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

by McPhail, Melissa

  They’d thought to order Kjieran as well when he’d first arrived, accosting Kjieran with threats and demands for explanation of his presence. No sooner did they take him in hand than a dark haze spread across Kjieran’s vision, and the Prophet’s viscous presence flooded into his mind, suffocating all thought but awareness of him.

  “DO NOT SEEK TO KNOW MY PURPOSE HERE.” Kjieran felt his tongue form the powerful words, heard the Prophet’s own resonant voice booming out of his chest, rumbling like thunder through the palace passage.

  The Ascendants went white.

  “BOW TO ME!”

  They prostrated themselves at Kjieran’s feet in a scramble of clinking gold.

  “WHEN YOU SEE THIS SHELL, KNOW ME, AND ACT ACCORDINGLY, OR KNOW MY WRATH.”

  The Prophet left Kjieran then. Heavy, slippery tentacles withdrew from his consciousness, freeing his thoughts. As their cold weight receded, warmth spilled in, but it was the thin warmth of the winter sun upon a meadow many moons encased in ice. Kjieran’s sight was the last to return as that nimbus of shadows gradually withdrew and light was restored to the day.

  He blinked painfully in the sudden brightness and looked around, feeling dazed and shocked and utterly violated. The Ascendants were still face-down at his feet, while a crowd had begun to gather down the passage, milling and pointing. Their whispers floated languidly across the distance, but their thoughts rolled in as pounding waves, shouting to his truthreader’s sensitive mind.

  News that the Ascendants bowed to Kjieran had crossed every tongue in the palace that day, ripples spreading outward through the city until it seemed everyone he encountered had heard the tale. Not that anyone would speak of it to him, but their thoughts did.

  Kjieran’s hands twitched on the balustrade, possessed of jumping beans, of a rampaging ill spirit…possessed.

  He had not yet seen Radov—not that he expected to. The prince was notoriously wary of truthreaders and refused to allow them in his presence. Kjieran wondered if Radov really harbored so many wretched secrets, or if this was just one more facet of his ever-growing madness.

  In any case, Radov had only just arrived back in Tal’Shira. The prince and his advisors had been investigating the site where the parley was to be held. Tents were being erected in the midst of the Sand Sea, miles from the lines of either side, the proverbial middle ground. Radov and the others had returned from the desert only the night before, ostensibly to welcome Gydryn val Lorian, whose ship was expected any day.

  Kjieran still did not know what he was going to do.

  That he held out hope stood as testimony to his nature as a truthreader, for there was an incorruptible innocence and goodness in all such Adepts. Kjieran suspected that even the Marquiin harbored a kernel of it in the depths of their blackened souls, a secret dream that one day a man would succeed in putting a blade through their hearts and end the eternal torture of Bethamin’s Fire.

  The most twisted part of this truth was that even were the Marquiin to express this sentiment to the Prophet, their master, he would only believe it proof of his doctrine, evidence that all men craved death. In the Prophet’s view, hope and denial were two sides of the same coin.

  “Envoy van Stone?”

  Kjieran turned to find a palace servant facing him, his eyes and skin dark against a turban of orange silk. He, too, wore the traditional Nadori shalwar-kameez, but Kjieran could not immediately place his position within the servant hierarchy. Kjieran was still learning the differences in status and station among the palace servants, which was determined by the color and style of intricate embroidery around the tunic’s slit neck and hem. “My lord, you are needed,” the man said with a slight deferential bow.

  The palace staff were uncertain of Kjieran’s position in the court, and until Radov declared otherwise, they treated him with at least as much deference and discomfort as they would a Marquiin, and possibly a bit more.

  This did not bode well for Kjieran’s actual mission—that is, learning who was really behind the assassinations of Trell and Sebastian val Lorian, though now he had to somehow impossibly save his king as well. The Prophet had told him that Radov’s ‘duplicity had spilled royal blood,’ hinting that Radov may have played some role in the treacheries leveled against the Eagle throne’s heirs, and Prince Sebastian had been murdered in M’Nador. Kjieran had to believe someone in Tal’Shira knew the truth of Sebastian’s death, even eight years later.

  He’d been days in the palace, however, and still no one would speak to him—people hardly dared look at him, much less converse. If he couldn’t develop any alliances, how would he gain the knowledge he sought?

  Ever battling a disheartening gloom and an overwhelming sense of hopelessness, Kjieran nodded for the servant to lead the way, wondering who had called for him at last. He followed the servant through the sprawling palace, cognizant of the eyes that shied from his passing, aware of the looks and glances and whispers that stirred in his wake. Oaths fluttered as moths mingling in the night, speculation the hiss of pale wings singed by fire, each thought collecting upon Kjieran until he felt smothered by gossamer, battered by each feather-light touch of minds.

  The Palace of Tal’Shira was a city unto itself. Fashioned after the Sacred City of Faroqhar—which encapsulated the seats of Agasan’s government, the vast Sormitáge University and the Empress’s palace, not to mention parks and plazas beyond compare—Radov’s palace was a collection of immense, empty courts and ornate temples; of impressive buildings for a government barely allowed to function, of fifty-two royal mini-palaces not a single prince would deign to occupy. It was a pretentious display of wealth and grandeur without a shred of taste.

  Kjieran was at last escorted into a grand, circular room. Mosaic tiles lined the outer walls, while inner columns supported a soapstone dome. Both columns and dome were elaborately carved with intricate arabesques. Vaulted windows along the base of the dome shed light through artful wooden screens, casting complex shadows upon the dizzyingly colorful walls.

  There was but one vast door, its multitude of panels carved of interlocking flowers, and the servant closed it behind Kjieran. In the room’s center, down five rings of pale travertine steps, two low-backed couches curved toward one another across an iron-footed table of etched glass.

  Kjieran was still standing just inside the door when the servant returned with a tray sporting a curving silver teapot and tulip-shaped glass cups rimmed in gold. Kjieran caught the scent of mint as the man descended the steps and set the service upon the table. He bowed to Kjieran once more and left him.

  A meeting room, Kjieran thought as he walked down the steps and looked up at the carved dome, but who comes to meet me?

  The Prophet had assured him Radov would not stand in his way, but this did not mean he was safe in Tal’Shira. Kjieran had overheard too much whispering, too many thoughts shouting of the internal power struggles between the princes; angry accusations of increasing taxes to support a stagnated war; bitter hatreds and prejudices for the Prophet’s minions as much as for the Saldarian mercenaries ‘infesting the city’…a laundry list of complaints against Radov’s leadership and a festering malcontent.

  “Deep thoughts, Truthreader?” asked a male voice suddenly from behind.

  Kjieran turned with a start, for he’d heard no one enter through the massive door.

  A dark-eyed Nadori faced him. Tall and gaunt, he wore silk desert robes in wielder’s black with the long folds of an ebon keffiyeh draping around his shoulders. His long face sported a goatee peppered with grey, while deep shadows carved from lean cheeks to jaw. His face displayed a smile, but his dark eyes, lined by years as much as the unforgiving desert sun, were coldly calculating.

  A flash of gold on his hands drew Kjieran’s eye, and a brief glance revealed eight Sormitáge rings—one thin gold band worn on each of his fingers, leaving only his thumbs empty. The rings pronounced that he’d twice mastered each of the first four strands of elae. An uncommon accomplishment even bef
ore the wars. Though they’d never met before, Kjieran could not mistake him.

  “You are Viernan hal’Jaitar,” he said, swallowing despite himself.

  “And you are Kjieran van Stone,” hal’Jaitar returned, “but what else are you, I wonder?” The smile deepened, the dark eyes scalding in their curiosity.

  Kjieran was justifiably wary of Radov’s wielder and Prime Consul, for he was known to be cunning and extremely intelligent. Viernan was known to be one of the few Adepts who had survived the Adept Wars, a member of the famous Fifty Companions. He’d continued his study at the Sormitáge after the wars, gaining a formidable reputation as one of the most powerful wielders to arise since the fall. He reportedly consorted with all sorts of disreputable Wildlings—even zanthyrs as the need arose—and though he could not work the fifth, he was still as deadly as they came.

  Seeing Viernan himself come to meet him, Kjieran had no doubt that a secret door opened from this room into the bowels of the palace, a tunnel for shuttling men unseen and unwilling from place to place.

  Kjieran shoved his twitching hands behind his back and regarded the wielder with veiled concern. He felt suddenly ill-prepared to face off against this new enemy. Veirnan guarded his thoughts well—as any trained wielder would—and Kjieran could read nothing from his eyes, so he was forced to ask the older man, “How may I be of service, Consul?”

  Hal’Jaitar came slowly down the steps toward him. “The prince is curious as to the nature of your presence in his kingdom, Truthreader.” He looked Kjieran over sharply, his gaze penetrating. “You are neither Marquiin nor Ascendant, yet they bow to you. I had heard the Prophet was antipathetic to truthreaders in their, shall we say, native state. Unsullied, as it were,” and here he smiled wider, revealing straight teeth yellowed with age and an unbridled contempt for the Prophet’s work. Kjieran shared in this contempt, but he could never let hal’Jaitar know it. “Yet here you stand, apparently…unspoiled.”

  “If you wish to test my talent with the lifeforce, Consul, I am at your disposal,” Kjieran replied. “A reading on yourself, perhaps?”

  “Tempting,” said hal’Jaitar flatly, “but I am interested more in why. Why were you spared Bethamin’s Fire?”

  “It is a great honor to be chosen to receive the Prophet’s kiss and become cleansed,” Kjieran said uneasily, careful to ensure his answers offered the least amount of information at the greatest level of truth.

  “You give me schooled responses without conviction,” the wielder returned in disapproval, his dark eyes hot with accusation.

  Kjieran struggled to form a reply. He should’ve realized that Radov and hal’Jaitar wouldn’t trust him merely because he carried a letter from the Prophet. These were highly secretive men, renowned for their dislike of foreigners—never mind truthreaders—and Kjieran felt unprepared for this confrontation.

  Tell the wielder too much, and he was doomed; not enough, and his steps would be ever dogged by Viernan’s spies. Kjieran dropped his gaze and fought to still his shaking hands. “I do not know why I was not chosen to receive Bethamin’s Fire, Consul,” he murmured at last, which was the blessed truth.

  Hal’Jaitar’s eyes were like stones of ebony, unyielding. “We are told you came to attend the parley in Bethamin’s name,” the wielder offered after an uncomfortable moment of considering Kjieran in this fashion. “The prince would know why.”

  “I but carry out the Prophet’s will, Consul.”

  “Ah yes, again the failsafe response, so obvious, so expected. But you are not Marquiin, forced into Bethamin’s mental mold…nor, I believe…one of his true disciples.”

  This accusation chilled Kjieran. What could hal’Jaitar possibly know? How could he know anything at all? Perhaps it was just another test to throw him off his guard, to see what he might reveal? Yet Kjieran’s insides wormed with sudden fear.

  Kjieran was no stranger to the double-speak perfected by politicians and truthreaders alike, nor unused to compartmentalizing his emotions, but hal’Jaitar posed a deadly and unpredictable enemy, and Kjieran did not know enough of him to retain solid footing in this sort of sparring. Still, he did what he could.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Consul,” he returned, letting his gaze harden, his shoulders straighten, his tone convey his displeasure at the wrongful implication.

  “Don’t you?” Hal’Jaitar smiled again, sharply suggestive. When Kjieran didn’t answer, his smile faded. “Here’s a question then, Truthreader. How did you come to serve Bethamin when your allegiance was to Gydryn val Lorian?”

  Ever conscious of the wielder across from him, who was far more suspicious than Bethamin—for the Prophet felt all men should bow to his will and accepted any that passed his Ascendants’ slipshod screening—Kjieran told hal’Jaitar the tale he and Raine had arranged as truth, that Kjieran might have no trouble in the retelling. The Ascendant who’d found him in Veneisea half a year ago had accepted his story without question, but hal’Jaitar’s trust was ne’er so easily gained.

  “I heard nothing of this so-called falling out between you and Gydryn val Lorian, our ally,” the wielder murmured when Kjieran finished his story, his gaze pinning Kjieran so fast that his twitching hands were all that dared move. “It hardly seems like the King of Dannym to cast a valued Adept from his service.”

  “His Majesty was most distraught at my failure,” Kjieran replied with downcast eyes. It was true enough, though the king blamed himself as much as his advisors for their failure to unearth all of Morwyk’s deep-rooted, pernicious conspiracy to gain the Eagle Throne.

  Hal’Jaitar arched a brow, took a step down and brushed past Kjieran, idly walking the lowest ring of circular steps with hands clasped behind his silk robes. Kjieran turned as the wielder passed, keeping his eyes on hal’Jaitar and his body as a shield for his ever-twitching hands.

  “Truthreaders are notoriously loyal,” hal’Jaitar remarked, eyeing Kjieran critically from beneath furrowed brows, “especially ones Sormitáge-trained and sworn into service by the Fourth Vestal,” and he pinned Kjieran with a telling look upon this accusation. “Should you claim you now serve Bethamin instead of your king, Kjieran van Stone, have you also then forsworn your allegiance to Raine D’Lacourte?”

  Kjieran felt a shock course through him. In the same moment, he became aware that Viernan now worked the fourth, for he could feel the change in the currents of elae, though Raine’s truth, the pattern was artfully done.

  He dared not try to persuade hal’Jaitar, only answering as truthfully as he could, “I was sent away from Dannym, Consul. The Prophet’s Ascendants found me and brought me to Bethamin. He did not see fit to make me Marquiin, only allowing me to serve as an acolyte in his temple.” He let the fear that was his constant companion bleed into his voice as he added, “I believe you gravely underestimate the Prophet’s power if you think a man might serve as a spy beneath his gaze and emerge unscathed.”

  “Is that what you are? Unscathed?”

  Kjieran could not have managed words in that moment, even had he been able to think of an answer.

  Hal’Jaitar observed him coldly, his gaze unreadable. “I am told you are one of the Prophet’s favored acolytes.” He came to sit on the low couch across from where Kjieran stood, adding as he settled down and crossed one knee, “oft visiting his chambers in the night,” and there was much that his tone implied—disgust and contempt not the least of them.

  Kjieran inwardly groaned. Shade and darkness! What else does the man know?

  He never imagined hal’Jaitar had his own spies in Bethamin’s temple. How naïve he’d been to think Raine’s Brotherhood of the Seven Stones was alone in its intrigues! Worse was realizing that Viernan hal’Jaitar might’ve actually learned of his mission for Raine D’Lacourte—certainly he hinted at such knowledge. Had one of the Brotherhood’s contacts been compromised? Or could it be possible that Kjieran’s nameless contact served two masters?

  Viernan was obviously enjoying his discomfiture. “Te
ll me, Envoy van Stone,” he posed, “what is the Prophet’s mind toward this parley? Toward our Prince Radov?”

  With growing dismay, Kjieran managed, “The Prophet does not reveal his mind to his servants, Consul…even favored ones.”

  “Nor, it would seem, to his allies,” hal’Jaitar replied. The smile was back, disarming to anyone who’d heard nothing of his reputation and an outright threat to those who had.

  Kjieran knew he faced the rearing king cobra in Viernan hal’Jaitar, its hood splayed in warning, and he feared making any motion to draw its deadly strike. But what choice did he have? The man had him pinned. Kjieran had no safe direction in which to move.

  “Please,” said hal’Jaitar then, indicating the tea service with long fingers. “Let us drink and know one another, as is the custom in my land.”

  Kjieran swallowed, eyeing the tea uncomfortably. It was the height of folly to take tea with a wielder of such unscrupulous repute, and a death sentence if he did not. Feeling increasingly overmatched, Kjieran took the offered seat across from Viernan, shoving his twitching hands partly beneath his legs to pin them still.

  Viernan filled four glasses with amber tea, notably letting Kjieran choose one. Then he sat back on the couch and regarded Kjieran coolly, crossing one knee over the other once more. Kjieran settled the glass cup in his lap for fear of his shaking hands spilling it, and returned the wielder’s gaze. His truthreader’s training was a boon, for his expression never revealed the anxiety that gripped him so thoroughly.

  “Now then,” said the wielder, “let us speak candidly, as befits Adepts of our mutual training.”

  “Go on, Consul,” Kjieran returned, liking this less and less.

  “Let it not be said I gave you ill chance to divulge the truth,” Viernan posed with a smile that was all fangs. “We know your true motivations, Kjieran van Stone.”