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

by McPhail, Melissa

Krystos came with the dessert, striking a stunning figure in an embroidered red silk coat and black brocade pants, his boots spit polished, his long braid doubled up into a plaited club at the base of his neck. After inquiring as to everyone’s comfort and satisfaction with the meal, Krystos turned to the sisters. “My ladies, you are the image of the goddess in those gowns.” He held out his hand to help them rise, and they accommodated his lustful gaze by turning a circle for his pleasure. “These gowns were last worn by the Cypher of Myacene during her rule of Avatar in the eleventh century of the Fourth Age of Fable,” he told them. “I found them among other treasures hoarded by Myacene’s twenty-third Emperor Titanias the Conqueror, and I have been saving them as a gift for just such divine creatures as you.”

  “You are Agasi,” Aishlinn replied then, eyeing him as alluringly as he was eyeing her, “and I believe from a noble house?”

  He nodded.

  “And tell us, my lord Krystos,” Aishlinn said, “have you the Agasi gift?”

  Krystos looked startled at first, but then a smile lit his eyes. “Why…yes, my lady, as a matter of fact, I have.” If the aspect of this gift was neither apparent from the question nor the response, it was certainly implied in the way the two of them looked at one another after that.

  Trell cleared his throat. “Krystos, might you show the ladies to the Tea Room? I expect they would prefer to take dessert there while Korin and I speak of other matters.”

  Krystos bowed low from the waist. “It would be my pleasure. He extended a hand to help Lily stand and pressed her fingers to his lips with a murmured, “My lady.”

  Lily beamed at him.

  As the group made their way along a path through the gardens, Fhionna fell into step with Trell and said in a low voice, “Lily told me of your conversation with her, Trell, and of her knowledge of your bloodline. Are you certain you won’t hear what she has to say?”

  Trell turned to reply, but his response was momentarily halted by the beauty that faced him. In her dress of diamonds, Fhionna looked positively otherworldly.

  He took her hand, feeling the stirrings of desire with her touch and enjoying the freedom in it. Fhionna was like an addiction; part of him craved her desperately while another part screamed in warning. “Before I even began this journey,” he said, absently pressing his lips to her captured fingers, “I was given the opportunity to learn who I was—at least, I believe the information was there.”

  “Ever before you left?”

  He nodded. “It was afforded me through the expedient means of an entry in a journal. The page was there before me, lying open upon the table. I had even been given leave to read it.”

  Fhionna stared at him. “Why did you not?”

  “I thought about it, certainly, but in the last…well, I couldn’t bring myself to look—under the circumstances, honor forbade it. Soon thereafter, I was advised in an indirect manner that my journey might just be as important as the object of my quest, a sentiment I relayed to you.” He stopped just shy of where the others had gathered. “I have since looked back upon the moment and decided it was a test. A test of my convictions, of my honor, of my very nature. I passed the test there.” He pressed his lips to her palm and finished quietly, “I dare not fail it here.”

  The other women, and even Krystos, looked on as Trell said this; their own conversations paused in deference to his. Korin said to him seriously, “Your quest could be dangerous, milord. Without the information Lily has about your birthright, you cannot know if you will find success or if you will die trying.”

  Trell regarded him quietly. He could only guess at the trials ahead for both Korin and Lily. “Death takes all of us when it wills,” he advised. “While my life is mine, I choose to live it, not to live in fear of losing it.”

  Krystos applauded him. “And such is why we love you, Trell of the Tides!” He turned his brilliant smile on the women and extending his elbow to Lily, his other being already claimed by Aishlinn. “But come ladies, let me show you to my Tea Room. I have collected over four hundred varieties of the finest teas from across the realm…”

  Lily kissed her betrothed on the cheek and hurried to take Krystos’ offered arm, waving an excited goodbye as Krystos led them away while regaling them of his more civilized adventures in the discovery of tea. Fhionna trailed behind. Her gaze lingered on Trell until fountains and date palms obscured her from view.

  Trell turned to Korin and found him gazing after Lily with a troubled frown. “Will you join me in the library, Korin?”

  The lad turned to him looking distracted. “Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, I…the library, milord?”

  “Please call me Trell,” he corrected, for the lad’s constant assertion of his ‘birthright’ made him uncomfortable. “Krystos has a fine library, a nice collection of important works, for its size.” He guided the youth through the maze of gardens, fountains, and pools toward the west wing where the library was located. As they walked, Trell explained, “Should you choose to spend some time there during your stay, you will find a number of works that I think will be to your liking. DiMarco’s Voyeur, for example, is an autographed first edition, and Krystos’ copy of Guillaume’s La Grande Alliance has been beautifully illuminated.”

  Korin turned to him in wonder. “La Grande Alliance is one of my favorite works!”

  “Guillaume’s masterpiece is a timeless example of Veneisean literature,” Trell noted diplomatically. In truth, the boy’s admiration for the piece was a foregone conclusion—Trell had yet to meet an educated boy of fighting age whose favorite work of literature was anything other than Guillaume’s colossal novel of betrayal and treachery in the Veneisean court.

  Reaching the library, Trell motioned Korin within and then entered behind him. A steward at once approached with impeccable civility. “My lords, a drink perhaps? We have a fine collection of liqueurs to offer tonight. Krystos’ family port is in an excellent vintage. Or I might suggest a Veneisean brandy, perhaps one of the rarer Nadeaux varieties?”

  Trell noted Korin’s blank expression and offered, “If I may…” He nodded gratefully. “We’ll have the Frangelicoste.”

  “But of course, sir. An excellent choice.”

  Trell and Korin settled into a pair of armchairs beside two tall windows opened to the evening breeze. The steward brought their liqueurs in crystal snifters and then seemingly vanished, giving them the impression that they were quite alone. Trell had always admired the man for this talent.

  Trell sipped his liqueur and regarded the young man seated across from him, who in turn was watching him uncertainly. “I thought we should speak of your impending trip to Duan’Bai, Korin.”

  Korin took a rather large gulp of his liqueur by way of reply.

  Trell had to be certain of the youth before he sent Lily off in his care. “Are you prepared for what it will mean to marry the expatriate daughter of the ruling Prince of M’Nador?”

  Though the question was a direct challenge, the youth was quick with his answer. “She is my life, sir. If living in Duan’Bai—if dying in Duan’Bai—is what she needs to chase the shadows from her soul, then I will be there at her side every step of the way.”

  Trell smiled at this answer. He’d become protective of Lily during their days together, but he saw that Korin truly loved her. “Then you too have seen the shadows behind her eyes.”

  Korin nodded.

  “What has she shared with you about her secret?”

  “Very little,” he admitted. “Only that she saw something…horrible…and she feels strongly that certain people should know.”

  “That certain person is Prime Minister Rajiid bin Yemen al Basreh, a dangerous man.”

  “She told me you agreed to give her an introduction.”

  “Indeed, but you need to understand the threat. A letter from me will get you both an audience, but it will be up to Lily to convince al Basreh of her value to the Emir—something beyond selling her back to her father.”

  It was cl
ear from the horrified expression on Korin’s face that they hadn’t envisioned that possible outcome.

  Trell considered the youth thoughtfully. “Is this what you want also, Korin? You seem ill at ease here in Sakkalaah.”

  He swallowed. “It’s too like home here, and—and at the same time not like it at all. The Cairs are—well, they’re so unlike Tal’Shira in every way except the sea that it’s easy to forget all that lies behind me.”

  Trell had spoken with countless boys of Korin’s age who were running from their past…or future. Most of those interviews had been prior to their taking an oath and becoming Converted, but what Korin and Lily were planning wasn’t much different. “And are you ready to make the commitment to the Akkad? Can you renounce your heritage fully? Are you prepared to take actions that will forever sever all ties to M’Nador? These are things al Basreh will require of you both.”

  Korin downed the last of his drink in one gulp. His gaze darkened as he lowered his glass, and for a moment Trell saw the savage hatred which the boy tried hard to conceal. “Radov abin’Hadorin had me banished for daring to love his daughter Leilah,” he said, “and that mercy was only because my father bartered two of my sisters in exchange for my life. Radov sold my sisters to an Avataren slaver and then stripped my father of his title and lands for the insult and shame of my actions.” He clenched his teeth and looked Trell in the eye. “I assure you, milord, I harbor nothing but hatred for the man and everything he represents.”

  “A man isn’t a kingdom,” Trell advised quietly.

  “I will never go back to M’Nador, sir,” Korin declared vehemently, “neither of my own accord, nor bound and tied, nor dragged in shame. I would sever my own wrists before I set foot in the kingdom again.”

  Trell set down his glass, and the steward appeared to refill them both. “In that case,” he said, “I have made arrangements for your travels. Kamil and Sayid, Ammar and Radiq, these men can be trusted. They work for coin, yes, but they were sent to me by the Khaz’im of the Bashir’Khazaaz. This is the highest of recommendations, and I believe you will be safe in their care.”

  Korin shifted in his chair. “Lily said these men were only hired for the trip to Sakkalaah.”

  “I thought it wise at the time to keep her final destination unknown to them, but I have since traveled with them, and they’ve earned my respect—moreover, they all risked themselves to save Lily once and would do it again without question.” Trell looked down and studied his glass, brimming with the amber drink. “I have spoken with Kamil, who speaks for all. Their fee will be great, and they will want to procure four additional men for additional fees. But yes, they will do it.”

  Korin had that awe-struck look again.

  Trell tossed down his drink and got to his feet, setting down his empty glass on the table. “I depart on the morn, Korin. The fate of three women is now in your hands. Krystos is prepared to assist you with whatever else you might need for your journey. Don’t hesitate to impose upon his generous nature. He has many contacts in Duan’Bai and is a valuable resource to you.”

  Trell made to go but Korin launched out of his chair and grabbed his arm. “My lord, won’t you reconsider?”

  Trell looked blank. “Reconsider what?”

  “Lily’s offer of…of knowledge.”

  Trell squeezed Korin’s hand on his arm by way of conveying his gratitude and apology both. “I cannot.”

  He left the brooding youth then, nodded his thanks to the unobtrusive steward, and headed back to his rooms. He had much to do before he could sleep yet, for there were supplies to gather for his journey and of course, the letter for Lily.

  He was in his rooms repacking the last of his cleaned things when a knock at the door heralded the maid with his requested parchment and a tray with the tea service. Trell thanked her with a coin of Agasi silver. Her eyes widened, her curtsy deepened, and she told him to call upon her at any hour should he need anything at all.

  After the fawning maid departed, Trell sat back in his chair and began mentally composing his letter to Prime Minister Rajiid bin Yemen al Basreh. Picking up the quill, he began with the usual niceties, inquiring as to the minister’s health and that of his two sons, who commanded important outposts along the Akkad’s southern border with the Forsaken Lands. That done, Trell introduced Lily and outlined her intentions in brief, allowing that she would detail her thoughts in person, and focused at last on an idea he hoped al Basreh would consider.

  He wrote, ‘…while I do not presume to dictate who can or cannot be trusted, my lord, I believe the girl is truly out of favor with her father and could prove useful to us even if the information she harbors is of no value to the kingdom. Respectfully, I ask of you, if your needs do not require her service, let the lovers retire to my holdings in the east. I would that they might know peace together for some small span of their lives.”

  Trell sat back and reread his words. The Prime Minister was one of a select few who knew that Trell had been irrevocably deeded certain holdings along the Akkad’s eastern coastline in return for his years of service to the Emir. Trell hoped Lily and Korin would find happiness together, wherever their paths led them.

  Satisfied, Trell finished off the letter with the required courtesies, sanded and blotted it, and then sealed the parchment with a bold smudge of Krystos’ favorite vermillion wax.

  As the wax hardened, Trell frowned down at the smooth circle; he knew that its lack of a signet stamp announced his hand to the Minister as well as—if not better than—any personal seal of his own, yet that very fact held such torment for him. He wondered what crest might one day fill that empty circle and whether it would indeed be a noble crest, as so many had intimated of late.

  ‘The bastard son of a nobleman is still a bastard son…’ Trell thought of his words to Fhionna, spoken so bluntly in rebuttal of her assertion, belying how much it stung him to speak them. More than anything, he wished for an honorable birth, yet more and more it seemed the other was the only answer. Lily had told him he carried a kingdom blade, whatever that implied, and Fhionna had insisted his blood was noble. What else could explain these traits were he not the bastard-born son of a nobleman? Or perhaps even worse, the illegitimate child of a lady, cast off by her lord husband and exiled as a youth lest he bring the lord dishonor.

  Even as Trell’s throat constricted with the thought, a memory came unbidden; the image of three boys, himself one of them, studying together in a high tower overlooking a charcoal sea. The memory didn’t fit the explanation of a bastard birth—he would not have been educated with pure-born brothers, and the one truth Trell held to was that the two boys were his brothers. He felt it was true in his heart of hearts, yet he also knew that he had only one brother now.

  How strange, these disjointed memories, broken pieces of a missing life. The puzzle picture that was his past had taken tentative form, yet at best it was only a border or a rough outline; the whole picture was still frustratingly absent. Empty before his vision.

  Trell focused on the folded parchment in his hands again and its simple ring of wax. Would he share a seal with his brother one day? The selfsame brother to whom he felt so closely and inexplicably bound, the other of the Mage’s kingdom blades? Or would he be cast off again by his blood, forced to go his own way with no name to call his own, his future once again holding the same darkness as his past, forming a black and featureless harmonic connected by shame and dishonor?

  ‘Our past sculpts us, Trell,’ the Emir had often told him, ‘but it does not define us completely. A dishonorable birth makes not a dishonorable man if he decides he will live an honorable life. In every waking moment, it is our next choice that makes us who we are.’

  Trell knew the Emir believed that. It was this very opinion which had spurred him to create the Converted, allowing men of any race to earn rank and fortune rather than be classified by birth or shamed forever by misdeed. Their slates were wiped clean in his eyes, and those of Jai’Gar, upon giving their
oaths. Their future was in their hands thereafter; and in truth, it was rare that a Converted crossed the Emir or the boundaries he’d set for them. Having been given a second chance—or oftentimes any chance at all—to make an honorable name for themselves with fortune to boot, these men embraced the Emir’s rules and his gods; no more loyal or steadfast a soldier there was.

  Conviction and purpose. That’s what so many of the world lacked. Trell knew the Emir had provided for both in the creation of the Converted.

  Letting out a pensive sigh, Trell set the completed letter upon the writing desk and reached for his tea, which was cool enough now to drink. Not long thereafter, he blew out the lamp and lay his head upon his pillow already anticipating tomorrow.

  But he’d barely begun drifting off when he heard a key turn in the latch of his door. He let his right hand fall alongside his bed where his sword waited at the ready, pinned between the mattresses, but when the door opened and he saw who entered, he released the weapon, if not his guard.

  “Fhionna,” he said, sitting up. “You promised.”

  “I promised you that I would never again use enchantment against you,” she agreed as she closed and relocked the door, “and to the Mother, I swore to make no children of our union.” Coming toward him with her beautiful face already flushed, she declared with tender honesty, “But I made no promise to anyone not to love you.”

  “I have a long way to travel tomorrow,” he protested, much against his body’s desire.

  She settled him a velvet smile. “Did you not say that a man who can sleep before an important journey has nothing to gain from the trip? I have merely come to ensure your travels are fruitful.”

  Trell watched helplessly as she set down the lamp and turned to him. He needed no enchantment to desire her as fiercely as he’d ever wanted any woman.

  One pull on the robe she wore released its sash, and the silk floated to her ankles, revealing all of her perfection as she slipped into his bed. “Thief of my heart,” she whispered as she slid her leg across his hips and climbed on top of him, pinning his swollen member beneath her. “Tonight is for you…all for you.” Trailing kisses down his neck, her hips began to move in rhythm with his beating heart, and she breathed lustfully, “Whatever your pleasure is my pleasure.” She sat up again, baring her breasts as her hips continued their slow undulation. “That is…if you will accept my parting gift.”