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

by McPhail, Melissa

  If language reflected the culture of its civilization, then the Akkad was a kingdom of great history, where wisdom was passed down through parable, fable and poem, and learning was substantive and experiential rather than gained through the written word.

  The common tongue, in contrast, was explicit almost beyond question, leaving little to no room for interpretation. Its attention to detail bordered on the mundane, and while its cumbersome vocabulary allowed for great creativity in terms of elocution and poetry—clearly a language invented for the written word—so also did it encourage thoughtless, inane speech, people voicing their thoughts in a careless rush. Thus were its peoples of a similar nature, Trell thought: too often outspoken, too often declaiming without thinking about the impact of the words they chose; too often quick to judge and slow to forgive.

  Lily had asked him which tongue seemed more natural to him. Trell really didn’t know, but he did prefer the desert tongue, which most Northmen considered difficult to master, because of these very aspects of its use. In the desert tongue, a simple phrase had a plethora of meanings—meanings often derived from the parable in which the phrase was first used, thereby necessitating an understanding of the kingdom’s history as well as the language itself. With the common tongue, in contrast, a plethora of words were used in place of a simple phrase.

  Thus, though it wasn’t his first language, Trell had come to find the implicit desert tongue far more appealing than its explicit counterpart—as any thoughtful, scholarly mind would, he felt.

  “Deep thoughts, Trell of the Tides?”

  Trell opened his eyes to find Lily standing over him. He hadn’t heard her approach. “I thought I told you to get some rest,” he chided gently, closing his eyes again.

  “If I but could.” She settled down beside him and curled her feet beneath her. “It’s strange…all of this time I’ve been so afraid, knowing they chased, yet I slept soundly each night. But now that I’m able to be truly free of fear, my mind won’t be at peace.”

  He turned his head to regard her. “What troubles you, Lily?”

  She watched him with an anguished gaze, her expression despairing. “You,” she whispered.

  “Me?” Trell pushed up onto one elbow. “Why?”

  “Yesterday…the Goddess of the Rivers spoke through you.”

  He grimaced. “Yeah…I don’t understand much about that.”

  “But it’s true?” Her tone was anxious, her gaze searching his own. “Naiadithine has spoken to you before? You’ve heard her whisper?”

  Something about the way she said that alerted him to a truth. “You’ve heard her, too,” he said even as he realized it.

  She collected her silken dark hair in her hands and pulled it around one shoulder. “When I was nine,” she said, not looking at him but playing with the ends of her hair instead, “I fell from my father’s ship and nearly drowned. I don’t remember much about the event, only…only I remember her. She was so beautiful. She reached out to me. She told me...” Her voice broke, and she brushed a tear from her cheek as she finished with a wistful smile, “Naiadithine told me to look for the light.”

  Follow the water, Trell of the Tides.

  Trell felt a chill take him.

  Lily held his gaze, her expression entreating. “Was it the same for you?”

  Strangely unable to find his voice, Trell nodded.

  They stared at each other for a long time. Finally, Lily pressed lips together and offered tentatively, “Do you…do you think you may have drowned once, Trell? Could Naiadithine have found you in the sea, even as she found me?”

  Trell closed his eyes, thinking of a lovely face floating above him. “It could be so, Lily.”

  Lily fidgeted with her fingers in her lap. “Naiadithine is compassionate, the sisters say, unlike many of the other desert gods. Most of the time she ignores mortals like us, but on occasion…on occasion a heart opens to her, and she listens.”

  Trell considered this wisdom. “You’re saying that when I was drowning, she heard the…well, the song…in my heart?”

  She lifted eyes to meet his. “Yes. Like she must’ve heard mine, and since our heart-songs gained her notice, she listened.”

  Trell’s brow furrowed as he considered her. “Do you know such things, or are you only guessing?”

  “Oh no,” Lily assured him. “The sisters say it happens all the time. Naiadithine hears and listens a lot, only she rarely interferes.”

  “Yet she interfered with you.” The daughter of a prince.

  “And you, Trell of the Tides,” Lily returned, her sad, dark eyes mirroring silver in the moonlight. “You she took a special interest in.”

  Thirty

  ‘Do not face Fate with quiet surrender, go boldly forth and claim it.’

  – The Second Vestal Dagmar Ranneskjöld

  Alyneri and Tanis remained at Ean’s banquet until dawn paled the sky. Early on, Her Grace had become involved in discussion with the king’s Lord Chamberlain about the safest means and methods of travel to M’Nador. The Lord Chamberlain had proven a knowledgeable ally and had gracefully offered to handle Farshideh’s transport back to Kandori as well as prepare a list of suitable replacements for the position of Alyneri’s seneschal.

  Tanis had spent most of the night listening to Fynn’s stories of the pirates of Jamaii, that is until the King’s Own Guard came in the wee hours with a message for the royal cousin and Fynn begged Tanis’s leave. The lad found Her Grace again as the hall was clearing. They were headed to their apartments when Her Grace was called aside to attend several noblemen who’d been injured in a drunken brawl, and it was nearing sunrise by the time they walked wearily toward the royal wing.

  Tanis yawned as they neared the Boulevard. “Your Grace?” the boy asked sleepily, his excitement only slightly dampened by his heavy eyelids, which apparently kept trying to close of their own accord, “Did you know that the pirates of Jamaii wear silver rings pierced through their ears the way we wear circlets of status? And they pierce a gold ring through one nostril if they’ve earned the right to captain a ship.”

  “A pirate ship,” Alyneri amended, wishing Tanis had spent the evening with more suitable company. Even that insouciant Tad val Mallonwey was preferable to Fynnlar val Lorian.

  Tanis frowned at her tone. “The captain of a pirate ship has to be twice the captain of a naval ship,” he pointed out.

  She eyed him doubtfully. “Is that so? I suppose Fynnlar told you this.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. The royal cousin says it requires much more skill to command a pirate vessel because of all the battles and thieving and sneaking up on other ships.”

  “I didn’t realize Lord Fynnlar was so experienced,” Alyneri muttered.

  “He’s sailed often with the pirates, Your Grace,” Tanis said, missing her undertone of disapproval. “Once he was captaining a ship that was almost caught by the Agasi Imperial navy! He had to do some crafty maneuvering to evade them. He told me all about it.”

  “Clearly he is a fount of invaluable information.”

  Tanis frowned at her again.

  They came to the Boulevard and headed down the steps and across the wide plaza with its crystal dome tinged violet in the early hours of morning, but as they neared a group of men wearing the livery of House val Rothschen, the crowd parted and a woman emerged.

  “Well! If it isn’t the Duchess of Aracine and her noble escort at last,” drawled Ianthe val Rothschen d’Jesune, Marchioness of Wynne.

  “Lady Wynne,” Alyneri murmured without breaking her stride, but when Ianthe’s men fanned out across her path, she slowed and regarded them suspiciously.

  “A moment of your time, Duchess,” said the Marchioness. Her blue eyes were as hard and cruel as the large aquamarine pendant gleaming in the hollow of her throat, the famous stone of her husband’s House.

  Alyneri paused, noting with some trepidation that the Marchioness’ men began encircling her. “What is it, Marchioness?” she asked impatientl
y. “We’ve had a long night.”

  “Tell me, Lady Alyneri,” Ianthe drawled, “do you have your little ’reader boy undress and wash you, or does he merely sleep on the floor beside your bed like the besotted puppy he portrays?”

  Alyneri’s eyes flashed. “Lady Wynne, such comments are most inappropriate.”

  The Marchioness barked a scornful laugh. “Inappropriate? You wish to lecture me on what is appropriate? You?” She clucked critically and looked to her men. “Do you see how she is above herself? She has all the propriety of a camp whore and thinks to instruct me in matters of decorum! This very night she sat beside the king like a courtesan, flaunting her service to the crown before the entire assembled nobility!”

  Ianthe’s men began closing in, and Alyneri’s pulse quickened as she viewed the tightening circle. Tanis stiffened beside her. “What is the meaning of this, Lady Wynne?”

  “Has Her Majesty not told you, my dear? You are to be entrusted into my care for a proper upbringing in a lady’s proper ways.” While Alyneri gaped at her, Ianthe looked to her captain, who was closest to Alyneri, and ordered, “Take the boy back to his rooms for the night. We have no more use for him.”

  “Don’t you dare lay a hand on him!” Alyneri cried, outraged.

  “Do it!” snarled the Marchioness.

  The captain dutifully reached for Tanis, but the lad moved faster. He ducked beneath the captain’s grasping hands, sidestepped the soldier beside him, swerved to avoid a third’s reach, and free of the circle, sprinted for the royal wing.

  Alyneri watched with her hands clenched at her sides, feeling such immeasurable relief that he’d gotten away, yet wishing in some small part that he’d remained to offer her support.

  Ianthe snarled an oath at her captain, and Alyneri stared at her, horrified by the woman’s vitriol. The evil, conniving woman! Alyneri had never experienced such outright hatred for another living being, and she found herself quite unprepared for it.

  “Oh, just let him go,” Ianthe snarled contemptuously as her men turned to chase. “He’s just a harmless boy,” but her tone clearly declaimed their ineptitude, as well as her own irritation at it. She walked to stand in front of Alyneri and boldly brushed a stray strand of flaxen hair from her shoulder. Alyneri suppressed a chill and held the woman’s cold-eyed gaze.

  “We have such good times ahead, you and I,” Ianthe murmured. Abruptly she slapped her.

  Alyneri felt reflexive tears spring unbidden and tasted the salt of blood on her tongue. The moment was so shocking, so appalling, that she had no idea how to react. Anger and grief battled for purchase of her thoughts, but fear had the upper hand.

  Had the queen really promised her into this hostile woman’s care? It seemed impossible, yet Ianthe claimed it. Would she dare pronounce such a thing if it were untrue?

  Ianthe smiled and stepped back to better view the red mark flaming on Alyneri’s cheek. She mistook Alyneri’s confusion for subservience. “Good. So you understand already who is the mistress and who the pupil. I must admit I had expected more defiance from you, but this submission is far more proper. I am pleased.”

  Alyneri wanted to scream. She fought back tears and a sense of desperation that constricted her chest, choking her. Her thoughts rapidly sought recourse of action, her eyes darting from face to face, but she found no ally among these stone-faced men, saw no escape.

  “’Tis well you choose to accept your fate,” the Marchioness declared, standing tall and triumphant before her, “for the Princess Ysolde is not here to save you this time, secluded as she is no doubt with her new paramour. So you see where you fall in the order of importance. Best you not forget it.” She looked to her men. “Let’s go.”

  Ianthe spun and headed off, and her men moved in close to Alyneri, their expressions immobile, clearly at the ready to take her in hand if she disobeyed.

  And would she have me flogged should I defy her? Alyneri followed numbly, her feet seeming to move of their own accord—for surely she was not willingly moving at all.

  It seemed so unreal. She thought of Ean’s recounting of his capture by the Shade and realized that he must’ve felt much this way. How had he found the strength to do battle in the face of such desperate fear? Alyneri felt overwhelmed by it. Her despair was so palpable that her breath came in little gasps, which she tried to conceal from the Marchioness, knowing that she’d already shown herself a pitifully inept opponent.

  They were nearing the far side of the Boulevard when—

  “Oh, Marchioness?” A male voice echoed from across the cavernous hall.

  Ianthe stopped and turned with an indignant look as if to say, what now? But when she saw who approached, her expression hardened and then…softened. Alyneri watched the transition with startled wonder. That the woman could so easily mask her feelings behind a façade of civility…

  She truly is a monster!

  “Yes, Lieutenant?” Ianthe smiled sweetly.

  Alyneri’s heart fluttered as she maneuvered for a better look at the Lieutenant Bastian val Renly, who was approaching with a host of red-coated King’s Own Guard. It wasn’t until they neared that she caught sight of an ash-blond head behind them, and her hopes soared. Oh Tanis, you dear, dear boy! How brilliant you are!

  “Lady Wynne,” Bastian announced as he stopped smartly in front of the group. His men fanned out behind in formation. They were a sharp patrol in their red coats blazing with the val Lorian eagle. Bastian looked over the group before him, and he didn’t seem pleased by what he saw.

  “Explain, if you will, Marchioness, why you have the Duchess Alyneri d’Giverny in hand like a common thief.”

  Ianthe laughed musically. “How dramatic of you, Lieutenant. It is nothing so untoward, surely. The Lady Alyneri is merely accompanying me to my chambers for a late cup of tea—or perhaps an early one, however you prefer to view it.”

  “I must’ve been misinformed,” Bastian replied. He looking appropriately perplexed. “It has nothing to do then with your claim that Her Majesty has ordered the duchess into your tutelage?” At this pronouncement, Tanis peeped out from behind a tall guardsman and glared daggers at Ianthe, reminding Alyneri very much of the barn cat who’d stared down Rhys val Kincaide back at Fersthaven.

  Ianthe’s eyes flashed, but she recovered her composure with barely a ripple in the mask. “Indeed, Lieutenant,” she confirmed primly. “’Tis true.”

  “I should very much like to see the letter,” he said pleasantly.

  Her expression fluttered slightly as confusion battled against the pretty smile, which held back the force of her hostile temperament. “What letter would that be?”

  “The letter of assignation.” He eyed her critically. “Matters of such importance are always put to pen in our fine kingdom—or didn’t you know, Marchioness?” He paused to eye her discomfiture at the revelation and added, “I understand Queen Indora prefers oral agreements in matters of this nature, that she may more efficaciously change her mind about them later.”

  “How dare you, Lieutenant!” Ianthe drew herself up. “Queen Indora is my dear cousin, and I shall have her know of such an outrageous declamation of her charact—”

  But the lieutenant wasn’t to be waylaid from his purpose. His gaze hardened, and his tone matched it. His hand went to the hilt of his sword, an indication of his disposition toward her, as he cut in forcefully, “Marchioness, did you really think you would succeed in this farce? The Lady Alyneri is an Adept Healer in the sworn service of the crown and would under no circumstances be given into your tutelage.”

  Ianthe gasped her indignation and made to protest, but Bastian pressed on, “If Their Majesties felt the Lady Alyneri in need of instruction, I assure you they would beseech the highest houses of the realm, not House val Rothschen, who attempts to make up for what it has lost in nobility through the accumulation of wealth.”

  Ianthe was veritably panting to voice her outrage, and her men looked ready to do battle, their faces dark with fury, but all
no doubt knew it would be their own deaths should they lift a hand against the King’s Own Guard.

  Bastian continued ruthlessly, “House val Lorian has its own wealth and needs not purchase its nobility,” and then he placed a final dagger into Ianthe val Rothschen’s heart as he added, “Likewise Her Grace Alyneri d’Giverny, who is the only daughter of Prince Jair of M’Nador and heir to the Kandori fortune.”

  Ianthe sucked in her breath and paled as wan as the moon.

  Bastian smiled innocently. “Oh, you didn’t know? I am not surprised, for there are few who do, in order to protect the fortune’s ten heirs.” He looked to Ianthe’s guards. “You men, stand aside,” which they did as surely as if the king himself had commanded it.

  Bastian held a hand to Alyneri, and she accepted with a grateful look. He freed her of the volatile circle of Ianthe’s men and handed her off to another of his own, who took her elbow with due regard and glared at the val Rothschens in a fiercely protective fashion.

  Bastian’s hand now rested easily on the hilt of his sword, and it occurred to Alyneri just how much of his intent he communicated by these subtleties of stance. Though Ianthe looked beaten now, with her hand collaring her throat, the Lieutenant made certain of it as he continued in a critical tone, “Surely you didn’t think Their Majesties would betroth their royal son to the duchess simply out of the goodness of their hearts—” he spun to Alyneri, adding, “Forgive my bluntness, Your Grace, for you have surely proven yourself worth far more than gold through your loyal service to the crown.”

  Looking back to Ianthe, he addressed his own men. “Take her to her lord husband, order that she does not leave his sight, and assure him that I will send a full report on the morrow of how his wife brings shame upon his house and his name.”