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

by McPhail, Melissa

  You truly are without a home when even the gods are alien to you.

  Alyneri shook her head as if to dispel her dire mood and took up a bundle of lavender and hyssop that she’d tied together with honeysuckle vine. She walked to the brazier, lifted the cover, and laid the bundle upon the coals, inhaling with closed eyes as violet-grey smoke began drifting up.

  With her offering, Alyneri prayed for Ean, for Tanis, and for a blessing upon their journey, but most of all, she prayed that she might somehow, at the end of it, find her own place in this world.

  ***

  By the time Tanis returned from the cellars with the jar of Avataren yellowroot, Rhys and the others had arrived and were mustering in the yard. Tanis found Prince Ean and Fynn in the drive speaking with the captain, who was accompanied by the Lieutenant Bastian val Renly, two other guardsmen, and Fynn’s man Brody the Bull. They all wore traveling leathers in nondescript hues of ochre, russet, or charcoal.

  Prince Ean was looking at the pack horses laden down with supplies, and he didn’t seem pleased by their presence. “Do you know something I don’t know, Captain?” he asked, indicating the horses. “That’s enough to last a month on the road, but it’s only three days to Devon.”

  “No boats,” Rhys grunted, clearly knowing the prince’s mind in mentioning the port city. “His Majesty was clear.”

  Ean bristled. “No boats? I just spent half a year on board the Sea Eagle, and my father’s concerned about my safety at sea now?”

  “Now you are the target of several aggressive factions, Your Highness,” Rhys pointed out. “Ships are easy targets, and their crews are too easily infiltrated.”

  “The admiral would beg to differ, I think,” Ean disagreed.

  “But you wouldn’t be on one of Admiral l’Owain’s ships, Your Highness,” Bastian val Renly with his typical disarming calm, “which is an important distinction in its own right, for your enemies would certainly expect your grandfather to oversee your travels at sea. His ships would be the first ones they’d suspect. No, Their Majesties were very much in agreement that boats should not be considered an option for this journey.”

  Mollified by this logic but clearly still displeased about it, Ean clasped hands behind his back and looked to Rhys. “No boats, then. Any other orders I should be aware of, Captain?”

  “Have you brought burlap hoods, perhaps?” Fynn posed. “You know, just to complete the look. It is the accessory for prisoners.” He’d managed to stash his bottles of wine and now held the ever-present goblet instead. Tanis wondered how much he’d already consumed, because he looked a little unstable on his feet. “Or perhaps Morin d’Hain will have us donning dresses,” Fynn added aside to Tanis, “to be carted south in shackles like kept women.” He belched and swung back to Rhys. “I prefer the pewter cuffs if you have them, Captain.”

  At Ean’s you’re-really-not-helping look, Fynn gave him an apologetic shrug. “The brass shackles chafe, Ean.”

  “No one is going anywhere in shackles, Lord Fynnlar,” Bastian assured him.

  “Oh, very good. Just the dresses then? May I have a blue one? It brings out the color in my eyes—”

  “Fynnlar,” Ean warned.

  “What?” Fynn protested.

  Ean cast him a long, steady stare.

  Bastian offered then, “Anonymity is important, Your Highness. Minister d’Hain mentioned that you agreed to travel incognito as we head south.”

  “And there’s the matter of the horse,” Rhys reminded him.

  “Yes, he’s quite noticeable,” Bastian agreed. “It might be better to—”

  “I’m not leaving my horse!” Ean declared, fuming.

  “Whose quest is this anyway?” Fynn complained.

  Rhys drew himself tall. “Prince Ean is very much in charge.”

  Fynn grunted dubiously. “Sure he is. Why don’t we go ahead and call a spade a spade, Captain. Admit it—my horse gets a say before Ean does.”

  “Fynn—”

  “Be quiet, Ean. No—really,” and he held up a firm hand. “You are a terrible negotiator. It’s important to establish your boundaries at the outset, otherwise they spend all your traveling money on useless trinkets and you’re left begging relatives for handouts.”

  Brody nodded to affirm the wisdom of this advice.

  “My lords, if I may...” Bastian raised a hand in entreaty. When he met with silence all around, he continued, “I was not suggesting that Your Highness leave Caldar behind, only that we might do our best to disguise the horse as much as your own person.”

  “Go on,” Ean said, crossing his arms.

  “Minister d’Hain has prepared a story to explain your absence from court as well as that of Her Grace,” and he nodded politely to a just then arriving Alyneri, who came to a halt behind Tanis looking suspicious. Bastian continued, “Your Highness has retreated into the customary fortnight’s mourning period over the loss of your blood-brother, staying in your apartments and seeing no one.” Bastian looked to Alyneri. “During this time, Your Grace has taken a pilgrimage to Jeune.”

  “Accompanied by the King’s Own Guard?” Ean posed dubiously.

  “I have several times been accompanied by the King’s Guard in my travels, Ean,” Alyneri muttered, sounding less than pleased to have their acquaintance once again.

  “Under the circumstances,” Bastian continued, nodding his acknowledgement of her point, “it is even more appropriate, for a rumor is being spread that Your Highness and Her Grace will be betrothed upon completion of your period of mourning—”

  “What?” Alyneri protested in outrage.

  “—hence Her Grace’s timely pilgrimage to Jeune.”

  “I am not chattel to be handed off like inheritance from one brother to the next!” she declared hotly.

  “’Tis only a rumor, Your Grace,” Bastian soothed.

  “But the best rumors have their basis in fact,” Fynn pointed out through a belch.

  She glared at him.

  “The guise of a pilgrimage also explains our overland route south,” Bastian added, “as well as any spare conditions we might be keeping.”

  Fynn grimaced. “By spare you no doubt mean spending an inordinate amount of time communing with nature.”

  “As in bedrolls and campfires,” Brody clarified.

  “I know what it means!” Fynn snapped.

  “’Tis an important aspect of pilgrimages,” Bastian told him, “that one travels as an ascetic, which would account for Her Grace not visiting the usual nobility and foregoing certain comforts on her travels south.”

  “Yes, how perfect,” Fynn grumbled.

  “As to the matter of Your Highness’s disguise,” Rhys said then.

  “Should I grow a beard?” Ean offered.

  “No good, Ean,” Fynn said, sighing. “You’d only look the spitting image of dear uncle Gydryn then.”

  “Yes, you are…remarkable in your own way, Ean,” Alyneri admitted.

  “Minister d’Hain thought it best if Your Highness might agree to travel as one of the guards,” Bastian said. “Lacking fanfare or elegant attire, it is his hope that you might not be singled out from among our number.”

  “Better yet,” Alyneri posed sweetly, “you can be my pageboy.”

  “Pageboy!” Ean protested.

  “’Tis for the best, Ean,” she replied with a prim toss of her head, “for whoever looks at servants?”

  Tanis thought that Prince Ean would get noticed no matter what he was posing as, but he kept this opinion to himself.

  “I think I look more the part of a soldier than a pageboy, Alyneri,” Ean grumbled.

  She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  “Lastly, there’s the matter of the horse.” Rhys frowed at Caldar.

  Tanis thought it quite interesting how Rhys let the lieutenant do all the talking yet somehow managed to retain his ‘I’m-in-charge’ demeanor. He couldn’t deny the effectiveness of this strategy, however, for the lieutenant had a way of leading
others that people easily accepted, whereas the captain only engendered belligerence.

  Everyone in the company turned to assess Caldar then. The horse stood between Alyneri’s chestnut mare and Fynnlar’s Agasi-bred roan. With his gleaming golden mane and proud stance, the silver-grey stallion was unmistakably a Hallovian steed. However to disguise such a noble creature?

  It seemed everyone was asking themselves the same question, if told by the many frowns. And then Tanis had an idea. “Ash!” the boy cried.

  “What’s that?” Alyneri asked.

  Tanis looked at the rest of the company, but mostly to Prince Ean, as he explained, “We can cover him in ash.” Tanis knew too well how difficult it was to remove the damnable stuff from anything it touched—limestone hearths, suede boots, Her Grace’s favorite linen… “We can darken Caldar’s mane and hindquarters with ash,” he went on. “He’ll look just like any other warhorse then. Plus, there’s always plenty of ash to be had anywhere we go, so if it begins to fade we could easily darken it again.”

  Ean brightened considerably. “Brilliant, Tanis. Well done.”

  And so it was decided.

  It was still a late start for the expedition south, however, for Alyneri was quite specific in how her medicines must be stowed in order to preserve their various packages, essences, properties or delicate states of readiness. Rhys was nearly apoplectic by the time they headed down the drive leaving Fersthaven, but Tanis was elated to be on the road. His happiness was elevated to a level nearing ecstasy by the sack of nutcakes Mistress Hibbert pushed off on him with a wink and a smile just as he was mounting up.

  So it was that the first few days of their travels passed almost pleasantly, even though the long hours of riding had Tanis sore each night. Beneath the Gandrel’s variegated canopy, they found adequate shelter, and the group soon fell into a rhythm in their routine of setting up camp. Rhys and his men were excellent marksmen, securing rabbits and pheasants aplenty for their meals rather than break into their stores of smoked meat, which would be needed in sparer conditions; and Tanis was given charge of collecting firewood, which he made a game of to see if he could stack up fallen branches and limbs faster than Brody could break them into fagots. Bastian did most of the cooking, but Alyneri provided herbs and spices that made the stews savory.

  Each night, therefore, Tanis fell asleep with a full belly snuggled beneath a sleeping fur that kept him almost too warm but would be welcome in the highlands to come, his hopes high and his heart light at the prospect of his grand adventure.

  Thirty-three

  ‘All you have is a man’s will; a slave who owns nothing still possesses his power of choice.’

  – The Fifth Vestal Björn van Gelderan

  Andrus Vargha, Agent of Malchiarr, unobtrusively patted his various knives in their hidden locations as he followed the Avataren down a dark hallway. The bald man was a giant if ever he’d seen one, standing near seven feet tall, and he had an even bigger scimitar at his hip.

  Vargha felt confident he could take the Avataren should such misfortune befall them; people always underestimated him because of his height—or rather his lack of it—and especially the giant ones, who expected their brute force to overwhelm any smaller opponent. Still, Vargha was somewhat on edge, for he’d already been played the fool once that day. The first time was when he’d gone to meet the Karakurt’s coach alone and found the Avataren waiting to receive him instead.

  Should’ve known she wouldn’t be there.

  It was true. He should’ve known. No one saw the Karakurt without her veil and her screens and her countless bodyguards.

  It was the bodyguards that made him uneasy now. These men had cut out their own tongues in a ritual of loyalty to their mistress. It was rumored that she ate the flesh raw to seal the bond, but this was only a rumor. What Vargha did know was that the mutes were vicious fighters and ready to die for their mistress.

  Vargha been an agent for the Geshaiwyn of Malchiarr for a long span of years, and he’d worked with most of the underground agencies at one point or another in his career. Some were more predictable than others. The Pirates of Jamaii, for example, could always be trusted to keep to the Code, while the Veneisean Brotherhood of Seven Stones held to a rigid standard of neatness and prided themselves on never spilling a single drop of blood; even Agasan’s Order of the Glass Sword had their weaknesses, though they were few and far between.

  But the Karakurt…she was as capricious as the wind.

  The Agents of Malchiarr had contracted with the Karakurt several times in more recent years, though always through intermediaries. She was the most unknown of their associates, the most difficult to treat with, the most elusive to contact—every bit as dangerous and erratic as the poisonous desert spider that was her namesake. Though he misliked revealing himself to her now, the message he must deliver today was one that had to be given in person—an appalling message he’d never before had to relay in his long career—and then there was the matter of the Agasi silver…

  The hallway led to a door, the door to a spiraling staircase, and the stair to a subterranean passage, this one dank and smelling of mold. The Karakurt was always on the move. She had a small army of followers—rich lords and ladies from powerful families spanning numerous kingdoms—who were practically killing each other for the chance to host her and her entourage in secret, in silence. Vargha had no idea who owned the house he walked in now. When the Karakurt was staying in your home, you didn’t show your head.

  Not if you value it.

  They finally reached a heavy door, and the Avataren banged on it with the pommel of his scimitar while Vargha stared at the spider tattoo on the back of his shaved neck. Vargha listened as the latches were drawn back, and then he was being ushered inside a luxurious room. Layered Akkadian carpets covered the floor, patterned silk draped the bare walls, and low tables and pillows were strewn about, most of them embellished by the Karakurt’s entourage of veiled ladies-in-waiting. The Karakurt’s bodyguards stood at intervals around the expansive room, most of them near the furthest end where a silk screen had been erected, behind which glowed a lamp that illuminated a seated figure. Vargha could see nothing of the Karakurt except her shadow on the silk, though the ornate headdress she wore was clearly fashioned in the shape of two long-necked birds.

  “Ah, Agent Vargha,” said a dark-haired man just then approaching. His name was Pearl—Vargha had treated with him before—and he fashioned himself Epiphany’s cousin or some such, adopting the ostentatious title of Speaker of the Karakurt’s Will. The Karakurt’s spider sigil was tattooed in the middle of his forehead, and he wore kohl liner around his dark eyes and a silk robe of crimson overspun in silver thread, patterned in the image of the same tropical, long-necked birds. Vargha noticed that all the Karakurt’s women also wore garments of similar material.

  Pearl took Vargha’s elbow, drawling, “We are most interested in hearing the news that requires such an unusual meeting with Us.” The man always spoke in capital letters. It annoyed Vargha to the ends of his patience. “Quite against Our protocol,” Pearl continued, affixing the Geshaiwyn an oily smile. “We felt certain, when you accepted this task and Our initial investment of silver, that you understood all of Our requirements. Why then, this meeting?”

  Vargha made a quick glance about the room. The giant had taken a position by the room’s only door, barring any normal means of escape, but Vargha was Geshaiwyn. He’d already scanned the room for leis and found one that would suit his needs, providing he could reach it. Vargha briefly envisioned himself fighting his way through the Karakurt’s line of crimson-clothed guards to the leis behind her screen, but the mere fact that they’d let him keep his weapons said much for the expected efficacy of that avenue. Probably Fhörg sleeping darts, he thought, guessing the most expedient means of eliminating himself with the least amount of bloodshed. It was well-known that the Karakurt misliked bodily fluids on her carpets, and any one of the mutes—or all of them—could be h
arboring a blowpipe up his sleeve.

  “Three of our agents have attempted to kill the prince,” Vargha finally replied, resigning himself to face whatever outcome resulted from the news he meant to deliver, “and lost their lives in the bargain.”

  “Yes,” said Pearl, drawing the word into a hiss through a mirthless smile that said this news did not come as a surprise. “We were warned by our client that the contract might be difficult, which is why we contacted your people for the job, Agent Vargha.”

  Because Geshaiwyn are effective…or expendable? “The last of my agents lost track of the prince two days ago,” Vargha admitted.

  “We heard the prince has gone into mourning.”

  “More likely ’tis another of Morin d’Hain’s rumors.”

  “But of course,” Pearl said, as if this was a foregone conclusion. “We have contacts in every town from Tal’Shira to the Free Cities, and all are on the lookout for this northern prince. He would need Fortune’s blessing indeed to avoid Our notice.”

  “The boy survived the blades of three of my assassins,” Vargha pointed out darkly. “I would say Fortune is definitely with him.”

  Pearl sneered. “Have you so little faith in your own people? What happened to the great Geishaiwyn reputation?”

  Vargha cast the man a black look. For a moment, he reconsidered their choice and the reason he’d come to see the Karakurt—but only for a moment. Ultimately the price had already been too high. The Adept race was dying, and his people could ill afford the loss of any more of their kind. Reaching into his coat, Vargha withdrew a bag of Agasi silver—the Karakurt’s payment for the contract. This he tossed at Pearl’s feet with a heavy chink. “Geshaiwyn don’t wager against Fortune’s graces,” Vargha grunted, but there was little boldness in him truly. They were, after all, reneging on their agreement—something never done by the Agents of Malchiarr.