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

by McPhail, Melissa

  “Their worst,” Jaya muttered, shaking her head. She looked at Trell. “Who throws fire at a dragon, Trell of the Tides? Might as well attempt to stop a charging crocodile by dumping water on it.”

  Náiir shrugged. “It seemed the best they could come up with.”

  “Their best just wasn’t good enough,” Vaile finished, looking almost as if she enjoyed the memory. “Ramu tasked Rhakar to take care of the traitors. It is always his role to play—Srívasrhakárakéck, the Shadow of the Light.”

  Trell grimaced into his kaffe. He could imagine what was left of the traitors once the volatile Rhakar had been at them. “Well,” he said, standing and setting the cup back on the table. “I must thank you all for your companionship and hospitality.”

  “We shall welcome you back, Trell of the Tides,” Náiir said. “You owe me another match of Kings.”

  Trell smiled and nodded.

  “Fare thee well, Trell,” Jaya said. “Fortune grace you in finding yourself…” She paused, considered him for a moment, and added, “…and anything else you might be seeking.”

  Trell looked at her curiously, but she merely gazed back at him with those odd tangerine eyes.

  He looked to Vaile then. She set down her cup and stood. “I will walk you to Balaji. I think I know where he is about.” She nodded to the two drachwyr, then slipped her arm through the loop of Trell’s elbow and led him toward the high hill in the back of the complex.

  As they walked from the shade of the awning into the bright sunshine, Vaile murmured for his ears alone, “You must take care to watch yourself, Trell of the Tides.”

  Trell turned to her. “And why must I do that?”

  “You travel within dangerous times and shall come into contact with deadly company…the kind that cannot be trusted.”

  Trell worked hard to keep a straight face. “And your kind can, milady?”

  “Oh no,” she was fast to admit, flashing a lovely grin. “None of us can be trusted. But the worthy ones…” She made sure she held his gaze before finishing amid a rather disturbing little smile, “the worthy ones will tell you so. Remember you that.”

  “You are kind to warn me, milady.”

  “Kindness has no part of it,” she said seriously.

  “I still thank you.” With that, he removed her hand from his arm and kissed it while gazing into her greenest of eyes. Then he gave her a genteel bow and turned and walked away. He’d seen Balaji atop the hill near a line of picketed horses, and he made his way to him. He did not look back, though he felt Vaile’s gaze following him all the while.

  When Trell reached Balaji, the youth was leaning against a tethering post talking to Rhakar. The latter’s yellowish gaze fastened on Trell as he neared, and with the long rays of early morning falling across his eyes, the Shadow of the Light seemed quite unearthly, like some sort of alien statue. But it would be a statue with a certain wickedness about it. Like poison disguised as sugar.

  Rhakar muttered something in his strange language and walked off before Trell reached them. Balaji looked happy to see him however, and he greeted Trell with a clap of hands on both shoulders. “You have a long road ahead of you, my new friend Trell. We all wish you luck and good fortune upon it.”

  Trell felt a swell of unexpected gratitude. “Thank you, Balaji.”

  The youth took him by one shoulder and steered him along the row of picketed horses. “The Mage has arranged some gifts for you, and he also makes a request.”

  “What sort of request?”

  “One you will not mind, I am most certain.”

  Balaji stopped in front of a silver-white mare, a beauty of a creature with a mane of pale gold. She was saddled and ready to ride. “Gendaia,” Balaji named her as he rested a hand on her flank.

  Trell let out a low whistle. “A Hallovian grey,” he noted appreciatively.

  “She is of a royal line,” Balaji told him. “The Mage had planned to sell her at the next market, but he would have you take her instead. She will better serve you.”

  Gendaia snorted and pawed at the dirt. She really was a beautiful animal, fit for a king, and Hallovian steeds were famous. The Second Vestal, Dagmar Ranneskjöld was said to ride the original sire in the line: Caldar, whose hooves were supposedly cast in gold. Trell placed his hand on Gendaia’s nose in greeting. Her bridle was worked all over with beaten silver so that what was not delicate yet seemed so, and her saddle was packed high with supplies.

  “Yes,” Balaji said, noting Trell’s eye upon the packs. “Food enough for a fortnight’s journey—about what it will take you to reach the Cairs.”

  Trell gave him a swift look. “How did you know I planned to go to the Cairs?”

  “The Mage thought you might,” Balaji said in his amiable way, as if there was nothing at all strange about a man Trell had met but once knowing his mind so completely. “And now, to your gifts.”

  Trell shook his head in wonder. “More gifts? The clothes and this horse are so much more than I can ever repay.”

  Balaji smiled that smile…the one that seemed to hide something savage behind it. “The Mage is generous to his friends, Trell of the Tides. But here,” and he slapped one of the saddlebags before pulling the tie that opened it. Inside were three black leather purses and a leather case. “The money is for you, the case for one of the Mage’s contacts in Cair Rethynnea. He asked if you might deliver it on his behalf.”

  Trell took out one of the black bags and pulled it open. Silver coins gleamed back at him, all of them stamped with the royal Agasi crest. Agasi silver, close to a hundred pieces at least. I could buy a barony with this. Trell‘s gaze flew back to Balaji. “This is too great a fortune!”

  Balaji smiled. “You will spend it well, I trust.”

  Trell shook his head. “No, really, it’s too much.” He frowned at the bags. Then he lifted his eyes and frowned at Balaji. “Surely the Mage must want something of me—something more than a delivery most anyone could manage.” He searched Balaji’s face, but the youth just kept smiling benignly. Feeling frustrated and slightly confused, Trell looked down at the silver again and murmured, “There was something I wanted to ask you yesterday.”

  “Indeed my new friend Trell? How may I help you?”

  Trell pursed his lips. “Pieces and players. Have you heard the Mage refer to them before? Or…or refer to me in this fashion? Do you know how a piece becomes a player?”

  “Ah…” Balaji nodded, looking highly pleased by the question. He held up one finger as he explained, “This is an old philosophy, the Structure of a Game. A piece becomes a player, Trell of the Tides, in part by learning what game it is in which he plays.”

  “You imply that I’m playing in a game,” Trell said.

  Balaji arched brows innocently. “Do I?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Balaji grinned. “Aren’t you?”

  Trell despised this sort of circular logic. It interfered with his tactical form of thinking. “If I’m in a game,” he began, forcing patience, “what game is it?”

  “Ah…now that is the question, isn’t it?” Balaji noted agreeably. “Unfortunately it is a question best addressed to the Mage, Trell of the Tides. You could ask him…if he were here.” He grinned irritatingly at Trell then.

  Grumbling to himself, Trell secured his pack. He placed both hands on his saddle readying to mount, but turned to look at Balaji one last time. “I have this feeling that I can’t shake.”

  “And what feeling is that?”

  “The feeling that I’m being manipulated.”

  Balaji’s smile faded. “Why would you think such a thing?”

  “You told me to read any book in the Mage’s room,” Trell said. “Was it coincidence then that I opened a journal that…that I believe spoke of me? Then Ramu lets slip that perhaps my journey of self-discovery is as important as the knowledge I seek at its end. And now the Mage leaves these things with the understanding that I’m heading to the Cairs, as if it was a foregone co
nclusion…” Trell frowned over his horse at the long grass blowing gently on the hills. “Instinct shouts that there is more going on here…that your First Lord has a plan for me—” He gave Balaji a swift look. “That he’s made me into one of his pieces.”

  Balaji regarded him quietly. “If instinct shouts, you must follow its command, Trell of the Tides. What will you do?”

  Trell gazed at him. “I don’t know that my motives run contrary to your First Lord’s, but why doesn’t he just ask of me whatever it is he wants?”

  Balaji sighed. For what seemed the first time, he actually looked sincere. “Are you familiar with the concept of Balance?”

  Trell shook his head.

  “Balance is an old, old subject long misunderstood,” Balaji explained, “and one far too complex to discuss without a large supply of siri and much more time than I believe you’d wish to invest this day,” he added with a wink. “But what you must understand about it, Trell of the Tides, is that all of our lives are in the gravest of dangers if the Balance in Alorin is not restored, for in its waning rises a most terrible threat. It is this task that the First Lord labors upon. If you have a role to play in that greatest of games, you must know that you will be aiding a noble purpose.”

  “A noble purpose doesn’t require subterfuge,” Trell challenged.

  “Ah…” sighed Balaji, nodding heavily, “but Balance often does.”

  Trell sort of stared at him, for his words held the resonance of truth. While his mind spun, clouds passed over the sun, pitching them into cooling shadow.

  “I do not know the Mage’s purpose for you, if indeed he has one,” Balaji admitted then, perhaps taking pity on Trell, or perhaps because he was struck with a benevolent mood. Or perhaps because it was yet another strategic turn of his hand, all part of the same manipulative game Trell suspected was in play. “But whatever your role, the Mage cannot—would not—compel you into it.”

  Thinking that over, Trell mounted up. He looked down at Balaji still feeling troubled. “I’d already decided to go to the Cairs,” he said, “but the Mage was careful to ensure that I did by having me deliver this case to his contact there. Doesn’t that seem strange to you, Balaji?”

  “Strange? No.”

  “Manipulative, then?”

  Balaji grinned at him. “You are suspicious by nature. This is a good trait to have in these troubled times.” He took Gendaia by the bridle and led her away from the picket line. “You will always be welcome here, Trell of the Tides, should you ever have need of sanctuary. Take care to remember the trail back, in case you do.” And with that, Balaji pointed to a tiny path leading over the ridge. “No doubt you have been wondering what part of the Kutsamak Mountains hides this oasis, no?”

  “You could say that,” Trell muttered.

  “The sa’reyths lie upon the old ways,” Balaji explained, “paths which only a second-strand Adept—Nodefinders or Espials—might travel. For your return to the trail near Jar’iman Point, we have prepared the node to carry you alone. Remember the path well. We will keep watch for you, and if ever we see you upon that trail again, we will send someone to help you through the node—though I earnestly hope you never need seek refuge here.”

  “Thank you,” Trell said, meaning it. It was a relief to understand at last where the sa’reyth really was. Though he still had residual feelings of unease, they were necessarily overshadowed by his gratitude for all that he was being given—all that he had been given. He owed the Mage his life, and for that alone, he would do as the man required of him—for at least as long as their purposes were aligned.

  “Once you cross the node,” Balaji meanwhile advised as he led Gendaia away from the sa’reyth, “you will be within harm’s reach. Rhakar and Mithaiya are on patrol, and they will watch your back from the skies as far as they dare, but stay wary of the road before you. Though you can pass for one of them, the Nadoriin and their Saldarian allies shoot anything that moves on two legs.”

  Trell nodded. Despite his misgivings, he was starting to feel oddly choked up. The drachwyr and the Mage and most of the others he’d met at the sa’reyth had shown him unexpected friendship and enormous generosity, and he wasn’t one to overlook these things, no matter his personal conflict.

  Balaji had walked him to the beginning of the thin path that led away through the field and up over the next rise. “From Jar’iman, make for the Ruby Road. This far west of the conflict, it remains inviolate. Oh…and one last thing…”

  “What is that?”

  “The man you seek,” Balaji offered, giving Trell that grin again. “I thought you might want to know…he also rides a Hallovian steed.”

  Trell stared at him, too astonished to respond.

  With a last exuberant grin, Balaji reached up and clasped wrists with Trell. “Fortune bless you, Trell of the Tides! Llythuin y’ama miathwyn!”

  Trell gave him one last long look, and then Gendaia was cantering away, west, toward his future and—he hoped—his past.

  Trell’s next two days of travel became a haze in memory, for the trail was long and winding and the terrain looked the same from sunup to sundown. He made the Ruby Road in good time, however, and his travels gained speed thereafter.

  It was late afternoon when Trell reined in Gendaia atop a ridge overlooking the Bashir’Khazaaz, the largest bazaar in the Akkad’s western mountains. Traders came from as far south as the Forsaken Lands to sell their wares, and merchants traveled from Kroth or even Cair Thessalonia to buy them. There were items to be had beneath the colorful tents of the Bashir’Khazaaz that couldn’t be found anywhere else outside of Dheanainn, and it was there that the Bemothi traders brought their famed rubies, by ancient pact giving the desert tribes first pick of their newest and most brilliant gems.

  Trell had been to the Bashir’Khazaaz several times on errands for the Emir, but he’d never seen it so crowded, nor the plains surrounding it so mushroomed with colorful tents, every one of them fashioned in the mosaic pattern of a different tribe.

  The reason for their gathering was a grim one, however. Refugees. Since gaining the Ruby Road, Trell had been passing mile-long caravans fleeing the eastern villages. Long lines of turbaned riders led dark-eyed boys who carried trowels for swords; men too old to fight guided pack mules and leaned on long poles sharpened at both ends; and old women and young mothers held tightly to the hands of their children, infants worn in slings across their backs. These people took with them what few belongings they treasured…or what they could salvage from the wreckage of their villages, and they walked with one eye ahead and one behind, their ears listening for whispers of an approaching threat.

  A breeze buffeted Trell from behind, causing Gendaia to snort uneasily and paw at the earth. Trell cast a look over his shoulder. The eastern horizon was gloomy and dark, and the burgeoning wind felt charged, as if ready to erupt into lightning at any moment. Gendaia snorted again and flattened one ear. “I know, I know,” he soothed her.

  The storm was still a few hours distant, but he would need a sturdy shelter that night, and it was also time to refill his waterskins. The Bashir’Khazaaz would provide for both. Trell clicked his tongue, and Gendaia headed down the steep incline of the ridge as if already smelling the sweet water that awaited her.

  The Bashir’Khazaaz was always arranged in seventeen concentric circles—one in honor of each of the lesser desert gods—with the towering jade Pillars of Jai’Gar crowning the center plaza. The pillars and the well they marked were the only permanent installations in the Bashir’Khazaaz, for the hundreds of merchant tents shifted with the seasons.

  The seventeen rings were quartered by four avenues, each named for one of the faces of the powerful Wind God Azerjaiman, and it was the easterly-most of these that Trell followed as he made his way toward the pillars. Once he passed within the seventeen rings of tents, the noise became cacophonous—catcalls and bellows accosting him from every direction. On an equal level with the noise was the smell, for most any exotic a
nimal was to be had at the Bashir’Khazaaz: eastern elephants, southern lions, northern wolves, and even the bizarre giraffe found only in the Wyr’Umjai Crater on the Agasi island of Palma-Lai.

  Several times Trell passed black-turbaned Khaz’im, the official peace-keepers of the Bashir’Khazaaz. They wore the traditional ghoutra, a wrapped turban covering their head and face, exposing only their deep, dark eyes; and they carried the ammitar, a great curved sword three times as wide at the point as it was at the hilt. The Khaz’im were the reason the Bemothi traders came to barter their famous rubies at the Bashir’Khazaaz, for not only was a Khaz’im’s word taken as law, but their justice was swift. All thieves caught were summarily executed, and all thieves were caught.

  Trell’s way finally opened onto the round, stepped plaza leading down to the pillars and their surrounding pool. The scriptures taught that Jai’Gar was never to be represented in body or likeness, but solely with the erection of two enormous pillars of the purest green jade. The pillars had to be constructed to exact specifications, and any impurity in the stone rendered them unfit. There was much symbolism and significance in Jai’Gar’s choice of pillars as His representation, and there were just about as many ceremonies to follow when standing in their shadow. Not being Converted, however, Trell observed only the first form of respect.

  He dismounted on the second step and led Gendaia to the watering trough, one of many long, low marble basins fed by the spring that served the Bashir’Khazaaz. He then walked to the center of the sandstone-paved plaza and stopped beneath the pillars, which stood in the center of the wide pool. The pillars were always erected thusly, for Jai’Gar was the giver of life, and a life-giving spring was symbolic of His power.

  Before partaking of the water, Trell knelt and gathered sand into his right hand. Standing, he tossed the sand into the wind—there was always sand in the air surrounding the Pillars of Jai’Gar—and said the appropriate prayer. He then turned and bowed low to the pillars, kissed the fist that had thrown the sand, knelt again on his right knee, bowed his head to touch it to his bent left knee, and then rose with both hands pressed together and bowed one last time. This was the minimum expectation of reverence; to do nothing was an unforgivable insult and would mean immediate expulsion from the Bashir’Khazaaz—that is, so long as the Khaz’im were in a benevolent mood.