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

by McPhail, Melissa

  The zanthyr’s gaze was penetrating. “How did you escape?”

  Ean paused mid-step and stood still. The grief came welling back again tenfold. “My blood-brother.” He pushed palms to forehead, feeling the ache of Creighton’s loss as raw and anguished as the moment of its making, and then he shoved his hands through his hair and started walking again. “It was him.”

  The zanthyr arched a solitary raven brow.

  Ean shook his head resolutely and hunched his shoulders as he stalked back to camp. “This cannot continue,” he declared under his breath. “They’ll keep stalking me until one of us is dead, and unless I do something about it, that is sure to be me.” Abruptly Ean drew up short and looked to the zanthyr. “In my dream—or whatever it was—my blood-brother said I would learn to work my power. I cannot but imagine that I dreamed him, yet the message of the moment remains: I must learn to use my talent and you…you can teach me.” Ean couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before, for the solution was too simple. “You must teach me how to defeat him.”

  Phaedor’s expression indicated he thought this unlikely. He headed back into camp and over to the fire where Tanis sat with Cayal. Both of them looked immensely relieved to see their prince again.

  “We’ll stay here,” Ean insisted. He followed the zanthyr with his eyes, emphatic in his decision. “And you can teach me how to see through his spells and obfuscations.”

  Phaedor seated himself by the fire and rested one arm on bent knee, the other leg extended toward the flames. He pinned Ean with an assessing look. “There is a grave difference between unworking in a dream and doing it in life. The consequences are binding and irreversible.”

  “I’ve already done it three times,” Ean pointed out. “I unworked the pattern binding the Marquiin to Bethamin’s will.”

  “A stagnant pattern already in decay,” the zanthyr returned. “This man will not be so easy a mark as that.”

  “Which is why I need your help,” Ean insisted heatedly.

  The others were filtering back into camp, but they kept their distance from where the prince stood glaring down at the zanthyr. Ean’s countenance alone was enough to warn them off, but Tanis and Cayal also wore expressions that conveyed their sudden desire to be elsewhere.

  “If you pit yourself against those who seek your death,” the zanthyr advised cautiously, “you will be entering the arena. Once inside those walls, the play is to the end. There is no opting back out of this game, my prince.”

  “He marked me as his enemy,” Ean said hotly. “Björn marked me. I didn’t ask to be tagged, but now they’ve done it, I intend to play as if my life depends upon it.”

  “It does,” the zanthyr murmured with glittering emerald eyes.

  Ean glared at him. “I’m tired of being bounced around from one near-death situation to the next, harassed and prodded and captured and freed like someone’s bloody pawn.”

  The zanthyr’s gaze was wolf-keen. “You want to enter this game as a player?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you understand the consequences of that choice?”

  “I’m sure you’ll delineate them for me,” Ean muttered testily.

  Phaedor pulled out his dagger and began toying with it, making it flip three times before catching it by the point. He glanced up at Ean under the spill of his raven hair, his eyes sparkling darkly in challenge. “Pawns move among the game without ever knowing a game exists,” he told Ean, “never realizing they are being manipulated, only jumping at the players’ impetus like marionettes—flotsam on the sea of the game board, if you will.” He paused to watch Ean sit down on a rock, his expression dark, and continued then, “Pawns are protected by their players, though they know it not. Yet their lives are carefully considered with every move, whether to keep them in play or sacrifice them for the greater good of the game.”

  Ean rested elbows on knees and hung his head, exhaling a tormented sigh. He felt the zanthyr’s words—every one—like a dagger thrust to his gut. This had been his life since the moment he set foot upon the mainland; he’d been someone’s pawn from the start—perhaps the pawn of multiple players—and he suspected the zanthyr knew this as well as he did. Lifting his gaze to the creature before him, Ean inquired tightly, “And players?”

  The zanthyr leveled him an ominous stare. “Players make their moves at will, reassured only by their own resolve, facing dire consequences, protected by no one, and shielded by nothing but the force of their conviction.”

  Ean held the zanthyr’s gaze. “How can I be a player if I don’t know the game being played?”

  “How can you be a pawn,” Phaedor challenged in return, “when you know a game exists?”

  Acknowledging the obvious truth of this, Ean straightened. He knew there was no going back, nor did he want to. He’d rather be a participant than a spectator, and certainly he’d rather play than be played. “So be it.”

  “Welcome to the game.” There was something decidedly predatory about the gleam in Phaedor’s eyes. In an instant he was on his feet and gliding away from camp. “Coming, my prince?” he called without turning.

  Feeling suddenly reluctant, Ean stood to follow, but as he trotted to catch up with Phaedor, the prince got the idea that somehow this had been the outcome the zanthyr was expecting all along.

  ***

  Alyneri was grateful for the day spent in camp, for it gave her time to recover her composure, time to gather herself and her belongings back into order, time to reflect on what she’d witnessed and learned.

  She spent a good part of the day walking the near woods gathering any medicinal plants she happened to pass, though mostly she just wandered, grateful for the opportunity to be alone with her thoughts. At one point she found herself out on the point where Ean had spent his night. She got down on hands and knees and inched to the edge, looking down to the frothing whitewater so far below. Then she lay there feeling dizzy and frayed, fighting off a latent sense of panic. It was a great force of effort to keep from fretting over what could’ve happened, for Ean had been so close to death that only divine grace must’ve saved him.

  She said a prayer of thanks to Epiphany and then, out of respect, added a prayer of equal gratitude to Cephrael—for who knew if Ean wasn’t somehow involved in some grand stroke of His hand. Certainly divinity was as logical as any other explanation for the many inexplicable things that had been happening to them.

  As she walked a circuitous route back to their campsite, Alyneri heard the zanthyr’s deep voice drifting through the trees, and something compelled her to follow it back to its source. It was late afternoon when she came upon a dense grove where towering redwood and spruce made a giant cavern of limbs overhead and barely a shaft of sunlight peeked through. She stopped at the edge of the grove and watched Ean studying with the zanthyr.

  The prince made no notice of her arrival, for his eyes were closed in concentration, his hands extended in front of him with palms out as if to stop an intruder, and though the zanthyr did not turn his disturbing gaze upon her, Alyneri felt certain that he’d known of her approach long before she arrived.

  As she watched the still scene, she became aware of elae being worked within, and the knowledge came as an unsettling realization.

  When Adepts worked their gift—whether it be Healing or Truthreading or any other inherent Adept talent—the currents were rarely affected, though they carried with them a record of the working as they flowed. But when an Adept worked patterns outside of his inherent strand, the currents were forced to shift and adapt. Sometimes these workings were so minor as to require little change in the currents to absorb them—such as a trace-seal. More detailed workings affected the currents like boulders in the path of a river; even then, the currents typically retained their course, merely shifting around or over the working but maintaining the same channel of motion.

  The most dramatic workings of elae created such a disturbance that the currents were blasted from their natural course altoget
her, dispersing instead in waves radiating away from the point of contact. This type of working was incredibly dangerous, for it always then impacted the Balance—that most nebulous of Laws which was oft-interpreted and rarely understood—and could be detected by other Adepts who had the slightest sensitivity.

  Alyneri’s arms soon itched from the currents washing over her, which she felt as tingling upon her skin; waves scattering outward from the central disturbance that was Ean and the zanthyr. She couldn’t conceive of what they were doing to require such a concentration of elae, but she didn’t need to understand its nature to know that it terrified her.

  Suddenly Ean cried out and doubled over, and instantly the itching ebbed and faded, the currents resuming their usual course. She resisted the urge to rush to him as he bent and pushed hands to knees, his head hung as if with exhaustion, for she knew that whatever working Ean was about, the zanthyr had it in hand.

  “Shadow take me,” Ean gasped, his breath coming ragged. He looked up beneath his brows at the zanthyr, who stood as still as stone and seemed utterly unaffected, and managed, “How did you…do that?”

  “It is a matter of how much force you can control. You were at your limit.” He added with shadowy amusement, “I was not.”

  Ean straightened and wiped his brow with one forearm. “That was better though,” he said as he dropped his arm to his side wearily.

  The zanthyr gave him a quietly nod. “It was.”

  “But not good enough. Not nearly good enough.” Ean pushed palms to his temples and leaned his head back. Alyneri could tell he was completely exhausted and was only standing through sheer force of will.

  “You must find your focus faster,” the zanthyr agreed.

  “I know,” Ean said tightly. Alyneri wondered at the significance of this, though it was clear from Ean’s tense expression that he understood too well what it meant. He swayed slightly in place, and Alyneri had seen enough.

  “Ean,” she said, calling his attention.

  He dropped his hands and looked to her. “Oh,” he said, giving her a smile. “Hi.”

  “You need to rest.” She walked over to him and placed fingers to his temples, her palms cupping his face. It was so easy for her to find his pattern now—incredible it had been so hard that first time. She let some of her own lifeforce seep across into him through their contact. No need to draw upon elae; she had plenty to give to him.

  He smiled and gazed into her eyes. “Thanks.”

  She frowned and dropped her hands. “Don’t mention it.” Looking to the zanthyr, who hadn’t moved a hair, she said, “He needs rest or he will end up harming himself.”

  “I quite agree,” Phaedor murmured.

  Ean held up a hand in surrender. “Fine. I’ll go find something to eat.” He turned and left the grove, but Alyneri got the sense that it was a great effort for him just to place one foot in front of the other.

  She turned to the zanthyr and frowned. “May I speak with you?”

  “You’ve never needed my permission to speak your mind before, Duchess,” Phaedor replied in his deep, resonant voice, akin to a purr but echoic of a growl. “Why start now?”

  Alyneri drew in her breath and let it out in a sigh, furrowing her brow as she regarded him. “You do make it difficult, don’t you?”

  Phaedor cracked a shadowy grin and hooked thumbs in his sword belt. “What’s on your mind, Duchess?”

  She dropped her gaze. “I was wrong before.”

  “About?”

  Her eyes flashed to his. “About you.”

  Phaedor arched a solitary brow. “In which way?”

  “I can see that Ean needs you, and you must’ve known that he would, for you’ve come to help him and keep him safe.”

  “Have I?” Phaedor gave her a wry look. “What then of my ‘impeccable timing’ to quote the royal cousin?” He pulled his dagger and began tossing it idly. “You know of the conversation I reference: my arrival among your company just in time to protect you with my ‘fell power’ from a man who may or may not have been my own accomplice—a ploy merely to gain favor and earn a place of trust within your number. Were you not just discussing the matter with the royal cousin yesterday?”

  Alyneri’s expression darkened, but she was determined not to let the creature rouse her ire. She got the idea that he meant only to test her troth, and she intended to pass his damned test. “Ean’s welfare isn’t always Fynn’s first concern.”

  “Nor is it always yours,” the zanthyr pointed out.

  “But it is for me more often than it is for Fynn,” she retorted irritably. Who was the infernal creature to so readily know her innermost thoughts, anyway?

  “But that isn’t why you’ve come to me. Is it?” His penetrating gaze swept her, making her blush and stealing her breath in the same moment. Alyneri thought he was perhaps the most handsome—and most frightening—man she’d ever met.

  “I just…I—” but his manner had thrown her composure well out of reach.

  “Let me,” Phaedor offered. “You found yourself drawn to seek me out, but you’re not certain why.”

  Alyneri huffed irritably and crossed her arms.

  Phaedor chuckled. “Why not try the truth, Your Grace. It becomes more palatable the longer you partake of it, and you have never been very good at dissembling.” He tossed his dagger again and added, “This is one positive aspect of your nature.”

  Alyneri leveled him a smoldering look. The worst of it was he was right; she didn’t know why she’d wanted to speak to him, but his knowing that didn’t make it any easier to figure out. So she jumped to the other side of that creek and asked instead, “What is your connection with Tanis?”

  Phaedor cast her a sage look. “Ah…so we turn to less difficult questions, do we? All right.” He tossed raven locks from his eyes and regarded her coolly. “Why do you think I have any interest in the boy at all?”

  “I know that you do,” she asserted, arms still crossed. “Farshideh told me you were the one who brought him to Fersthaven as a boy, and I’ve seen the manner in which you look upon him.”

  He arched a raven brow. “And how is that?”

  She held his gaze stubbornly. “Like a father.”

  The zanthyr flipped his dagger again. “I am no relation to the boy.”

  “I didn’t say you were. But you have some interest in him, I know it is so.”

  “And you wish to assure yourself of my benign intentions, do you?”

  “No.” She approached him boldly. “I want to know why. I want to know how you knew when Farshideh was going to die, and why Tanis wasn’t affected by Bethamin’s Fire. I know you know these things.” She stopped just a pace in front of him and forced herself to meet his gaze, but standing so close to him proved harder than she’d imagined. This creature both thrilled and terrified her. She felt entrapped by the mystery surrounding him, compelled to understand him. Frustratingly desirous of his trust.

  The zanthyr calmly admired her with unrepentant candor until she blushed and stepped back, dropping her eyes. “Trust,” he murmured then, “is a tricky, complicated bond, Duchess. Truth, however, is inherently simple and though often painful, is a much more remunerative pursuit.”

  With that, he turned and strode into the forest, disappearing among the dense darkness. She was only thankful that he hadn’t vanished in front of her, and knew somehow that it was a parting grace, an acknowledgement that while he’d answered none of her questions, he had still granted her something in the exchange.

  Fifty-one

  ‘There is no higher purpose to him than the playing of a game.’

  – The Second Vestal Dagmar Ranneskjöld

  The ferry harbor in the Free City of Cair Rethynnea was a series of long, wide stairs running all the way down into the azure waters of the Bay of Jewels. Rather than use a carved marble border wall like Cair Xerses, or the immense gilded gates of Cair Palea’andes, the city of Rethynnea welcomed its arriving guests with seventy hundred-foot column
s situated atop the harbor stairs, each enameled in bands of garnet, silver and cobalt-blue. Beyond this impressive gateway, the massive temple-style structures, monuments and ornamental statues of Cair Rethynnea gleamed in their limestone casings, a glaring white centerpiece between the aqua sea and the azure sky.

  Upon the ferry Delia’s Sprite, Ean and his company watched as the city neared. They’d reached Cair Xerses that morning and from there had hired a ferry to transport them to the city of Rethynnea, which was known to all as the Jewel of the Cairs.

  Ean stood at the ferry railing watching as they neared the harbor stairs, his expression darkly tormented, his thoughts conflicted. Somewhere in this city, Björn awaited. It was ill news he wished he’d never learned, nor was the manner of its gaining any more pleasant, though the dream had been almost blissful at first…

  He’d raced with Creighton along a cold, windswept beach beneath rain-laden clouds. The wind whipped the deep charcoal waves into froth, and long lines of foam striated the dark sand, just waiting to be scattered by thundering hooves. They rode into the wind, their cloaks flying behind them, laughing with the thrill of the race. It was neck and neck, Creighton’s black stallion inching his nose toward Caldar’s, their flanks nearly touching. And then Caldar extended his neck, lengthened his leg, and fired forward, spattering Creighton in foam as he sped across the finish.

  Laughing exuberantly, Ean eased back on his reins and trotted Caldar in a circle back to where his friend had slowed. It was strange to see him there, to hear his voice so clearly, and yet to find his face constantly shadowed and blurred. It troubled Ean. Did it mean he was already forgetting his blood-brother’s features that he couldn’t see him clearly even in his dreams?

  “Congratulations, Highness,” Creighton said as he dismounted. He led his stallion toward a bonfire in the lee of two high dunes.