“The Emir’s Mage,” Trell whispered, awestruck by the connections he was finally making.
Alyneri absently brushed a lock of hair out of her face, murmuring, “Fynn thinks Björn van Gelderan is masquerading as the Emir’s Ma—oh!” She clapped a hand across her mouth.
He leveled her a telling look. “The Emir’s Mage…the First Lord…Björn van Gelderan.” He said each name slowly, significantly. “The same man.”
Her eyes grew very large.
Thunder sounded, followed by the sudden fall of rain. A rising breeze brought a damp mist to wash over them, but neither moved to close the windows.
“What do you know of him?” Trell asked, echoing his own question to Ware from so long ago.
She shook her head, wide-eyed. “I know only stories, and I trust them not.”
Trell arched brows. “Really? I would think…well, most people repeat the stories as truth.”
Alyneri exhaled a troubled sigh. “I did too, once, but now…”
“Yes?”
Her eyes flew to his. “Now I don’t know.” She sighed dispiritedly. “Trell, I’ve seen Phaedor—I’ve seen the soul of this creature!” She dropped her eyes to confess in a bare whisper, “He is the closest I have ever come to gazing upon divinity.”
For some reason, Trell recalled Vaile and Jaya’s conversation about the First Lord’s zanthyr being older than the sun.
Alyneri meanwhile shook her head. She seemed close to tears, obviously deeply troubled by the matter. He could feel her tension through her hand, which he still held, and he wanted only to comfort her, to reassure her, to keep this treasured and fragile creature safe. “Come,” he whispered, pulling gently on her fingers.
At first hesitant, she moved to join him, turning to sit between his legs and leaning back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her close, resting his cheek upon her head as they gazed out at the storm together.
“Things are rarely as they seem, Alyneri,” he noted quietly. Then he added with a chuckle, “The more obvious they seem, the less true they are, I think. I, too, know fifth-strand creatures who are sworn to the First Lord—your Björn van Gelderan, my Emir’s Mage. They are powerful beings of great wisdom and purity. I cannot see them giving their oaths to a man unworthy of their loyalty.”
“No,” Alyneri agreed. She relaxed a little in his arms. “Phaedor wouldn’t either—I just know that he wouldn’t.”
“So we must simply agree that the Fifth Vestal is not what people say of him. We will base our conclusions not upon rumors but upon the verisimilitude of the men who serve him.”
She gave a little laugh at this, a release of the tension and grief she’d been holding back. “Trell,” she whispered, pushing a tear from her eye as she gazed into the rain, “you are such a gift. Words cannot begin to express it.”
He would’ve kissed her in that moment except it was entirely too perfect already. The rain fell quietly outside their window, and for a time the song of the rain and the accompanying thunder were all they heard. They just sat and listened, content to rest in each other’s arms and have that be enough…almost.
After a long time where they kept their own thoughts, Alyneri lifted her head to look at him, and something in her gaze warned of a terrible truth. “Trell…the Emir had to know who you are.”
“I realize that,” he admitted. He’d decided this soon after learning his name. It made sense finally out of the long-standing mystery of why the Emir would’ve treated him from the outset as if Trell were his own son.
“For the longest time,” she told him, “we thought the Emir was behind your death. Many still believe he is to blame for Sebastian’s, but…” she sighed again, and he heard both concern and contentment in it. “But it mustn’t be true. It can’t be, can it?”
“No. As with most stories, I fear there is much more to my own that remains hidden.”
“But if it wasn’t the Emir…who?”
Neither had an answer to this. They let the silence come again, and in it Trell savored the connection he felt to this woman. Pieces of him remembered her, remembered caring for her and even desiring her. But they were young memories, full of the green eagerness of adolescence. What he felt for her now was somehow much stronger. It was not the fiery passion he’d had for Fhionna, which burned hot enough to scald him in unexpected moments. Rather than singeing and expiring capriciously, his feelings for Alyneri infused him. He felt a deep connection to her in a way that was quite profound to him, and he knew, above all, that this was a gift from Naiadithine too.
***
The thunder of horses preceded the five men as they galloped over the rise and stormed to a halt at the top of the hill overlooking a modest farm. The sun hung low on the horizon, burning beneath a building storm that cast long shadows over the little valley.
The neat farmstead looked abandoned. The pens stood empty, the barn closed up, and though it would’ve been time for an evening meal, no smoke rose from the chimney.
“Looks like they’ve gone, Earl,” one of the five men remarked, speaking the northern common tongue. “You sure this is the place?”
Lord Brantley, Earl of Pent, smoothed his longish moustache and beard several times as he frowned down the hill. “It has to be,” he said after a moment. “For all that tavern keeper is daft as a goat, he knew the man by description and was certain he’d been staying here.”
“You want us to check it out?”
The earl gave him bland look. “No, I would like us all to remain atop this rise wondering whether or not they have gone.”
The man shrugged and nudged his horse down the hill, and the others followed. “Langdon,” called the earl to the last of the men. “Scout around. See what you can find.”
The man named Langdon reined his horse in a circle and headed back up toward the road.
The earl stroked his moustache again, lamenting the episodes of ill-luck which had befallen him. No doubt had he come but one day earlier…
Of course he’d been suspicious of the bearded man he met in town that day when he saw him carrying a kingdom blade. It was too unusual a circumstance to let it pass without investigation. Brantley couldn’t be certain of the stone in the pommel—such stones could tell a man much about the lord he faced, if such a man was well-versed in the stones and their meaning—but he’d never gotten a decent look at the stone. Too, the same afternoon he’d encountered the stranger, they’d finally learned the whereabouts of Lord Everly, who’d been charged with bringing Alyneri d’Giverny to Morwyk, and he necessarily had to leave town. Two days wasted on the road only to discover that the man had been dead a week…it did not serve to improve the earl’s disposition.
And now that mongrel desert bitch and her nameless knight had eluded him yet again. How had they known?
Lord Brantley considered himself a man of quality as well as a man of vision. It was, for example, only good business to deal with Bethamin. The Prophet was on the up and up, and his followers kept growing exponentially. He would become a powerful force—anyone with vision could see that. That’s why his lord, the Duke of Morwyk, was dealing with the man despite his being a low-blood primitive. It wasn’t as though they planned to socialize with the barbarian, but Bethamin had his uses.
This was also why the Duke wanted Alyneri d’Giverny on a short leash before he launched his coup on Calgaryn. Having an heir to the Kandori fortune within his retinue would ensure the financial backing he needed to move his plans forward in a timely fashion and would also keep those Kandori savages in their place in the unlikely event they found the balls to rise against him.
Morwyk would be displeased if Brantley failed to retrieve the duchess. In fact, if he failed, Lord Brantley knew he’d best not return to Dannym at all.
Lord Brantley often bemoaned his plight in life, to be constantly surrounded by men of low intelligence and breeding. However could he be expected to accomplish acts of greatness when saddled with such incompetent underlin
gs?
The sun had nearly set by the time his men reconvened upon the rise. The scout Langdon was the first to return.
“Well?” Brantley demanded irritably. If the man saw anything beyond the tip of his overly large nose it would be a fair miracle.
“Tracks look recent heading away from the farm, milord,” Langdon reported. “Heavy wagon heading west.”
“Any others?”
Langdon shrugged. “Hard to say. The road’s fair packed and lots of traffic along it.”
The other men soon reconvened, and the foremost of them reported, “It’s abandoned, milord, to be sure. Recent though, even in the last day. Earlier today there were horses in the stalls, and the manure is fresh.”
Brantley wrinkled his nose, making his longish moustache tremble and twitch, and frowned at the farmstead. Could any one of these middling men have escaped the clutches of that insufferable Captain Gerard back in Acacia? Could they have so long outwitted old Duke Thane val Torlen? The impotent old fool never knew how many of his men were aching for strong leadership and how easy it had been for Brantley to turn them to Morwyk’s cause. And now here he, Brantley, Earl of Pent, was relegated to chasing down a damned woman like naught but a barnyard goon and her a prized pig gone astray.
“Where to, milord?” Langdon asked.
Brantley stroked his moustache and looked to the south. “The Cairs. We found her there once, we’ll find her there again.” Suddenly he smiled, certain now that his choice was the correct one—as all of his choices were. He added with a sneer at Langdon, “And I have an idea who can tell us exactly where we’ll find her.”
Twenty-Three
“Do not seek to know thyself. Seek to know my will,
for I alone of this world am divine.”
- The Prophet Bethamin
Kjieran waited in the vestry feeling raw and even more unnerved than usual. That morning he’d sent off a hastily scribed message to the Fourth Vestal reporting on everything he’d heard since Dore Madden returned to the temple. The man claimed he’d finally found the pattern he needed for the Prophet to turn even simple men into wielders of Bethamin’s Fire and effectively build the Prophet’s army of would-be Shades. The mere thought was so horrific to Kjieran that he’d taken particular risks in getting the message relayed. Now he waited uneasily for Dore to arrive with his ‘proof.’
When Dore did appear, he led four Ascendants carrying a litter between them. At first glance, Kjieran thought the litter bore a life-size ebony statue, but as the group neared, he realized to his horror that it was actually a man.
Dore led the Ascendants through the nave and into the north transept, which culminated in an apse whose dome hosted ornate fan vaulting such that the walls and ceiling seemed to be made of bleached bones. An identical apse crowned the south end of the transept. Each time he entered the apse, Kjieran felt like he was intruding on the lair of a great spider, and he avoided looking up whenever possible.
Dore was instructing the Ascendants in placing the dead man atop a stone altar when the Prophet arrived. “What have you for me, Dore Madden?”
“A triumph, my lord.” Dore pushed his white hair back from his forehead and licked his lips, adding unctuously, “One of many more to come in your name.”
Kjieran hovered at the edge of the apse waiting to serve his lord should he be required, but the vantage gave him a clear view of everyone now standing on the dais.
“What is this then?” The Prophet indicated the man lying atop the altar.
“This is the future of your army, my lord. I have uncovered the secret Malachai ap’Kalien and Björn van Gelderan have been hiding about their Shades, the reason the creatures can wield the dark power deyjiin. I theorized that they used first and fifth-strand patterns to alter the basic composition of the men who were to become Shades. Following this theory, I have found a similar pattern to the one they may have used—alas I fear it is not the same pattern exactly—yet with this alteration, a mortal’s body can withstand your superior Fire.”
The Prophet looked over the man upon the altar and arched a black eyebrow. “This one does not seem be alive.”
“Regrettably, he died during the conversion process—but had he first been bound to you, my lord,” Dore added pointedly, “his lifeforce tied to yours, pinning his soul to his body, his sight subject to your every inspection…then such a man might become a true weapon, an extension of your divine will.”
The Prophet looked at him sharply. “What is this? A new binding?”
“There are many types of binding patterns, my lord, each producing a different level of awareness between the subjects. They all require mutual fluids—blood or semen are best—to seal the bond. Such a binding allows one to know another’s mind…to see what he sees.”
The Prophet arched a brow. “To hear his thoughts?”
“That’s the beauty of it, my lord.” He licked his lips and continued, “Establishing telepathy within a binding is very difficult. It is rarely achieved outside of two Adepts of the fourth strand. However, the binding of which I speak would circumvent this complication. As the subject’s body changes from living flesh into a powerful weapon of your Fire, yet with his soul pinned to you such that death does not claim him…it is conceivable that you would eventually rule such a one completely.”
“How long would this process take?”
“The Pattern of Changing takes some time, my lord. During the conversion, your control over the subject will vary. But once the conversion is complete…” here he licked his lips again, eyes wild, his voice rising and words coming faster with his excitement, “my lord…you would have the freedom to move into and out of any member of your army at any time, taking over their body to carry out your will! In this way, we would bind your army to you, but you would not be bound to them, my lord. No, no, they would not know your mind unless you willed it.”
Kjieran’s trepidation grew with each new piece of information, for Dore’s logic was sound. He could really do this! The very thought made Kjieran shudder. Even without knowing the exact patterns Dore intended to use, it was conceivable in theory to accomplish everything the madman claimed.
The Prophet stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“Perhaps a demonstration, my lord?” Dore suggested, licking his lips, and at the Prophet’s nod to continue, he explained, “If you were to send your Fire into this man,” and he laid spindly fingers upon the dead man’s leg, “enough to destroy a mortal body, I would you might see the result.”
The Prophet arched a skeptical brow, but he laid his hand upon the man all the same. Kjieran felt the room grow colder, so instantly cold that his breath frosted in the air. He hugged his arms and watched with growing alarm as a grey miasma spread beneath the dead man into the altar. It had consumed only half of the supporting pedestal before the entire altar erupted in a geyser of marble dust. Billowing clouds enveloped the entire apse. Kjieran threw one arm across his nose and mouth and spun away.
When the dust finally settled and the countless spasms of choking from the others subsided, the altar was gone but the dead man remained, lying haphazardly across the broken stones.
Long sunrays filtered through the tainted air, but the Prophet stood untouched, his black hair in vibrant contrast to the dusting of pale powder that enshrouded both apse and men. He turned his piercing gaze on Dore. “I must think on this.” Then he left.
Kjieran left, too, fleeing to his chambers to send yet another desperate report to the Fourth Vestal.
He’d just finished sealing the bottom of the pillar candle when a pounding on his door startled him enough that he nearly dropped it. Wary, he set the candle behind all the others on his shelf and went to open his door.
An Ascendant stood on the threshold. Seeing him, Kjieran’s stomach turned.
No. Oh no!
With a sinking feeling of dread, he managed, “Yes, Ascendant?”
“The Prophet calls you to attend him, acolyte.”
“Of cou
rse,” Kjieran answered, though he could barely breathe.
He followed the Ascendant to the Prophet’s chambers with fear as an anvil crushing his chest. Everything about this meeting felt wrong, and instinct told him that he should be more afraid still.
He found the prophet waiting in a stone-paved cloister where a central tiered fountain made quiet music. Bethamin faced away from Kjieran with his hands clasped behind his back, but he turned as the truthreader neared. Kjieran fell to his knees and bowed his head. “My lord.”
The Prophet placed hands upon his face to draw him up. “I would look upon your eyes again, Kjieran.” Kjieran dutifully raised his eyes to meet the Prophet’s dark gaze. Bethamin’s hands were warm upon his face, but his eyes were so very cold…
His thumb brushed Kjieran’s lips, once…twice. Then the Prophet released him. “You heard Dore’s good news,” he remarked, motioning for Kjieran to walk with him.
Kjieran cringed at the descriptive. “Yes, my lord.”
“It is timely, for our ally, Prince Radov, goes to parley with the leader of the desert tribes, his enemy. The King of Dannym will also be there.” He turned Kjieran an intense look. “It suits our purposes for Dannym to fall.”
Kjieran nearly missed a step. “How…is that, my lord?”
The Prophet stopped at the end of a courtyard framed in fig trees, and where four marble thrones were arranged in a circle. He turned to Kjieran. “You have served me loyally, Kjieran, and for this, I shall reward you.”
Kjieran stiffened. The Prophet had twisted ideas of reward and punishment.
The Prophet looked down upon him, and terror reared within the quiet court and grabbed Kjieran in its clutches. Bethamin’s eyes were utterly without feeling, as devoid of emotion as the icy edges of the cosmos, yet Kjieran understood that the Prophet felt something for him. “Dannym is a bastion that must crumble if my brothers and I are to accomplish our objectives, if my faith is to prevail in the hearts and minds of men. Without Gydryn val Lorian—without any of his sons to carry forward his name—this northern kingdom which has so long stood against me will falter. Its peoples, oft denied my truth, will embrace me wholly.” The Prophet settled both hands on Kjieran’s shoulders. “This great honor do I bestow upon you, Kjieran. To be my hand in Tal’Shira and destroy this king.”
The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light) Page 30
