Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One

by McPhail, Melissa

  “There is an old desert proverb,” the leader of the drachwyr offered, “that says that a man who can sleep before an important journey has nothing to gain from his travels. He might as well stay home.”

  “And you think that’s how the Mage knew I would be awake?”

  Ramu looked amused. “I do not know how he knew it, Trell of the Tides,” he admitted, eying Trell quizzically. “You can ask him, if you like, when next you meet. But let me look at you.” Smiling warmly then, Ramu took Trell by the shoulders in a powerful grip. “You certainly look much improved. When last I saw you, you were quite blue.”

  Trell’s heartfelt gratitude was evident in his smile. “I cannot thank you enough. I owe you my life.”

  Ramu shook his head. “I did what anyone would have, under the circumstances.” His manner was affable, and his gaze was cordial, even perhaps affectionate in the way friends might look upon one another. Trell felt much at ease in Ramu’s company, and he thought he knew why: things of magic might be drawn to things of magic, but men who were used to command were definitely drawn to men of the like. Looking admirably humble, Ramu added, “I am just glad we got to you in time.”

  “Not nearly so glad as I,” Trell assured him.

  The tall leader of the drachwyr barked a laughed and then glanced over to an ornate chest and the crystal wine service resting there, the liquid cold enough to make the glass perspire. Trell wondered if it was Wildling magic that kept the siri so cool.

  “Come,” Ramu said, taking Trell by the arm, “let us share some siri, and you can tell me about your recovery.”

  Trell could only accept. “I don’t remember much,” he admitted while Ramu went to pour the drinks. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather you told me about my rescue. Rhakar said you were the one who pulled me from the water…”

  “You spoke with Rhakar?” Ramu sounded surprised. “You don’t look the worse for it.”

  “I’ve had a few hours to recover.”

  Chuckling Ramu turned, goblets in hand, and said with a knowing wink, “Well spoken, Trell of the Tides.”

  Trell studied him as he approached. He wore loose black desert pants tucked into high boots cuffed at the knee, and a grey tunic beneath a quilted black vest hemmed with silver. He also wore a greatsword strapped to his back, the black stone hilt extending diagonally above one shoulder. The hilt was impressively carved into the image of a dragon with the cross-guard fashioned as the dragon’s spread wings. Trell could appreciate the superior workmanship; undoubtedly the blade was an ancient weapon—older than he cared to speculate—and he couldn’t help but wonder if Ramu had been its only owner.

  Ramu handed Trell a drink and motioned him into the same armchair where he’d conversed with Balaji that first day. Ramu took Balaji’s chair.

  “You were just with the Mage, you said,” Trell began as Ramu was adjusting his sword behind him. “One day I hope to be able to thank him for his help. Will he be coming here?”

  Ramu shook his head. “Alas, his duties do not permit, but I will relay your thanks.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” Trell tasted the siri and discovered it was wine. Red wine. Strange, he thought, glancing over to the decanter of colorless siri. Hadn’t Ramu poured both glasses from the same decanter? And if he hadn’t, where had the wine come from? Shaking his head, Trell took another sip. The wine was very good; probably an Agasi vintage, knowing the Mage’s penchant for things Agasi. Eyeballing the wine curiously, Trell posed, “He’s not just the Emir’s Mage is he, your First Lord?”

  Ramu was reclining in his chair regarding him with candor, an intense sort of gaze. He sipped his wine and answered, “He is a great man with many roles.”

  Trell could accept that. After a moment, he asked, “The night of the cave-in…how did you find me?”

  Ramu picked at the faceted red crystal of his goblet with one black fingernail. “We’d been searching for you, Rhakar and I. We felt partly responsible for your trouble, you see, and of course the First Lord was furious.”

  Trell looked up sharply. “Furious? Why?”

  “He thinks highly of you, Trell.”

  Trell frowned and shook his head. “I didn’t realize the Mage knew much of me at all.”

  Ramu arched a curious brow. “Are you not the man responsible for the Converted holding the River Cry against the Veneisean force?”

  Trell cracked a modest smile. He’d forgotten that his deeds were praised in the highest echelons. “I am rather pleased about that,” he admitted.

  “As is the First Lord,” Ramu said, returning Trell’s smile. “And as are we. We rarely need patrol that quadrant now, which makes our duties easier. You have helped us all immensely, Trell of the Tides.”

  That was the second time Trell’s ears caught on Ramu’s words, but by the time he realized what had bothered him the first time, he was already asking, “What kind of man is the Mage?” The words from the man’s journal were still fresh in mind. “Everyone I’ve met seems so, well…devoted to him. Several of my—well, men who used to be in my command are now pledging themselves to his service.”

  Ramu settled him a sage look. “You find that disturbing, do you?”

  Trell was surprised at his perceptiveness. “Well, yes.” He hadn’t put his finger on it before, but it was unlike Ware to pledge himself to any one man.

  Ramu shifted in his chair while holding Trell’s gaze. “In the case of your Converted, fortune may be behind their interest. The First Lord believes you cannot put a price on a man’s life. No mere treasure can replace the loss of a son to a father, or a brother to his sisters. Every life is priceless, and therefore all rewards for service are great—something on the order of Agasi silver, and Bemothi rubies as well, I believe.”

  “The Mage pays them such treasure personally?”

  Ramu nodded.

  Trell gazed at his goblet. What a discordant belief from the man who’d decimated an entire army on the Khalim Plains, the Mage himself claiming the lives of over a thousand men with a power that dared not be named aloud, even now. Trell had ridden through the gruesome scene. He’d witnessed the grey faces of the dead who littered the fields. It was as if the very life had been sucked out of them. If the man truly believed as Ramu said, then what price of conscience must he be paying even now to have taken so many lives?

  ‘I would regret the lives snuffed like candles by the rising west wind had I only the time for such indulgences…’ Could he have been referencing the Khalim Plains in his journal entry?

  Ramu was eyeing him knowingly. “You asked what kind of man he is, Trell of the Tides? He is the kind of man even you would line up to serve,” and there was only compliment in this statement. “The kind of man who—”

  But his words were cut short, for just then Náiir appeared in the parting between the drapes. He’d changed into garments much resembling Ramu’s, and he also now wore a dragon-hilted greatsword on his back. “Ramu,” he said. “You are needed.” He glanced to Trell and gave him a bright smile. “Well you look much improved.” But then he frowned at the goblet in Trell’s hand. “What’s this? More siri? Did you not learn your lesson, Trell of the Tides?” Náiir turned and cast Ramu a reproachful look. “I told you not to give him any more of that.”

  “I didn’t,” Ramu protested, grinning innocently. “His is wine.”

  Náiir looked to Trell. Trell looked taken aback. “Wait. Mine is…what?”

  “Oh,” said Náiir, turning back to Ramu. “Let me guess. One of the Solvayre reds?”

  Ramu was reclining in his chair like a king. “I was trying for a Volga. How did I do, Trell?”

  Trell shook his head again. If he understood them correctly… “You changed siri into wine?” he declared. “Right in front of me?”

  Ramu winked at him. “Couldn’t have you making yourself sick on my account, and Náiir said you’d already had too much siri.”

  Trell still couldn’t believe it. “You changed siri into wine?”


  Ramu looked back to Náiir and shrugged helplessly. “He seemed to like it.”

  Náiir made to go. “Are you coming?”

  Ramu nodded and stood. Then he cast his gaze on Trell, considering him. “Why don’t you walk with us?”

  That drew a curious look from Náiir, but he said nothing, only motioned them on.

  Trell stood and set down his wine. “Well I’m no expert,” he offered as he followed the two drachwyr from the room, “but that could have been a Volga.”

  Ramu laughed. He had a robust sort of laugh, the kind of laugh that was bequeathed to a man who would use it often and enjoy it immensely. “A little too dry?” he inquired with a glance at Trell.

  Trell grinned. “A little.”

  Ramu snapped his fingers and shook his head. “I just can’t get that right.”

  “Balaji says—” Náiir began helpfully.

  “I know what Balaji says,” Ramu grumbled. “But his is too sweet to be a Volga.”

  Náiir leaned to Trell and said conspiratorially into his ear, “Some say there has always been war in the Kutsamak, but it is truer to say that the oldest feud lies between the greatest of the greats: Ramuhárikhamáth, Lord of the Heavens, and Dhábu’balaji’şridanaí, He Who Walks the Edge of the World, arguing over who conjures the better wine.”

  Ramu turned him a frustrated look. “You always make it sound so trivial.”

  Náiir grinned in a flash of pearly teeth. “That’s because it is, Ramu.”

  They passed through the common tents, empty by then of all guests, and headed outside into the night. Two torches marked the entrance to the complex, but the world beyond was dark, for heavy clouds covered the waxing moon, just shy of full. “I’ll go see about the traitors,” Náiir murmured. He headed off, and the darkness soon swallowed him.

  “Traitors?” Trell inquired.

  Ramu turned him a considering eye. “Tell me, Trell of the Tides. What do you know of the sa’reyths?”

  Trell thought of Vaile’s explanation. “That they’re sanctuaries for…well, I guess for anyone who knows where to find them?”

  “Better to say for anyone with the ability to find them,” Ramu corrected, “but yes, you get the idea. The sa’reyths have their own rules, yes? Honor being foremost among them. We honor the rules by honoring each other’s rights, and in doing so, we honor the First Lord, without whom these sanctuaries would not exist.”

  “Makes sense,” Trell remarked.

  “Yes. Yes it does. And yet there are those who have no honor, who seek to abuse the First Lord’s own generosity twice within their time—first by neglecting the tasks he gave them, though he spared their lives for that very purpose, then by standing with his enemies against him in his absence. Now they think to escape his justice by seeking refuge beneath his own roof and hiding behind his own rules of safety. They think to abuse the gift of his sacrosanct honor when they themselves exhibit none.”

  The Lord of the Heavens drew in his breath and let it out again slowly. His eyes narrowed. “It does not please me, the task that lies ahead, but these traitors go too far. They think to pollute the First Lord’s sa’reyth with another of their ill-begotten plans of cowardice.” The look in Ramu’s dark eyes was as unyielding as stone, as steadfast as the bedrock of the world. “I tell you this,” Ramu said in a tone of ominous softness, as if he were the Maker himself speaking, “never shall that be allowed, Trell. Never.”

  The word reverberated like distant thunder, and Trell actually felt it in his gut. He exhaled sharply, and self-control alone overruled the instinct to double over from a clenching pain spreading like a twisting spear inside of him. Ramu had spoken without malice or anger—simply making a declaration of what he considered undeniable truth—but the statement itself had boomed through Trell, rattling the framework of his mortal self. “I…believe you,” he managed, gasping around the words.

  Ramu’s brow furrowed. He took Trell’s arm and said in his intense way, “Oh, I do apologize.”

  With Ramu’s touch, the pain vanished and Trell’s breath returned as if it had never left. Trell lifted a startled look to him.

  “I am sorry,” Ramu whispered again. Then he made a self-deprecating grunt and released his arm, staring off into the direction Náiir had gone instead. “The First Lord is right to sequester us,” he murmured. “We are careless creatures, too long away from the world.” His gaze was saddened when he turned his eyes to meet Trell’s again. “We can bring harm so easily to those we mean no ill.”

  “It was nothing,” Trell said, amazed and a little shocked at the man’s abrupt contrition. “Really, you mustn’t—”

  Ramu placed a strong hand on Trell’s shoulder. “You cannot be the voice of my conscience, Trell of the Tides, though I thank you for wishing it so. Here now,” he nodded toward the group just then approaching out of the darkness and dropped his arm back to his side. His gaze hardened. “What’s this? Rhakar? What are you doing here?”

  The group that was Rhakar, Náiir, and Jaya halted in front of Ramu.

  “I told you to guard the traitors, Rhakar,” Ramu said.

  Rhakar settled his yellowish eyes on Ramu, looking fierce. He had also changed into an over vest and desert britches and had a dragon-hilted greatsword strapped to his back. “I did,” Rhakar protested. “Balaji’s with them now—”

  “I told you to guard them, Rhakar, not to simply wait there like a dutiful pup pending Balaji’s arrival.”

  Rhakar’s expression darkened. He glanced at the others as if to catch them laughing at his expense, and his gaze stuck on Trell. “What’s he doing here?” he demanded, bristling.

  “Keeping me company. Now be off with you before I have to take my displeasure out of your hide.”

  Rhakar snarled something in an acid tongue. Then he spun and stalked off. Trell thought he almost felt a great buffeting wind propelling Rhakar away and tensed to stand his ground against it, but there was no breeze to justify the sensation.

  Jaya’s odd, tangerine eyes followed Rhakar as he stomped up the hill. “Must you be so hard on him, Ramu?” she murmured. “He’s just a youngling—”

  “He is old enough to do what he’s told, Jaya,” Ramu replied in his calm, unyielding way. He looked at Náiir. “What of the traitors?”

  Náiir frowned, as if he, too, found this task distasteful. “Balaji and Vaile are bringing them now.”

  Jaya bristled like a porcupine. “Did they really think they could stroll into a sa’reyth and expect no one to notice their arrival?” she demanded.

  “They’ve learned a hard lesson by it, Jaya,” Náiir murmured. He sounded subdued.

  Jaya was just opening her mouth, perhaps to reply to this, when she hissed instead, “Leyd,” drawing out the distasteful name as if it burned her tongue.

  Ramu and Náiir turned heads to follow her gaze, but Trell was already watching the approaching shadow that solidified into the form of a raven-haired man with green eyes and the sort of toadying smile that irritated Trell to no end. He thought even less of the man upon this, their second meeting, than he had upon their first when Leyd had occupied a chair across from Rhakar.

  “Well, if it isn’t the great Ramu!” the raven-haired Leyd observed as he sauntered up with thumbs hooked in his sword belt. He gave Ramu a greasy sort of smile, eyeing him up and down like a lustful brigand admiring a wench. “We are certainly blessed to find ourselves in your venerated company.”

  Next to Leyd, with his oily hair and stained leather tunic, the immaculate Ramu seemed touched by divine grace. “Leyd,” the drachwyr leader greeted, nodding to him a genteel welcome while ignoring his sarcastic slight. “There is no need for you to join us. This is not your battle.”

  “I rather think it is,” Leyd disagreed.

  “What business does a zanthyr have in matters such as these?” Náiir inquired skeptically.

  “As much business as Vaile has,” Leyd returned, sounding insufferably smug. Trell wanted to strangle t
he man already. “Or had you forgotten that Vaile is my sister-kin?”

  “Vaile serves the First Lord,” Jaya pointed out, settling the zanthyr Leyd a look that was as dangerous as it was icy. “I don’t recall you giving him your oath of fealty.”

  Leyd shrugged. “I do tonight.”

  “Very well,” Ramu calmly interposed before Jaya or Náiir could incite any more hostility, “you may join us. Rhakar is bringing them now with Balaji. Perhaps you can offer your assistance.” His tone hardened as he raised his voice to include everyone, “Either these traitors will give their oaths tonight, or they will face the Maker for their crimes.”

  “Oooh…” Leyd shook his shoulders in a mock shudder while leering at Ramu. “I just feel so…righteous!” With that, he turned his insolent grin on Náiir and Jaya, ignoring Trell completely, then started off in the direction Rhakar had gone.

  But Náiir grabbed his arm. “We are none of us fooled by your little charade of allegiance,” he murmured, pinning the man with his pale golden eyes, which seemed just then to reflect the fire of the nearby torches—at least Trell hoped this was the cause of the flames that seemed to burn within them. Náiir’s voice was as calm as Ramu’s, but there was no question of his deadly intent. “If even one of those traitors has decided to swear his oath to the First Lord and suffers from your blood-thirsty blade before he can do so, you will have to answer to me. Best you remember that.”

  Leyd pretended to shudder again, though his grin rather ruined the effect. “I’m all aquiver, your majestic-ness.” Sneering, he jerked free of Náiir’s hold, and in the same instant, two black daggers appeared in his hands. He spun them through his fingers as he held Náiir’s warning gaze. “Things have changed since your race ruled the world, Chaser of the Dawn,” he observed through a feral smile. The daggers flipped into his hands, and quick as a flash, he stabbed them toward Náiir’s eyes, stopping within a hair of the man’s lashes. Náiir’s expression was stone. He didn’t even blink.

  Leyd just grinned at Náiir, spun his daggers back through his fingers, and made them vanish as he finished, “Best you remember that.” Then he turned and sauntered off as if completely oblivious to the viperous stares aimed at his back.