Kingdom Blades (A Pattern of Shadow & Light 4)

by McPhail, Melissa

  Ean thrust a glare at him, dual-shafted of fury and despair. “Tell me this, brother. If her actions stand above reproach, why does she feel such guilt? Oh, yes,” he glowered in response to Sebastian’s surprise, “Isabel’s side of the bond is saturated with regret.”

  Ean directed his gaze back towards the dark line of the Dhahari Mountains. “Now I’m bound to her and bound to this game…and I would be free of both of them.”

  “Ean…you don’t mean that.”

  Ean gave him a look that said he absolutely did.

  Sebastian searched his brother’s face. To his relief, he saw more than a lover’s wounded pride there. “It’s not just Isabel, is it?” He looked Ean over, trying to decipher the impressions he was getting. “It’s not this task she set for us either, so…is it the dreams that have you in such a black humor?”

  After a moment, Ean bowed his head, a silent acknowledgment.

  Sebastian arched brows. “It’s that bad?”

  Ean worked the muscles of his jaw, staring off. “In Rethynnea, when Rinokh invaded my thoughts, I was sure my brain was going to explode.” He looked balefully to Sebastian. “That was before he broke every bone in my body. And when he licked his thumb and cast his power into me, I could feel it etching my soul, corroding my connection to elae…dissolving me.”

  “Shade and darkness, Ean—”

  Ean looked back to the view. “These dreams are nearly as bad.”

  Sebastian stared at his brother with concern narrowing his brows. “And Dareios’s pattern of warding…?”

  “It works.” Ean clenched his jaw. “Some of the time.”

  Sebastian pushed the hair from his eyes, not knowing what to say. Words were a shallow consolation in any case.

  Ean pressed himself away from the railing and hung his head between his arms. “If they were just dreams…I don’t know—I’d like to think I could endure them. But these visions are invested with peril and purpose, and a desperate sense of loss so devastating and real…”

  Sebastian regarded Ean more closely. “What do you mean, ‘if they were just dreams’?”

  Ean turned his head to look at him. “All the time, Sebastian—they’re coming at me all the time. I can barely think for the barrage of images. Only the fifth seems to hold them off, so I hold onto it for as long as I can.”

  He was describing an experience Sebastian himself had known when Dore’s patterns concealing his true past had finally burst. His heart went out to his brother. “They’re memories, Ean?”

  Ean rested forearms on the balustrade. “I told you how so much of Arion’s knowledge of Patterning had come back to me, yes?” He worked the muscles of his jaw while staring off. “It hasn’t been without cost.”

  Sebastian leaned his hip against the railing. “Little brother, I’ve seen you do things with the fourth strand that made even Dareios arch a brow. Ean…” Sebastian bent to capture Ean’s bleakly absent gaze, “what if this experience is your own doing?”

  Ean blinked. Then he straightened. “What do you mean?”

  Sebastian tossed his blowing hair out of his eyes. “When you were instructing me in how to escape the Labyrinth, you suggested leaving clues for myself, even as you had done.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “The Labyrinth is a fourth-strand construct, right?”

  Ean nodded.

  “So…couldn’t there be other fourth-strand constructs—layered patterns that bind memories and thoughts together?”

  “I suppose, but—”

  “Ean, what if these dreams—these memories so plaguing you—what if they’re something you did? What if binding his memories into a fourth-strand construct was the only way Arion knew to restore his memories to himself—to you—in a future life?”

  Ean regarded him with a furrowed brow.

  “He could’ve done it as a last desperate act.” The idea was claiming a firmer place in Sebastian’s conviction the more he considered it. “That’s why the memories have such peril and purpose embedded in them. Somehow you’ve broken the vessel that contained them, and now they’re trying to find their rightful place in your recollection.”

  Ean’s frown deepened.

  Sebastian looked his brother over. “Isabel told me that I should try to help you remember your past, and we’ve been doing that together. But now I’m starting to think you don’t need me at all. You only need to trust yourself and let these memories come—however painful they may be. You just need to—”

  “Have faith in my path?” Ean’s tone held an echo of emptiness.

  Sebastian held his gaze. “As Isabel would say, what else is there for us to do but walk it?”

  ***

  Ean stood on the balcony outside his bedchamber watching the Kandori sky darken behind the Eidenglass Range. He stayed there until all that remained of the day was a fiery line beneath a greenish glow. Overhead, a storm was blowing in and rapidly consuming the clear night, even as memories belonging to another man were overtaking Ean’s thoughts.

  He’d released the fifth; likewise Dareios’s fourth-strand pattern. Now the rising wind buffeted him, much in concert with the images pounding his overtaxed mind.

  Had the heterogeneous pictures come with some point of reference, some context in which to frame them, he might’ve…well, not welcomed them, but at least found relief in finally gaining some understanding. But they flashed into being and out again like spears crossing left or right of the mark, leaving him reeling from the confusing echo of their passing.

  His father had spoken to him once about different kinds of bravery—on the field of battle, in ruling disparate peoples, in maintaining one’s sense of integrity amid the politics of kings—but King Gydryn had never mentioned the inherent bravery of admitting fault, or in the claiming of responsibility for another man’s sins.

  Inarguably, Ean was remembering actions from Arion’s life. Yet if they were not also somehow his own acts, why did he feel such a grave sense of conscience surrounding them? In the same breath he felt entirely disconnected from the man he’d once been yet wholly bound to Arion’s choices and deeds. It was so difficult, this odd mishmash of sensations—the vernal hopes of a young man warring against a dead man’s failures, with a thorny vein of betrayal threaded throughout it all.

  Ean wanted to be able to assign this feeling of betrayal entirely to Isabel’s recent treason; yet in moments when clarity and reason prevailed, he deeply feared that this sense of betrayal was an echo of some guilt he harbored over Arion’s choices—deeds as yet unknown and hidden, their truth denied him. The two layering betrayals had become inextricably entwined, even as his life and Arion’s had become, even as he and Isabel were.

  He stayed on the balcony until the night turned black—long hours being chilled by the buffeting wind—and only sought his bed when an icy spring rain drove him inside. Then he lay in darkness for another long while, trying not to think about anything, yet over-thinking everything.

  Finally, he fell asleep…

  And found himself in Isabel’s chambers in Niyadbakir.

  A wall of mullioned doors stood open to admit the evening breeze, which was fluttering the sheer curtains. Wielder’s lamps in wall sconces cast a golden glow across the room, imparting a jeweled quality to the air. Ean looked around, seeing sumptuous couches…

  And at the far end of the room, haloed by the diffuse light, Isabel.

  It hurt Ean to see her. It hurt him more to feel suddenly denied the right to gather her into his arms, as if she’d become another man’s property since they separated at Ivarnen. He stood in the well of his own silence, bound by walls of emotion that found no expression.

  Isabel folded an opalescent robe about her form and came towards him, tying the sash. Her chestnut hair draped long across one shoulder. She was not wearing her blindfold.

  Why wasn’t she wearing her blindfold now of all bloody times? Did she think to encourage his forgiveness with the blessing of her colorless gaze? It only infuriated h
im more that she’d revealed her eyes to him at a time when such a scar of anger prevented his enjoyment of it. For some unfathomable reason, this hurt Ean the most.

  In that moment, if his gaze could have injured her as deeply as her betrayal had wounded him, he would have allowed it to do so. In the next moment, he turned away.

  “Ean…” Her voice both entreated and caressed him through the bond with an unwelcome, yet desperately missed, intimacy.

  “I’ve come because you demanded it.” Ean felt like his body had been strung along the fine edge of a blade, with betrayal’s weighty hand forcing him down along the razor length. “But you’ve no right to engage with me intimately, Isabel. Not now.”

  She stared at him for a moment’s startled pause. Then she said quietly, “Very well. Thank you for coming.”

  Ean clenched his jaw. It made him feel no better to injure her as she’d injured him—damn it all.

  He sensed more than saw her moving closer. “Sebastian told me Rhys is recovering and that you’re working to find a way to destroy the eidola.”

  “Is that why you’ve made me come? To hear the progress I’ve made on the tasks you assigned me?”

  He felt her uncertainty in her hesitation, sensed its tugging along their bond. He’d halted her approach with the venom in his tone. Now she stood five paces away, all but demanding his attention with the stillness of her thoughts.

  “At Ivarnen…” Isabel was gazing levelly at him, but Ean got the impression that she stood with her back to the wall, bravely facing a line of archers. “Darshan was coming for you, Ean. He’d latched onto your life pattern when you unworked his eidola, and he was following you on the currents. I did what I could to protect you.”

  Ean turned her a cold stare. “What you did at Ivarnen isn’t at issue, Isabel.”

  “Ean…” the slightest hint of frustration came into her tone, “there are things you need to know—”

  “All I need to know is did you lay with him?” his words cracked like lightning through the bond.

  Isabel held his gaze, but hers was deeply troubled. “Yes.”

  Ean clenched his jaw and turned away. Fury boiled violently in his chest; if he’d been in his body instead of Dreamscape, the currents would’ve been fulminating.

  “Ean, will you allow me to explain?”

  “What is there to explain?” he returned tightly, barely able to find breath. “You made your choice. You walked your path. Doesn’t that justify anything you chose to do?”

  She cringed beneath the heat in his tone.

  Suddenly he felt too full of anger and wanted nothing near him. He headed for the doors and the balcony beyond, seeking the space of the open night, that it might afford him room to breathe.

  Isabel followed hesitantly after him. She paused in the doorway while he walked towards the far end. “Knowing what you do now, Ean…if given the chance to potentially shift the balance of the game, but at a great and terrible cost…what would you chose?”

  Ean grabbed the railing and then pressed himself away from it, hanging his head between his arms. He couldn’t care less about Björn’s bloody game.

  “Ean?”

  He swung her a heated glare. “If your choice was justified, Isabel, then why do you feel such guilt over the act?”

  She stood in the doorway haloed by the room’s golden light. Her face was in shadow, but he felt the apology in her gaze and knew she sought his forgiveness. Her emotions pelted him like rain upon a still pond: contrition, compassion, desire for atonement…

  “I knew the choice would hurt you,” she murmured, “despite its importance to the game.”

  “Despite…” Ean turned his head and met her gaze, though it hurt to look at her at all. “Do you really think I don’t understand that you’re a woman of two paths? You’ve made it abundantly clear, Isabel.” Indeed, he knew why she’d done it, if not why she’d needed to. Still, walking two paths didn’t change the fact that she’d given herself to another man.

  No, not another man. A Malorin’athgul.

  Ean suppressed an oath and pushed away from the railing.

  “Darshan gave me to his brother Pelas.” Her words chased after him as he stalked away from her—

  “I woke in a tower, bound in goracrosta.”

  —lassoed his chest and pulled tight—

  “Darshan had compelled Pelas against his will to maim and kill Healers.”

  —halting him with a sudden jerk—

  “He intended for Pelas to kill me as well.”

  —and rooted him agonizingly to the patio stones.

  When Ean managed to turn around, he saw that she’d closed the distance between them. Now she stood near enough that he could see a luminous tracing on her skin between the open folds of her silk robe. From afar, he’d thought the swirling patterns had been stitched into the silk. Now he saw that the light was emanating from etchings in her skin—carvings—as if engraved there.

  “Light of Epiphany, Isabel…” the words barely escaped the vice of his shock. He pushed her robe from one shoulder to view the pattern that covered it. He thought he’d known horror in envisioning the act of her betrayal; the truth far surpassed anything he’d imagined.

  When he placed his fingers on the pattern, she flinched and caught her breath.

  His eyes flew back to hers. “Didn’t Björn Heal you?”

  Her lips were pressed together tightly. “The patterns aren’t responding to Healing…not in the way we expected.”

  Ean abruptly released her. “What does that mean?” He stared at the silvery patterns in her skin with an unnamable horror. “What in thirteen hells did he do to you?”

  She gingerly pulled her robe back up over her shoulder. “I’m healing, Ean. Just…slowly.”

  Ean stared at her uncomprehendingly. “Are you saying you don’t know—that Björn doesn’t know how to Heal these marks?”

  “They’re patterns of Chaos, Ean,” she murmured resolutely. “They don’t respond to elae.”

  “He carved Chaos patterns into your flesh?” Ean shoved both hands into his hair and spun away, desperate to incinerate someone. Pelas would’ve been ideal. A litany of violent curses chased across his tongue, but he couldn’t find the breath to voice any of them. They wouldn’t have been dark enough, in any case.

  He paced at the end of the balcony with his hands clenched into fists, feeling as if the realm was too small to contain his fury. Then a horrifying thought stilled him. He looked darkly to her. “And when it was all done—he’d carved you up, marked you as his own and bedded you…then what? You just watched him walk away?”

  She stood in the path of his wrath, letting it buffet her without protesting, her colorless gaze entreating his understanding. “If I had harmed him for harming me, Ean, it would’ve defeated the purpose of saving him.”

  “Saving him.” Derision sliced his tone. “From what, pray, were you saving him? He’s an immortal being, Isabel!”

  “Pelas has chosen a path now, Ean.” Clearly she was hoping he could see the reason in her acts. He could tell that his anger was painful to her, that each comment left a pock in her resolve, expanding craters of uncertainty. “He’s pledged himself to the survival of this world…to our game.”

  Ean worked the muscles of his jaw. The things he wanted to say were too cruel, and he only wounded himself every time he wounded her. Would that she might’ve suffered the same affliction.

  “And then?” he ground out the words through the millstone of his ire. “I suppose he just blithely carried you back to T’khendar?”

  She pressed her lips together, perhaps invoking strength. “I summoned Phaedor.”

  Her words were daggers in his heart. “You could’ve called me,” he scraped out. “You should’ve called me!”

  She gave him a desperate look. “It’s Phaedor’s role, Ean…to protect us.”

  Ean stared at her, unbelieving. “And what is my role in your life?” He stopped her reply with an upraised hand. �
�No, don’t say anything.” The same hand pushed the hair back from his face and then fell listlessly to his side. Somehow he’d rounded rage’s pinnacle and was now plummeting down the far side of disbelief. His emotions tumbled along behind him in voluminous clouds of malcontent, growing blacker with every breath.

  Suddenly all he could think about was how he’d died three times for this game. Ean rubbed his face with both hands and then pressed palms to his eyes…his temples. He looked at her between the brace of his arms. “What is it we’re doing, you and me?”

  Isabel’s expression grew alarmed. Well she knew that tone in his voice. “Ean…”

  He interwove his fingers behind his head and lifted his gaze towards a Dreamscape sky, his palms pressing hard against his temples, though they did little to ward off the swarming feeling in his skull. “Are you just patronizing me with your affection, condescending to sleep with me until the man you actually love finally raises his head again?”

  “Please, Ean, you can’t really think I would—”

  He dropped his arms and speared a glare at her. “You offered yourself in sacrifice to the enemy!”

  “Who is an enemy no longer—”

  “Because you whored yourself for his allegiance!” He grabbed the railing and pushed away from it again. He didn’t think he could take much more of this. “Phaedor…Pelasommáyurek…” His breath came ragged; his heart lay in shards at his feet. “You’d choose stallions for your stable and make a gelding of me.”

  She caught her breath.

  Ean clenched his jaw. “Why did you want me to bind with you anew?”

  That time he saw desperation come into her gaze, felt it vibrating along their bond. “I thought…” her voice came faintly, “I thought I would be helping you.”

  Ean straightened away from the railing to face her, but his jaw felt slack, his body drained of life. She’d devastated him with her choice. “Well…I pray that’s the end of it. I don’t think I can survive any more of your help.”

  He gave her one last look. Then, with a grave force of will, he threw himself from the dream.