Markal clasped wrists with him, but only his troubled gaze spoke in reply.
***
Björn van Gelderan, Fifth Vestal of Alorin, stood before the tall windows of his study with his hands clasped behind his back gazing out at the advancing front of a thunderstorm.
Raine D’Lacourte, Fourth Vestal of Alorin, sat in an armchair in the corner observing his oath-brother while Dämen, Lord of Shades, gave his report. Raine came as an invited guest to this briefing—indeed, Raine was welcomed and invited everywhere now, Björn’s constant shadow. It was surreal.
So many centuries had passed, yet Raine found his oath-brother essentially the same, as if the intervening years had been but a blink of the eye. It appeared to Raine that the usual deleterious effects of centuries of life and loss merely hit Björn and bounced away as light reflecting from a mirror, leaving no trace.
In fact, this scene was so like countless others witnessed centuries ago in Illume Belliel that Raine could simply close his eyes and see the same image played out upon a different background. In the cityworld, Dämen would’ve been but one of hundreds in Björn’s service come to give news of their activities, intrigues, successes. Raine recalled many an afternoon spent in Björn’s chambers being privy to such conferences. Björn had trusted him, and yet…to think of the intrigues Björn let Raine sit in council upon—the rise or fall of entire kingdoms, empires even!—yet knowing he had not trusted him with the truth of T’khendar…it gave a new depth to the enormity of his oath-brother’s game.
Yet while in Illume Belliel, Raine had followed the conversations he overheard. In T’khendar, it was all shades of incomprehensible. It wasn’t just the often disjointed communication between Björn and Dämen, statements formed of incomplete sentences as if they finished the rest of it in their heads. No, it was more that Raine knew he was still missing an underlying grasp of the foundation of the game overall—the objectives, as it were—and without those, every move was baffling.
“What of the Sylus node?” Björn asked, casting Dämen a glance over his shoulder. He wore a heavy silk tunic in dove-grey that afternoon belted over slim black pants. The light in the room was growing ever dimmer from the storm rolling in, but still Björn’s oathring sparkled as if held to the sun.
“Franco Rohre has been given the task, as you required, ma dieul,” the Shade replied.
Björn arched a brow over the shadow of a smile. “Then he accepted the assignment?”
“Not without expressing his immense trepidation and disagreement, First Lord,” the Shade returned.
“Excellent. This will no doubt prove a challenge for Franco, but I’m sure he’ll be grateful to have gained the skill.”
Though Dämen’s sculpted silver features remained impassive, Raine sensed an underlying unease in the Shade regarding the topic of the Sylus node—wherever it was. This gleaned perception was the best Raine could accomplish, for it was impossible to read the mind of such creatures. From a truthreader’s perspective, their minds simply did not exist. The man was standing there having a conversation, but his thoughts… originated elsewhere. Dämen looked uncomfortable, however—twitchy, his attention dispersed—which manner gave Raine some insight into his state of mind.
“Ma dieul,” the Shade asked after a long, discontented silence, “will you truly let them take you? After all that has happened?”
Björn considered the question with the slightest of furrows between ebony brows. Then he turned from the windows and slung himself into a violet-hued armchair, settling his chin in hand. “If my path leads there, Dämen,” he answered with his cobalt gaze firm upon the Shade, “then I will follow it, as ever I have.”
The Shade looked highly dissatisfied with this answer.
Raine understood little of this interchange, which was to be expected. He’d been invited there not to understand the inner workings of Björn’s activities so much as to realize what he already knew: that Björn was still Björn, untainted by time or the elements or deyjiin…or even by Raine’s own betrayal—much to the truthreader’s lingering chagrin. His oath-brother remained as constant as the slow turning of the cosmos itself, and Raine was now ideally poised to endure the everlasting guilt of his forgiveness.
Dämen was just opening his mouth, perhaps to wage some further protest, when his attention caught across the room and he closed it again.
Raine turned to follow his gaze and found Isabel standing in the threshold. She wore a high-collared gown of forest green with a darker cloak folded across her arm. As always, a raven-dark blindfold bound her eyes. Still, she looked as radiant as the sun, and her presence suffused the room with a certain serenity that Raine associated with Isabel alone.
Björn stood at the same time that Raine rose to greet her. “Isabel,” said her brother, “you bless us with your presence.”
Smiling beneath her blindfold, Isabel crossed the room to plant a chaste kiss upon Björn’s cheek. “And you are ever a boon for my self-esteem, dear brother,” she murmured sweetly.
Björn gave her attire a sweeping look and asked with arched brow, “Going somewhere?” There was something in his gaze, in his tone, that Raine didn’t quite understand, but Isabel seemed to know it, for she took his hand in her own as a sort of answer and turned silently to the doorway just Ramuhárikhamáth, Lord of the Heavens, rounded the threshold.
“Ah…” Björn murmured. He slowly retook his chair, and Isabel moved closer to his side, still holding his hand. “Ramu, what have you?” the First Lord asked then, his expression unreadable.
“Ill news of Trell val Lorian, ma dieul,” replied the drachwyr.
“Ah, so…please tell us what has befallen our Trell of the Tides.”
Ramu explained then how Balaji had contacted him with news of Trell’s capture, discovered via the Healer Alyneri, as well as an update from Rhakar, who had found the kidnapping crew and confirmed the report.
“Rhakar says Trell has been taken to M’Nador—to Radov,” Ramu concluded with a frown, “which truly means Viernan hal’Jaitar. The Saldarian crew who captured Trell took the rest of the prince’s party hostage—to what end, we know not. Rhakar followed them to observe and report.”
“I believe I might shed some unfortunate light upon the mystery,” offered an entering Dagmar. He held up a folded letter. “This report just in from your contact in the Cairs, First Lord, says four of Ean val Lorian’s companions have been taken and are being held hostage in demand for his surrender at the Castle of Tyr’kharta, on the Kandori-Saldarian border.”
“Taken?” said yet another voice heatedly from the doorway, and Raine looked back to the portal to find Ean standing there—truly, was the entirety of Björn’s counsel to converge upon his study in the same moment?
Yet even as he stared at Ean, Raine realized something had changed in the young prince. Anger radiated from him, its force doubled for being imprinted also on the tides of elae, but it was the force of Ean’s presence that truly struck Raine. It seemed to have grown exponentially since last they met. For the first time, Raine recognized something of Arion Tavestra in the prince’s gaze. It was not exactly a comforting observation.
“‘Tis well you’re here to receive this news, Ean,” the First Lord meanwhile remarked, “ill though it appears to be.”
“Indeed,” Dagmar agreed, eyeing the prince as the latter moved across the room to join them, “for there is more.” He gave them all a significant look then as he continued, “The felons demand Ean arrive alone upon the hour given or they shall take the lives of his companions, starting with the Lord Captain Rhys val Kinkaide. They warn they will know if Ean should bring others with him or otherwise attempt to deceive.”
While everyone was absorbing this news, Ramu observed dolefully, “First Lord, Rhakar says the wielder who leads this Saldarian crew is skilled and not to be discounted. While Rhakar could not be certain who the man serves, he believes he may have been trained by one from the Fourth Age.”
“Yes,” Bj�
�rn murmured, looking regretful. “Undoubtedly.”
Raine wondered if Ean would ever be free of the plague of factions warring for the chance to kill him. Which reminded him… “The Karakurt’s operatives have long sought Ean,” he said, turning his gaze to the prince. “This treachery has the stain of her hand upon it.”
“It would be ill-advised for you to attempt to free your friends from such an obvious trap,” Ramu cautioned.
The room fell silent as everyone considered this truth, while beyond the windows, thunder sounded close and near, and the storm broke upon the world. A sudden torrent of rain pelted the glass doors and ran in rivulets to make an instant pool of the balcony tiles. Björn sent the fifth into the lamps, which swelled into a soft glow.
“Is there any remark as to why this interest in Ean?” Isabel finally inquired of Ramu and Dagmar both. “What crime do they place upon his shoulders?”
“It states the Prophet holds a claim upon him,” Dagmar answered.
“The Prophet?” Raine turned Ean a swift look of inquiry.
The prince grimaced, and his gaze darkened with obvious chagrin. “It happened in Acacia,” he confessed then, his features tense, hands clutched at his sides. “I unworked the pattern binding a Marquiin—I hardly realized what I was doing,” he added hastily, turning an apologetic look to the First Lord, as if beholden to him for misuse of his gifts. “I was new to my returning talent and became lost in the moment. The Adept died, and the Ascendant working with him escaped into the river.” He exhaled heavily. “I had thought—hoped—him dead as well.”
Isabel shook her head. “If you freed a truthreader from Bethamin’s blight, Ean, then you saved his soul from oblivion. Dare harbor no regret over the act.”
“I regret only that it’s now brought my friends to harm,” the prince replied tightly.
The room fell silent again, whilst the storm seemed to grow disproportionately louder, its temperament worsening as their outlook diminished. Into this silence, Björn said, “You must decide what you will do, Ean.”
Ramu’s expression became troubled, and when the Lord of the Heavens frowned, the whole world fell beneath a shadow. “The Prophet Bethamin,” Ramu murmured, turning his gaze upon the prince. “He is not a man to engage with lightly. Should you fail in the task of saving your friends, Ean, it is into his hands you would be delivered. Are you ready to do battle with such a one?”
The potentiality of this consequence also greatly disturbed Raine. “I beg you think carefully upon this, Ean,” he urged. “You know what we suspect of the Prophet and his interference with your family’s rule. Having encountered his Marquiin, you must know also the grave effects of Bethamin’s power. This trap is obvious, and your success is by no means assured.”
“I agree,” Dagmar added. “You must consider the enemies you face here.”
Raine finished, “The Prophet is cunning and deceitful and works wholly toward his own ends. Such men have no honor. Your friends may already be dead.”
Ean met Raine’s gaze, and the truthreader could tell that the prince was deeply affected by the choice open before him. Yet Raine could read nothing of his thoughts—this, too, was telling of the change Ean had undergone. “You would have me abandon them,” he said, flicking a concerned glance from Raine to Ramu.
“We have all sacrificed beyond measure in this endeavor,” the Lord of the Heavens remarked candidly, his tone reflective of the steadfast conviction that guided him. “You should understand this better than most, Ean.”
“And would I sacrifice my friends,” Ean argued, growing agitated, “you would have me forsake my honor as well!”
“We would have you make a choice,” the First Lord soothed. “That is all.”
Ean turned him a desperate look. “But I cannot see the path ahead, my lord! I don’t know how this choice will affect the game. You choose for me.”
“It is not our choice to make, Ean,” Isabel advised, her presence ever a light within the darkness, the flickering flame guiding the way into the bleak beyond. “This decision lies upon your path, love of my heart. Not ours.”
Ean’s gaze remained tormented as he looked at Björn and Isabel, reticence and urgency commingling upon his features. Clearly he grappled with doubt, yet strangely, Raine did not think it was the decision to leave that he now wrestled with. “First Lord…” the prince finally managed, sounding choked, “may I have a word—alone?”
“Of course.” Björn stood and motioned Ean toward the balcony, whereupon the raging storm suddenly waned. As if with the waving of the First Lord’s arm, the rain faded from a downpour to a faint pattering, and by the time Björn escorted Ean out of doors, only a humid wind remained.
***
Ean followed Björn outside into the nascent calm, while within a different storm yet raged. The rain had stopped, and the late afternoon felt a tomb beneath low, smothering clouds. The air clung heavy and humid to Ean’s flesh, yet too it felt…clean, as though the storm had exhausted itself in violent lovemaking and now lay panting against nature’s breast, its demons momentarily exorcised.
Gazing in silence at the First Lord, knowing it was him who’d calmed the storm, Ean imagined that all of the books in the known world wouldn’t contain the knowledge Björn van Gelderan possessed in his little finger. Yet he would have Ean make this choice?
How can I decide when every choice I’ve made so far has led to disaster?
His answer came from an unexpected quarter. ‘Players make their moves at will,’ the zanthyr’s remembered words broke through the cacophony of doubts rampaging in Ean’s head, ‘reassured only by their own resolve, facing dire consequences, protected by no one, and shielded by nothing but the force of their conviction.’
Phaedor’s words resonated with a deep chord of truth, one Ean couldn’t deny. He reflected that he really hated the zanthyr sometimes for always being so right.
“My lord,” the Prince said then, breaking the silence that had lengthened as they walked, “what if this choice…what if I choose poorly?”
Björn turned with a compassionate look, his gaze acknowledging the validity of Ean’s problem. “There are countless choices that will be made in the coming days,” he replied, clasping hands behind his back as they walked side by side. “With each new choice, the balance of the game could shift—but this is the challenge of the game itself, Ean,” he added with a lightness in his tone, his very blue eyes searching Ean’s for understanding. “Your choices are but drops within the sea, your role one among many, my friend. These paths are ever changing, ever fluctuating. The future is always in motion.”
Ean exhaled a troubled breath and looked up at the smothering clouds. He felt somehow connected to the slumbering storm, as though the First Lord’s presence becalmed him but momentarily as well—long enough to attempt what he’d originally come to do.
“My lord,” Ean managed then, feeling as if a part of him was still battling the three-headed demon of guilt, “I want to give you my oath.”
Björn drew up short. He looked Ean over in silence then, and the prince endured his inspection uneasily, for it was never comfortable bearing the probing gaze of the Fifth Vestal—it was rather like staring too long into the sun.
“Thank you, Ean,” the First Lord said after what felt an interminable assessment wherein each touch of his scorching gaze fell as sunlight upon burned skin. “But I do not doubt your fidelity.”
“Then…you will accept my oath?”
Björn shook his head slightly. “No.”
It was given in the kindest imaginable tone, but still Ean felt shattered by his refusal.
The First Lord placed a hand on his shoulder. “Never imagine I don’t want and need your support,” he said in a low voice, his tone revealing of an endearment so heartfelt that Ean trembled with the enormity of what had been lost between them.
“Then…why?” Ean managed, finding his voice suddenly a barren landscape scoured raw by the winds of their forgotten friendship
.
Björn looked deeply into his eyes. “Because I sense you are as yet uncertain what this oath entails.”
“It doesn’t matter what it entails, my lord!” Ean insisted, suddenly desperate to convince him to accept his oath that he might divest himself of the ever-growing chasm of its absence. “Whatever you require, I will give it!”
Björn drew in a deep breath and let it out again evenly, and all the while his deep blue eyes seemed to see Ean’s many lives passing through the ages, each one dedicated to but a single purpose. After an uncomfortable moment of this, he asked, “What is an oath, Ean?”
“A promise,” the prince returned tightly. “A binding promise.”
“But what binds it?”
Ean clenched his teeth. He saw where the First Lord was going with this now, and he didn’t like it one bit. “Honor, my lord.”
“Honor,” Björn repeated with a solemn nod. “When all the trappings are stripped away, an oath is bound first and foremost with honor.”
“But is it not honorable to give an oath?” Ean pressed, still wishing he might persuade him to accept his, for his need to give it was acute. Whatever part of him had known the bond of this oath before now missed it painfully.
“If an oath isn’t given to someone else does that make it any less of an oath?” Björn posed in return. “Why must something be said to another before it becomes binding? Should not the force of our own conscience dictate our purpose and be damned if it should matter whether or not another has heard it?”
Ean dropped his gaze, for there was no disputing this truth.
The First Lord took Ean by both shoulders. “You have never needed another’s approval to act as your conscience dictates, my old friend,” he noted with a look of soft amusement. “I dare say you needn’t start now.”
Björn drew Ean close then, friend to friend, brother to brother; and in his embrace, all feelings and frustrations and despair vanished. Ean knew only the balm of understanding and forgiveness…while it lasted.
Releasing him, Björn gave him a look of encouragement. “I will see you again, Ean,” he said with a squeeze of the prince’s shoulders, “whatever your choice.”
The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light) Page 81
