyneri resented his compassionate attentions, but while the king had extended a protecting hand to her after her mother’s death, he had in no way sought to fill the role of a father. The result was a sort of limbo where she’d been neither claimed as family nor denied access to royal attentions, and subsequently, Alyneri never really felt like she belonged anywhere.
Now it seemed they were heading right back to the king, and Alyneri couldn’t help but worry what this would mean to her future. Would the king expect her now to return to Calgaryn with him and Trell? It seemed only likely. The thought of returning to Calgaryn, of facing again Ianthe and the other women and all of their stinging barbs, and facing this for the rest of her life…it made her shudder.
Fleeing from these thoughts, for they always took her toward rooms too grim to look into, Alyneri turned her gaze to Trell sitting beside her and saw the same sort of grim expression she felt must disgrace her own features. Perceiving what must be troubling him, Alyneri placed her hand over his.
“He loves you, Trell,” she said in the desert tongue, calling his gaze to hers. “He will embrace you and name you as his heir. Be assured of it.”
Trell arched brows. “I wish I could be, Alyneri.”
“You are his son,” she insisted. “He won’t care what you did in unknowing innocence, in honor of the man who gave you quarter—no matter the Emir was his enemy. If you had been responsible for Sebastian’s death personally, still he would accept you back with open arms. I know him. You must believe me.”
Giving her a soft look, he leaned to kiss her forehead and murmured, “I believe you believe it.”
Alyneri arched a brow at him, dissatisfied with his lack of accord.
He smiled and took up her hand to kiss her palm, giving her a potent look that both melted and excited her.
She was still a little pink in the cheeks when the coach turned inside the villa gates and pulled to a halt in the yard. Alyneri stepped out to find Rhys rushing up in a fury.
“Damn us all thirteen hells, woman, what were you thinking running off into the city with half of Morwyk’s men in search of you!”
Alyneri grimaced. “I always admire your candor, Lord Captain,” she answered wearily, “even if it’s lacking somewhat in gentility to sweeten its sting.”
“To the contrary, Captain,” Trell offered as he climbed out behind Alyneri, “the Duchess envisioned a brilliant ruse to lure Morwyk’s men into the open.” He wrapped an arm around Alyneri’s slim shoulders and added dryly, “It didn’t go off exactly as planned, but all’s well that ends well, as they say.”
“I…suppose, your Highness,” Rhys muttere
d by way of reluctant acquiescence. Alyneri noted that the Captain was far more subservient to Trell than ever he had been to Ean. Not that this surprised her, for Trell commanded respect from everyone he met—even, it would seem, pirates.
“But how did you know about our little excursion?” Trell inquired as they headed across the drive while the tall wrought-iron gates were closing behind them.
“Hadrian sent a message,” Fynn said from the villa steps. Then he belched.
Alyneri hadn’t seen him standing there, but he seemed firmly ensconced, leaning against a pillar with the ever-present goblet in his hand. She wondered if Fynn didn’t actually sleep with that goblet and marveled that his flesh hadn’t grown over and around it. “That’s…um, considerate.”
“I suspect he hoped to ransom you,” Trell told her, shooting a knowing look at the royal cousin.
“Fortunately I had no coin,” Fynn said by way of confirmation. “Ghislain took all of it and my soul besides.”
“More likely you expended your fortune on refilling that bottomless goblet,” Alyneri murmured.
“I don’t criticize your religion, your Grace,” Fynn complained. “Don’t spit on mine.”
“What religion is that? The Church of Inebriation?”
“Actually, Dissipation is the preferred term, your Grace,” Fynn corrected with an airy wave of his goblet. “It’s the newest of the Veneisean Virtues—elected in just last week, as a matter of fact, along with Lust, Lewdness and Profanity.”
“Are you talking about virtues or vices?” Trell asked with a hint of a smile.
Fynn gave him disapproving look. “Let’s not bandy semantics, cousin. It’s what we hold in our hearts that matters.”
They’d moved inside the villa by this time, and Alyneri looked to the staircase as Brody, Cayal and Dorin came down with bags in hand. She turned to Fynn. “Are you going somewhere?”
“We all are,” Rhys grunted. He pushed past her to help his men.
“With Seth and the zanthyr gone,” Fynn explained, “never mind everyone else, we’ve no cause to linger here.” He threw himself onto a velvet settee to watch the others carry out the bags.
Alyneri felt a little flutter. “The zanthyr’s gone?”
“When?” asked Trell.
“The same night you two decided to double-date with Hadrian.” He gave Trell a sour look. “Was it Brantley? I hope you gutted the rat-faced bastard.”
“I believe he met with a fitting end.”
“Then—” Alyneri dared to hope. “Has Phaedor gone for Tanis?”
Fynn gave her a frightful look. “As if the damnable creature reports to me.”
“Have you found us a Nodefinder, Fynn?” Trell asked.
“See…” Fynn noted with an appreciative flourish of his goblet. “That’s why you’re the right man for the job.”
“What job would that be?”
Fynn belched gratuitously. “Sebastian was an insufferable ass,” he continued, talking over Trell’s question, “firstborn, proud…always preening publicly in front of mummy and daddy—the perfect son—whilst constructing the foulest tricks imaginable where he couldn’t be caught. And Ean is far too impetuous—as like to give away half the kingdom out of guilt or compassion as to single-handedly attack an army thinking he alone can save the world, but you…” he eyed Trell sagaciously and saluted with his goblet, “you’re on the money, cousin.”
“Thank you, Fynn,” Trell remarked with a wry look. “It’s a relief to know you stand firmly behind me in the unlikely event I make a bid for the Eagle Throne.”
“No,” Fynn said, leaning toward him and swaying a little, even sitting as he was. “Thank you.”
Alyneri frowned at him. He was more than his usual degree of sloshed. “Fynn, did something else happen?”
“He’s rushing out of town for some reason,” the soldier Cayal remarked with a grin as he passed on his way back upstairs, “but he won’t say why.”
“It’s none of your bloody damned business, that’s why!” Fynn shouted after him. He sprang to his feet, shouting as he opened arms to the room at large to declare, “I’m a free man! I come and go as I please!”
“For the moment,” an entering Brody muttered. He came over and stood beside Fynn expectantly.
“What do you want?” the royal cousin barked as he swayed unstably, swinging overly close to Brody and then drawing precariously back.
The Bull just looked at him.
“I really don’t—” Fynn began, waggling his empty goblet. Then he swooned.
Brody caught him as he fell and in the same motion swooped him up over one shoulder. He seemed to have much practice in the maneuver. “He’ll be ready at first light, your Highness,” the Bull told an amused Trell.
“Put me down…” As Brody was carrying him up the stairs like a sack of flour, Fynn lifted his head, grinned at Alyneri and Trell and slurred drunkenly, “You know, it’s only right about you two…I mean…your being betrothed and all…” Then his eyes rolled back, his head fell forward and he started snoring loudly, still miraculously holding his cup.
Alyneri stood in startled silence, her heart suddenly in a panic. Finally, when the room seemed far too quiet, the vines of silence thickening between them...
“Betrothed?” Trell asked in a low voice.
Alyneri closed her eyes. She had honestly forgotten—well, not entirely forgotten, but mostly so, in the way one pushes an uncomfortable thought from mind as long as possible and thereafter can often ignore that it’s there, hovering at the edge of awareness. “I…told you,” she said in a small voice, not looking at him. “Remember?”
“In a frightfully different context,” he returned tightly.
She could tell he was angry, or hurt…both. She just wasn’t certain which of the many justifiable grievances troubled him most. She’d kept it from him, yes, but not for lack of love for him…only because she feared so greatly being tied to a throne. He walked away from her, hands in his pockets. “Trell…” she said hesitantly, turning to him.
He spun her a heated look. “Ean?” he growled with sudden accusation, having just connected the story to the truth. “The boy you were in love with—my brother?”
Alyneri flinched beneath his ire. “Trell—”
“And the one you were betrothed to ‘however unwillingly,’” he posed in a cool voice that was terrible for its sudden dispassion, his gaze upon her severe. “Me?”
“It was years ago—” she said desperately.
“And so unimportant that you simply forgot to mention it.”
“Trell, forgive me, please—I didn’t mean—”
“Are you ashamed of me, Alyneri? Is that it?”
“What?”
“Ashamed of a man who willingly served his father’s enemy?”
“Trell, no!”
“Or is it because you’re still in love with my brother?” and the hurt in his voice was horrible to bear.
“Trell, I—no!” She stammered, “It’s just…it was so long ago. It shouldn’t—it doesn’t matter!”
“It matters, Alyneri,” he said. Then he turned and took the stairs two at a time, leaving her alone with her secret and her guilt.
***
Morning brought stormy seas and charcoal skies and a foreboding sense to the day. Trell stood at the window feeling a prickling sensation in the base of his spine. It was as untimely as it was unwelcome, but he unfortunately knew it well. He’d felt the same sensation more than once, the last time being the day of the unexpected battle that had claimed Graeme’s life.
‘We are all just glass globes bobbing upon the seas of time, willing chance and luck to mire us upon a friendly shore…’
Trell clenched his jaw at Fhionna’s words, whispered while they made love on their parting night. It had been many weeks since Trell thought of the nymphae, her presence in mind decreasing since Alyneri had come into his life, but he found himself thinking of her now.
Mostly because he wanted to
stop thinking about Alyneri.
A part of him blamed her for not telling him something so intrinsic to their history together, but the larger part understood that such a truth may have been difficult to voice. Yet this did not serve to alleviate his sense of betrayal or the fears underlying it.
Why hadn’t she told him?
Did his past embarrass her, dismay her? Was the idea that he’d served the Emir abhorrent to her despite her protests to the contrary?
Was there some other truth she wasn’t telling him out of compassion or fear?
Did she really still love his brother?
The worst part was that her secret played to his own express fears, escalating what might’ve otherwise been a minor tiff between them. Would his father accept him knowing he’d served the Emir for five years, knowing the many battles he was responsible for winning on the Emir’s behalf? And if his father did accept him, would there be conditions attached to his return to good standing? What would he require from Trell?
And what of the accident itself, the foundering of the Dawn Chaser that stranded Trell on the shores of the Akkad? Many men and Healers—Alyneri’s own mother—were also lost in the disaster, which may or may not have been directly caused by Trell’s presence on the ship. Would his father blame him for this? Certainly Trell already felt responsible, even with what little he knew of what had transpired.
Then there was the Triad pact itself. Alyneri assured him the king would not honor his pact with Radov once he learned the Nadori prince had joined forces with Bethamin, but was that really true? And if not, what would he do if his father required him to honor this commitment to Radov?
‘We are all just glass globes bobbing upon the seas of time, willing chance and luck to mire us upon a friendly shore…’
Trell had never felt so a like a fisherman’s floating ball of glass, tossing and bobbing in an uncertain sea.
Disturbed by the formless premonition that hounded him as much as by his lingering upset with Alyneri, which had him equally edgy and disheartened, Trell joined the others as they were gathering in the yard. Cayal and Dorin looked eager to be off, and even the Lord Captain seemed in uncommon fair humor. No doubt for a soldier like Rhys val Kincaide, sitting at a villa in Cair Rethynnea with nothing to do but wait for something to happen was about as close to a living hell as could be devised.
The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light) Page 53