It was a tense half-hour spent mostly in silence as they rode back to their villa. Alyneri soon began to recognize the streets, but when she arrived in the yard to find it empty and the place looking abandoned, her trepidation grew immensely. “Where is everyone?” she asked as they were dismounting.
“Rhys and Brody are probably off searching the lower city again,” Fynn grumbled. “Bastian sailed north with the Tungsten three days ago to deliver news of you, cousin,” he said, indicating Trell, “to my dear auntie, your Queen mother. Seth got tired of being ignored by the zanthyr and left at the same time I did this morning, and I don’t know where Phaedor is,” he added, glowering around at the bushes and trees and the high walls, “but knowing him he’s probably just waiting for the opportune time to appear and scare the nine hells out of all of us.”
“And everyone else?” Alyneri’s unease was reaching alarming proportions. “What of the Vestal and Tanis and Ean? Carian vran Lea?”
“Yeah,” Fynn muttered darkly, “we’ll get to them.”
He led them inside the manse, which seemed disturbingly dark and empty to Alyneri, and into the closest room that hosted a bar. He poured three glasses of wine, and as he handed Alyneri’s to her, he said gravely, “Your Grace, you’d better sit down.” Then he looked to Trell. “You might as well sit down too, cousin.”
They sat. Trell reached over and took her hand, for which she gave him an immensely grateful look.
Fynn settled into an armchair across from them. “The night you disappeared, your Grace, everything went to hell,” he began. “Brody and I got back from Veneisea to report on what we’d learned of Trell,” and he looked to him, adding, “Indora’s Magisteré was adamant that you lived. You apparently made quite an impression on the Lord Commander of the Tivaricum as well. I’m glad to know you take after your old cousin Fynn,” and he winked and gave Trell an approving nod.
“But as I was saying,” he went on, abruptly exchanging his grin for a gloomy expression, “Raine D’Lacourte was up in arms about having learned something important about the Fifth Vestal’s plans and certain of a sudden that he had the upper hand—a lot of shite that turned out to be, let me tell you.” He looked sternly to Trell and warned, “Never believe a Vestal when he says the game is up. Raine told me that night that he was planning to take Ean to Illume Belliel, because he was certain the Fifth Vestal intended to claim him as he’d claimed Franco Rohre—”
“What?” Alyneri gasped. “Fynn, for Epiphany’s sake—”
“But that’s not even the worst part,” Fynn continued dourly. “Vran Lea returned from Belloth-knows-where to tell us that Franco Rohre had been seen in the Temple of the Vestals, and then the zanthyr appeared with news that Ean had awoken.”
Alyneri pushed hands to her cheeks. “Was he—?”
“As witless as ever,” Fynn grumbled. “I was on my way to tell him that you lived, cousin,” he said, looking to Trell, “but I was too late. He took off with Creighton’s Shade—”
“Creighton’s Shade!” Alyneri very nearly shrieked. “Fynn, have you gone mad?”
Fynn pushed palm to forehead. “If only,” he lamented. “At least there might be a cure for such madness as that.”
“Creighton,” Trell meanwhile mused. “I know that name…”
“He was Ean’s blood-brother,” Fynn said. “The son of a powerful Agasi nobleman by the name of Kristophe Khelspath.”
“And now he’s a Shade?” Trell inquired as if the man had simply become a knight and not a specter of fell magic and shadow.
“The damnable creature left me frozen in Ean’s rooms for the better part of two hours, curse him.”
Alyneri gaped at Fynn in utter disbelief.
“And then?” Trell prodded.
“Raine called for the pirate and left with the avieths and his army of mercenaries, and the zanthyr leaped over Ean’s railing claiming he was off to avert disaster but I’ve no proof it wasn’t him who destroyed the Temple of the Vestals.”
“How was the temple destroyed?” Trell asked.
Fynn swallowed uncomfortably, and his eyes darted around the room. “…Deyjiin,” he somewhat gasped out.
“Which is what?”
“A dark power,” Alyneri murmured, growing cold with the understanding. “What happened to him, Fynn?” She felt a desperation welling, that sick feeling so often associated with Ean.
“Ean lives, rest assured,” Fynn said, looking oddly green, “but from everything we can tell, he’s joined Björn van Gelderan in T’khendar. Seth claims…” and he paused to force a swallow, looking truly unwell, “the avieth says Franco took Ean across a node…and the Islander followed with Raine…and Gwynnleth…there at the end.” He took a deep breath and whispered sickly, “Everything I know of what happened at the temple came from the zanthyr or Seth. Their stories match, so I suppose they must be true…Epiphany knows they wouldn’t have collaborated on them. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go throw up,” and he rushed from the room.
Alyneri followed him with her eyes, feeling numb.
Trell drank his wine in silence.
Fynn came back before too long, but he didn’t seem much better. He didn’t even reach to fill his wine, just slumped down in his chair across from them looking morose. “If you don’t mind, your Grace,” Fynn muttered then, “maybe you can ask the zanthyr if you’ve any more questions about…the temple.”
But Alyneri didn’t care about the temple, for she still hadn’t seen or heard anything of Tanis. “Fynn, where is Tanis? Is he with the captain?”
Fynn slapped a palm to his forehead. “Belloth’s bloody balls—you mean you don’t know about that either?” He swore another less publicly appropriate oath under his breath. “Tanis vanished the same day you did—apparently just up and left the café where he’d been waiting for you with not a word to Rhys or anyone. We were hoping maybe you knew something about it.”
Alyneri felt the blood draining from her head, and her wine started rippling in her hand. She realized in that detached sort of way that it was because her hand was, in fact, trembling.
Trell took her cup from her, looking concerned. “Who is Tanis?” he asked Fynn.
“A young truthreader,” the royal cousin answered at the same time that Alyneri whispered, “He’s like a brother to me.” Her eyes shifted back to Fynn. “Gods above, Fynn—have you no idea? What if he’s hurt somewhere?” her voice was rising sharply with her distress. “What if he—”
“Tanis lives,” came a voice from the shadows
Alyneri jumped from her chair and spun to face the zanthyr as he entered from behind. “How could you lose him?” she demanded desperately, her voice breaking as tears welled in her eyes, hands clutching her skirts with dismay.
“As a point of fact, your Grace,” the zanthyr returned stoically, “you are the one who lost him. He went missing while you were in the apothecary.”
“Being kidnapped!” she protested incredulously.
“Belloth’s bloody balls,” Fynn growled, for he had yet to hear Alyneri’s story and this was the first he’d learned of it. “Are we all cursed, or is it just a spell of increasingly ill luck?” He glared at the zanthyr as if Phaedor was somehow to blame for their combined misfortunes. “Who was it took you then, your Grace? Or do you know?”
She turned to him, but it was a moment before she could find her voice.
“Morwyk,” Trell supplied in her stead.
“Ah, yes,” Fynn remarked. “Our favorite Duke of the Apocalypse. Would that his mother had seen fit to drown him at birth.” He looked to the zanthyr again clearly wishing the same fate upon him.
Alyneri took hold of the back of her chair for support, for she felt faint and weak of heart. “If something happens to Tanis, I shall never forgive myself.” The zanthyr moved on across the room, always availing himself of the shadows instead of the light. “But you…you say he lives?” she asked, following him with her eyes. “He’s safe then?”
“I did not say he was safe.”
“Please, Phaedor!” Forgetting herself completely, Alyneri rushed to him. Once she might’ve held her ground, tried to show he couldn’t intimidate her. But she’d shared a night of healing with Phaedor. She knew the light he harbored in his soul—the others be damned if they couldn’t see it too!
She took his hand with both of hers and pressed it to her heart. “Please,” she whispered, unable to look into his eyes but feeling his powerful gaze upon her all the same. “Won’t you tell me what you can? Is he in danger?” When he did not immediately answer, Alyneri rested her forehead on his chest and murmured, “Please—I beg you.”
“There is nothing I can say to ease your fears, Duchess,” Phaedor told her. “I do not know where the lad is, only that he is upon a mission he feels duty-bound to complete.”
“And how do you know this?” came an iron voice from the balcony.
It seemed Seth had returned.
“Yes, I’m quite interested to hear that answer myself,” Fynn grumbled. He seemed to have recovered somewhat, for he got up and poured himself another goblet of wine.
Alyneri lifted her head and gazed into Phaedor’s emerald eyes. She still held the zanthyr’s hand to her heart, refusing to release it until he gave her some hope to hold onto instead.
Coming closer, Seth commented hotly, “I know of no working that would reveal such knowledge unless you’d bound the boy to you—” Suddenly he stopped and stared, the room filling with silent accusation while he found uncharacteristic restraint for his anger. “You bound the boy to you!”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Fynn remarked.
“I should call the Paladin Knights from Illume Belliel to claim your head! Working such a thing against a child’s will—you’re no better than that bastard you serve!” He spun on his heel and stalked out again, leaving a wake of contempt to stain the air.
Fynn opened his mouth to contribute, but Trell, whose gaze had never left the zanthyr’s face, murmured quickly, “Fynnlar, not now.”
Alyneri felt tears in her eyes, felt them well and brim and fall, warm and then cool upon her checks. For she understood what had truly happened.
A babe brought to them in mystery and secret…
Phaedor would never have bound Tanis without his consent, which left only one explanation. “You bound yourself to him,” she whispered, barely managing the words, for their ramifications were so profound and devastating, “for forever and all time. Dear Epiphany, Phaedor!” She shook her head as she stared at him in shock. “He was a babe of two…and you gave him everything that you are.”
The zanthyr just gazed at her, a raven-haired sculpture with emerald eyes, his silence acknowledgement enough.
“Why?” she whispered weakly, though she knew he wouldn’t answer. After a moment she wiped the tears from her face and released his hand. “What should I do?”
“Nothing,” he replied. “Tanis walks his own path now.”
“But you are watching for him,” she said, knowing it was true whether or not Phaedor deigned to admit it. Ean and Tanis both…She now understood: the zanthyr would keep them moving upon their paths no matter what it took.
Giving him a look of understanding, willing that he might see as deeply into her soul as she imagined he could, Alyneri nodded her agreement and returned to her chair, albeit unsteadily.
Fynn meanwhile sat down again looking gloomy, perhaps because his hopes to condemn the zanthyr outright were once again frustratingly thwarted by the truth. After a moment, his gaze found Trell. “So what in Tiern’aval happened to you, cousin? We all thought you were toast—fodder for that damned Basi’s dragons or some such.”
Trell gave him an amused look. “I have met those dragons you mention so blithely, cousin,” he remarked in return. “Trust me, they wouldn’t deign to eat men, no matter how princely the sacrifice.”
Fynn arched a brow in unconvinced response.
“And how did you come to know the drachwyr, Prince of Dannym?” asked the zanthyr, who emerged from the shadows to better look upon Trell.
Trell lifted grey eyes to meet Phaedor’s, and Alyneri was surprised to find such openness in them. “The First Lord saved my life,” he answered simply, “that is, after Ramu and Rhakar pulled me from near drowning in a well. Balaji welcomed me to the First Lord’s sa’reyth, and Vaile took pity on me and showed me around. I star-gazed with Loghain, lost too many games of Kings to Naiir, and witnessed the imminent destruction of those who refused to give their oaths.”
The zanthyr arched brows at all of this, and the hint of a shadowy smile played across his lips. “You have witnessed much it would seem. What did you learn from the experience?”
Trell thought on that for a moment and then replied, “That the Mage is a man of many names and even greater aims…that few things are truly as they appear…and there is often more to be gained in the journey than resides in the destination.”
Phaedor held Trell’s eyes with his piercing gaze, but there was appreciation in it. “He will be pleased to know you have gained so much.” Then he flipped his dagger, flashed a grin and vanished.
Fynn jerked so hard in his chair that he nearly spilled his wine. He hissed an oath and swung a sooty glare at the place where the zanthyr last stood, grumbling acidly, “He does that just to spite me.”
“Well, you sort of deserved it,” Alyneri told him.
“What’s that supposed to mean? I vow he’s got you under some kind of spell—he can do that, you know. I have first-hand knowledge.”
Trell meanwhile smiled softly. “That was the First Lord’s zanthyr,” he observed to himself, looking highly pleased by something.
Fynn cast him a flat look. “I think you’ve both gone loopy, trusting that creature.”
“You mean you don’t? I would’ve thought you a better judge of character, Fynnlar.”
“Oh cousin, you have no idea what a bad judge of character I am,” Fynn returned, shaking his head resolutely.
Twenty-Six
“They never seem to sleep like respectable people.”
- The Lord Captain Rhys val Kinkaide,
on zanthyrs
Trell dressed for dinner with his head spinning. In the last forty-eight hours, he’d learned that he was a prince, that his family loved him, that his brother Sebastian had been killed sacrificed to a plot for the Eagle Throne, that he might be in danger as a result of the same plot, that his brother Ean was also targeted but was in more danger for being involved in a deadly game masterminded by the Fifth Vestal, that the same man had some unexplained interest in him also, and that he was falling in love with Alyneri d’Giverny.
All things told, it had been a busy two days.
These experiences fell on the brighter side of his life. On the darker side, he knew now that the Emir had kept his name a secret from him for five years, even knowing how it had tormented him. He knew he was next in line for the Eagle Throne, which was a precarious position at present; and he knew that his father and his kingdom were the sworn allies of Radov abin Hadorin, whom Trell could never support.
What he didn’t know was what he intended to do about all of it.
He’d touched upon this fear even while still in the Akkad, wondering if he might be forced to reassess his own loyalties once he learned his name. Now the truth had become a very real obstacle to accepting any part of his birthright. His name, he supposed, was his to claim, but anything beyond that…well, he had much to think on in this regard.
Having washed and dressed, Trell gazed at himself in the mirror, at his angular features and raven hair, at his grey eyes always so intense. You are your father’s son…Alyneri’s words, spoken with admiration, but what did it really mean to be the son of Gydryn val Lorian? What kind of man was he?
Trell felt that while he now knew his name, his journey in truth had only just begun. He reminded himself of Ramu’s lesson, words of wisdom from the Mage who wanted him to ‘become a player,’ and he knew wit
h a heavy conscience that the road before him stretched endlessly on.
Trell remained somber as he joined the others for dinner, finding Alyneri, Fynn and four others already assembled next to the long dining table when he entered. The tallest of the strangers had stormy grey eyes, a thin, flaring nose, and dark brown hair that was held in place by an earl’s bronze circlet. With his reddish beard and broad frame, he reminded Trell somewhat of a lion.
But he didn’t seem the least bit fearsome in the moment that he turned to Trell and their eyes met, for Trell saw a flash of raw emotion cross the older man’s face, and then he abruptly fell to one knee, pressed his fist to his chest and dropped his head. The other three men followed, looking equally stricken. “My prince,” said the first man, his voice gruff with emotion.
Trell felt dismayed.
“Trell, this is Rhys val Kincaide,” Alyneri said, coming to his aid. “He is the Captain of the King’s Own Guard and has been a faithful member of our company since we left Calgaryn. His men are Dorin and Cayal, loyal to your father, your brother, and the kingdom.”
“Well met,” Trell said, adding “please…” that they might stand instead of remain so bowed, which only heightened his discomfort. “I would that we might not keep such…formalities.” He gazed uncertainly at Rhys. “I have been long from my father’s kingdom, long from such titles.”
“Through treachery alone, my prince,” Rhys returned as he and the others regained their feet. His voice was impassioned and still raw. “Surely no fault of yours.”
“Be that as it may, I would rather we stood as equals in this company.”
Rhys looked affronted by the idea, but he didn’t argue outright. Trell supposed that was as much as he could hope for from such a man.
“And this is Brody the Bull,” Alyneri introduced the last man among them, who seemed aptly named. “He is Fynnlar’s traveling companion.”
“Not for much longer if I can help it,” Fynn complained, shooting Brody a dark stare.
“He can’t,” Brody returned. “I serve his father, Prince Ryan.”
The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light) Page 34
