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

by McPhail, Melissa

  The prince felt power rolling over him, the same as he’d felt the night the man came to their camp, the same as his dream—a net of obscuring casting for the tender flesh of his thoughts.

  And Ean lashed out, shooting his spear as he had practiced with Creighton, holding nothing back. The stranger reeled backwards, but his mind remained as impenetrable as granite. Ean’s awareness shattered against it, gaining no hint of his pattern.

  In retribution, the stranger threw out his hand, and a wave of power hit Ean in the chest, thunder without sound. He flew backwards through the air and landed with whiplash force, leaving a long scar of bare dirt as he was cast skidding through the grass. Pain lashed all along his backside, followed by numb immobility, and Ean knew with the first pangs of fear that his spine had broken.

  He held desperately onto his pattern, protecting his mind, but it was not his mind that his enemy cared about anymore.

  Before Ean could move from the trench his body had dug in the grass, the stranger was looming above him, his face a mask of indignant fury. “I am Rinokh!” His voice boomed through the night, a reverberant thunder that rattled Ean’s insides. “You dare challenge me with parlor tricks!”

  A crushing force slammed Ean back into the earth, flattening a great sphere of lawn around him. He gasped and strained, but there was no escaping this force. He heard his rib bones crack. Pain shot in waves down his arms and legs, and still Rinokh waged that terrible power upon him, pressing him further into the earth. Ean knew pain and terror both as he felt and heard the fragile bones of his feet snap and pop. With every second the force pinned him, his bones grew weaker beneath the onslaught; he was a ship pulled beneath the crushing sea, the ribs of his hull splintering one by one.

  His hands shattered in a wave of agony, the bones of his arms following. His collarbone shattered, nearly sending him over the edge. And all the while Rinokh watched with cold satisfaction as Ean was inexorably crushed alive. Nothing could have prepared Ean for this pain, yet he could not even draw breath to scream, to call for help, to beg.

  Rinokh leaned over him, his yellowish gaze as ominous and fierce as a hurricane sea. “You will know my power now.”

  And Ean did.

  The cold settled in first, a searing cold that soon had the prince’s broken body trembling, but that was only the beginning. He felt every inch of his skin and bone being devoured, muscles quivering and snapping in death. Ean roared with the pain, but still no sound escaped him—perhaps the cruelest torment of all.

  Finally, as Ean’s vision began to blacken and he managed only the barest hiccupping of breath into shredded lungs, Rinokh knelt beside him, licked his thumb and pressed it to Ean’s forehead.

  The prince thought he’d known pain before this moment, but he hadn’t. Not by a mile.

  “Give my regards to your Maker,” Rinokh sneered.

  And Ean plummeted into the depths of agony.

  Fifty-three

  ‘Never try to out-stubborn a cat.’

  – A well-known Kandori proverb

  As Trell had expected, Carian took long in returning. When he did finally arrive, he came rolling over the hill riding a wagon loaded with firewood and whistling a jaunty tune.

  Yara set down a bowl she’d been drying from dinner and joined Trell at the door, watching as the pirate slowed the team of two draft horses to a halt between the house and barn. “Ahh…self-interest,” remarked Yara with her twinkling dark eyes fastened on the pirate, “’tis the greatest productive force known to man.”

  Carian jumped from the wagon and skipped to the door. “Ready, poppet?” he asked Trell eagerly.

  “For?”

  “Traveling. Tell her my part is done and to hand over my map.”

  “Our accord isn’t closed until you stack that wood, Islander,” Yara said in the Common tongue.

  Carian drew up short, his mouth agape. “You—!” He stabbed his finger repeatedly toward her. “You speak Common, you batty old wench!”

  “A far cry better than you,” she agreed, giving him a disapproving once-over with her dark, crinkled eyes. “And if you want to lay hands on that map tonight, you’d best hope that wood reaches my roofline, Carian vran Lea, else you’ll be hauling and chopping ere morning.”

  For a startling moment, Carian stood speechless. Then he burst out laughing. He spun a fast circle on his heel and rushed forward, grabbing Yara in an embrace that had her feet dangling off the ground. “I submit!” He bobbed her like toddler in his arms while she beat at his head and yelled for him to set her down. Finally doing so, he fell abruptly to one knee and pulled out a bag that clinked alluringly. “You take the king, mistress,” he submitted, bowing his head as he held out his coin.

  Yara eyed him shrewdly and then snatched the bag from his offering hand. “And don’t you forget it.”

  “No,” he solemnly promised, regaining his feet. “I shall never forget.”

  “And think twice before trying to steal from an old woman,” she scolded with a shaking finger.

  “Indeed, indeed,” he admitted. “I have been embarrassingly schooled.” He brushed past Trell on into the room and pulled a folded parchment from inside his vest. “Papers for travel,” he told her, laying them upon the table. “Everything you’ll need to see Solvayre—all above board. The wagon and horses are yours, too. Keep them, sell them,” he shrugged, “whatever you wish.”

  Yara broke the seal on the parchment, and as she read it over, she broke into a slow grin. For an old farm woman, she still had a lovely smile. When she was done reading, she folded the papers carefully again and looked to Carian. “Hadn’t you best be about that wood pile, vran Lea? It’s not getting any taller while you’re standing there grinning.”

  Carian saluted her, nodded to Trell and headed outside.

  Trell followed him out. “That was a good thing you did, Carian,” he murmured as they walked toward the wagon of wood.

  “We had an accord,” the pirate said. “I came through on my end. She’d best come through on hers.”

  “No doubt she will.”

  Trell helped him stack the wood, and when the better part of an hour had passed, they were finished. Carian stood in the wagon to toss the last few logs on top of the pile, and the very last one just brushed Yara’s roof. “See,” he said triumphantly. “Never let it be said I don’t meet my accords.”

  “So it would seem you’re a man of honor,” Trell agreed, smiling. “Against all odds and the Code no less.”

  The Nodefinder jumped down from the wagon and clapped Trell on the arm. “Thanks for the help. Hadn’t you best be about your horse, poppet? I’ve got pressing business in the Cairs. A new client, as it happens.”

  “Already?” Trell said, fascinated by the pirate’s ever-adventurous lifestyle.

  He puffed out his chest. “I’m a man in great demand, So…” he waved Trell off toward the barn. “Get your mount, my handsome. I’ve got a surprise for you when we get to Rethynnea, one you are sure to enjoy.” Then he scratched his head and added on second thought, “Well, I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  But Trell shook his head and smiled. “I’m going to stay for a while.”

  “What?” Carian took him by the shoulders and peered at him intently. Looking him up and down with a frown of concern, he glanced back at the farmhouse and then cautioned, “Boyo, she’s too old for you. I know she’s a spritely minx of a wench when she’s got her gander up, but wouldn’t you really rather a spring chicken than a withered old hen?”

  “It’s Gendaia,” Trell explained, suppressing a smile.

  It had happened that morning. Trell had been out to the pasture to see about a sheep that one of Yara’s neighbors had reported missing. On his return, while crossing a shallow ford in the near river, Gendaia had stumbled. Trell thought nothing of it at the time, but by the time he reached the farm, she was lame. He could see nothing visibly wrong with her leg, but he wouldn’t risk her.

  Carian sobered upon realizing that Trell t
ruly meant to stay behind. “You’re seriously not coming with me?”

  Trell shook his head. “I daren’t press Gendaia until she heals. I can make my way south at any time.”

  Carian looked uncharacteristically stricken. “But our accord…”

  “We’ll call it a debt owed,” Trell told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You can take me to the paradise of my choosing some day.”

  Abruptly the Nodefinder’s gaze turned shrewd. “One free trip to paradise—that doesn’t include a return, you know. You’ll have to negotiate extra for that.”

  “Agreed, islander. One debt. One trip across the node of my choosing.”

  Carian shoved out his hand. “Then we have a new accord.”

  Trell clasped wrists with him, and the pirate grabbed him in a rough embrace. As he pulled away, Carian’s brown eyes seemed uncommonly kind. “You are a good man, Trell of the Tides. No,” he decided, frowning, “a great man. It has been my honor knowing you.”

  “Until we meet again,” Trell said with a quiet smile, ever uncomfortable with praise.

  Carian nodded. Then he went inside.

  Yara was waiting for him at her scrubbed wooden table. She’d taken off her sweater, and now the garment lay in front of her where she was carefully clipping the threads that secured its fleece lining.

  “Well?” Carian said as he sauntered inside. “Where’s my map?”

  “I’m not about to tear the lining of my warmest sweater just because you’re in a rush to make your escape, Carian vran Lea,” Yara said without diverting her concentration from her careful work. “Have a seat,” and she motioned with her head toward a chair across the table.

  Trell entered and closed the farmhouse door as Carian was sitting down. He smiled as he watched the chair-bound Nodefinder bobbing like a school boy itching for the sunshine, his impatience making a jumping bean out of him.

  Finally, Yara had worked her way all along the bottom and side of the hem and peeled back the heavy wool. Beneath it, carefully preserved, was an ancient looking piece of canvas worked all over with spheres and dark, jagged lines. Elaborate writing and scrollwork illumined all four sides, but the writing was in a language Trell didn’t recognize. He felt certain that Krystos would’ve been able to read it, however, and made a decent guess when he said, “Is it Old Cyrenaic?”

  Carian was grinning from ear to ear, but as he reached to take the canvas in his hands, it was with the utmost reverence. “Old Alaeic, actually,” he murmured as he looked rapturously upon the map. “The language of the angiel, the Maker’s blessed children.”

  “Ma dieul tan cyr im’avec,” Trell said quietly.

  The islander spun to stare at him. “Where did you hear that?”

  “A zanthyr spoke it to me at the Mage’s sa’reyth.” He shrugged. “That’s all I know of the saying, but I got the feeling there was much more to it.”

  Carian grunted and shook his head admiringly. “You really do get around, don’t you?”

  “I’ve had my share of adventures even before meeting you, Carian vran Lea, though none quite so…flamboyant, I’ll admit.”

  Carian rolled up the map and slid it inside his vest. He stood. “You really won’t come?”

  Trell shook his head, smiled.

  Carian turned to Yara. “Tell your daughter hello for me, old woman.”

  “I’ll do that when next we meet, Islander,” she murmured, her dark eyes inscrutable.

  Trell followed Carian outside, where the islander turned and clasped wrists with him again, but he didn’t let go when Trell did, holding the latter fast. “Trell,” he said, suddenly serious, “if you ever tire of your journey and are ready to know the truth that awaits at the end, if that day comes…” and he held Trell’s grey-eyed gaze with his own dark one, “when that day comes, go to the Guild Hall in Cair Rethynnea. Tell them Carian sent you. They’ll know what to do.”

  Trell gazed into the pirate’s eyes. “I see,” he murmured. The truth was evident now: somehow since they parted, the Nodefinder had discovered Trell’s identity—or at least thought that he had. How easily the answer seemed to come to others while yet managing to elude him. There were four people in the realm thus far who were sure they knew this truth; Trell wondered if he would ever be one of them.

  For a moment as he held Carian’s intent gaze, the thought of knowing the truth seemed an irresistible temptation; he felt its pull painfully within his chest, a palpable and urgent need. Yet he owed more to those who had counseled him so wisely: to Istalar, whose advice to learn to see with his three eyes meant taking nothing at face value; to Loghain, who reminded him that what is directly in front of him may yet be untrue; and to Ramu, most of all, who taught him that all things must be learned in their time. In the intervening weeks, these ideas had become more than mere advice. They had inserted themselves into the woof and warp of his honor and were nigh inextricable. Trell knew there would be a time to learn this truth, and he also knew somehow that this was not that time.

  He gripped the pirate’s wrist in farewell. “Thank you, Carian. I will remember.”

  Carian flashed one last grin and turned away, sauntering up the hill with that telltale swagger, his wild hair blowing behind him. Trell watched him until he disappeared over the ridge, and then he returned to Yara’s cabin and quietly shut the door.

  ***

  Ever the adventurer in search of fine wine, Fynnlar val Lorian left their villa shortly after dinner to take in his favorite past-time at his favorite establishment in Rethynnea. That the Villa d’Antoinette was also the gathering place of the best courtesans in the city was merely a boon; Fynn went there mainly to gather news of the type that must be conveyed with the utmost secrecy, the kind of news where lives would be lost should it fall into the wrong hands.

  The Villa d’Antoinette was such a place, and secrets divulged there were exchanged in a no-man’s-land, a neutral sanctuary where the only crime was indiscretion, but its penalty was death. Accordingly, the Villa d’Antoinette played host to spies from every espionage agency in the realm—from Fynn’s Fellowship to Agasan’s Order of the Glass Sword and all of those in between. It was also the home of the infamous courtesan Ghislaine d’Launier, who had never lost a game of Kings—be her opponent a sheik, a prince, a scholar or the empress herself.

  The door opened to reveal a gorgeous brunette in a golden gown so lavish it would’ve rivaled the court of the richest Avatar Fire King. “Welcome, my lord,” said she, curtsying low to bless Fynn with a view of her ample cleavage. “What is your pleasure tonight?”

  “Just good wine and good company, my dear,” he replied, though his eyes were already searching the crowd for a particular head of hair.

  Leaving the courtesan at the door, Fynn made his way through the mansion at an idle pace, partaking long enough of the delights in each room to satisfy his desire, lingering no longer than was required. He of course paid homage to Ghislaine, where she lounged in a striking gown of emerald velvet on a settee in one of her game rooms. She sipped from a golden chalice while hosting six consecutive games with six different opponents, each of the latter looking serious and dark. She nodded a hello to Fynn, her dark eyes sparkling with invitation, but Fynn was far too savvy to involve himself with Ghislaine d’Launier in any capacity.

  He continued making his slow progress through the manse until he reached the third floor and one of Ghislaine’s extensive libraries. There, he found his quarry.

  Fynn grabbed a book and settled into a leather armchair next to a dark-haired woman of middle years. Her masses of ebony hair were piled in cascading waves upon her head, and if there was a grey hair among them, Fynn would be hard-pressed to discern it among the glossy curls. She wore a sanguine silk gown slashed with violet and a five-stranded necklace of ancient gold coins; and in the place of rings, every finger was tattooed with a different ornate symbol.

  “Good evening, my lady,” Fynn said.

  She looked up from her book and settled dark-bro
wn eyes on him. Her lips parted in a slow smile. “Fynnlar val Lorian…” Her voice was deep and sultry and tinged with hints of her desert roots. “Have you come to pay me the money you owe me?”

  Hearing the expected question, which was only asked if the venue was safe for repartee, Fynn quickly replied in kind, “If I did, what would we have left to talk about?”

  “Oh…family, I suppose,” she remarked. “One can always talk of family, can one not?”

  “Especially the crazy ones,” Fynn agreed neutrally.

  She settled her book in her lap and shifted to better face him. Hence followed a deeply encoded conversation that none but those well versed in their double language would understand.

  “I was thinking recently of my brother,” she observed idly. “He was an adventurer, you know. Spent quite a lot of time at sea exploring new kingdoms, always searching for Thalma’s fabled homeland where rivers ran with gold and the sweet water gives eternal life. The gods favored him in this quest, I feel certain, for he should’ve died many times over; yet while he never found Thalma’s legendary island, he always returned with some new trinket as a memento of his travels.”

  Fynn swallowed as he stared at her, for the hidden meaning behind her words was crazy—no, not crazy, nigh on impossible. “He sounds a fair fellow, your brother,” Fynn managed. “Mayhap I could meet him some day.”

  “Alas, a pirate stole his favorite sword and he went in search of him. I haven’t seen him since.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Five years to the day.”

  “Indeed,” Fynn whispered, feeling clammy under his shirt. “How very unfortunate. Have none of your relatives heard from him either?”