As Franco neared the spire, more of the view it had been blocking opened to him, and—
There, balanced midline to the horizon, veritably eye to eye with the First Lord himself, glowed the constellation of Cephrael’s Hand.
Franco just didn’t trust a constellation that moved whenever and however it willed.
In line with those seven stars, the First Lord was sitting on the sheer side of the wall with his boots braced on the uneven rock, elbows propped on knees, inches away from a fifteen-hundred-foot fall. He looked casually disheveled.
He glanced up at Franco’s arrival, gave a half-smile in welcome. “Ah, Franco...” Björn pressed palms to his eyes and resurrected more life into his smile. “I’m not sure if I should say good evening or good morning at this point.”
“I’m not sure my body knows the difference anymore, to be honest, my lord.”
“That’s understandable.” Björn looked back to the vista. His presence was as potent as ever, yet an uncommon weariness diluted his movements. Perhaps this really was the hour when he normally found his bed.
Franco pushed his hair back from his face and slowly approached, gaze glued to those seven fateful stars. The last time he’d seen them, he’d been staring up through the mouth of a sea cave, bloody and bound beside a Malorin’athgul, certain he was about to drown. For some reason, he felt no more sure of himself now. He swallowed. “I’ve never seen that constellation in T’khendar before.”
“Oh...it comes and goes.” Björn was watching the stars with a smile that barely touched his lips. “You know what the legends say—it moves where it wills. It’s been here often of late, though. I think it’s checking up on me.” He winked as he said this, but Franco still got the impression that he meant it literally.
Some things about the First Lord were too arcane for comfort sometimes; for instance, whatever lay between him and that constellation. Franco cleared his throat and joined the Vestal on the safe side of conversation. “It’s quiet tonight.”
“Rinokh must be resting.” Björn darted a wry smile at him. “Even he has to sleep sometime, I imagine.”
Rinokh. There was another subject Franco intended to leave alone.
Björn looked him over with amusement hinting in his gaze, as if he’d caught this thought. “How are you feeling? Improved, I hope.”
“Very much so. Better than usual, actually.” Usual was a sliding scale from agonizing to sore and aching. A dull throbbing behind his eyes was about the best he could hope for. “My lord...” Franco scrubbed at an itch on his head that sadly dislodged more sand, “do you happen to know how I came to be sleeping in the Lady Isabel’s tent?”
“Oh...that.” Björn returned his gaze to the stars. “I’d already sent everyone to bed when the three of you returned, so I took care of your needs myself. Isabel’s tent was closer than yours and had a free room. I hope you don’t mind.”
If the First Lord had tended to him, no wonder he’d slept so well and felt so restored. Franco bowed his head. “Thank you, my lord.”
Björn gave him a look that said it was the least he could do.
But no, the least he could’ve done would’ve been to tend to his sister. But to himself have individually carried all three of them back to their tents, healed them of the day’s effects, cleansed them of sand and tucked them into bed...and to have done it all in the dead of night, while a sandstorm threatened to tear him limb from limb—never mind the malevolent creature relentlessly trying to destroy the world he’d birthed with his own blood and tears, and for whose existence his closest friends had given their lives—all of this, when Epiphany knew the last time he’d slept himself?
Franco didn’t know how to balance the First Lord’s kindness against the weight of his own responsibility. He sought escape from the conflict in inanities.
“I’m surprised I’m the first one up. Your sister is usually awake long before I come staggering out.”
Björn flicked a culpable look at him. “Ah...I may have given her some encouragement to sleep a little deeper than usual. She goes too long without rest if left to her own devices.”
“I suspect she would say the same about you, my lord.”
His soft smile widened by a fraction. “Yes...well, we are two of a kind.”
Franco looked to the south, where Rinokh’s storm burned a deep red along the nighttime horizon. “What have you espied of the node tonight? Did we succeed?”
Björn straightened and adjusted his boots on the rock edge. Franco kept feeling twinges at the base of his spine every time he noted that two heels wedged against a glass-slick wall were all that prevented the First Lord from tumbling off into the night.
“That section of the grid is now functional again.” Björn radiated gratitude when he glanced back to him. “Thank you for that effort; I know it wasn’t comfortable to endure.”
Franco managed an acknowledging smile that felt more like a grimace.
Nothing the First Lord had ever given him to do had been comfortable to endure. Hazardous. Fraught. Sometimes heartbreaking. Usually frustrating and most often life-threatening. But comfortable? He wasn’t sure he even knew what comfortable felt like.
“Poor Rinokh.” Björn looked to Franco with mirth hinting in his gaze. “He must be wondering what’s wrong with his power that he can’t seem to unmake this insignificant world.” He returned his attention to the burning horizon, that time with weighty consideration, and exhaled slowly. “Then again, perhaps our resident Malorin’athgul appreciates a world fighting back for a change.”
Franco blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Do you not think so? One has to wonder: how hard would it be to maintain one's interest in life for all eternity? Have you never thought about it, Franco?”
Mostly Franco had thought about trying to avoid an eternity of this or an eternity of that.
Björn looked back to Rinokh’s storm. “You'd have to become expert at inventing games, because life is meaningless without a game. And you'd have to be fantastically skilled at generating interest in small things, because I assure you, Franco, every problem known to man starts seeming small after you've seen it come and go a thousand times.”
Björn was staring at the storm now as if his eyes could penetrate its depths to study the immortal creature lurking beyond the realm’s aether. “Come to think of it, this is probably the most entertainment Rinokh has had in millennia. He’s probably having a rollicking good time. It’s no wonder he’s so fervent upon his game to unmake us.”
For a moment, Franco simply stared at him. Then he shifted his gaze uncomfortably away. “You have a unique way of looking at things, my lord.”
Björn flashed a self-deprecating smile. “Ah, well...you know what they say—a wielder is limited by what he can envision. I try to envision a few new impossibilities every day, just to keep my edge.”
Franco blew out his breath. “And the Lady Isabel tries for ten.”
Björn chuckled. “Actually, you’re quite right about that. She’s always proving herself the sharper of our pair.” He got to his feet on the tiny eyelash of ledge and slung a leg over to straddle the wall. “But I’m glad you’ve come, Franco, because I wanted to speak with you.”
Every nerve in Franco’s spine suddenly flared in alarm. “Oh?”
Now he knew why Isabel still slept but he’d felt compelled to rise from his bed and seek out the First Lord, which ordinarily was about as likely as his rising and seeking out Rinokh.
Björn propped one bent leg on the wall while letting his other dangle over the abyss, and rested hands in his lap. “Tomorrow, Dagmar is going to offer you his Vestal ring.” He held Franco with his gaze, as if those words weren’t enough to pin him fast. “I would like you to accept it.”
In that moment, Franco was immensely thankful that he stood on the safe side of the wall, because he felt very unstable on his feet.
“Dagmar has kept his bonds to you and your brethren of the strand strong through t
he centuries, but he hasn’t upheld the duties of the Second Vestal in a very long time. You must see this truth, Franco.”
Franco managed a somewhat strangled, “I do see that, my lord.”
“Fortunately, there hasn’t been much happening in Alorin that required Dagmar’s attention these past few centuries.” Björn finally swung both legs down inside the railing, giving Franco’s heart a moment to recover its natural pace.
That is, until the First Lord stood and clapped a hand on his shoulder, strong and firm. “But now the realm needs a Second Vestal, and Alshiba has formally nominated you.” He searched Franco’s gaze with his own keen one. “You should have no trouble accepting, under these circumstances.”
Franco marveled at how readily the First Lord seemed to find subjects that he would rather be beaten and flayed than discuss.
“Am I right, Franco?”
As if Franco had ever denied the First Lord anything he’d asked of him since binding him to his cause that fateful day on Tiern’aval: spying on Niko and Dore, becoming a deputy Vestal to Alshiba, being the front man for Carian’s rebellion—even most recently, helping in T’khendar, when all he’d wanted to do was rush back to Illume Belliel and find Alshiba, when all he’d wanted was to hunt down Mir Arkadhi...
And now the First Lord was asking him to take the Great Master’s place on the Council of Realms?
Was it horrible that the first reason he thought of for accepting the position was so he might return to Alshiba’s side?
Björn released his shoulder and looked along the length of the mountain. “I think a walk would do me good. Perhaps you have other matters to attend to, or would you...”
“No.” Franco’s brow furrowed. “No, I would walk with you, my lord, if my company would please you.”
“It would. Very much.” Björn clasped hands behind his back and they started off along the obsidian wall, which gleamed darkly in the starlight.
Franco’s head was whirling through questions of ethics and morality that he felt underprepared to adjudicate. He pushed hands in his pockets. “Do you never sleep, my lord?”
Björn chuckled at his tone. “Sleep is an elusive sylph to me these days. When I do catch her, she’s vindictive and curses me with dreams of events I would rather have forgotten.”
“So you spend your nights, what...talking with the stars?” Seven stars to be specific.
The First Lord eyed him amusedly. “Cephrael is not a force of evil, you know.” His gaze strayed to the constellation as they walked before it. “He gets blamed for much that goes wrong in this world, but that’s an illogical allegation. The odds are in the angiel’s favor that at least a few of those calamities, man brought upon himself.”
Franco pushed a hand through his hair and gazed bemusedly at him. “My lord, is there ever a time of day or night when you’re not embroiled in some deep philosophical introspection? I mean, when you’re just...I don’t know...thinking about soup or something?”
Björn chuckled. “Once upon a time...”
They wound around the outcropping of basalt, which blocked their view of the pavilion. “Dagmar chides me, too—don’t think yourself alone.” Björn scrubbed idly at his jaw. “These explorations interest me, Franco. It’s not a burden to me to ponder deep ideas. Perhaps it’s depressing that this is the way I entertain myself when sleep evades me.”
They rounded the outcropping to the north, and a different set of constellations opened to their view. Björn glanced to Franco again. “But to your earlier point, in much of my recent stargazing, I’ve been seeking the drachwyr.”
Oh.
“Balaji, Ramu and the others are still swimming their way back to us. I’m doing what I can to aid them in their endeavor. Time’s current was not meant to be fought. Its waters are usually a one-way stream.”
The missing drachwyr were the reason Franco and the others were endangering their lives on T’khendar’s world pattern. What it took three Nodefinders most of a day to accomplish, a single drachwyr could manage in a span of hours.
Franco looked to Björn, feeling the weight of that concern as a constant drain upon his energies. “But it can be done? They can find their way back?” He couldn’t imagine fighting the coming battle without them.
“Yes,” Björn glanced to him, “with a strong enough anchor in the original time... stream...” His words faded as he pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. Then he pressed his fingers out across his forehead in a manner that reflected acute discomfort.
“My lord?”
Björn offered him a reassuring smile while pinching his temples between third finger and thumb. “I’m being chastised.” He dropped his hand and cast a humorously pained expression ahead of them. “My sister will join us momentarily to give me a proper scolding.”
Franco quickly thumbed back over his shoulder. “You don’t suppose I could...”
Björn laughed. “You could certainly make for the back steps. I promise to exonerate you from all wrongdoing.”
Franco exhaled a sigh. “No, my lord. I shall stand with you. I would’ve done the same for the Lady Isabel if given the opportunity.”
Björn put a hand on his shoulder, his gaze warm. “You are a true friend, Franco.”
In that moment, the world seemed to stop. Franco’s throat constricted and...there were no words.
Björn van Gelderan had named him a friend.
It had never occurred to Franco—nay, it was previously inconceivable to him—that the Vestal would ever think of him as a friend. It surprised him even more to realize that he felt the same...to recognize that his loyalty was no longer about a binding oath but about a cause he believed in, and a crusade spearheaded by a man he respected above all others.
He managed a grateful nod, and the world started turning again.
By the time their path wove back in view of the pavilion, a grey dawn light was chasing away the stars, and the command center had come alive, glowing golden-bright against the pale dawn.
Isabel had arrived and was waiting for them on the broad court that separated the mountainous end of the ridge from Björn’s pavilion. Franco still couldn’t get used to seeing her without her blindfold. He’d thought it was hard holding the First Lord’s gaze, but a woman who saw your future every time she looked into your eyes?
Isabel greeted Franco with a gracious smile and her brother with an adoring one. They exchanged kisses on each cheek. Then she shook her head at him. “You’re incorrigible.”
He caressed her shoulders with his thumbs. “When it comes to your welfare? Always.”
“And who will look after you while I’m sleeping?”
He smiled down at her. “Franco kept me company.”
Isabel considered her brother. “What news from the night? How far away are the drachwyr?”
The slightest of furrows notched the First Lord’s brow. “Balaji remains...distant. The others, I cannot say exactly.”
“And Mithaiya?”
“She’s managing things at Raku in the others’ absence.”
“Forgive me for questioning, my lord,” Franco interrupted, “but is Mithaiya not more needed here?”
Björn and Isabel exchanged a look, after which Isabel said, “We need her skills, yes, but Alorin needs her presence more. And Mithaiya is upon a task that we hope will restore the drachwyr to us.”
The First Lord started them walking towards the pavilion. “Make no mistake, Franco,” he appended to Isabel’s comment, “these are energies we’re dealing with. Rinokh, the drachwyr, ourselves...the tapestry is a painting of energies clashing, blooming and otherwise interacting.”
Just then Dagmar appeared through the portal, dressed as usual in his head-to-toe black.
Björn waved him over.
The Second Vestal shrugged his blond head free of his desert scarf and started towards them, shaking the sand from his clothes.
Franco must’ve looked confused, for Björn smiled and laid a hand on his arm. “Think of it
this way,” he said, looking back to him, “Adepts represent energies. The drachwyr represent energies compounded many times beyond our own. The Malorin’athgul, again, compounded. These energies affect the Balance even when not directed, but much more so when guided by intent.”
“Thus the importance of all of our intentions being aligned to the same purpose,” Franco surmised.
Björn nodded. “Our energies are aligned now, but as Adepts, we haven’t the same influence that immortals have on the tapestry. To our advantage in this regard, the Malorin’athgul are finally split.”
Franco did a double take. “You mean—”
Isabel said, “Pelas and Darshan have more or less aligned in their intent against Rinokh and Shail.” She dropped this weighty fact on his head before turning to greet Dagmar.
Franco’s eyes flew to the First Lord, who nodded to the understanding now electrifying his gaze. “Yet their opposing intentions are thinning the cosmic fabric—razing it, if you will, from both sides, and with the drachwyr gone from Alorin...let us say the balance the drachwyr’s energy provides is sorely missed.”
Franco’s throat felt dry. “So Mithaiya...”
Isabel turned back to them with Dagmar’s black-clad form towering at her side. “Is the only immortal anchoring Alorin’s tapestry,” she finished for him. Her gaze was voluminous with meaning.
Dagmar gripped Björn’s arm and flashed his famous smile. “Morning, brother. That was some nightcap you slipped me. That’s the last time I’m letting you tuck me in.” He winked a cheery hello to Franco. “Why didn’t I get to sleep in Isabel’s tent?”
Björn made a noise of disbelief. “As if I would trust you with my sister.”
“I only made a pass at her the one time,” Dagmar protested, “and that was what? Four centuries ago?”
“Give it a couple more and then we’ll talk.”
Dagmar grinned amiably around at all of them. “So...what did I miss?”
Björn clapped a hand on Dagmar’s shoulder by way of starting them all walking towards the pavilion. “We’re deepening Franco’s understanding of the precipitous nature of the game at present.”
The Sixth Strand Page 6
