CEPHRAEL’S HAND
A Pattern Of Shadow And Light
Book One
MELISSA MCPHAIL
This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
Cephrael’s Hand
A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright 2010 Melissa McPhail
v3.0
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Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Map of Alorin
Foreward
Prologue
Part 1: Ean & Trell
Map: Dannym & Its Surrounding Kingdoms
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Map: M’Nador & The Akkad Emirates
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Part 2: Awakening
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Part 3: Emergence
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
Forty-eight
Forty-nine
Fifty
Fifty-one
Fifty-two
Fifty-three
Fifty-four
Fifty-five
Fifty-six
Fifty-seven
Epilogue
Glossary of Terms
Dramatis Personae
Acknowledgements
In acknowledgement to the hordes of loyal friends and family who read multiple editions of this voluminous tome, you have my enduring gratitude and appreciation. To Sarah, Juliet, and Shon, thank you for being so patient with mommy while she spent so many evenings and weekends writing.
MAP OF ALORIN
Foreword
“In the fifth century of the Fifth Age in the realm of Alorin, the Adept Malachai ap’Kalien wielded the itinerant power widely referred to as elae to create—nay, not a mere dimension as is so widely professed—but an entirely new world, whole cloth, out of Alorin’s own aether.
News of his accomplishment resounded throughout the thousand realms of Light, for it was a feat both unheard-of and unimaginable. Many were horrified by the working, naming it the penultimate blasphemy.
Seeking understanding, Malachai appealed to the great Adept leaders who gathered in the revered Hall of a Thousand Thrones on the cityworld of Illume Belliel. He beseeched their mercy—if not for him, then for his fledgling world—but he met strong opposition. Aldaeon H’rathigian, Seat of Markhengar, was most outspoken in his outrage, and succeeded in a brief campaign to sway other Seats to his views. Thus was Malachai’s infant realm ruled an abomination, and its maker condemned an outcast. Even the Alorin Seat, Malachai’s own representative, turned his head in shame.
Destitute, Malachai appealed to the darker gods.
And they did not refuse him.”
The Adept Race: Its Tragedies & Triumphs, Chapter 19, The Legend of T’khendar – as complied by Agasi Imperial Historian, Neralo DiRomini, in the year 607aV
Prologue
The dark-haired man leaned back in his armchair and exhaled a troubled sigh. His dark-blue eyes narrowed as his mind raced through the possibilities still available, each branching with hundredfold new and varied paths. It was impossible to try to predict one’s future when so many paths were in motion.
Much better to mold the future to one’s own desires.
Shifting his gaze back to that which troubled him, he reached long fingers to retrieve an invitation from his desk. The missive was scribed in a bold hand upon expensive parchment embossed with the image of an eagle. It was the royal standard of a mortal king, but this concerned him not at all; what troubled him so deeply was the signet pressed within the invitation’s wax seal.
A rising breeze fluttered the heavy draperies of his ornate bronze-hued tent, whose peaked roof provided coppery illumination beneath the strong afternoon sun. He glanced over at an ebony four-poster bed and the exquisite woman lying naked behind its veils of gossamer silk. They fluttered in the breeze along with her raven hair where it spilled over the edge, one supple breast left visible for his pleasure. He knew she wasn’t sleeping, though she pretended it so to give him time with his thoughts.
He looked back to the seal on the parchment in his hand. It was a strange sort of signet for a prince. He wondered if the man had any idea of its significance.
Surely not. None of them ever remember, in the beginning. Yet if the seal was true—and how could it be otherwise when none but the pattern’s true owner could fashion it?—then he had very little time to act. Twice before, he’d come upon a man who could fashion this particular pattern, and each time his enemies had reached the man first. This time would be different.
The drapes fluttered across the room, and a shadow entered between the parting. Not a shadow, no. Something. The air rippled into waves as heat rising from the flames, and a cloaked figure materialized, already in a reverent bow. “First Lord,” the Shade murmured.
“Ah, Dämen.” The dark-haired man waved the invitation gently. “This is quite a find.”
Dämen straightened and pushed back the hood of his pale blue cloak, revealing a face like a mask of polished steel; metal yet living flesh. “I knew you would be pleased.”
The First Lord returned his gaze to the pattern. As he studied the twisting, sculpted lines forming a complicated endless knot, he glanced up and inquired, “These invitations were sent broadly?”
“To nigh on four corners of the globe, ma dieul,” replied the Shade. “Four-hund
red invitations, maybe more.”
The First Lord frowned. “Unfortunate, that. This pattern cannot help but garner notice. The others will certainly recognize its substance. It will draw their eyes to him.”
“That could be fortuitous for us if it lures them into the open,” Dämen offered.
“No, this Thread is too intelligent. They will send others to do their bidding.” He lapsed into thoughtful silence.
After a moment, the Shade prodded gently, “What is your will, ma dieul? Shall I retrieve him to safety?”
“No—assuredly no,” and he enforced this order with a steady gaze from eyes so deeply blue as to be ground from the purest cobalt. “Balance plays heavily in the life of any man who claims this pattern, and we cannot take the chance of losing him again.”
“The others will not hold to such restrictions, ma dieul,” the Shade cautioned.
“More to their error,” the First Lord returned. “If I’ve learned anything from past losses, Dämen, it’s what not to do.” He tapped a long finger thoughtfully against his lips. “We must bring him in carefully, slowly, for the revelation will not be an easy one.”
The Shade frowned, his chrome-polished features perfectly mimicking flesh. “Your pardon, First Lord, but if he did not Return with the onset of adolescence, what chance remains?”
“A slim one,” the dark-haired man agreed, knowing the chance was so minute that it would take a great tragedy to draw out his Return. He regretted the future in the making. Often of late, he regretted the future more than he did his long and tragic past. The First Lord pursed his lips and shook his head, his eyes determined, though still he hesitated. There was no question of the need, but life was a precious, tenuous thing. He regretted every one he’d been forced to end over the countless years. Still, he’d waited too long, planned too carefully…sacrificed too much. Mercy was a virtue he could ill afford. “I fear steps will have to be taken.”
“Well and so, ma dieul,” the Shade replied, and there was much not said in his tone. His gaze conveyed his unease.
The First Lord needed no reminding; he would have to be so precise in this planning. Every detail, every possible ramification must be considered, for the moment the man crossed that ephemeral threshold they called the Return, he would become a beacon for their enemies’ vehemence. And that was something no mortal could survive. His mind spinning as he conceived of his plan, he settled his cobalt-blue eyes upon his Lord of Shades and detailed his orders.
The Shade bowed when his master was finished. He did not relish the tasks ahead, but his obedience was beyond question. “Your will be done, ma dieul,” he murmured. Then, straightening, he faded—there was no other means of describing the way his form shifted, dissolving like dawn shadows until nothing remained where something had been only moments before.
His most pressing matter thus decided, the First Lord tossed the invitation aside and turned his gaze to the glorious creature awaiting his pleasure on the bed.
The woman stretched like a cat and then settled her vibrant green eyes upon the First Lord. “Come back to bed, ma dieul,” she murmured in a silken voice akin to a purr but echoic of a growl, “for I have need of you.”
He returned her a lustful look. She was a feast for his senses in every possible way. “And I have need of you,” he replied in a rough whisper, his desire filling him. Lifting his own naked body from his chair, he returned to her.
Part 1
Ean & Trell
Dannym & Its Surrounding Kingdoms
One
‘To know love is to know fear.’
– Attributed to the angiel Epiphany
The skiff bobbed on icy waves as two sailors rowed in tandem. A crescent moon looked down upon the little boat and limned a silvery trail back to the hulking shadow that was the royal schooner Sea Eagle. The air was damp and pungent with the scent of brine, but the sky shone uncommonly clear, and the wind carried an exhilarating sense of promise.
Or at least Ean thought so as he stood with boots braced in the prow of the skiff watching the dark expanse of the Calgaryn cliffs growing taller, broader, vaster, until they towered over the little boat. They’d no lights glimmering from the great crags to tell the rowing sailors where beach ended and deadly rocks began, neither lighthouse nor lantern to serve as a beacon across the blanket of ebony ocean, only Ean’s ears, keen to the roar of the waves upon a familiar shore.
“There,” he said, pointing with arm outstretched, “two degrees to port.” The blustery wind whipped Ean’s hair, lifting and tossing it in wild designs while his cloak flapped behind him, so that he seemed a figurehead as he stood in the prow, a sculpture of some undersea godling.
“Aye, Your Highness,” said one of the sailors as he and his partner adjusted their rowing to shift course.
“’Tis strange,” said the skiff’s fourth occupant, seated on a bench behind Ean, wrapped in an ermine cloak. Ean’s blood-brother since childhood, Creighton Khelspath had sealed his destiny to Ean’s, to go where the prince went, to serve, and to protect. Now he and Ean had both gained their eighteenth name day, the age of manhood that brought new titles and new responsibilities, yet neither felt quite ready to face the world beneath the mantle that accompanied their new statuses.
“What’s strange?” Ean shifted his head slightly to maintain his focus on the minute sounds of the surf.
“Strange to be coming back here after so long,” Creighton answered; simple words that yet shouted his anxiety. He shifted his gaze to the smudge of darkness towering before them, but it wasn’t the treacherous shoreline that troubled him. He added under his breath, “Strange to think of ourselves as the King’s men again, instead of just the Queen’s.”
“Would that there was no need for such distinction,” Ean muttered. He’d spent five long years arguing with his Queen mother about her relationship with his King father—the entire time he’d been sequestered on his mother’s home island of Edenmar, in fact—and the disagreement had created a flood of bitterness. That he’d been sequestered there to protect his life after both his older brothers were lost to treachery seemed ill consolation for being ripped from all that he’d known and loved, or from his father’s beloved side.
Now all that had changed—at least, that was the expectation. Two moons ago Queen Errodan and her entourage had returned to Calgaryn to make peace with King Gydryn in the name of their only surviving son. Ean hoped his name would be enough to bridge the canyon between his estranged parents; a great part of him feared nothing could span so immense a distance.
Suddenly the little boat surged upwards, and the crashing sound of waves gained in volume.
“We’re here!” Ean shot Creighton a look of sudden excitement as the waves lifted them again, and moments later he leapt from the boat and sloshed through hip-deep surf to stand, dripping, upon the shore.
Jutting cliffs sliced into the bay on either side, while between them lay a swath of sand that sparkled faintly in the moonlight. Ean opened his arms and spun around to embrace the air of his homeland, breathing deeply of its fragrance.
The sailors took the skiff all the way in, surfing the last wave until the flat-bottomed boat scraped the shore. Creighton swept up his ermine cloak and stepped across the bow onto the beach, turning to face the waves as his boots sank into the soft sand.
Above the dark waters spread another sea, this one a starry splay of jewels surrounding the moon. Just above this eyeless crescent, high within the arch of sky, a seven-pointed constellation flamed. Creighton swallowed.
“Ean,” he murmured, pointing with his free arm. “Look.”
Ean lifted his gaze to follow along Cray’s line of sight. His ebullient expression faded when he saw the grouping of stars. “Cephrael’s Hand.”
At this utterance, both sailors lifted faces to the heavens.
“’Tis an inauspicious omen for your return,” Creighton observed, unable to hide his sudden unease.
One of the sailors grunted at this, and t
he other spat into the sand and then ground his boot over the mark.
Ean cast him a withering look. “Ward for luck if you wish, helmsman, but we make our destiny, not superstition.”
“Epiphany’s Grace you’re right, Highness,” replied the sailor, “but you won’t begrudge me if I keep my knife close tonight, I hope?”
Ean caught sight of Creighton loosening his own blade in its sheath and stared at his blood-brother in wonderment. “Creighton, you and I both have studied the science of the stars. How can you believe the stars have any power over our fates—”
Creighton spun him a heated look and hissed under his breath, “How can you not?”
Ean pushed a chin-length strand of cinnamon hair behind one ear and folded arms across his chest. He couldn’t discount the terrible events that had each happened beneath the taint of Cephrael’s Hand—two brothers lost—even if he chose not to believe in the abounding superstitions surrounding the fateful constellation. The memories evoked a sigh that felt painful as it left his chest. “We blame the gods too often for things no one controls.”
“That’s your father talking.”
Ean shot Creighton an aggravated look. “Sometimes he’s right.”
A gusting breeze brought the stench of seaweed and wet rocks, and something else, some proprietary scent seemingly owned by that beach alone. Ean remembered it well—it and all of the memories it harbored, memories carried like autumn leaves spinning in funnels across the sand. “I said goodbye to both brothers upon this very spot,” he observed quietly, recalling a much younger self who watched as first one brother and then the next was carried away toward an awaiting royal ship at anchor, much as the Sea Eagle was now. Neither brother had returned from their journey south, one lost to treachery, the other claimed by the Fire Sea. Now Ean stood upon this shore not as a boy but as a man, and he’d never been more aware of how different his life had become, how much the fingers of tragedy and obligation had molded and changed him.
Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One Page 1
