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

by McPhail, Melissa

  “No, no,” the king raised a hand to stay him. “Finish your meal.” He walked to the other room and retrieved paper, ink and quill. Returning and laying these before the captain, Gydryn nodded to the materials. “Now then, Jasper…as detailed as you can.”

  Jasper drew the map as requested, taking care with important landmarks. His notations were meticulous and his directions thorough. Looking over the map when the captain was finished, the king found it quite suitable. “This is well drawn, captain,” he complimented, glancing up under raven brows. “You’ve a nice hand and a good eye for detail.”

  “Thank you, Sire,” Jasper said, looking a bit uncomfortable with the praise.

  The king folded the map and slipped it inside his vest. “Come,” he said gravely then. “I have new orders for you.” He returned to the other room and the missive lying upon the marble desk. This he held out to the soldier.

  Arching a curious brow, Jasper took the parchment and looked it over. Immediately his eyes grew wide and his tanned face slackened. When he’d finished reading all of it, he lifted uncertain brown eyes to his king. “Sire?”

  “We shall seal it now,” Gydryn said, reaching to have the parchment back from Jasper. He folded the letter carefully and then used the little candle to melt another blot of dark blue wax over the joining, pressing his signet ring to seal it. This done, he extended the letter back to Jasper. “Your orders, Captain.”

  To his credit, Jasper pulled himself together smartly. “Sire!” He pushed his fist hard across his chest and bowed his head. Then he spun on his heel and rushed out.

  “Godspeed, Captain,” the king murmured as another guard closed the door behind the departing soldier.

  It was not long before Loran val Whitney arrived. Time enough for the king to pen orders for the Duke of Marion and prepare his thoughts for the storm ahead.

  The guardsman Daniel escorted Gydryn’s General of the East into his chambers with the announcement, “The Duke of Marion, your Majesty.”

  “Sire,” said the duke as Daniel was closing the door behind him. “Hell of a morning.”

  “Trouble, General?”

  “The usual mischief from men too long idle,” Loran muttered. He spied the table in the other room and cast Gydryn an inquiring look.

  “By all means.” The king held out a hand in offering of his table.

  Loran stalked over eagerly. He shrugged out of his baldric and the kingdom blade it held and slung it on the back of his chair—the better to access it while seated.

  As Loran was serving himself, the king reflected on the challenge inherent in sharing a room with him—the duke’s imposing frame claimed more than its share of space, and his personality took up the rest. “I’m relieved to hear the men are anxious for action,” the king said as Loran was attacking the plate full of food, “for I’ve a task for them, and you.”

  “Milk of the Mother!” Loran shoved a pastry brown with cinnamon and sticky with honey into his mouth and washed it down with steaming tea. “Have they called the parley at last?”

  Gydryn had known Loran since childhood, and there was no man he trusted more. Still, there were things even Loran couldn’t know. He settled into a chair at the table’s head and murmured, “Jasper val Renly came to see me earlier this morning.”

  “Bloody hell, fer what possible purpose? The man knows to find me with any report!”

  “No, I asked to see him,” the king explained, “to hear from a soldier on the state of our men.”

  “Their state is bloody damned ready to leave this hot-as-Belloth’s-fiery-black-arse desert.”

  “I gather that is evidently your state of mind, Loran.”

  “Ye’r damned right it is,” Loran declared, banging a fist upon the table. “Say the word, Sire, and we’re right behind you.”

  The king eyed him soberly. “Jasper told me there have been recent skirmishes at Nahavand.”

  “Nahavand…” Loran repeated, frowning. “Nahavand. Not sure I know it.”

  “It’s an important stronghold against the Basi incursion in the northwest. Jasper told me the Akkadian forces have been pushing north from Raku. Radov can’t lose Nahavand, Loran. It would be disastrous—an opening right into Kandori.”

  Loran wiped his bearded mouth and tossed his napkin onto the table. “All right. We can redeploy—”

  “No, my old friend. The importance of this stronghold needs your hand upon its defense. I need you to go to Nahavand personally, take command of the forces there and fortify the outpost. You must make it defensible, Loran, and fortify it well. It will play a vital role in the coming conflict.” The king leaned elbows upon the table and clasped hands before him. Val Lorian grey eyes pinned the duke intently as Gydryn added with grave certainty, “I trust no one but you to this task.”

  Loran sat back in his chair and frowned at his king. He seemed to be waiting for more, expecting more, for he had a suspicious glint in his sharp blue eyes.

  He was right to expect so, for Gydryn then laid the final straw. “You will take forty of my knights—”

  Loran exploded out of his chair. “Begging yer Majesty’s pardon, but are ye out of yer bloody mind!”

  “Ten knights should prove sufficient protection for me,” the king returned evenly, his position firm against the onrush of Loran’s protest. “Or perhaps you think the Emir’s reach so vast as to strike me down even here, deep in the Palace of Tal’Shira?”

  Loran flung out an arm toward the nebulous west, growling, “Tis nae the damned Basi I’m concerned with!”

  Gydryn sat back in his chair. “Who then?”

  Loran leaned both hands on the table to pin his king with a fiery look. “Sire, ye can’t trust Radov,” he hissed, his voice suddenly smoldering low, “and you certainly can’t trust hal’Jaitar. There’s Bethamins everywhere, Saldarians picking their teeth with the bones of Radov’s own people…” Abruptly he spun away and stalked about the room, spinning the king a heated glare as he snarled under his breath, “In the three moons I’ve been away, it’s grown worse than when I left!”

  Gydryn settled hands in his lap and considered the duke. He would’ve liked to tell him how right he was, to validate the man’s keen perceptions with what little truth they possessed, and he longed to share with him what he planned. But he knew that should he do so, the man would never go through with the plan. Such was the lonesome province of kings, keeping secrets even from those whose loyalty would never be in question. “An honest man requires proof before he declares his allies enemies, Loran,” Gydryn remarked with furrowed brow.

  “An yer honest man dies with a knife in his back the same as a dishonest one,” the duke returned brusquely.

  “I will not forsake my honor, Loran, nor the honor of my kingdom.”

  “Is it honor?” the pacing duke remarked, casting the king a caustic eye, “cause it stinks more like pride.”

  Gydryn’s expression darkened. “Loran, you go too far.”

  “Not nearly far enough, Sire!” The duke flung a hand toward the south and hissed, “Loyal men are fightin’ and dyin’ in this wretched place fer sake of yer honor—fer Raine’s truth, ‘tis nae other righteous purpose that keeps us here!”

  “Be that as it may—”

  “Tell me ye don’t see it!” Loran rushed back to slam hands on the table. “It’s nae just the palace. The whole bloomin’ city reeks of wrongness!”

  “I claim no disagreement with you,” the king remarked, for he had to give him that much, and it was evident to anyone with a eye to the truth that a darkness had descended upon Tal’Shira.

  The king’s agreement seemed to mollify Loran somewhat. He turned away again, and his pacing became calmer. “It’s like we’re livin’ in a bloody nest of vipers!” he growled after a moment, shooting the king a glare expressing his grave dissatisfaction.

  Gydryn knew Loran would be unsatisfied with anything less than a decision to vacate M’Nador completely. He settled the pacing duke a firm look. “I would
that you leave tonight, Loran.”

  “Tonight!”

  “Tonight,” the king stressed, leaning forward to rest forearms on the table again. “Without fail.”

  “Aye, I see it now,” the duke grumbled. “This is yer way of punishin’ me fer tryin’ to make ye see some sense.”

  “It becomes crueler still,” the king returned, suppressing his twitch of a smile at the duke’s indignant glare. He stood and approached his general. “There are rumors of Basi spies in the city—never mind the flood of Saldarians. Let no one see you leave tonight, and take all measures to ensure you are not followed.”

  All pretense of complaint vanished from Loran’s manner. He drew up short and stared hard at his king. “That’s a tall order with forty men and horse.”

  The king placed a hand on the duke’s shoulder. “Which is why I can entrust it to no one but you, Loran.”

  “Aye, Sire,” said the Duke of Marion resolutely. He placed a hand on Gydryn’s shoulder in return and held his king’s gaze. “Your will be done.”

  Forty-Two

  “There is no standard large enough to cover the shame of war.”

  - Gydryn val Lorian, King of Dannym

  It took the greater part of two hours for Trell’s party to descend from the foothills, but at last they gained a busy road leading to the limestone-walled city of Sakkalaah. Watching for a break in the traffic, they fell in among dark-eyed Khurds riding camels and merchant caravans whose turbaned guards walked with hands perched readily on the scimitars at their belts. Before they even reached the gates, Trell smelled the familiar scents of the city: the pungent aroma of spices, the acrid tang of livestock and unwashed men, and that ever-present scent of sand, which permeated all who made their lives among the lands of the Seventeen Tribes.

  Trell noticed Rhys looking twitchy, his stormy gaze alighting on everyone with suspicion, and he suppressed a smile. To the Lord Captain, no doubt anyone in a turban seemed an enemy.

  As they headed beneath the city walls, Trell thought of his last visit here. He wondered if Lily and Korin had yet made their way east to Duan’Bai, or if Krystos had left on his next great expedition. He would’ve liked to see his friend again and tell him how right he’d been about his origins, but his own path was still too uncertain; he’d hardly any real news yet to share.

  The Espial Gerard led them through the winding streets, past crowded, colorful markets and the high-walled gardens of city homes, until they turned upon a sandstone-cobbled avenue and found the Guild Hall. Trell had never seen the building before, though its staunch limestone walls and elaborate, aging mosaics clearly bespoke its centuries-long hold upon the location.

  They were admitted through the main gates by two men in blue and grey turbans. Trell knew from these colors that the men were members of the al-Haduik tribe, which was well-respected among the seventeen united tribes. In the entry yard, Gerard called them to a halt, and they all dismounted. “We shall rest here for a few hours and then proceed across the next node,” he announced. “You may take refreshment within.”

  Then he handed off his reins to a groom and departed.

  “Terribly chatty fellow, isn’t he,” Fynn observed, but he seemed in better humor now that they were far from Rethynnea. He grabbed a bottle from his sack and leaned an elbow on his saddle, pinning val Lorian grey eyes upon Trell. “I’ll bet you know where we are,” he noted before tearing at the cork with his teeth. He spit it out, adding, “Raine’s truth, I’ll bet you even know what everyone’s bloody saying.”

  “They’re saying we should go into the shade where it’s cooler,” Alyneri offered as she slid from her mount.

  Fynn gave her a flat look, to which Trell chuckled and replied, “That’s actually what the guard just said, Fynn.”

  Fynn eyed Alyneri narrowly. “Did I know you spoke the desert tongue? No, I believe I did not.”

  “Forgetfulness is a sure sign of alcohol poisoning,” she pointed out.

  “T’would be a fitting end for me, your Grace,” Fynn observed with a flourish of his bottle, “you must admit.”

  With everyone dismounted, they followed a young steward in a white turban through an archway and into a sahn, a traditional courtyard bordered by an arcade on all four sides. The Guild Hall’s sahn had been made into a garden shaded by date palms and orange trees. A nearby fountain gave the illusion of moisture.

  “We’ll all be prunes after an hour more of this heat,” the soldier Cayal remarked as they found seats beneath the shade of the vaulted arcade.

  “It takes some getting used to,” Trell admitted. After the temperate climate of the Cairs, the relatively dry air of Sakkalaah likely seemed intolerably arid, but it was balmy compared to the Kutsamak and Duan’Bai. “That’s why we’re stopping now, in the heat of the day, I suspect. If our next nodepoint is further east, we’re likely to endure a harsher climate still.”

  “And if it’s hard on us, imagine the horses,” Dorin noted.

  Trell agreed. “We’ll likely be advised to pack a lot of water, for there is little enough of it between Sakkalaah and the Fire Sea.”

  “Sakkalaah,” Fynn murmured. “So that’s where we are. I’ve heard of Sakkalaah.” He looked around more appreciatively. “A man might find a good living in a place like this.”

  Rhys gave him a stony glare. “I’ve heard the Khurds don’t take kindly to thieves.”

  “For the hundredth time, Captain,” Fynn drawled, turning him a bland eye, “I’m an agent for thieves. I don’t do the thieving myself.”

  “I don’t know that the Seventeen Tribes make such distinctions, Fynn,” Trell said with a smile. “I’m not sure there’s even a word for ‘agent of thieves’ in the desert tongue.”

  “I think the word you’re looking for is criminal,” the Bull rumbled.

  Fynn sighed despondently. “I am so misunderstood…”

  As Fynn continued his lamentations loudly to anyone who seemed to be listening, Alyneri approached Trell. Her brown eyes revealed the fullness of her contrition, and he knew she was suffering from guilt as painfully as he felt the sting of her betrayal. He nodded wordlessly at her look of inquiry and headed off into the garden.

  Though paling in comparison to the splendor of those at Krystos’ Inn of the Four Faces, the Guild Hall’s garden was lovely and comparatively cool. Trell walked beside Alyneri along a limestone path toward the sound of the distant fountain.

  “Trell, I’m so sorry,” she whispered in the desert tongue when they were deep among the foliage.

  Trell took her hand and pressed his lips to the backs of her fingers, wishing they walked in different gardens under entirely different circumstances. “I don’t want to talk about it, Alyneri.” He liked none of what he was feeling that day—the ache of distance between them, the sure sense that the Guild Master D’varre had been hiding something, and that feeling of apprehension that both dominated and clouded his thoughts.

  “But—”

  “What’s done is done,” he said, immediately wishing the words hadn’t sounded so cold in their accusation.

  He felt her wither beside him. “Can you not…forgive me?”

  Trell glanced at her and frowned. He seemed ill able to say anything productive. Shaking his head, he arched a brow and remarked derisively, “Your betrayal pales compared to my own.”

  “Oh, Trell, no…”

  But Trell refused to be baited into talking about his own betrayal in serving his father’s enemy when the wound between him and Alyneri was still so tender and raw—when he was as likely to hurt her again as repair the links already broken. Turning away, he brushed his lips across her fingers again and asked, keeping to the desert tongue, “Did you notice how uncomfortable the Guild Master D’Varre looked?”

  She seemed startled by his abrupt change of subject. “No…I…” She shook her head. “No. Was he?”

  Trell exhaled in frustration. “I don’t know. I thought so.”

  Her lovely dark eyes seemed large in c
ontrast to her pale hair, and she gazed at him with worry furrowing her brow. “Trell…is something else bothering you?”

  He would’ve liked to confess his thoughts, but he knew better than to share these kinds of apprehensions with Alyneri. He understood too well that troubling over what the future held was as like to doing nothing as sitting and watching the arrow as it comes to claim you. Alyneri, on the other hand, if left to her own devices, would chew on the bitter berries of worry until they turned to mush and then only go and gather more. So he shook his head and gave her a look he hoped was softer than the one before. “Just thinking about the path ahead.”

  She sighed. “It seems ever clouded.”

  Exhaling his own agreement, he gripped her hand tighter and murmured, “The clouds cannot last forever, I suppose.”

  “Can they not?”

  Though he only felt bombarded by that unwelcome premonition, he hoped to give her some reassurance. “Somewhere in the world the sun is shining.”

  “Let's go there then,” she said with sudden fervor, and for a moment Trell felt the wall between them thin, that he might almost gaze again into her heart. “I would live with the sun and the sea in a place where the sky is always blue,” she whispered. “Does such a place exist?”

  He kissed her hand again, thinking of a bit of land along an isolated coastline that he knew quite well. “I think it may indeed, your Grace.”

  As the midday hours passed and they prepared to be off again, Fynn regaled them with a story about Carian vran Lea and a Vaalden barmaid. The story had Trell laughing loudly in spite of his mood, set Alyneri to blushing, and even managed to draw the quirk of a grin from the Lord Captain.

  As Trell had predicted, the grooms had laden their horses with waterskins, and they'd all been instructed to refill flagons and any other receptacle available from the Guild well. Everyone regrouped in the courtyard, wherein the laconic Espial Gerard began instruction for the next leg of their journey.

  “Once we depart Sakkalaah, the next nodepoint is far to the east behind Akkad-held lines,” Gerard said. “I have traveled it once in order to map the way. We will travel overland for two days to reach the next node, which, once crossed, will place you within a day’s journey of Tal’Shira. Upon crossing that final nodepoint, our business, per contract, is concluded.”