Little do you know, Princess!
“But here now,” the queen forced a smile, trying unsuccessfully to lighten the mood, “I do not believe I have ever had the occasion to converse so candidly with an Adept of your caliber before, and there is one question I have longed to ask. What is it like to work the Pattern of Life? I have heard stories of its use to achieve near immortality, but never first-hand.”
Unbidden, the memory of the first time Franco had worked the pattern flooded his mind, a host of unwanted images that brought with them a swell of turbulent emotion despite his strongest attempts to block it. The image of himself kneeling at the Fifth Vestal’s feet staring at the blood that soaked his boots all the way to his knees, at his gaze—his dreadful, accusatory gaze—standing in judgment as Franco begged for forgiveness, for mercy. And the image of the pattern itself, forever seared into his memory, into his very being, warping his soul. Once learned, once wielded, there was no undoing its power, no altering its course short of suicide, yet a single working did not mean an endless lifetime in the prime of one’s existence; the pattern must be continually renewed to maintain youth.
In the moment directly after working the pattern, as he lay gasping for breath, Franco had sworn through his tears never to do it again; but over the years, he’d found himself intent upon the deed time and time again.
Gods, I am doomed. Why do I linger in this life? Why have I not ended it as I swore to do?
Because you fear death so fervently that even a pattern as violent as that one is preferable to the blackness beyond.
It was true, he did fear death, but for different reasons than those that had driven him into the Citadel catacombs as an adolescent. Yet in his heart of hearts, Franco didn’t think this was the reason he remained. He had been a craven once, yes, but cowardice did not yoke him still.
Franco emerged from his internal reverie to find both women gazing inquisitively at him and realized only then that it had been many a long moment since the queen asked her question. “My gravest apologies, Your Majesty, Princess,” Franco said, nodding to each of them. “My thoughts sped fast astray.”
“It must be a powerful working to have so profound an effect on you,” Ysolde remarked. Was there something knowing in her tone?
But the queen was regarding him shrewdly, a newfound glint in her gaze, and she surprised him with the observation, “We all have regrets, do we not, Franco Rohre?”
Franco held her gaze for a moment longer than intended, both of them searching the eyes of the other as if to read the secrets of their souls hidden just beyond. What an extraordinary woman. “Indeed, Your Majesty.” It was a bare whisper.
At first, the company of two lovely women in a pastoral setting had seduced Franco into mistaking himself among common company, but this was Calgaryn Palace and the lovely women were the daughters of kings.
Franco surprised even himself by suddenly taking the queen’s hands into his own and asking directly, “How may I assist you, Your Majesty?”
She must’ve experienced something in the prior moment as well, for she studied his face as if committing it to memory and did not pull away from his impertinent touch. “My son has been taken,” she confessed then, her gaze revealing the emotion she schooled so well, her voice now stricken raw with fear. “I don’t know by whom or for what purpose. He was due to arrive days ago but was ambushed on the road. My husband’s men have learned nothing, despite all efforts.”
Franco squeezed her hands in heartfelt sympathy. “How many knew of his arrival?”
“The whole world,” said Ysolde. “Her Majesty invited over four hundred dignitaries from seven kingdoms to attend a banquet in the prince’s honor. No doubt you saw the parade preparations as you arrived.”
“But his ship put ashore in secret,” the queen explained, unable to hide the frantic undertone in her voice. “We took so many precautions…yet still, they found him.”
“Do you have reason to fear someone means him harm?”
“Only the premeditated death of her other sons,” Ysolde replied.
Franco conceded she had a point. He looked back to the queen, who was gripping his hands as tightly as he held hers. “What can I do?”
“Entreat the Vestal to read the currents in search of Ean,” the queen answered immediately.
Franco blinked. “Do you believe magic was involved in your son’s capture? Because otherwise—”
“We understand how the currents work,” Ysolde remarked, which was enough of an answer to alert him that indeed they suspected that very thing. “What you must understand is there is no raedan in the king’s employ, no one qualified to read the currents. Your timely arrival with the Fourth Vestal seemed Fortune’s gift.”
Errodan suddenly pulled free of his touch and walked to the edge of the path where it opened upon a fountain choked by weeds. “We are no closer today to finding those behind the assassinations of my other sons than we are in understanding who has taken Ean—and this despite my husband sending scores of men to scour the kingdom and a host of spies alert for any whispers.” One hand found its way to cup her cheek, which was barely in profile to Franco, and she whispered, “I cannot lose Ean to their greed. I cannot.”
“Will you help us?” Ysolde asked, drawing his gaze back to her.
Seeing opportunity rising like Fortune’s island on the horizon, Franco didn’t hesitate. “Princess,” he said, boldly taking up her hands and kissing the back of each, “it would be my honor.”
Sixteen
‘I will not believe until I hear it from his lips.’
– The Second Vestal Dagmar Ranneskjöld, to his oath-brothers and sister after the fall of Tiern’aval, 597aV
The Fourth Vestal Raine d’Lacourte followed the guard toward the King of Dannym’s chambers frowning with trepidation. Several things worried him at present, most notably Franco Rohre. The man was clearly hiding things from him, but the Espial was so skilled at shielding his thoughts that Raine gleaned just bits and pieces of his suffering. Franco had given Raine no cause to question him, however, and Raine felt reluctant to broach the subject in conversation. If Franco had secrets, well…didn’t they all? Who among the living hadn’t made mistakes during the War? He harbored no wish to hound Franco over his own, for the man surely hounded himself relentlessly. Still, Franco’s well of secrets delved deep, of this Raine had no doubt.
Another unsettling revelation came as he noticed the presence of Bethamin’s Ascendants in Calgaryn Palace. This disturbed him on several levels. He stood in a position to know that King Gydryn had ordered all proselytizers of Bethamin’s creed turned back at his borders; to find the priests so deep within the kingdom meant they’d found powerful allies among Dannym’s nobility.
Raine feared an eventuality that seemed inescapable. The popularity of the Prophet Bethamin was growing at an alarming rate, and while he seemed to preach a ‘religion for the people,’ in fact Bethamin sowed intolerance among two races that had lived harmoniously for eons.
Then of course, there was the matter which had brought Raine to Calgaryn to begin with: Björn.
Raine’s oath-sister, the First Vestal Alshiba Torinin, chastised that he worried too much, but he feared that if he let go of any of the myriad threads of concern now woven among his thoughts, he would lose the cohesive whole. Perhaps this concept stemmed from his years of training as a raedan, which undeniably changed the way he viewed the world. One cannot spend centuries studying the currents and remain ignorant of the fact that everything in the Adept world is interconnected—all magical workings, in some way, link to one another. The old adage of a butterfly that flapped its wings in Bemoth and caused a snowstorm in Kjvngherad wasn’t just a wives’ tale. Certain events, no matter how disparate their locations or subjects, often knotted together at some distant point within the greater pattern.
For Raine, every new piece of information became a thread woven into the whole; his challenge was to find out where each thread fit in the great tape
stry of their living realm.
The king’s guard escorted Raine into the king’s private chambers, where he awaited His Majesty’s pleasure in a spacious drawing room. A feast of refreshments waited on a gilded table, beyond which large, glass-paned doors opened to a balcony overlooking the sea. Raine had only just poured himself a glass of wine when the king entered from the opposite end of the room.
“Raine d’Lacourte,” he said as his secretary was closing the doors behind him.
Raine turned to receive the king, noting as always that Gydryn struck a powerful presence even in his fifth decade. The king came and locked forearms with Raine in a gesture of welcome that marked the Adept as his equal. Raine had always admired Gydryn val Lorian for his willingness to grant importance to others—though he suspected this attribute had garnered the king as many enemies as friends. Good men in high positions ever struggled to hold together a kingdom comprised of baser men. Few mortal kings knew better than Gydryn val Lorian the sacrifices one made for a crown.
“What brings you to Calgaryn?” Gydryn asked Raine as he motioned them toward a grouping of armchairs.
Raine heard the deeper inquiry in his thoughts and shook his head to the negative: no, my friend, I am not here to discuss our joint venture; not yet. Aloud, he answered, “I’ve been following a trail upon the currents.” Raine d’Lacourte and Gydryn val Lorian had long forged a bond of trust, and while some state secrets might never be voiced between them, they yet shared a willingness to speak openly of what matters they could. “The trail led me here,” he added as they both sat.
Gydryn frowned. “To the palace?”
“In essence—specifically to a harbor tavern in a fishing village twelve klicks southwest of Calgaryn. But I must study the currents from a node in order to better decipher what I found there. As you know, there is a nodepoint beneath the palace, in a room once used as a divining chamber.”
“Yes, I’m all too familiar with the chamber you speak of,” Gydryn answered with a sour expression. “It has been causing me some concern of late.” He thrummed his fingers on the arm of his throne.
In the silence that followed, Raine sensed for the first time the king’s state of mind. To say he was troubled would be to speak of a typhoon as an intemperate rain-shower. As his fears came to a head, Gydryn began projecting his thoughts—however unwittingly—loud enough for Raine to pick up on a great number of them.
The Fourth Vestal leaned forward in his chair. “Never mind my inquiry. Speak to me of Ean.”
The king glanced up sharply. After taking a moment to garner his emotions, he replied in a choked voice, “I cannot bear to lose another son.”
“He’s been taken?”
Gydryn nodded. “It was not my intention to beleaguer you with the troubles of a single kingdom when you shoulder the concerns of your entire race.”
Raine dismissed his comments with a wave of his hand. He tried to make sense of the impressions and images Gydryn was projecting. The king seemed to be battling against the grief that had invaded his heart, and only fragmented images could be gleaned through his turmoil. “Was…elae somehow involved in your son’s kidnapping, Your Majesty?”
Gydryn pressed his fist into the arm of his chair and settled Raine a heated look all the more intense for the anguish hiding beneath it. “I just don’t know.”
So it was that Raine pulled the entire story from the king, though Gydryn seemed loathe to speak of the ‘imposter’ Shade and his ‘supposed darkhounds.’ All the while, Raine listened in silence with a carefully schooled expression of neutrality. Inside, however, he was furious. And then some. Where there were Shades, there was Björn, for the creatures were bound to the Fifth Vestal in a way Raine had never come to understand. Yet the fact remained: there could not be one without the other, and there was no doubt that the creatures acted upon Björn’s will.
You have much to answer for, my brother, he declared, hoping Björn might somehow feel his threat riding on the currents. And I will see you called to term for all of your crimes.
When the king was finished, he looked to Raine as if for confirmation of the absurdity of the tale, but the Truthreader could no more reassure him than he could understand why Björn would have taken an interest in a northern prince.
As if I truly understand anything my oath-brother does.
“I would like to tell you that your men spoke only of fiction, Your Majesty, but alas, I cannot.”
The king didn’t ask Raine to elaborate, nor did he ask what the Truthreader wasn’t saying, in the same way that Raine didn’t ask about the many other matters he’d gleaned from the king’s thoughts. Many things were better left unspoken between them.
“So,” the king grunted, mastering his emotion into practiced calm. “How can I help you in your task?”
“By your leave, I would spend a few days in your divining chamber studying the currents. I have an Espial in my service currently, and he would also be helping me.”
“Of course.”
“And I will look for traces of your son on the currents, Your Majesty. If elae was involved in his capture, there will be signs still upon the tides.”
Gydryn merely nodded. “Thank you for that.”
Raine pitied him. To lose one child for the sake of a kingdom might be borne, but to lose three?
Yet if Björn is involved in this, then the prince’s disappearance has nothing at all to do with a throne.
Their meeting concluded, the king called for his Guard and a specific lieutenant who would be assigned to assist Raine in whatever way he required.
Bastian val Renly arrived soon thereafter and bent the knee, one fist to his heart. “Your Majesty.”
“Bastian, this is the Fourth Vestal Raine d’Lacourte,” the king informed him, as if Raine needed any introduction. “Take him where he desires and assist him in his activities. Oh and Bastian…”
“Yes, Sire?”
“When in the tunnels, inquire of him as to that other matter.”
Bastian saluted crisply and turned to Raine. “After you, Your Excellency,” and Raine led him from the king’s chambers. In the wide passage beyond, the Lieutenant inquired, “What is your will, Your Excellency?”
Raine pulled himself from his thoughts. “First, to find my Espial, if you will, Lieutenant.”
“By your command,” replied the solider, and led briskly away.
***
Franco was just releasing Ysolde’s hands when Raine appeared, walking down the path in the company of a red-coated officer of the King’s Own Guard. “What’s this?” the Fourth Vestal inquired lightly as he joined them. “Princess, are you attempting to usurp the attentions of my Espial for your own purposes?”
Franco glanced at Ysolde and stepped a polite distance from her person. “A favor only, my lord,” he answered with a smile. He held one hand toward the ladies. “May I present Her Majesty Errodan val Lorian and the Queen’s Companion.”
The queen came forward in a royal manner quite incongruous with her simple clothing. “I had hoped to meet with you,” she confessed to Raine while her eyes strayed to Bastian val Renly, “but I see you are about my husband’s work. Perhaps another day.”
For the briefest of moments, Raine looked slightly indecisive, as if he would stay and speak with the queen, but then he seemed to decide the better of it. He nodded to her. “Another day, Your Majesty.” Looking to Franco, he said, “Might I ask your assistance, Franco?”
“Of course, my lord.”
And they departed.
Franco wanted to ask what had transpired with the king, why the officer came with them though he seemed to follow instead of lead, why the Vestal seemed so preoccupied, but all such questions must wait until their proper time.
As they made their way back inside and began a winding course downward through kitchen levels and storerooms and long tunnels barren of all but the most inconsequential, flickering light, the lieutenant that walked just behind Raine said to him, “If perhaps, Y
our Excellency, we might first attend to that other matter?”
Franco looked from the Vestal to the soldier. “What other matter?”
Bastian gave him a rather weak smile, as if he didn’t relish the task. “I think it is best explained by witnessing it, my lord.”
And, as Franco discovered, it was.
“What in Tiern’aval…?” He gazed incredulously at the rock ceiling of the tunnel, which seemed, well…melted. Then his gaze lowered to the dead man. Franco couldn’t imagine how to describe him, nor explain in matters known to nature what could’ve so desiccated a man.
But Raine knew. It was clear from the powerfully anguished look upon his face—clear that he knew too well what had caused the man’s death. Franco watched him bow his head with closed eyes.
Franco also shared an understanding of what had been done there, though he relished not the knowledge. The truth was certainly as far from natural as could be imagined. Yet…who could be responsible for the deed? Malachai was long vanquished…
Something else about the dead man caught Franco’s attention, but he couldn’t put his finger on what.
Raine raised his head and settled his diamondine gaze sternly, if tragically, upon the body. He touched the toe of his boot to the man’s shoulder.
The body disintegrated in an explosion of ash.
“Shade and darkness!” Bastian flung himself backwards to escape the noxious eruption.
Feeling slightly ill, Franco knew he had to tread carefully. Very, very carefully.
Two blue-coated soldiers of the Palace Guard who’d been on watch at the end of the tunnel came running to investigate Bastian’s outcry. The Lieutenant waved them off, but curiosity kept them rooted.
“What happened to him, my lord?” Franco meanwhile inquired of the Vestal. Better Raine thought him curious.
The Fourth Vestal turned and looked over his shoulder at a pair of iron doors set into the tunnel wall. The divining chamber and its central node had been out of use for centuries. “Someone came in through the node.” Then he looked to the hole above. “And found his own way out.”
Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One Page 23