Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One

by McPhail, Melissa

  “Invitations!” Franco snapped his fingers. “Morin d’Hain was quite curious about your invitation, and His Excellency also looked it over. There was something about a signet—”

  “I sealed all of the invitations with my personal seal instead of using the val Lorian crest.”

  Franco nodded, remembering. “Morin d’Hain said it was unusual.”

  Ean shrugged. “I suppose. I can draw the seal for you if you like.”

  “I would very much like to see it.”

  Franco retrieved parchment and pen from Ysolde’s escritoire and set them before the prince. Ean bent and began sketching the pattern at once. Although the twisting design could have been created most easily by drawing a series of connected circles and oblong loops, Ean began the pattern at one corner and followed the winding, maze-like path with his quill as though he walked it in his mind. Minutes later, he connected the end of the path back to its beginning and spun the parchment toward Franco.

  Dear Epiphany!

  It was all Franco could do not to visibly recoil from that pattern, he knew its like so intimately and yet so dreaded the knowing. There was no hiding his dismay, however, and the prince saw it at once on his face.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  Franco looked up at the prince. “Ean…” he breathed, absently calling him by name, all protocol forgotten. His face was ashen. “Ean, do you have any idea what this pattern reveals?”

  Looking disturbed by Franco’s manner, Ean shook his head.

  “Yaşam örnek,” Franco said in the desert tongue. “That’s what the Khurds call it. In Agasan, where I hail from, we call it Patroon van Leven, and the Sobra I’ternin names it Vivir Illuminar, literally ‘Life Illumined’.”

  Ean stared at him uncomprehending.

  “This pattern, Ean…the one you just drew for me, it is the infamous Pattern of Life—or at least something close enough to it that the bones are there for all to easily recognize.”

  Ean looked baffled. “But that makes no sense.”

  “The rendering of the Pattern of Life is slightly different to everyone who works it, but…truly, the bones of this pattern are unmistakable.”

  Ean narrowed his gaze, considering all that he’d heard. “How can I draw the Pattern of Life?” he inquired slowly. “I’m no wielder. The zanthyr—” He paused and looked somewhat desperately at Franco. “One morning the zanthyr drew a pattern and challenged me to remember it, and I wasn’t—I couldn’t even remember the first line of it.”

  Franco knew he had just crossed a threshold into uncharted waters. This changed everything. Obviously this prince played some vital role in the First Lord’s plans, and he knew enough of Balance to know he could greatly disturb it if he spoke out of turn—if he so much as hinted at something that sent the prince in a new direction, one he wouldn’t have chosen on his own…well, who knew how terrible would be the consequences? Franco couldn’t take that chance. He dared not, knowing what hinged on the play of Balance.

  “I fear I cannot advise you in this, Your Highness,” he said, hating the look that came into Ean’s eyes. What’s another betrayal, more or less? You’ve long lost count.

  Shut up!

  “Can’t?” Ean said quietly, “or won’t?” He regarded Franco keenly, waiting for a reply.

  Franco sighed. “Both.”

  “But why?” It was a heartfelt plea, Ean’s gaze beseeching his with touching frankness.

  He deserved an honest answer. Franco truly didn’t know if he’d be able to give him one, but he wanted to try. “Oaths,” he said first. “Binding oaths requiring silence. And of course, Balance is part of it.”

  Ean shook his head and grumbled, “The Balance has shifted.”

  “Yes,” Franco agreed, surprised to hear the prince knew of the subject.

  Ean looked sourly at him. “The zanthyr told me that. But what does it mean?”

  Franco considered how to answer. How could he explain such an all-encompassing Cosmic Law when he barely understood it himself? “Balance is…” But failing that attempt, he pursed his lips and tried again. “The universe has laws, Ean. Adepts work elae and bend those laws. If we bend them too far, it disturbs the cosmic equilibrium on some level, big or small. Balance is a term coined among my race which we use when discussing how far an Adept can stretch the universal laws before they snap.”

  “What happens if they do?”

  Franco arched brows. “Typically? You’re never heard from again. If you upset the Balance, that’s the end of you. It doesn’t always happen right away, but it always happens.”

  “Then how do you know how far to push?”

  Franco grunted. “You don’t. That’s the rub. That’s the risk we all face when we decide to work elae. There is always some risk involved. The greater the area you try to affect, the greater the risk.”

  Ean gazed intently at him. “Are you taking a risk right now, in telling this to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I thank you.”

  Franco grunted. “You might curse me for it a month from now.” Then he drained his goblet. Ean’s sat untouched upon the table.

  “Just out of curiosity,” Ean posed quietly, “who would be able to tell me of these things?”

  “Well, the Fifth Vestal, of cou—” Franco blurted before he realized what he was saying. “But I don’t advise you in any way to seek him out, Ean,” he added emphatically. “He is known as a traitor to our race and is a most dangerous and fearfully… uncompromising man.”

  “Of course,” Ean murmured. “No, I would never do that.”

  The outer door opened then to admit the striking form of Ysolde Remalkhen, her willowy frame alluring in a red silk gown. “Ean, what a pleasure!” she greeted warmly as she approached. “But shouldn’t you be readying for your banquet?”

  “Indeed, my lady,” Ean admitted. He stood to greet Ysolde and planted a chaste kiss on her cheek. Then he looked back to the Espial and nodded his thanks.

  Franco nodded in reply.

  Good luck, my prince, he thought as Ean showed himself from the room. For whatever role you’re meant to play in the First Lord’s game, if he sends a Shade and his zanthyr to protect you, you’re likely going to need it.

  Twenty-seven

  ‘Children and needy women are easily impressed.’

  – Alyneri d'Giverny, Duchess of Aracine

  Ean exited Ysolde’s apartments to find Morin d’Hain leaning against the opposite wall, waiting for him. The spymaster pushed himself tall and walked to meet Ean. “You’re a hard man to track down, Your Highness, even for me.”

  Ean glanced at the two pairs of soldiers of the King’s Own Guard who stood barring each end of the passageway, ensuring privacy, and then looked back to Morin d’Hain. “I’m kind of in a hurry, Minister.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Morin replied, “we can talk as we walk.” He motioned to the guards, and they fell into place in front and behind as they headed off. Morin shrugged a lock of blond hair from his brown eyes and fell into step easily with Ean, their boots treading softly on the thick Veneisean rugs. The spymaster was just slightly shorter than the prince, but otherwise they had a similar build—broad-shouldered and long-legged. “Did you find Franco Rohre’s conversation helpful?”

  “Somewhat.” Ean was hesitant to divulge the details of their talk, but he knew Morin d’Hain’s reputation. When the man wanted an answer, he got one. Ean was loath to call undue attention to Franco after the Espial had gone to such pains to help him, so he offered Morin a portion of the truth. “He, uh, explained what a Geshaiwyn was.”

  “Geshaiwyn,” Morin repeated. “Why did this topic come up?”

  “It was the name the zanthyr called the assassin whose dagger nearly claimed my life.” Ean gave him a narrow look. “I see you know the term well enough.”

  Morin regarded him seriously. “Geishaiwyn assassins have made their way into Dannym before, Your Highness, but their involvement is never a light ma
tter. When their guild takes on a contract, they guarantee it.” He cast Ean a shrewd look. “You take my point? With Geshaiwyn, you are not just dealing with one assassin, but as many as it takes to get the job done—mind you, it’s rarely more than one.”

  Ean bit back a curse at this unwelcome information. He gave Morin a sidelong look as they walked. “What did you want to speak to me about, Minister?”

  “I’ve brought you an honor guard, as you can see,” Morin said, indicating the King’s Own Guard hovering close.

  “Bodyguards, you mean. Why?”

  “In light of this morning—”

  “I’ve been walking around alone all day,” Ean cut in suspiciously. “Why now?”

  Morin cast him a look of begrudging respect. “Very well. The truth is we caught a man lurking about the palace grounds about an hour ago. He carried a pair of daggers and spoke in a foreign tongue. We have him locked in the dungeons, but who knows how many more sellswords may have found their way onto the grounds. You have a significant price on your head, Ean. Morwyk may not be the only one who wants to see you lying cold in a grave.”

  Suddenly it was all too much—Creighton, the Shade, Alyneri, the truth about his pattern, unknown assassins. Ean’s temper flared and he rounded on Morin. “Why won’t you believe it was a Shade that killed my blood-brother?”

  Morin assessed Ean’s sudden mood swing with a quick once-over. He deftly steered the prince through the closest door he could find, which turned out to be a servant’s pantry full of linens and candles and smelling strongly of a vat of dried lavender. He shut the doors behind them and turned to Ean, his face barely illumined by a thin, mullioned window at the far end of the long room.

  “There is so much you don’t know, Ean,” Morin advised in a hushed voice, his hand still firmly holding the prince’s arm. “Your father and I…you may think we abandoned the search for your brothers’ killers, but it would be a lie. Everything we do now—everything we do now—is integral to that hunt.” Morin pulled Ean further into the pantry and dropped his voice to a bare whisper. “The treachery we’ve uncovered in this plot is rooted deep and broad. It would take hours to recount to you the hundreds of threads we’ve followed. We cannot know that this latest attack on your life isn’t part of the same scheme. There are always new actors on the stage, but this play has but one director.”

  “But of the Shade—”

  “It probably was a Shade, Ean,” Morin cut in tersely, intensely. “Raine’s truth, it’s hard to mistake the damnable creatures, and a man certainly knows once he’s met one. But that’s not the point. The point is that everything we do—”

  “Is involved with finding my brothers’ killers,” Ean repeated, feeling strangely numbed by the spymaster’s words.

  Morin acknowledged this with a nod. “So you begin to see.”

  Ean did, though he wasn’t at all sure that any real picture was forming.

  “I cannot tell you more than this now,” Morin whispered. “Your father has given me explicit orders on the matter.”

  Ean felt his anger fading, replaced only with a dull ache. “Is there anything you can tell me? Do you know anything about the zanthyr that saved me? Or why a Shade would be involved? Franco Rohre thinks the Shade was sent to protect me.” He pushed a hand through his hair and looked toward the window. “I cannot bear the thought of it.”

  Morin regarded him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “As with all things, this too had a beginning,” he said finally. “Should you find it, the rest will become clearer. That is all the advice I can offer you now. That and a warning: please, Your Highness—please do not venture anywhere without your guards, and for now, do not leave the palace. The danger to you is real. It is great. And the threat is mortal.”

  Benumbed, Ean just nodded.

  Morin ushered him from the pantry. His guards took up their positions before and behind him again without question.

  “I bid you farewell, Your Highness,” Morin said, touching fingertips to his brow and affecting a tidy bow, “until we meet tonight at the banquet.”

  Ean watched him spin on his heel and retreat down the passageway.

  ‘As with all things, this too had a beginning…’

  Morin’s words seemed somehow to echo another’s.

  ‘It would seem quite a few people had already taken an interest in you before you set foot upon Dannish soil…’

  So when did it begin? Could the pattern have been the beginning? And what did it mean that he could draw the Pattern of Life? No, he realized. What does it mean that I’ve seen it since I was a child?

  “Are you unwell, Your Highness?” one of his guards inquired.

  “I’m—” But ‘fine’ was no longer a word that described any part of his life. “I’m sorry. I have a lot on my mind.”

  “It’s just that we’re pretty exposed here, Your Highness,” said the guard.

  “Yes, of course.” Ean headed off down the passageway, immediately lost in thought again.

  When had it all begun? If his pattern was somehow at the heart of it…

  Then he had it. Or at least he thought he did.

  He thought he knew how the Fifth Vestal had learned of him, how he’d garnered his attention.

  Invitations sent to every corner of the globe…

  Why the pattern mattered was the mystery.

  Somewhat reeling from the day but feeling a bit more focused, Ean reached his rooms and began to ready himself for the banquet with a renewed purpose. He almost felt as if he could enjoy himself. At least, he intended to try.

  ***

  The Grand Hall in Calgaryn Palace was a vaulted room bordered on one side by towering mirrors interspersed with life-size paintings of val Lorian kings, and on the other side by a series of tall double-paned glass doors that opened onto a long balcony overlooking a sculpture garden. Running the length of the room, six long rows of banquet tables had been set for the coming meal. Each ended near the foot of the wide dais where the king’s table rested, itself draped in a blue velvet cloth embroidered all over with thread-of-silver. The centerpieces of the king’s table were identical ice sculptures of Dannym’s flying eagle. A stunning display.

  As Tanis entered through a pair of the silver-fringed, blue velvet drapes that adorned all the entrances and exits, the grand hall’s sunken floor was an undulating sea of color. Ten chandeliers brightened the impressive room, illuminating the guests who stood chatting between the tables. No one would sit until Their Majesties arrived.

  Because Her Grace was still preparing and Tanis had gone on without her, he arrived feeling out of place. He began looking for anyone he knew, and spotted Prince Ean at once. His Highness stood upon the dais next to Lord Mandor val Kess, His Majesty’s Minister of Culture, and was surrounded by an entourage of bodyguards. The prince was receiving a long procession of nobility who had lined up to pay their respects.

  Tanis felt overwhelmed by the crowd, and he wondered how he’d ever find his seat among so many. He was still searching for any other familiar face when a steward in liveried blue came up to him wearing a knowing smile. “Ah, young Tanis. Looking for your seat, are you? Would you like me to take you?”

  Tanis gave him a relieved smile. “Oh yes! Could you?”

  The steward nodded and led away. Glancing back over his shoulder, he commented mildly, “You must’ve turned some heads, young man. You’re seated at the royal table with Their Majesties.”

  Tanis felt his heart flutter. “I am?” He’d never eaten at the king’s table before. Though Her Grace often dined with His Majesty informally when she was at court, Tanis was usually seated with Tad and the other noble boys at social functions. He wondered why his seat had been moved. “Was it Her Grace that requested it?”

  The steward shot Tanis a wide grin over his shoulder. “No, lad. ’Twas the prince who ordered it.”

  His Highness! Tanis’s eyes widened in wonder. His Highness wanted me to sit with him? He couldn’t believe his luck.


  The steward left him on the dais at the end opposite where Prince Ean stood, and took his leave with a wink and a grin. Tanis soon became uncomfortable standing there, however; he felt as if every gaze was upon him, perhaps wondering why a common boy would be sitting with the king. Every couple that passed out of the line after greeting Prince Ean would eye Tanis before walking off with a rather indignant tilt to their heads. But the one saving grace of his high vantage point was that Tanis was quick to spot Tad val Mallonwey among the crowd. He rushed off to meet his friend, relieved to have an excuse to leave the dais before anyone else could glare at him.

  When Tanis caught up with Tad, the young heir to Towermount was chatting with the black-haired, blue-eyed Killian val Whitney, heir to Eastwatch. Tanis had always admired his two noble friends and wished he could be more like them, so he was quite surprised when Tad said by way of greeting, “Look at you, Tanis. Have you been adopted by the royals then? First I hear you’ve taken apartments in the royal wing and now these,” and he held a hand to Tanis’s own garments. “The king’s colors no less. You’re looking more the nobleman than me.”

  “Aye, that’s a certainty,” Killian agreed with a taunting grin. Though he’d spent half his life at court, Killian spoke with the lilt of a Highlander, a manner inherited from his father, the King’s General of the East. “Have ye happened upon a royal birth of a sudden then, Tanis?”

  Privately, Tanis did feel smashing in his new boots and velvet doublet in the king’s colors of silver and blue. The new clothes had been laid out for him when he got to his rooms and were quite finer than anything he’d ever owned before; he had no idea who’d sent them. Perhaps they came with the room?

  Tanis grinned and whispered, “Tad, can you believe it? I’m seated at the king’s table!”

  Tad punched him good-naturedly. “You jest!”

  “No! It’s true! The steward said His Highness ordered it.”