Phaedor just watched him in his quiet, intense way. Theirs was a bond of centuries of trust, but also a bond of the strongest magic, and both were bonds even death could not sever.
“We should hurry,” the zanthyr said.
Björn nodded. He opened his hands, palms up, and the zanthyr did the same, so that they stood as mirrors of one another perhaps twenty paces apart. Closing their eyes, their minds perfectly synchronous, they reached out with the power only an Adept of the fifth might master and began the laborious process of recalling Rinokh’s devouring deyjiin.
They worked through the night.
The moon watched in solemn silence, the stars gleaming their fascination, as the two men painstakingly reined back Rinokh’s sprawling power, drawing it forth from stone and wood, earth and iron, tearing its devouring claws out of rock, out of walls, even out of the rising wind.
As the sun rose over the Assifiyahs, bringing golden light into the world and setting the heavens to flame, Phaedor drew the last tendril of deyjiin from the realm and exhaled a long breath, a cool wind across the marble sand. Around him, the Temple of the Vestals was a crumbling relic, its marble walls half-devoured, the dome destroyed and roof open to the sky, but the realm had been cleansed of Rinokh’s destructive power. Already the currents were resuming their natural paths.
Phaedor released elae and lifted his gaze to his master.
Björn smiled.
Phaedor spoke to him for the last time. “Be careful, ma dieul,” he whispered. It was a fervent plea, a desperate entreaty, a haunting warning all in one.
Björn gave him a long look, conveying more with his deep blue eyes than any words might express. Then, with one last glance of farewell, he turned and crossed the node, vanishing as if he had never been.
Epilogue
Trell of the Tides…
Trell woke to the echo of Naiadithine’s whisper and the lingering feel of Fhionna’s kiss upon his lips. Sitting up in his bed, he glanced over to see Yara still asleep. The storm had been fierce last night, but the grey dawn light beyond the room’s single window hinted at a clear morning to come.
Feeling oddly unsettled, Trell climbed from bed and pulled on his britches, shoving them absently into his boots. He grabbed his heavy cloak and threw it around his bare shoulders before wandering out into the misty dawn. The sun hadn’t yet cleared the high hills, but patches of sky could be seen through the morning mist.
He checked on the animals as he headed across the farmstead, but all was well with Yara’s tidy holding. And then he turned in the direction of the distant river as if listening for its call.
Yes, it was there he was meant to go.
It was a ten minute walk, long enough for his boots to become soaked and to wish he’d donned more than a cloak against the cold. He wasn’t sure what drew him to the river, perhaps some essence of a dream he could no longer recall, remembering only Naiadithine’s parting whisper.
As he walked, his hand found its way to Lily’s engraved silver vial. He ran his thumb along its sides etched so prettily with floral designs that oddly reminded him of Fhionna. As he clenched the little vial in his hand, he thought of Carian and the others who claimed to know his identity, and he wondered if they were correct in their guesswork. Friends and strangers had been telling him who they thought he might be for years, but Trell wasn’t interested in who they thought he might be. And he knew too well that simply because someone felt certain of his origins, that didn’t make the information true.
No, he had to discover the information for himself. The end does not justify the means. His honor—to himself and to his friends—kept him on his path, wherever it may lead.
At the moment, however, it seemed to be leading to the river.
The water was high after the night’s rains, muddied and swollen beyond its bounds. As Trell watched, an uprooted tree bobbed past, paying testimony to the river’s strength. Something was caught within its branches—a dark canvas upon a mangled frame that might’ve belonged to a coach or a covered wagon.
A protruding boulder downstream caught his eye where the fast-moving water churned and frothed around it. Trell walked over and climbed upon its slick face, finding a seat at its furthest edge. He hugged his knees and drew his cloak around his legs…and listened.
Beneath him, muddy water surged. The rushing music in his ears sounded no different from the song of the Cry, though the melody was sung by two very different rivers.
All rivers sing the same song, each in harmony to the other.
Had Fhionna told him that? Or had the knowledge come with a dream, one of so many of late? He couldn’t remember now, but he knew it to be true.
Since saying farewell to Carian, Trell had spent many long hours sitting at the river’s edge honing his ear to the riversong. While it never sang to him as clearly as it sang to one of its own daughters, Trell fancied he could now sometimes hear its melody as cleanly as if the pirate hummed it right next to his ear.
That morning, however, as Trell cleared his mind to let the riversong in, he realized the water sounded angry, troubled, anxious. It rushed in haste, not because it was laden with heavy rains, but to…what?
Trell shifted on the rock and concentrated again. Opening his mind to listen, he finally found purpose to his sense of anxiety. Something was very wrong, and the riversong brought news of it. He tried to understand the cacophony of voices that was the river’s music, but even had he the skill, his own unease now inhibited the quietude necessary for understanding.
Frustrated, Trell lifted grey eyes to frown upstream. Another uprooted tree was coming toward him, carried upon the rushing waters, one end a tangle of gnarled roots draped in debris. But as the tree bobbed and spun, a flash of something within the mass caught his eye.
Suddenly tense, Trell stared at the tree, willing the waters to shift and turn it that he might better see what had snared his attention so completely.
Just as the tree floated past, Naiadithine complied with his desires, for the massive tree snagged upon something buried deeply and caught, swinging around to bring the root system close.
And there, tangled within the roots, lay a woman.
Trell was out of his cloak and diving into the river before he had a chance to think. He hit the muddy water to find it bracingly cold. As he surfaced, Naiadithine swept him directly to the still lodged tree, slamming him against its thick trunk. With the water sweeping over his shoulders, Trell inched his way along the slippery wood until he could grab the roots. He hauled himself up into the root thicket and wedged his knees in place.
Mud covered the woman like a blanket, but her face was free of the water and he hoped—he prayed—that she might still be alive. He felt for a pulse at her neck, holding his breath until…there.
She was alive, but barely so, a pulse so faint he might’ve missed it without his gift of patience.
Trell lifted his head and looked around for anything to aid him, and in that moment the tree dislodged from the deep water and started floated freely again. He watched with growing hope as the river carried them ever closer to a curve in the bank. Could it be that Naiadithine wanted him to save this woman? It certainly seemed so, for with one great thrust, the river shoved the tree into the far bank, wedging it momentarily into the earth.
Trell had only seconds. As the far end of the tree began swinging around with the current, he scrambled into the shallows and gathered the woman into his arms, disentangling her only an instant before the river ripped the massive tree away.
Trell fell backwards onto a the bank with the unconscious woman on top of him. He lay there panting for a few heartbeats, allowing his heart to settle, and said a prayer of thanks to Naiadithine for her help. Then he rolled the woman gently onto the earth beside him.
With tender care, he cleaned the mud from her face, noting with concern the deep bruises around her eyes and the swollen gash in her head. He looked her over carefully then, and found that her arm was also broken. He couldn�
�t know what damage she’d retained deeper within, but the bruising around her eyes did not bode well for her condition. He’d seen many a man who fell from on high display bruises of this nature, and most of them died in a few short hours though nothing had seemed outwardly wrong. To his knowledge, no Healers lived nearby, so he knew it was up to him and Yara to aid this woman.
First making a splint for her broken arm using sticks and cloth torn from her skirt, Trell then gently lifted her in his arms. As he headed back toward the farm beneath a bright morning sky, he thought he heard Naiadithine’s approving whisper.
Follow the water, Trell of the Tides.
***
Errodan Renwyr n’Owain val Lorian, Queen of Dannym and the Shoring Isles, stood upon the icy, snow-crusted pier as dawn colored the morning clouds in pale rose-gold. She stood with straight shoulders though grief ravaged her and voices of the unknown taunted of a terrible future in store.
There was no news of Ean save that he lived, but somehow she no longer feared for her youngest son. He was upon his path with boon companions to aid and protect him, and she had faith that Destiny had need of his life still. No, it was her own fate, and that of her king, that terrified her now.
Her green eyes lingered on the ship sailing out of the harbor with the dawn tide. Soon it would be around the point and out of view, but so long as she could see its sails, she meant to remain there.
She could just make out Gydryn’s tall form on the poop deck and his silver-edged cloak flying taut in the icy wind. From such distance, he seemed a young man, as like her own sons—broad-shouldered and lean, virile, emboldened by the vigor of youth and ready to stare death in the face with an impudent grin. No doubt he felt a measure of those things still, for he was such a man yet in many ways, even with fifty years beneath his name. But for Errodan, watching her husband sail away even as her two eldest sons had gone before was almost too much to bear.
“He will return to you,” Ysolde said quietly. She slipped an arm around Errodan’s waist and let her take comfort in their closeness, though there was little reassurance in it. Her husband sailed into the face of treachery while she remained to face a different demon, a man by the name of Stefan val Tryst, Duke of Morwyk. Should either of them survive the next few months, it would be by Epiphany’s will alone, for gods knew the odds were against them.
Errodan feared the dark times ahead; she knew it would take all of her strength to weather them.
Wrapping an arm about her companion in turn, Errodan pulled Ysolde closer, lamenting that her companion’s slim waist was such a poor substitute for her husband’s solid form. “Epiphany willing,” she breathed in reply, barely voicing the statement lest Fortune take offense.
The ship was rounding the point now. In only moments it would be gone from her sight. Errodan caught her bottom lip between her teeth lest it tremble and betray her feelings to those who watched. She wished in that last moment of parting that she might reach out to her husband and pull him back to her to never again let go.
Then the ship was gone.
“Fair winds,” Ysolde murmured.
Keeping her expression neutral by raw strength of will, Errodan pressed a hand to her belly and tried to breathe deeply through the nausea. Though she had every reason and right, it wasn’t fear that made her sick that morning.
She turned to Ysolde.
“He will come back to you,” the Fire Princess reassured again.
Swallowing her resolve, Errodan looked back to the deep sea, which was mercuric beneath the rising sun. “Yes,” she murmured with her hand cupped protectively across her belly—still flat though she measured two months into the pregnancy. “He must.” For his fourth child awaits his blessing.
###
Glossary of Terms
Underlining within definitions denotes words that may be found in this glossary.
Adept (a´-dept) n. [Old Alæic] 1 One born with the instinctive ability to sense and compel one of the five strands of elae 2 a race of such persons, each with attributes intrinsic to the strand of elae that modified them [an adept of the third strand] 3 A Healer, Nodefinder, Truthreader, or Wildling.
angiel (ahn geel´) n. [Old Alæic] The Maker’s two blessed children, Cephrael and Epiphany, who were made in the Genesis to watch over His worlds.
Avieth (ay´ vee eth) n. [Old Alæic, bird] A third-strand Wildling race of shapeshifters with the ability to assume two distinctly separate forms: human and hawk.
Awaken (awaken) v. [ ] Adepts who have Returned awaken to their inherent abilities usually during the transition of puberty but sometimes as early as two years of age.
Balance (bal ans) n. [ ] The term used to describe the highest force of cause and effect in the realm of Alorin; the natural laws of the realm which define how far the currents may be twisted out of their natural paths by wielders of elae before manifest retribution is incurred by the wielder. These laws are of much consideration among the various Adept Guilds and a topic of intense speculation and theorization.
Cephrael (sef ray el) n. The Maker’s blessed son. Ascribed as the Hand of Fate, Cephrael is responsible for administering the Maker’s ultimate justice. See also angiel.
drachwyr (drak wer) n. [Old Alæic] An Adept of the fifth strand of elae: the drachwyr were banished to the icy edges of the realm in the year 597aV. Also called a Sundragon.
elae (e-lā´) n. [Old Alæic, elanion, life, force; the power of life] 1 The itinerant (roaming) energy that, in its accumulation and formation, creates the pattern that becomes the foundation of a world 2 pertaining to any of the five codified strands of this energy, each with distinctly separate attributes.
Epiphany (e pif fany) n. The Maker’s blessed daughter. Epiphany is the speaker of the Maker’s will and is often turned to in prayer when seeking divine blessing. See also angiel.
Espial (espy´-al) n. [Cyrenaic espyen
Fhorg (forg) n. One of the Wildling races known for their abuse of blood magic.
Geshaiwyn (gesh´ ay win) n. [unknown] One of the Wildling races with the dual ability to travel the leis as well as to shift their features to mimic those of another.
Healer (heel er) n. [Old Alæic haelan > hal whole] An Adept of the first strand of elae who has the ability to see the life patterns of living things and compel the creative forces of the first strand to alter them.
leis (ley) n. [Old Alæic leis] The shortest pathway available to a Nodefinder when using the pattern of the world to travel, often connecting spaces within a small geographic area.
malorin’athgul (muh loren ath gool) n. [Old Alæic, they who make the darkness] A race of beings from beyond the known realms of Light who were birthed by the Maker to balance Creation by unmaking the universe at its far unraveling fringes while at its core it is constantly expanding.
Marquiin (mar kwin) n. Truthreaders sword to the Prophet Bethamin who have survived his purifying Fire and are now cleansed of elae.
Merdanti (mer dan te) n. [Agasi] 1 An extremely hard black stone named for the region of Agasan in which it is found 2 a weapon forged using the fifth strand of elae and usually made from this stone.
Na’turna (nah toor nah) n. [Old Alæic < nare turre, of the earth] a non-Adept; mortal.
node (nod) n. [Old Alæic nodus, knot ] The points where the pattern of the world conjoins. Nodes connect places in vastly different geographic regions and allow a Nodefinder to travel great distances within a few steps. In the realm of Alorin, nodes also connect to the neighboring realm of T’khendar due to the nature of the latter’s formation.
Nodefinder (nod-fin der ) n. [Old Alæic nodus, knot + findan, find] Adept of the second strand of elae who sees the points where the pattern of the world conjoins (called nodes) and can use these points to travel vast distances; see also Espial.
Patterning (pat´ərn·ŋ)
v. [Veneisean patrun, patron, hence something to be imitated, pattern] The technology comprising the use of patterns to compel the strands of elae to move against their natural course, an action (also called wielding) which is often erroneously referred to as magic.
raedan (ray´ -dan]) n. [Old Alæic raedan, to guess, read, counsel] 1 One trained to read the currents of elae and thereby able to discern the workings of patterns and their effects throughout the realm.
realm (relm´) n. [Veneisean, realme (altered by assoc. with reiel, royal) < Cyrenaic, regere, to rule] 1 A kingdom 2 One of the thousand linked worlds, each represented by an elected Seat and four Vestals in the governing cityworld of Illume Belliel 3 The realm of Alorin.
Return (Returned, Returning) (return) n. [Agasi, strônd] An Adept who has died and been reborn. See also Awakening.
Shade (sheyd) n. [Old Alæic, sceadu, to protect, cover] A formidable creature with many abilities, including the power to work deyjiin. First seen during the Adept Wars, their origins are unclear but are attributed to the wielder Malachai ap’Kalien.
Sobra I’ternin n. [origin unknown] The ancient text most often attributed to the angiel Cephrael, which details the natural laws of patterns in thaumaturgic application. The book is itself written in patterns and has yet to be fully translated. Many Orders are dedicated to its study, translation and adaptation for use in the Adept Arts.
strand n. [Agasi, strônd] 1 Any of the parts that are bound together to form a whole [the strands of one’s life] 2 Referring to any of the five composite aspects of elae and its five attributive fields of energy (respectively: strand 1:creative energy, 2:kinetic energy, 3:variant energy, 4:energy of thought, 5:elemental energy).
thread (thred) n. [Old Alæic thræd, to bind] A colloquial term used when speaking of a group of four men of a specific race, as opposed to a String, which is a grouping of six.
Tiern’aval (teer na vol) n. An island city, one of the Free Cities of Xanthe, which vanished at the end of the Adept wars circa 597aV. The city’s fate remains a mystery.
Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One Page 102