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

by McPhail, Melissa

  He was still brooding when he found his pallet that night, but despite his compounding worries, the moment his head found its place, he fell quickly asleep.

  The dream came in the early morning hours.

  It was one of those dreams where Ean was not himself—the man in the dream looked nothing like him—yet he recognized something of his own being beneath the unknown face.

  In the dream, a man stood apart from him. Ean knew him in the same way he knew himself—the unlikely faces were but shells for their true identities, and neither of them were entirely fooled by the façade. While he didn’t know the man, he knew they were enemies. Of this he was certain.

  “You cannot hope to succeed,” said the man, who stared at him from beneath heavy brows, his dark eyes coldly calculating.

  “That’s not true,” Ean heard himself reply. He knew there was a history to this conversation—it was like he’d dreamed this before, as if this scene was but a continuation of an earlier dream wherein all of what had come to pass was remembered.

  The man barked a laugh, but there was only malice in it. “You deny it?”

  Ean regarded him calmly. “I deny your right to determine what hope exists and when or where I may lay claim to it.”

  This retort earned him a hateful stare. “You are a pitiful people,” he declared, though it was clear from his tone that Ean’s words had found their mark. “Hope. What is hope? It is nothing. A word, a symbol of an intangible dream, yet your kind cling to it, revel in it, but you cannot avoid the truth.”

  “And what do you know of truth?” Ean returned. “I dare say none of you have known it intimately, nor suffered its restrictions.”

  The man’s eyes grew hot. “You lead a purposeless existence,” he snarled, and the word seemed both curse and incantation.

  Ean held his serpentine gaze. “But it is ours to lead.”

  The other’s eyes flashed, and suddenly he was launching at Ean, grabbing for his throat. They tumbled to the ground with the stranger’s hands grinding into Ean’s neck, choking him. He saw spots, and his lungs burned as he struggled, somehow knowing that this was the moment he’d been expecting all along, that this dream always had the same end. With fingers like a vice around the prince’s throat, the man struck Ean’s head against the floorboards. The prince cried out as pain lanced through his skull and blackness cloaked his vision.

  “You-Can-Not-Survive!” the stranger shouted, each time slamming Ean’s head viciously against the rough floor. Ean heard his skull crack, and white heat seared through him. When at last he managed to focus, he saw it was not a man who throttled him so viciously but a fiery-eyed creature with a mouth of flame.

  With his dying breath, Ean despaired that the creature had spoken truly.

  There was no hope for any of them. No hope at all…

  Ean woke with a start, jerking straight up on his bedroll to a grey, misty dawn, the sunrise just spawning a paling on the far horizon. The rest of the camp remained at rest save for the two men on watch. Exhaling a ragged breath, Ean lay back on his pallet again, feeling shaken. The dream had seemed too real, more like a memory than a dream.

  It stayed with him the entire day, in fact, so that he was still unnerved when the day’s travel brought two coinciding events of ill fortune. The first was that one of the pack horses fell lame, her fetlock swelling quickly from an unknown malady: the second was that it happened upon the Stradtford Plains.

  While the soldier Cayal tended to the lame horse, Ean sat Caldar staring across the vast expanse of highland moors. In the near distance, the Eidenglass range thrust upward, snow-capped peaks cloud-pale beneath what had become a perpetually overcast sky. To the west, the coastal mountains formed another blue-hazed line, their tall pines tearing the chalky clouds into fingerling streaks as a heavy cloudbank tumbled into the valley.

  Ean remembered the scene from a different perspective, from a wild ride in the zanthyr’s wake; he’d still been amazed at the speed with which they rode, a ground-eating pace fueled by the zanthyr’s mysterious power. He remembered seeing the coastal range with wonder as they headed into the Gandrel. It had been his last night with the zanthyr.

  Now Ean faced the moors with indecision.

  His company had two choices. They could leave the horse and divide her load among the rest in order to push on, but this would place undue stress upon the other horses, especially while crossing the pass between Dannym and Veneisea. Alternatively, they could trade the horse to a farrier and acquire another for the remainder of the trip south—by far the more prudent option. Yet this meant a visit to the closest town, which happened to be the city of Acacia.

  Rhys rode over to the prince. “Nothing between us and the mountains now save Acacia,” he grumbled, mirroring Ean’s thoughts as he reined in on the prince’s left.

  Fynn brought his horse around to Ean’s right. “You’d be safe enough in Acacia, I would think,” the royal cousin mused. Then in response to Rhys’ glare, he added, “Certainly no more exposed in a city of Acacia’s size than pitching camp in the middle of the damned heath where a fire can be seen for miles. Besides, you well know that horse won’t make more than a few klicks today, Captain.”

  “It’s too risky heading into Acacia,” Rhys disagreed. “There’s bound to be someone would recognize His Highness.”

  “Raine’s truth,” Bastian observed, joining the conversation as he drew alongside the others. “Yet with no disrespect, Captain, it would equally draw unfortunate attention to us by staying in the open. We should expect a visit from the city guard at best. Anyone watching from the walls of Acacia would see our camp—a great temptation for bandits, if no other. And we must acquire a new horse, my lord. Perhaps you or I could go alone into the city—”

  “Yes, that will assuredly go unremarked,” Fynn muttered, “the Captain of the King’s Own Guard on private business in Acacia? I can only imagine the questions that will raise, questions that will inevitably lead back to the rest of us.” At Rhys’ responding glare, Fynn added, “Chain of office or no, Captain, your face is too well known. Even the Lady Alyneri is unmistakable to any who’ve made her acquaintance. Raine’s truth, the only one of us not known on site by the guards of Acacia is Ean.”

  All eyes looked to the prince then.

  “What say you, Your Highness?” Rhys asked.

  The prince worked the muscles of his jaw, clenching and unclenching. It seemed they were likely to face untimely questions no matter which choice he made, though there was at least a chance that his presence might go unremarked in a city the size of Acacia. And with everyone going into the city, the company would stay safely together. He knew Alyneri would appreciate sleeping between clean linens, and Fynn had begun complaining about his lessening stores of liquid sustenance since one day out of Fersthaven.

  “Acacia,” he said finally, though once pronounced, the decision felt uncomfortably like the wrong one.

  No one protested, however, which only rankled more. Ean would that Rhys might argue the point, that he’d press his position and force the matter. Instead, he deferred to his judgment, to the judgment of a reckless and brash young prince!

  Ean realized in that moment that he truly was in command, that those who followed would do so unquestioningly, and it only served to heighten his distress. He didn’t want idle followers! He needed their opinions, their experience, their advice. In no way did he feel qualified to lead this group, and the situation embittered him toward Morin d’Hain, whose words of chastisement haunted his every waking hour.

  The walled city of Acacia hugged either side of the Glass River and boasted a bustling river port, but the city also sat on the main east-west thoroughfare in the southern half of the kingdom. Accordingly, it was the most prosperous dwelling in the duchy of Stradtford and the largest jewel in old Duke Thane val Torlen’s ruby-studded cap. Though the city was under the rule of its own governor, soldiers in the livery of House val Torlen were a presence inside the walls, and many held station
s at the city gates as well.

  They reached the city as the sun was falling behind the Eidenglass, long rays casting the range into violet shadow and limning its snowy peaks with vibrant gold. Ean’s company approached the gates with a bare-headed Alyneri at the front and center, accompanied by Rhys and Bastian to her left and right. Fynn, Ean and all the other men followed behind wearing their hoods low over their eyes. They kept their gazes diverted in varied directions as if alert for threats to Her Grace’s person but in truth to allow Ean to become just one of many faceless guards.

  As Fynn had predicted, Rhys was the first one recognized.

  “My Lord Captain!” called a soldier standing at the gate, one of the duke’s men if told from his dark surcoat blazoned with the Torlen archer. He shouted to the others, “It’s the King’s Own Guard!” while rushing forward to greet them. By the time Ean’s company came to a halt beneath the city walls, a veritable bevy of soldiers had convened, fully half of them the duke’s men.

  One man pushed his way through to the front, dressed in the garments of a diplomat. “Lord Captain, Your Grace,” he greeted, nodding to each in turn. “What an honor to make your acquaintance. I am Lord Brantley, Earl of Pent, and the duke’s representative here in Acacia.”

  The earl was a diminutive sort of man, with a longish moustache and pointed chin-beard of a style no longer in fashion at court. His brown eyes were shrewd, however, and he wore his sword with a subtle awareness that implied the weapon wasn’t entirely for decoration.

  “Lord Brantley,” Alyneri returned, eyeing him narrowly. “How convenient that you happen to be here at the gates at the moment of our arrival.”

  “Yes, isn’t it?” he agreed. “His Grace is expecting visitors tonight, but their ship was delayed downriver.” Suddenly he brightened. “But you must stay with His Grace at Finley Manor—’tis but a short ride east of here. His Grace still speaks of your great assistance in Healing his niece. He has long wished for the opportunity to thank you in person, but the gout prevents his travels to court, as surely you know.”

  “Thank you for your offer, Lord Brantley, but I could not impose upon His Grace’s hospitality.”

  The earl looked less than pleased at this response, but he pressed on tactfully. “Indeed,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes that time. “What then brings you to Acacia, if I might inquire?”

  “Her Grace is on pilgrimage to Jeune,” Rhys barked.

  The earl’s eyes widened appreciatively. “Ah, then ’tis true,” he murmured, casting her a knowing look that was far too direct for his station. “We’ve heard the rumors of a betrothal. Congratulations must be in order—”

  “Please save them for a later date, my lord,” Alyneri interrupted stiffly, her indignation at his presumption all too clear, “for I must maintain my focus upon the purpose of my pilgrimage.”

  “Just so, just so,” he clucked, taking note of her displeasure. He lifted his gaze to her hooded companions. “I don’t see the Truthreader, your ward,” he observed pleasantly. “Is he with you then?”

  “We would not have stopped in the city at all,” Alyneri pressed on, ignoring his question while her tone stressed her displeasure at his improperly prying remarks, “except one of our pack mounts fell lame.”

  “Allow me to take care of it,” he offered at once, confusingly vacillating between rudeness and gallantry. “Have you rooms for the night?”

  “Not yet,” said Rhys.

  “Might I suggest the Feathered Pheasant, my Lord Captain? I’ll have your new mount delivered there shortly after sundown.”

  “That is most kind of you, Lord Brantley,” Alyneri murmured, still eyeing him unpleasantly.

  “Courtesies of His Grace, of course,” Lord Brantley added as an afterthought.

  The earl waved the other soldiers to disperse, and the company moved forward into the city. Bringing up the rear, Ean watched the Earl of Pent from the shadows of his hood. The man was staring after them with a thoughtful expression that Ean didn’t entirely trust. As Tanis happened to be riding beside him, he turned and addressed the lad, who perked up at gaining the prince’s notice.

  “What did you think of Lord Brantley, Tanis?” Ean asked in a low voice. “Can he be trusted?”

  Tanis pushed his hood back slightly to better see the prince, his colorless eyes looking grey in the dusky light. “He didn’t say anything untruthful, Your Highness,” the boy replied, though there was hesitation in his tone.

  “But…?”

  Tanis gave him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. You should have a better trained Truthreader to serve you. I get impressions of things from people, but I don’t always know what they mean.”

  “What impression did you get of Lord Brantley?”

  Tanis considered the question and then remarked, “That he was a calculating sort of man.”

  “Yes,” Ean mused, turning forward again. “I got that impression, too.”

  There were still enough people in the streets that their party drew no further attention, for they were just one more company of travelers making their way toward an unnamed end. While crossing a bridge over the Glass, however, they came nose to nose with a party of five hooded travelers heading the other way. Rhys drew rein irritably, for the party did not stand aside for them, though Ean’s group was the larger and therefore had the customary right of way.

  The man in the lead glared at Rhys with naught but malice in his gaze, a reflection of his obvious ill disposition, while his four companions kept their hooded gazes upon their mounts. Ean wondered immediately what they were hiding, and the realization made him speculate uneasily if his own party had looked the same to Lord Brantley.

  “Move aside for the Duchess of Aracine!” Rhys meanwhile barked.

  “We are about the duke’s business,” the leader hissed in a tone of self-importance that immediately rankled Ean. “Why should we defer to you?”

  “A duchess in person trumps any duke’s lackey,” Fynn complained ungraciously.

  Rhys didn’t deign even to argue about it. “I said stand aside for the duchess!” he repeated more dangerously while Alyneri adopted an appropriately affronted look. Abruptly the captain stood in his stirrups and reached for his sword. He was instantly mirrored by Bastian and the other two soldiers, Dorin and Cayal, each of them standing tall with hands threateningly upon their weapons in an impressive display.

  The man’s black-eyed gaze turned sharper still, but he finally motioned his party aside. “The duke will hear of this,” he sneered as Rhys prodded the company forward, his soldiers still standing in their stirrups glaring in outrage.

  Bastian drew rein in front of the man while the others passed. “Indeed, he will,” he agreed, retaking his saddle without lifting his stern gaze of reproach, “for the duke is a patron of Her Grace, the Duchess of Aracine, Healer to the Crown, and he will be most displeased at your show of rudeness.” Then he heeled his mount forward and took up the rear.

  Ean nodded in silent welcome as Bastian joined his side, then looked back to the road ahead, but not before noticing Tanis watching the retreating figures with an unreadable expression.

  And what impression did you get of that ill-tempered man, young Tanis?

  The stars were rising as they reached the Feathered Pheasant, a sprawling, four-story inn bordering the river whose gables were painted a garish, lime-eaten green. To the tune of a lute and hornpipe echoing from the tavern, they dismounted and began gathering saddlebags. Eventually, three lanky boys came jogging up to tend the horses. Rhys handed off his reins to one of the boys and marched up the stone steps and into the common to find the proprietor and secure their rooms.

  As Alyneri was dismounting downwind from Fynnlar, she turned to him with a slightly pained expression and suggested, “Perhaps you will take advantage of the bath house, my lord?”

  Fynn rolled his eyes. “Oh yes,” he drawled, “bathing is our first priority—isn’t it Brody?”

&n
bsp; Brody just grunted.

  “Yes, well…” She eyed the royal cousin disapprovingly. “Even on a pilgrimage, personal hygiene should be kept up as a matter of principle.”

  Fynn snorted. “A matter of principle. There’s logic for you.”

  “Just what do you mean?” she sniffed, looking indignant.

  Fynn leaned an elbow on his saddle. “Only that nothing worth doing is ever done as a matter of principle, Your Grace. If it’s worth doing, it’s done because it’s worth doing. If it’s not worth doing, then it’s done as a matter of principle.”

  Alyneri gave him a black look.

  Ean only half heard the exchange, for his attention was drawn to the heavens and the constellation rising there, four of its seven stars just visible above the inn’s moss-covered roof. He recalled all too clearly seeing those stars on the night of Creighton’s death, and while then he’d looked down his nose at the superstition, he couldn’t quite bring himself to dismiss it so glibly this time.

  But was the constellation a warning? And if so, was it a warning to him or to another in the vast city of Acacia? How did one discern for whom Cephrael’s Hand glowed?

  Ean absently handed off Caldar’s reins to one of the stable boys, who was sort of staring stupidly at him, and slung his packs over his shoulder. He was still gazing at the constellation when Fynn approached. The royal cousin stopped beside him and followed the prince’s line of sight upwards toward the night sky. “Shadow take me,” Fynn muttered under his breath. “Is the bloody thing following you?”

  Ean exhaled a measured sigh. “I…just don’t know.”

  Fynn turned him a strange look. “So cousin,” he said then, pushing on through his surprise, “I’d like to check something out in town. See you later?”

  “Sure,” Ean said vaguely. He finally tore his gaze from the heavens and gave his cousin and brief nod. “Do as you need.”

  Without another word, Fynn sent a look to Brody, and together they skulked off into the darkening city.

  ***