She glanced at him as he was walking a polite distance from her, solemn within the halo of her Praetorians, his eyes covered by a patterned Merdanti mask that they’d just had fitted to him. Sormitáge artisans had crafted the mask and engraved it with patterns in the hope of counteracting some of the more deleterious effects of Bethamin’s Fire, but there was no way of knowing how long it would take before the mask had any effect…or if it ever would.
But they had hope now—unlikely, improbable hope. She’d barely believed him when he’d told her the Prophet had severed his mental connection with him. Caspar could offer her little more than this, for he understood nothing more himself, but the fact that the Prophet had done it at all…
Nadia cast him the private inquiry, Do you notice any difference yet?
Caspar kept his gaze forward. From the mask or the Prophet’s broken binding?
Either…both.
The broken binding feels…strange, empty. I fear for the other Marquiin who were not so lucky as me, the ones still mad from Bethamin’s Fire. I can’t imagine what this has done to them.
Nadia exhaled a slow breath. He’s such a mystery, your Prophet, Pelas’s brother. You will tell me if you notice any change in the storm?
A smile hinted on Caspar’s lips. I have a feeling you will know as soon as I do, Princess.
Nadia shifted her gaze to study him out of the corner of her eye, noting how refined he appeared in his charcoal coat with his raven hair cut just above his shoulders; how the dark mask emphasized his straight nose and pale complexion. She doubted the Praetorians could tell she was looking at Caspar from beneath her veil. Probably even Caspar couldn’t tell.
The smile on his lips became slightly more pronounced. I can tell, Princess.
You know, she thought primly back, it’s impolite to read another’s thoughts—or don’t they teach the Truths in Myacene, where you’re from?
He turned his eyes to her. Your gaze is like heat on my skin.
Nadia caught her breath and looked quickly forward again.
When only silence lingered between them, Caspar ventured, Have I offended you?
No, she hastened the thought to reassure him. It’s just… She cast her gaze across the bright piazza, wishing everything wasn’t so tangled. If she hadn’t crossed the line of propriety and forged a bond with Caspar, she wouldn’t now be feeling such a conflict of emotions about him.
‘If you hadn’t bonded with him…’ she heard her father’s voice in reply, ‘you mean, if you hadn’t cared for his suffering? If you hadn’t extended a hand in mercy? If you hadn’t done everything your mother ever taught you in considering another’s welfare above your own…if you hadn’t been you?’
Princess…? Nadia—
Caspar’s insistent thought called her gaze back to his. She found him watching her from behind the ornate mask, his eyes apologetic, his thoughts even more so. Caspar brushed her hand with his own. I have no aims, Nadia. He held the thought before her that she might easily read the truth in it. It’s just…I hide from all the world—even from myself. He looked away with a tight swallow. I don’t want to hide from you, too.
She looked forward again, feeling numb and oddly bereft at the same time, hardly aware of her feet moving in cadence with the Praetorians’ heavy steps. A sigh escaped her.
If only there might’ve been somewhere in the realm that she could feel herself again. Since crossing paths with the Literato N’abranaacht, she’d become a leaf caught in a cyclone, tumbled from Quai game to temple to Shadow to Tambarré—even when she landed she couldn’t be sure of safe harbor.
She only truly felt secure when Pelas was near, though even in Pelas’s company she couldn’t quite banish the fluttering apprehension that had become her constant companion.
But Pelas had been gone with Prince Ean for several days now. Her father the High Lord was sailing north to confront the Danes for their treachery, and her mother hadn’t the time to speak with her—not unless she wanted the one open slot on the Empress’s docket, a quarter-turn of the hourglass stolen between a formal protest from pig farmers and a hearing on tax complaints from Vestian privateers. The only attention Valentina had spared for Nadia was a brief interlude wherein she’d assessed Caspar as a non-threat and then threatened both of them within a inch of their lives if they spoke a word about the Literato N’abranaacht’s true identity.
Nadia supposed her mother had her reasons for harboring this secret, but she worried that in the meantime their enemy was becoming a national hero.
They were just then passing by the Piazza della Studioso, an expansive plaza of fountains and cafés between the Hall of Sobra Scholars and the Sormitáge’s main administrative building. Near the plaza’s largest fountain, a man was standing on a protester’s plinth, addressing a crowd.
Nadia tapped her leading Praetorian on the shoulder. “Lieutenant di Corvi, I would like to hear what that man is saying.”
The lieutenant accommodatingly turned off the cloistered walkway and marched them into the piazza.
“…found anything dangerous about it, don’t you think they’d have told us?” the man was declaring loudly as Nadia and her Praetorians neared.
Someone asked a question, to which the man pointed emphatically. “Now, you’ve the right of it, good sir!” He lifted his gaze to the crowd, which may have numbered fifty Adepts by then. “My man here says if the Sobra Scholars had learned anything to discredit the literato’s pattern, said defaming information would’ve been plastered on every door and bulletin board from here to the Agasi Sea. They’d be shouting it from the Sormitáge steps and crying it through the streets. You know I speak the truth!”
Do you know what he’s talking about, Nadia?
Yes, unfortunately. Nadia felt a hollow foreboding. She managed a brief mental explanation to Caspar while the man on the statue continued talking.
“…claims the pattern shouldn’t be worked, my friends, but we all saw the great Literato N’abranaacht—a known na’turna—fighting that demon with elae’s fifth strand. I was there when he gave his dying confession. I heard him tell how the pattern had Awakened him! We know it’s safe to work, my friends. Our brave literato is proof of this!”
Nadia heard the truth in his words—he believed wholly what he was saying.
Felix and I attended a talk that N’abranaacht gave on this pattern, Nadia told Caspar. She felt sick as she recalled that day, thinking of N’abranaacht’s impressive and knowledgeable lecture and how he’d so effortlessly fooled every Adept in the room—many truthreaders among them, herself among them—into thinking he was na’turna.
“My colleagues and I have written a petition…”
Nadia touched the Praetorian’s shoulder again and asked faintly, “Lieutenant, can’t we stop this?”
The soldier shifted his weapon at his hip, indicative of his equal disfavor, and his gaze tightened. “He’s breaking no laws, Princess, and the crowd is calm. Citizens have the right to assemble, providing there’s no disruption of the peace.”
Nadia’s every sense was shouting. She searched her mind for any avenue by which they might stop the man from talking. She landed on an idea. “How do we know he’s a citizen of the Empire? Perhaps we should ask to see his papers?”
The lieutenant considered her. Then he gave a brusque nod and raised his hand to the man. “You there! Citizen!”
The Praetorians fell into a phalanx behind their lieutenant and marched forward amid a thunderous clomping, with Nadia and Caspar at their core.
The crowd saw the Praetorians approaching and began to disperse—in true Sormitáge style, far enough to appear uninvolved, but still close enough to observe and overhear—while the man atop the speaker’s platform slowly descended the steps and tugged his coat straight, looking apprehensive. He smiled weakly as the Praetorians halted before him. “Is there some problem, Lieutenant?”
“Your papers, citizen.” Lieutenant di Corvi held out his hand expectantly.
; As the man was reaching inside his coat, a flash of sunlight drew Nadia’s gaze across the piazza. “Is that…?” she lifted her veil to get a clearer look and saw a willowy man in violet robes heading towards her.
Caspar’s gaze followed hers. Who is that, Princess?
It’s the Endoge of the Sormitáge. But what could Liam van Kheller possibly want with her?
The Praetorians smartly shifted ranks to admit the Endoge. Nadia nodded her head in polite greeting. “Lord Liam, good afternoon.”
“Your Highness.” He bowed respectfully while also extending her a mental welcome, an invitation to share the space of their ‘public’ minds, a respectful practice among ringed truthreaders and a gracious offering. “We were all relieved to learn of your safe return.”
“Thank you, Lord Liam.” Nadia extended a hand to Caspar. “Your Excellency, may I introduce my friend to you?”
“Yes, Caspar of Myacene, I believe?” The Endoge nodded to him. “I’ve been hearing much of you of late, and of the patterns that mark you.”
Nadia felt Caspar mentally cringe at this remark. “I thank you for your support in the creation of this mask, Your Excellency,” he murmured.
The Endoge studied him with a look of shrewd contemplation. “Our knowledge of the Prophet Bethamin’s Marquiin has been thin, to say the least. I hope you will not begrudge us more of your time to allow further study.”
“It would doubtless behoove us both, Your Excellency.” Caspar clasped hands behind his back and bowed slightly, in the manner of his people. His Agasi was so flawless that one would never guess he was from Myacene. “However, the thread of my life, such as it is, belongs to the princess to weave.”
The Endoge shifted an inquiring look to Nadia.
“We shall certainly make the time, Lord Liam,” she affirmed with a smile. “Working in concert with your scholars, we may even find a cure for Bethamin’s Fire.”
The Endoge nodded. “This is my hope, Princess. Many would benefit from our combined efforts.” He regarded her then with obvious reservation.
“Was there something else, my lord?”
“Princess…” an odd reticence threaded the Endoge’s usually forthright manner, hesitancy interwoven with contrition, “the Empress told me some of what happened to you after the attack. I cannot apologize enough for—”
“Surely you don’t blame yourself for what occurred at the Quai field.”
“On the contrary, I am most distraught over it, Princess.”
Lieutenant di Corvi released the citizen back to his own affairs. Nadia noticed the man departing, and a frown overcame her expression. “Have you heard about this petition, Lord Liam?”
“I have, unfortunately, Princess. I’ve just come from presenting a report to the Empress upon it, in fact.” The Endoge’s colorless eyes took on a shadowed cast. “Who would’ve thought a simple pattern found by one of our more obscure Arcane Scholars would gain such unwelcome notoriety?”
Nadia grunted. “The Literato N’abranaacht, I guarantee you.” She shifted her gaze back to the Endoge. “Did my mother tell you why I was at the Quai game to begin with, Lord Liam? Did she speak of my investigation with Tanis di Adonnai and Felix di Sarcova, or share what we learned about the literato?”
“She did not mention any such to me, Your Highness.”
Nadia, what are you doing? Caspar sounded alarmed.
Nadia set her jaw and her determination. What my mother should’ve done. She settled a flinty look upon the Endoge. “Is there somewhere we might speak in private?”
***
Viewing the world through the borrowed eyes of his Palmer, Shailabanáchtran walked the Sormitáge’s Grand Passáge with his masked visage twisted into an expression of malcontent.
What was Darshan up to, sending Nadia back to Faroqhar with one of his Marquiin in tow? Had he put the princess under his own compulsion? Might he now be walking behind her eyes, even as Shail was walking behind the Palmer’s? Or was he watching through the Marquiin’s corrupted gaze? Had Darshan sent Nadia back as his spy?
And what was Darshan thinking, sending her back with a Marquiin at all—shouting to all the world that Nadia had some connection to the Prophet Bethamin? The lack of subtlety in this arrangement disturbed Shail on numerous levels, for Darshan rarely acted imprudently.
What vexed Shail the most in all of this was that he wouldn’t be at odds with Darshan if not for Pelas’s meddling. It irritated Shail beyond reason to find his elder brother suddenly allied with Pelas, when Pelas had been blatantly and egregiously ignoring their purpose for centuries. And now, because Pelas made a few ill-founded claims…now Darshan had decided that Shail was acting against their purpose. By Chaos born, it infuriated him.
What Darshan didn’t see—was incapable of seeing, really—was that the act of unmaking had infinite forms and expressions; some were just more rewarding to explore than others.
Shail could unmake stars in his sleep. But to unmake societies from within…to meticulously break down the social constructs, the ties of trust that bound these mortals together into civilization, to watch them devolve into contention and chaos…this was a sublime interpretation of their purpose.
Darshan lacked vision. That was ever his problem. He saw only one avenue, one perspective—his own—and he followed but one mundane path of purpose; yet there were infinite interpretations possible to those with inventive minds.
Brooding on this, Shail walked his Palmer towards a pair of carved bronze doors which were surrounded by a vomitous amount of green marble—his brother’s work, all.
It offended Shail beyond reason to see Pelas putting his considerable talent towards such a useless mortal industry as art; then again, the menial labor of chipping stone was nearly all Pelas was useful for these days.
Through the bronze doors, the Palmer whose eyes Shail wore emerged into the Piazza della Studioso, a busy gathering place at any time of day or night. As he descended the steps, two observations struck Shail at once:
First, a man standing on a plinth addressing a crowd and the phalanx of Praetorians heading towards him. And second, the veiled figure walking amid their flashing livery—the Princess Heir—and the masked man beside her, clearly his brother’s Marquiin spy.
Oh, how ripe this moment! Balance remained as true to him as ever.
He sent his Palmer flowing across the piazza towards the speaker. The crowd had begun to disperse beneath the oncoming Praetorians, but there were still plenty of onlookers to blend in with while Shail deliberated what mischief he might stir up. The opportunity seemed too fine to let the moment pass untroubled.
Whatever he did, it would be a simple thing to abandon his Palmer after the fact. The man would simply go about his day thinking that he’d lived it as he usually did, and if anyone questioned him about an uncharacteristic choice, he would simply invent something to explain away the inconsistency in his action.
So fascinating, this aspect of the human mind, that the part of the consciousness that computed and analyzed required an explanation for even the most inexplicable occurrences! No matter how outrageous a man’s actions, no matter how unreasonable, reactionary or preposterous his choices, he would manufacture some way of rationalizing them. Shail didn’t even have to do anything to this end. It was like these mortals were made to be manipulated.
He’d just landed upon an idea of devious merit when he noticed a man dressed all in black crossing the piazza. His Palmer’s eyes revealed this stranger to be younger than his confident stride would indicate—perhaps only twenty years. Shail would’ve found the man unremarkable save for the way the crowd shifted out of his path, a telltale sign of an Adept shielded in elae’s fifth strand.
So…the man was a wielder, despite his young years, and accomplished, it would appear, to already be wielding the fifth with confidence.
The Palmer whose eyes Shail wore couldn’t see elae’s currents, but Shail suspected they would be carrying evidence of the wielder’s passing. More su
rprising still, the man appeared to be heading directly towards Shail’s Palmer.
Shail moved his puppet backwards by several steps to blend in with other onlookers. The oncoming man in black shifted course ever so slightly to follow him. Yes, he had Shail’s puppet pinned in his sights.
Intriguing. What could this wielder have seen in his puppet to draw him so unwaveringly across a crowded square?
Shail turned his Palmer around and moved him quickly back towards the main building. There were a hundred empty galleries in that monstrosity of limestone and gilt where he could confront the wielder unmolested. Shail was curious to know what had first drawn his attention.
He reached the steps and turned his puppet’s gaze over his shoulder. Yes, the wielder was still following him. Excellent. He enjoyed a good game of cat and mouse, especially when the mouse thought it was the cat.
Shail pushed his Palmer up the steps and through his brother’s bronze doors, into shadows.
Sixty
Pray not to be sheltered from dragons but to be fearless when facing them.”
–A popular Malchiarri saying
“Madam Scholar?”
Socotra Isio turned from placing a book on its shelf to find an intern standing in her office doorway. Socotra tried to remember the girl’s name—Mariel? Marie? It was so hard keeping track of all of the Maritus students working on their theses beneath the auspices of the Order of Sobra Scholars. Socotra herself was sponsoring seven students and she could barely remember their names.
She eyed the cart beside her stepladder and the dozens of books stacked there, then peered at the girl above her spectacles. What chance she could finagle the intern into putting away all of these books for her? “Yes, what is it?”
“A man, Madam. He says he has questions on the Returning.”
Socotra sighed. Weren’t they teaching these interns anything anymore? “Ordinary inquiries should be directed to the citizens’ library or advised to attend a Palmer’s Mass.”
“Yes, Madam.” The girl dropped her gaze, and a slight flush came to her cheeks. “It’s just…” she shuffled her feet with a diffidence that would’ve earned Socotra a fast reprimand from her mother, “he’s not an ordinary man.”
Kingdom Blades (A Pattern of Shadow & Light 4) Page 94