Franco noted the two soldiers spitting onto the floor and grinding their boots over the mark. He didn’t think a ward against the evil eye would be of much use against deyjiin.
“So…” Bastian looked like he was itching to escape. “Do you know what happened here, Your Excellency?”
“I have a fair idea.” Raine sounded grim. He looked to the lieutenant. “But I will speak of it to no one but your king, and neither shall any of you,” and he let his gaze encompass all three of them. They didn’t look of a mind to protest.
“Your will, Your Excellency.” Bastian gave a smart nod.
“I need to study the currents now, Lieutenant. Those doors…” Raine indicated them. “Are they unlocked?”
Bastian frowned. “There is no key, I’m told.”
“You mean it’s trace-sealed,” Raine corrected.
Bastian reddened with embarrassment. Apparently he’d forgotten he was speaking to a Truthreader. “Pardon, Your Excellency. I swore never to speak of it—”
“There is no shame in obeying your oaths, Lieutenant, and I know truth from falsehood regardless.”
“Yes, milord. I should tell you that to my knowledge no one’s been in that room for centuries. I’m not certain anyone even knows the pattern to release the seal—excepting yourself, of course.”
Raine turned to the iron doors and studied them for a long moment. Franco watched him frown and then walk over to them. “No doubt I could work the trace-seal. Yet if I’m right…” He reached for the iron latch. It clicked without protest, and Raine pushed the doors inward. They moved on silent hinges.
“Now that can’t be good,” Franco muttered.
Raine cast him a telling look over his shoulder. Then he stepped into the room. Franco followed him into a vast chamber whose floor was gained by way of a curving stone staircase carved out of the wall. Raine was already halfway down it.
The Fourth Vestal stopped on the chamber floor, which was dominated by a still pool, smooth and dark as glass. Globes hung on chains from the high ceiling, their ensorcelled light burning low, and everything was draped in gloom.
“What do you know of Malachai’s realm, Franco?” Raine asked, his voice echoing in the vast chamber.
Caught by the unexpected question, Franco paused on the stairs and then shrugged, continuing his slow descent. “Only what everyone knows.”
“Have you traveled there?”
It was a direct question spoken in the Truthreader’s tone. Franco couldn’t remember the last time Raine had required a truth of him so brutally. “…No, my lord.” He was immensely grateful he could respond with the truth. “No one can travel to T’khendar. It was created from the fabric of Alorin and shares much of our realm’s pattern, but the nodes between the realms are hopelessly twisted and their ways cannot be traversed.”
“Aye,” Raine murmured, sounding vexed, “Yet my oath-brother has returned somehow.” He turned and settled Franco a look of piercing inquiry. “I have not asked you about the Citadel, Franco, and how you survived its fall. I have questioned many of your fifty brethren over the years, however, and all have given me different answers. Strange, isn’t it, that the fifty of you were supposedly together, and yet each recounting is entirely dissimilar from the next?”
Franco gazed disconcertedly at him.
Abruptly Raine waved a hand. “I care not, really, what you’re all hiding. Whatever truly happened there is in the past—you do believe me, don’t you, Franco? I want you to understand that the Vestals harbor no ill feelings toward all of you.”
“…Thank you, my lord,” Franco murmured uncertainly.
Suddenly Raine was beside him with a hand on his shoulder. “But I must know now…tell me,” and he again used the tone Franco so feared, “how much do you understand of what we’ve found here?”
This time the Truthreader’s compulsion hit Franco like a blacksmith’s hammer to his gut. To even attempt a lie was all but impossible. “Deyjiin,” he choked out, and the pressure in his chest lessened. “I know it was deyjiin they—he—whoever it was used to kill that man. But that’s all I know of it.”
“You were at the Citadel,” Raine said, his hand still firmly holding Franco fast, his gaze still pinning him just as surely. “But I do not know how much you saw, or what you’ve learned since. Of those Adepts who followed Malachai into T’khendar, the Paladin Knights sent by the Council of Realms, and many others…do you know what became of them?”
Franco dared not resist the fourth-strand compulsion pattern Raine was wielding upon him, for to do so would only strain oneself needlessly and bring intense mental pain. “There are many theories as to how they died,” he managed.
Raine frowned at him. “There is only one truth. T’khendar killed them.”
Little do you know, Franco gritted his teeth. It took all of his self-control—all of his many, many long years of practice at compartmentalizing his thoughts—to keep Raine from learning anything, from hearing anything.
The Vestal continued slowly, thoughtfully, “This power you name so carelessly… deyjiin. What do you know of it?”
“Only…” he gathered his composure and forced the words, “only that Malachai and his Shades worked it.” It was a lie, and Raine would know it so, but Franco felt certain that at least he wouldn’t be able to tell what more Franco actually knew.
Raine released him and let his hand drop, exhaling his frustration. Perhaps in his agitated state he’d missed the dishonesty in Franco’s answer, or perhaps not. It was worth hoping though.
“Here’s what I know of this power,” Raine offered. “It comes from T’khendar. It was something unforeseen by Malachai, something entirely alien to Alorin and its natives, the antithesis of our elae. Very little is understood about it, for it cannot be studied with elae. Those who have tried have…”
“Failed,” Franco supplied.
Raine settled him a disquieting look. “They have died. What is known of this power, which travels its own channels even as our elae, is that it is a consumptive power. Some believe it is the power of the dark gods with whom Malachai supposedly made his pact; others claim myriad other origins. What we do know is what it creates—or rather, I should say, destroys, for it destroys utterly everything it touches.” Raine looked back to the doors. “That man was killed with this power, the power of T’khendar, a power we call deyjiin, for it means death.”
Franco was thinking fast to keep up his charade of ignorance. “Then…then it can be wielded like elae?”
“Not like elae,” Raine corrected severely, “for no known pattern compels it. But yes. Malachai could wield it, and I fear my oath-brother Björn can as well…now.”
He looked around the chamber with narrowed gaze, no doubt studying the traces of magic left upon the space. “It is as I thought,” Raine concluded, looking back to Franco. “They must’ve arrived here. Tell me, Franco, where is the weld?”
“A weld?” Franco was honestly confused by the question. “You mean a node. Calgaryn harbors a node, my lord.”
“Perhaps once it did. It harbors a weld now.”
Such major links in the pattern of the world were immensely rare, and most all of them were known and charted, but Raine was pinning Franco with such a penetrating look that he dared not protest. So he looked. And he saw.
Oh gods, I’m doomed. Doomed!
“There,” he said, pointing to a distant space near the center of the pool. To his wakeful inner eye, the portal was as stark as daylight. “But—it’s impossible.”
“I know,” Raine agreed. He looked crestfallen. “Yet it was the only explanation.”
Try as he might, Franco could not follow all of the implications to their logical denouement; there were too many things he didn’t understand about this discovery.
How in Tiern’aval did a weld come to be here where none existed before?
He pushed a hand through his hair, braving a glance at Raine, but the Truthreader was battling his own demons. Shade and dark
ness, Franco inwardly swore. He had to get word to—
That’s when he understood—not everything, of course. That was too much to hope for, but enough…enough to wonder if Raine had already pieced things together.
The Fourth Vestal is a good man, an honest and decent man.
Franco hated lying to Raine—he loathed it, in truth—but his oaths were binding. He wasn’t certain he could speak the truth even if compelled beyond his own ability to withhold. And then what would become of him?
No. Better to attempt to help the Vestal some other way.
“My lord, what does it mean?” Franco asked, drawing Raine’s eye to him. “Who killed that man, and why? Is this the Fifth Vestal’s—” he almost choked over the name, “work, or…or was this evil something he intended you to find? Have we…have we perhaps been following a trail not to him, but to…to this?”
Raine looked straight at him. “Why don’t you tell me, Franco Rohre?”
Seventeen
‘Fortune rarely sends excitement in the guise it was envisioned.’
– Farshideh im’Shiavash
Tanis tromped through the Gandrel belligerently in search of ‘dandelions, rosemary, lavender or chamomile’ for his lady—not one species of which grew in the shade, as he well knew, which was exactly why he went looking for them in the forest. His lady had been in ill-humor for days, no doubt because Farshideh’s health was rapidly failing, but did she have to take out all of her frustrations on him? He reasoned that the longer he spent on this errand, the fewer times she could upbraid him for things that had nothing to do with him, and the fewer tasks she could assign him before the day’s end. It seemed a fair solution all around.
Not that Tanis lived a lazy life—no child raised in the d’Giverny household would ever suffer that affliction!—but Her Grace embraced any laborious task with terrifying enthusiasm. ‘A change of work is as good as rest,’ Alyneri always lectured if Tanis was silly enough to go to her asking for time to himself. So he’d learned to take his rest whenever he could in whatever fashion best presented itself.
His belligerence also stemmed in general from the terrible timing of this trip to the country. He understood the reasons for their visit, of course—and to be certain, he loved Farshideh too!—but it didn’t change the fact that by now he’d missed Prince Ean’s parade, and the banquet, and now Festival had probably begun and he’d be missing that as well. Moreover, he hadn’t had the time to learn anything about the Fourth Vestal’s visit to Calgaryn, or even to pay him respects, as every Truthreader was duty-bound to do.
Raine’s truth, but it was so dreadfully unfair! Why did loved ones have to get sick when you were least prepared?
Tanis picked up a fallen branch and swatted at bushes with it as he passed, brooding all the while on the cruel hand of Fate. His thoughts would sound callous if voiced aloud. The truth was that deep down he was scared. Farshideh was the closest thing to a mother that Tanis had ever known. His fondest memories of his childhood included Farshideh—sitting cross-legged on the rug by her fire while she told him stories of the Nine Princes of M’Nador, or standing on a stool to watch her prepare teas for Lady Melisande. Farshideh taught him of herbs and plants and medicinal flowers. She showed him how to recognize them in the wild, which parts to use, and how to clean them and treat them, to distill them for tinctures or extract them for syrups. Indeed, he’d learned far more from Farshideh than he ever had from Her Grace.
When the Lady Melisande still received the infirm there at her manor, they’d spent almost all of their time in Aracine. Once, the sprawling mansion and its grounds had truly felt like home; now the country felt too lonesome, and the stillness of the great manor too akin to death.
Cool it was that day, the same as every day in Gandrel Forest, no matter the temperature beyond its borders. In summer, it was a welcome relief from the warmth, but on a blustery autumn afternoon like that one, as Tanis walked among towering oak and maple and ash, a chill took him. He paused between two sprawling hawthorn bushes and frowned into the gloom, his colorless eyes searching for a reason to explain the hairs rising on the back of his neck. “Shadow take me,” he whispered to himself, shaking out his shoulders. “I must be a fool. Are you frightened of shadows now, Tanis?”
He gazed around trying to prove that there was nothing to be afraid of, nothing to justify his apprehension. And yet he felt a…presence.
Then he saw him—saw them, materializing out of the gloom between a copse of firs. A dark rider holding a second man before him slumped back against his chest. The rider had one arm wrapped protectively around his charge, who was most certainly injured or infirm. Beside them walked another noble steed of royal caliber, a fine stallion with a silvery mane falling like moonlight against a cream-pale hide—
A Hallovian Grey! Tanis had only heard about the majestic horses, never seen one in the flesh, but the Second Vestal Dagmar Ranneskjöld was said to ride the original sire in the line.
Tanis forgot all of his fears and ran toward the strangers. “Milord, have you come for…?” he began, but the sight of the rider up close took him by such surprise that the rest of the words slipped unspoken off his tongue.
The man was dressed all in black leather, and he had both sword and dagger at his belt—strange weapons, these, which looked to be made of stone. He face bore the chiseled features of the nobility, but he wore his raven curls loose, cropped just above his shoulders; add to this the height and build of a warrior, and he made a striking figure.
Tanis wondered what a man like him was doing in Aracine. He should be off doing battle somewhere like the Fire Kingdom or the Akkad, the lad thought immediately.
Only then did Tanis realize he’d been staring at the stranger all this time. The man was just gazing tolerantly back, as if waiting for Tanis to finally finish his sentence. “I—I meant to say…”
“Alyneri d’Giverny,” the rider finished for him. His voice was what Tanis imagined a lion’s would sound like if the animal could speak the Common Tongue. “Yes, lad. This man has need of her ministrations.”
Though he spoke gently, his gaze was penetrating enough to make Tanis feel as if he could see straight through him into his soul. Tanis finally found his voice again. “I—I know the way, milord. I will take you to her.”
“Lead on, then,” the rider replied.
Tanis took the Hallovian stallion by the bit and led away, but he couldn’t help but wonder where the two riders had come from. The injured one looked like flotsam washed up by the sea—as ragged and pale as driftwood.
Tanis led them right through the gardens—he knew the groundskeeper would have conniptions but this was life or death—and around to the closest entry, which was through the loggia off the south wing. As it happened, Farshideh was standing atop the staircase wrapped in a heavy woolen shawl speaking to the gardener. When she saw them coming across the lawn, she turned and went inside. The gardener gave Tanis a scathing look and stormed off.
Moments later, Farshideh emerged again. “I’ve sent for Her Grace!” she called to them while they were still on the lower lawn. She leaned on her staff and came to the edge of the limestone staircase leading down to the gardens. There she waited while the rider dismounted and gathered his charge in his arms. “Bring him up—bring him up!” she waved impatiently.
But as the rider ascended the stairs, Farshideh paled measurably. “You!” she gasped. Her bronzed skin turned ashen, and she leaned heavily on her staff with both hands and swayed in place.
“Tanis, stay and help her,” the rider murmured, breezing past Farshideh and on inside the manor as if he knew exactly where he was going.
Tanis hadn’t the time to wonder about this strange behavior, or to marvel at how the man had known his name, for his every concern just then was Farshideh, who looked in danger of toppling. He darted to her side and slipped one hand beneath her elbow while placing the other around her waist. “Sit,” she gasped, barely getting the words out.
Tani
s helped her across the patio, and she fairly fell onto a settee. “Farshideh—” the lad began worriedly.
“Leave me, Tanis,” Farshideh whispered hoarsely, unable to look at him. “I beg of you.”
Confused beyond measure, Tanis yet did as he was tasked. First shouting to the gardener to fetch the coachman to tend to the horses, he then ran to join his lady.
***
Alyneri came rushing down the hallway just as the zanthyr rounded a corner carrying Ean in his arms like a child.
“Quickly!” Her Grace ordered, waving him toward her mother’s infirmary. “This way.”
Alyneri opened the infirmary door and directed the zanthyr to lay Ean upon a long wooden table, which he did with great care. Her Grace took one look at the prince—at his filthy hair and beard and stained, tattered clothing—and exclaimed, “Dear Epiphany—did you drag him here behind your horse?” For a moment she wondered where to begin. Then she waved at the zanthyr, “Well, don’t just stand there. Help me get him out of these clothes.” The zanthyr dutifully obliged, stripping Ean down until he wore naught but his loincloth.
Alyneri all but shoved the zanthyr out of the way then so she could look him over.
“The wound is—” the zanthyr began.
“I see it!” she snapped. Her hands moved quickly over Ean’s unconscious form, touching identical points on each side of his body, at temple and neck, at inner arm and wrist and the back of the knees, at ankles and heels and other places of significance known to those trained in the Healer’s craft. In this manner did she move around his entire body. Finally, she asked, “When did this happen?”
“Last night. I created a —”
“I noticed your pattern,” she cut in, “but…what is it doing?”
“Keeping him alive.”
Alyneri settled him a flat look. “How very helpful.”
He grinned accommodatingly.
Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One Page 24