“This way,” Julian said, and he tugged Ean after him.
They made their way through the Promenade and down into the city, moving from park to piazza, from café to taverna to playhouse. Julian introduced Ean to everyone they met, from the barkeep at his favorite alehouse to the Mistress of Chambers at the Teatro del Benedire Artista, where Julian said the greatest musicians in T’khendar came to perform. In turn, everyone who met Ean steepled their palms, pressed fingertips to lips and bowed to him. He found it terribly confusing.
Too, while Ean appreciated Niyadbakir’s beauty, he couldn’t help but wonder how so many people came to be living in a realm that was supposedly barren of life—not just living there, but making a living. Niyadbakir was a prosperous city, with clearly flourishing commerce and a diverse population.
As they were heading across a wide plaza bordered on all sides by enormous buildings that Julian identified as the Guild Halls, a shadow passed before the sun, and Ean glanced up to see an enormous creature soaring across the sky. The sight of it stopped him in his tracks.
“Dear Epiphany,” he whispered. All he could see of the dragon was its darkened underbelly as it moved in silhouette between him and the sun, but as the creature banked just beyond the square, Ean saw that its hide sparkled with bronze and gold. He turned an awestruck look to Julian. “Was that…?”
“One of the Sundragons,” Julian said, gazing after it with a tiny frown furrowing his fair brow. “Rhakar, maybe? It’s hard to tell them apart when they’re in the form. You used to see the drachwyr only rarely, but of late I’ve seen them more often.”
Ean barely heard most of what he said. “What do you mean ‘in the form?’”
“Well, they’re fifth-strand, you know,” Julian replied, shifting his gaze to Ean. “Like the zanthyrs. They have two forms.”
“Oh…” Ean said. “Right.” He’d forgotten all about the shapeshifting aspect of fifth-strand creatures. He didn’t know anyone who’d ever seen a zanthyr in the form, but he was sure he’d never realized that the Sundragons were also shapeshifters. “Sundragons,” he repeated slowly, pondering what he knew of them. All he remembered was that they’d been banished by the Alorin Seat after the Adept Wars because they were sworn to Björn, and that more recently the Emir’s Mage had recalled them from isolation. “But they’re in service to the Emir’s Mage—or so I’ve heard.”
Julian gave him a strange look. “Ean…”
And then it finally hit him. But before he had time to think through what it meant that Björn van Gelderan was posing as a Mage and involving himself in the war in M’Nador, Julian grabbed his arm.
“Ean,” he whispered, “Look! He’s coming back!”
Indeed, a man approached across the busy square. Even from that distance, Ean could tell he was very tall, perhaps as tall as the zanthyr. His features were foreign, but his face had the same perfection of form as the zanthyr’s, although the two men looked nothing alike. He wore black boot and pants beneath a grey tunic and quilted vest, and the black hilt of a greatsword extended diagonally above one shoulder. As the man neared, Ean noted that the hilt of his sword was impressively carved into the image of a dragon, with the cross-guard fashioned as the dragon’s spread wings.
More impressive was that everyone the man passed bent and bowed, hands steepled and fingertips pressed to lips, but it seemed the man had eyes only for…him.
Julian was looking positively exuberant. As the man reached them, Julian pressed his hands together and bowed, murmuring “General,” with excitement and awe coloring his tone.
The drachwyr only barely acknowledged him, for his dark eyes were pinned on Ean. The prince thought he saw a flash of confusion cross his gaze, but recognition quickly replaced it. “You must be Ean,” he said in a voice that appeared well used to command—indeed, he veritably exuded power through every pore. Yet his manner was entirely welcoming.
Ean felt the force of his presence like a furnace blast of heat. “I am,” he said, finally regaining his composure. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“I am Ramu,” the drachwyr said, smiling.
Ramuhárihkamáth. Ean knew his famous name. Gods and devils, what a day this was turning out to be!
“Be welcome, Ean,” Ramu said with a gracious nod. He glanced to the sky and offered, “When I first passed overhead, I confess I thought you might be your brother. I was confused because it seemed too early for his arrival in T’khendar.”
“My brother?” Ean repeated blankly. “You mean…Creighton?” It made no sense that the man would mistake him for a Shade.
Ramu’s eyes widened slightly. “You don’t know,” he breathed aloud.
Seeing the look on Ramu’s face, Ean had the dreadful premonition that the earth was about to shift on him again. Some part of his consciousness braced for it while the rest of him already felt the world slipping off its axis.
Ramu took him by the arm. “Why don’t we sit down?” He drew Ean toward the plaza’s central fountain.
Ean’s stomach lurched with desperate understanding. My brother lives? Which brother? How?
Ramu settled on Ean’s right while Julian sat down to his left, looking concerned. “More than three moons ago,” Ramu explained then, “my brother Rhakar and I pulled a man from a well in the mountains west of Raku Oasis. He was known to us as the commander of a company of the Emir’s Converted—though he is not Converted himself—and for five years he served the Emir as his adopted son. Knowing this man’s importance to the First Lord, we saved him from the well waters. The First Lord healed him of his injuries, and three days later he woke.” Ramu pinned Ean with his darkly compelling gaze. “We knew this soldier as Ama-Kai’alil, the Man of the Tides, but the First Lord knew his true identity. He is your brother Trell.”
Ean felt the Kings board upending. He stared hard at the plaza stones and drew in a trembling breath.
“He does not know himself,” Ramu continued gently. “For five years he has known only his given name and remembers nothing of his life before waking on a beach in the Akkad—his family, his kingdom…these memories are lost to him. But there are some things that do not hide in the shadows of his past: honor, enduring nobility, acts of true leadership, courage in command. You will be proud of the man your brother has become.”
Ean pushed palms to his eyes and smiled so hard that his cheeks ached. That Trell lived changed so much—for everyone. “I…can’t believe it,” he whispered, barely managing the words around his overwhelming happiness. Trell lives! The knowledge was too monumental, too impactful, to fully comprehend. For now, Ean just held firmly onto the understanding that his brother was alive. The rest would come in its time.
Ramu placed a strong hand on Ean’s shoulder, and the prince slowly looked to him. “Be assured,” Ramu said, “the First Lord took steps to ensure Trell will find his way to those who will know him, who will help him reconnect with your family. While you cannot immediately seek him out, perhaps you can take solace in this knowledge.”
Ean nodded. He’d known there was no chance of going after Trell, though the thought had certainly crossed his mind.
“The First Lord will be relieved that I have told you this,” Ramu added. “I’m certain he would’ve done so as soon as he felt you were capable of hearing it.”
Ean just nodded. Admittedly there was no way he could’ve taken the news yesterday on top of what he’d learned about his Return.
“Oh, Shadow take me!” Julian suddenly exclaimed. “General, I’m so sorry but we have to go. Ean has an appointment with Monsieur L’Meppe to be fitted for his masquerade costume, and I fear we are already late.”
“Of course.” Ramu stood and nodded farewell to Ean. Then he turned and strode away through the crowds, with the city dwellers bowing and murmuring in his wake.
Julian looked at the position of the sun in the sky. “Burn me, we’d better run.”
They made it to the atelier of Monsieur L’Meppe in time to receive the sharp side
of his tongue but not so late that the man refused to do the fitting altogether. A narrow escape.
All the while the costumer taped and pinned and measured, muttering under his breath, Ean felt in a daze. For so long his life had been a convoluted series of tragedies and mishaps where treachery lurked at every turn and loss shadowed each waking moment, a perpetual overcast. Now, suddenly, he was getting answers to his most agonizing questions—albeit slowly and sporadically. He felt welcome, even…wanted, and he was surrounded by people who knew things.
And now…now Trell lived.
When the Kings board of his life finally found its way back onto solid footing, Ean saw that one of the priests had been righted along with it. He never imagined that treasured piece could ever find its place in his life again. But now, suddenly, he had hope. Hope that there could be peace for his father’s kingdom, that his brother would be reunited with all that was rightfully his, that Ean might have his own future. But above all, hope surged from the one impossible truth:
My brother lives!
Monsieur L’Meppe gave him an odd look, Julian clapped him happily on the shoulder, and Ean realized he’d spoken the words aloud. He gave his friend a sheepish grin. The day seemed suddenly very bright.
When the costumer was done with the fitting but not with muttering under his breath about last minute demands, Julian and Ean made their way back to the White Forest with Ean in soaring spirits. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this happy. Quite probably it was before his brother Sebastian’s death. That was when the light had faded in his mother’s eyes, and he didn’t doubt his had dimmed then as well.
Sebastian…it still hurt to remember him. Fynn liked to criticize Sebastian’s dark sense of humor—mainly because it challenged his own—but growing up together, Ean had veritably worshipped his eldest brother, and Sebastian rarely disappointed him. Yes, he’d been proud of his firstborn status, a confidence which had grated on certain personalities, but he’d been wonderfully knowledgeable about all manner of intriguing things and was never too busy to explain something to his inquisitive youngest sibling.
Then there was Trell…ever inventive, with his witty sense of humor and adventurous outlook. Trell had been Ean’s confidant, always willing to dive into any misadventure at his side.
Ean wanted so much to be able to tell his queen mother of the incredible news that Trell lived, but he had to trust that the First Lord had Trell’s interests in hand, as Ramu had said. Miraculously enough, Ean was willing to trust to this.
Until that moment, there had been but one man whom Ean trusted implicitly—despite Phaedor’s admonishment not to. That the zanthyr in turn was sworn into Björn’s service went a long way toward convincing Ean that perhaps he could trust the Fifth Vestal as well. He wasn’t quite ready to swear an oath into his service, but he could see the first tendrils of the idea taking root.
And that felt…right, too.
Sixteen
“We must be our own before we can be another’s.”
- Valentina van Gelderan, Empress of Agasan
Over the course of the next week, Alyneri alternated Healing, resting and eating until one morning she woke and knew that she was fully restored. She felt for the bandages that bound her eyes, eager to be rid of them. Her fingers found the ends and unworked the knot, and at last she felt the cool touch of air upon her eyelids, and then, finally, the light.
Opening her eyes, she blinked into focus on a bedroom much as she’d imagined it. Small but tidy, with naught but a bed, a table and a wardrobe that was built for function, not aesthetics. Its doors were open, and she saw his clothes hanging within, and realized only then that she’d been sleeping all this time in his bed. Where had he been sleeping?
Last, she slipped her arm free of the split and stood up without dizziness. In fact, she felt hale. How much this simple fact represented! She walked to the wardrobe and examined her head in the little mirror inside one door. The faintest scar showed along her hairline, just above her temple. She vaguely recalled being thrown from the coach. It must’ve been quite a blow to split her head so.
And now I’ve healed myself.
Who would believe it could be done?
She’d just finished doing her best to get a comb through her tangled hair when Yara came in.
The old woman stopped short in the doorway.
“Sobh bekheir, Yara,” Alyneri greeted. Good morning.
The old woman looked just as she’d imagined, with iron grey hair and deep wrinkles lining her dark eyes. A heavy woolen sweater dwarfed her small but spry frame. “My,” Yara said, arching her sparse white eyebrows, “you look much improved. What magic is this?”
“I…I am a Healer,” Alyneri reminded her.
Yara waved a hand at her. “Pshaw, and here I thought all this time the two of you were bonding. Who knew you both had it in you to be so sneaky about such a thing as a Healer healing herself?”
“Then…you’re not upset with me?”
She pinned her with a deliberate look. “Why? It worked, didn’t it? We do what we must. Daughters of the sand are strong.”
“Yes,” Alyneri conceded, dropping her gaze. “Yes we are.”
“Here,” said the old woman, coming on into the room. “I brought you something.”
Alyneri took the offered bundle and unwrapped it to find a beautiful dress of heavy silk taffeta in a deep sapphire blue, and a matching cloak lined in velvet. Her eyes went wide as she held up the garments. “Oh, Yara…but—I cannot accept this. It’s too beautiful!”
“To be certain you will,” she returned. “I’ve money to spare on account of that pirate, and as sure as Azerjaiman blows west, the dress isn’t likely to fit me. Such fine silk can’t go to waste.”
Alyneri stared at her, startled by her words, for there seemed too much of coincidence in them. “On account of…what pirate?”
“That vran Lea character. We had a bargain, and against all odds, he fulfilled his end of it.”
“Do you mean…” Her mouth was suddenly so dry. “Could you mean…Carian vran Lea?”
Yara arched a brow. “Know him, do you? Why am I not surprised?” Seemingly oblivious to Alyneri’s stunned silence, she took hold of the dress and motioned her to put it on. Alyneri let the woman move her body with numb obedience.
Did such coincidences really exist?
What did it mean that Yara knew Carian? Surely the pirate had interactions with numerous folk, yet instinct told her there had to be a connection.
Yara did up the buttons on the back of the dress and then turned Alyneri around to look her over. “Well, your hair could do with help from fingers more deft than mine, but still, soraya, you’re a sight to behold. A fitting gown for a prince’s daughter.”
Alyneri gave her a sharp look.
“Oh yes,” the old woman said, pinning her with a cunning gaze. “You look just like Jair, only blonde.”
Alyneri caught her breath. “You knew my father?” What else was the old woman hiding?
“Knew him well, I did, when he was near your age. My father was a scholar and advisor to the Kandori princes. Prince Jair was a handful—as I’m sure his daughter is also, when she’s not recovering from being nearly frozen to death.”
Alyneri braced her cheeks with both hands, feeling them warm as her eyes filled with tears. “Will you tell me about him?” she asked in a small voice full of joy.
Yara gave her a big smile that brightened her wrinkled face considerably and showed a reflection of the youthful beauty she’d once herself boasted. “Of course, soraya.”
Alyneri grabbed the old woman in a fierce embrace, letting her tears bear the weight of her happiness. “Thank you!” she whispered, overcome. “Thank you so much!”
Yara chuckled as she returned Alyneri’s hug, and she held her as any mother would, until the force of her emotion had calmed. Pulling away then, she took Alyneri by the shoulders and looked her over once more. “How about we see to breakfast, you and I. I
f that boy ever comes inside, we’ll have something ready for him.”
“That boy is here,” came his cheerful reply.
“Well then.” Yara moved to leave as he was coming in, momentarily standing between Alyneri and preventing clear sight of him. But then…
Alyneri felt the world tilt and spin, and everything went black at the edges, all except her view of him.
Oh dear Epiphany!
Her shock was complete. Had her own mother been standing in the doorway, Alyneri could not have been more stunned. She felt the blood draining from her cheeks. She staggered in place, saw him staring at her in shock and concern, and then, somehow finding her feet again, drove herself across the space between them and fiercely into his arms.
“You’re alive!” she cried. Tears fell freely with a joy that was both boundless and overwhelming. She hugged him tightly against her, unable to bring him close enough to assure herself he would not merely evaporate like the apparition he seemed. “Epiphany’s grace, bless you!” she cried joyously, not even knowing what she was saying, the words just spilling out of her, “—oh, thank you! Thank you!” She pulled her face free of his shoulder long enough to look into his grey eyes, long enough to see his confusion and dismay, but in that moment caring only that he lived.
He lived!
“Trell,” she breathed, barely believing the name was leaving her lips, “it’s really you!” She took his face between trembling hands. “Trell!” she exclaimed again, laughing and weeping and totally hysterical but so full of joy that none of it mattered. “You’re alive!”
***
Trell had risen before daybreak, as was his usual wont, and spent the early dawn hours feeding the livestock and tending to Gendaia. Days recovered from her injury, she was eager to roam, so he let her out to graze while he went about his other chores. Gendaia streaked away up the grassy hill the moment he released her harness, but by the time the sun cleared the mountains, she was back and nosing him for breakfast.
The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light) Page 21
