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

by McPhail, Melissa

  “Oh,” the lad replied, frowning. “I told the other maid yesterday that I didn’t need anyone to help me.” Indeed, much like Her Grace, Tanis felt uncomfortable being waited upon hand and foot, and certainly he was capable of dressing himself.

  “It eez my pleasaire, monsieur,” the young woman replied, missing the point completely. She walked to the armoire and began selecting clothing to match his jacket.

  Something about the girl’s manner unsettled him, but the lad couldn’t put his finger on what it was. Thinking tea would do him good, however, Tanis walked to the table and poured a cup. The aromas of orange and cinnamon filled the room as steam rose languidly from the dark liquid. He sipped it as he watched the girl across the way, fretful as to what it was that so bothered him. She was humming as she readied his garments, a somewhat tuneless song. Her thoughts seemed strangely quiet, as if she was purposely not thinking of anything—

  The truth came to him just as the cup slipped from his hands and crashed upon the table. He hadn’t even felt it fall from his fingers.

  “Bon sang!” exclaimed the maid, rushing over. She grabbed a linen napkin and began soaking up the spill.

  Tanis felt suddenly too lightheaded to confront the maid. He reached for the chair behind him and almost missed it.

  “Parbleu, monsieur,” murmured the girl as she met his eyes for the first time. “Are you all right? Shall I call for la duchesse?” yet he knew that her concern was empty.

  “You…,” Tanis managed as the room began to tilt and spin. His heart was racing, and he couldn’t seem to find his breath. He leaned back against the chair and shut his eyes, only that made it worse.

  When he tried to sit forward again, he found he couldn’t move. It wasn’t exactly paralysis. More like the thoughts from his brain couldn’t seem to reach his arms or legs.

  Tanis lifted frightened eyes to the maid.

  “Belladonna,” she explained, gazing down at him gently. “’Tis a plante dangereuse. A leettle too much and zat’s zee end of you. But do not worry, monsieur,” she added, reaching a hand to brush his cheek. “My mozaire show me all about zee belladonna. You will sleep, yes, and wake with zee ’eadach but no worse.”

  Tanis felt all fluttery inside, but the racing of his heart and the swimming sensation in his head were almost secondary to the anger and confusion he felt upon realizing she’d poisoned him. “Why…?” he croaked as the edges of his vision started fading to black.

  “Twentee gold raisons, monsieur,” she replied with a shrug. “Zee man, he says to keep you out of zee way, yes? And he promised me gold tonight.” She took Tanis’s arm and looped it around her shoulder to heft him out of the chair. Grunting with the effort of his dead weight, she half-dragged and half-carried Tanis toward the armoire. “’Tis enough…to buy passage…to Kroth,” she managed as she labored across the room, “and from zere? Zee world, monsieur!”

  The maid must’ve been stouter than she looked, for she succeeded in stuffing an unresistive Tanis into the armoire with a minimal amount of grunting and closed the door on the lad, sealing him into darkness. Tanis barely heard the latch click into place, for he was already drifting away.

  ***

  Ean was just finishing a quiet dinner with his men when Matthieu appeared in the doorway of the dining hall and waved urgently to him. Ean exchanged a look with Fynn, and the royal cousin rose to join him as he walked over to Matthieu.

  “Bonsoir,” Ean said.

  “Bonsoir,” Matthieu replied brusquely. He cast a suspicious gaze around the room and then motioned Ean to follow. “I must show you something, mon seigneur.”

  The two princes followed the Veneisean officer through the guards’ quarters and into the estate’s chandlery, which smelled strongly of tallow but was quite empty of prying ears and eyes. Matthieu shut the door and bolted it, then spun to face them. His blue eyes scanned Ean and Fynn, whereupon he pulled something from within his vest and handed it to the prince with a flourish of fingers. “This came for you, mon seigneur.”

  Ean took the piece of cloth and read the inscription penned there in smudged ink.

  We know who you are. We have the boy. Be at La Grosse Putain before midnight if you would see him live.

  Ean felt a pang of dismay. “Where did you find this?”

  “It was tied to le comte’s gate.” Matthieu clicked his tongue distastefully and shook his head.

  “The Fat Whore,” Fynn read aloud, translating the last words of the note as he read them over Ean’s shoulder. “Sounds like a promising establishment.”

  “It is zee worst sort of place,” Matthieu said, eyeing Fynn doubtfully. “But zee note, it is for you, no? ‘We know who you are,’” Matthieu quoted in a disgusted tone. “Who else could zis offensive note be for if not le prince déguisé?”

  “I am more concerned about the threat to Tanis,” Ean said quietly. “Have you sent men in search of him?”

  “Certain! But of course!” Matthieu threw out a hand, declaring, “But le comte’s estates are vast, mon seigneur. The young man could be anywhaire. I will tell you zis, ’owevaire,” he added, leaning in with a stern expression, “zee lad has not left zee grounds. Of zis you can be certain.”

  Ean stared at the note again feeling anger swelling in waves.

  We have the boy... If anything happened to Tanis, he would never forgive himself.

  “Ean…” Fynn was staring suspiciously at him. “You’re not considering this.”

  Matthieu’s eyes went wide. “No, no, no, no!” he waved a hand in protest. “I did not bring zis ridiculous note to encourage you to follow zee dictates of a lunatic! Only to warn you that someone knows you are ’ere. Mon dieu.” Matthieu snatched the fabric from Ean’s hands and shoved it back inside his vest. “Do not think of it, mon seigneur! Zee boy is no doubt off upon an adventure, but my men will find him, never you fear.”

  But Ean knew too well that the people after him had ways and means at their disposal that were unimaginable to a common soldier; until they found Tanis, the note’s declaration could hardly be contested. “I won’t compromise Tanis’s life, Matthieu,” the prince said quietly.

  “Ean—” Fynn protested.

  Ean silenced him with a penetrating look. “I won’t sacrifice his life for mine,” Ean growled. “I won’t do it.” He looked to Matthieu, who seemed defiant but ill-inclined to argue. “If you would keep me here, Matthieu, you’d best find my Truthreader before the time claimed on that ‘ridiculous’ note, because ere midnight, I will be gone.” With that, he pushed past Matthieu, unbolted the heavy door and threw it wide as he stalked through.

  ***

  Alyneri knew the birth was not going well. The Comtesse Claire had been in active labor before the midwives even called for Sandrine. By the time Alyneri and the other Healer arrived, Claire was pushing; but after several hours of effort, her labor stalled. She’d strained with contractions throughout the rest of the evening, but now even the urge to push had ebbed.

  As midnight neared, Alyneri stood watching Claire toss with fitful sleep while Sandrine spoke with the midwives in hushed tones. The comtesse was pale, weak from the last two difficult months. No doubt easing her pregnancy had been a challenge when her body was so belabored by the two growing babes.

  While Alyneri understood the need to keep Claire bedridden lest she lose the twins too early, so also did she know that inactivity weakened the mother immensely. She had not personally delivered many babies—a Healer was loath to step on the toes of midwives who lived for no other purpose than bringing new life into the world—but Farshideh had spent many years in the profession and ‘knew a thing or two about birthing babes.’

  ‘These Northmen with their pampered wives,’ Farshideh had always complained. ‘Don’t they know how much work it is to birth a babe? Would they expect an apprentice blacksmith to pound out the oxen yoke when his arms are barely more than a boy’s skinny bone? Would they put the pageboy in the arena with the knight when he could hardly lift a
sword? Yet they expect their lady wives to push a melon through a mouse hole—with naught but her belly to do the work—when she’s been cosseted and coddled so long she can nary lift her own cup of tea…’

  Alyneri gazed worriedly at the tossing woman. Perhaps Claire’s labor had stalled because her strength was failing her, as Sandrine thought; but what if the cause was another source?

  Alyneri moved to the bedside and sat down next to the Claire. The comtesse was not a young woman, being nearly twice Alyneri’s age, and Alyneri could tell just from looking at her that her muscles had atrophied during the long months of bed rest. She took the woman’s hand in hers and closed her eyes, letting her mind find the rhythm of Claire’s pulse, sinking her awareness deeply into the other woman’s body until she felt a part of it, until she heard the thunderous beating of Claire’s heart and the roaring wind of her breath.

  Finding rapport, Alyneri searched first for the babes. Their hearts were tiny but vibrant drums beating a furious rhythm so much faster than their mother’s. She tried to see more of them, but the womb kept diverting her. Her vision slid past and around the womb, water over oilcloth, unable to penetrate its secrets. Frustrated, Alyneri tried several more times to pierce through the lining, but to no avail. She could not reach the children.

  Claire stirred, but Alyneri remained deep in rapport. She sought now to know how the mother was faring, sending her awareness into heart and lungs, into her kidneys and bowels. Assured that her functions remained stable, Alyneri pulled her awareness back from the bowels, lingering now in the energy centers, feeling the rush of Claire’s very lifeforce along its channels, signals firing from brain to toes, a continuous charge of lightning caught within a single frame. She was always amazed and awed by the majesty that was the human body.

  When Alyneri was satisfied with what she’d discovered, she withdrew her consciousness from rapport. She opened her eyes to find Claire watching her with a weary but grateful smile.

  “How are they?” she whispered.

  “They are well,” Alyneri reassured her. “Their hearts beat strong.”

  Claire nodded, smiled. Then she swallowed and asked, “And how am I?”

  “You are stronger still.”

  Claire exhaled a little cry that was half a whimper and half a laugh. Her gaze was beseeching, tired, fearful. “You…you aren’t just saying that to comfort me in my last hours?”

  “If it is a comfort, that is well,” Alyneri said with a gentle smile, “because it is the truth.”

  Sandrine approached with the lead midwife, Annaliese, in tow. “Did you find something while in rapport, duchesse?”

  It wasn’t exactly a challenge, but Alyneri could tell Sandrine did not expect her to discover anything she had not already learned. “Only that her lifeforce is strong,” Alyneri answered. “We should encourage the labor to continue.”

  “And that is exactly what we’re going to do,” Annaliese declared approvingly as she approached carrying a goblet of dark liquid. “Black cohosh, goldenseal, squaw vine and red raspberry leaf,” she told Claire. “A potent cocktail to encourage those babes on out into the world.”

  Claire pushed up weakly on one elbow and drank the potion in slow sips. Then she lay back again, exhausted. “How long, Sadie?” she whispered after a while.

  “Twenty and one hours, my lady,” answered one of her ladies-in-waiting from across the room.

  “Twenty and one,” Claire repeated wistfully. “Jean-Pierre was born in twelve and Lucien in six. Something is wrong, Annaliese.”

  “Twins have a knack for wanting to stay together, my lady,” Annaliese advised. “They share everything, even souls, some say. Born of the same spark, their hearts beating as one. Twins must be coaxed into the world.”

  But Claire shook her head. “No,” she whispered, and her face grew paler still. “No, something is—” Suddenly she sucked in a gasp that erupted into a scream.

  Because she had so nearly been in rapport, Alyneri sensed what was happening even before the blood flowed onto the bed in a sanguineous flood. “She’s hemorrhaging!” She grabbed Sandrine’s arm with her surprise, and the other Healer rushed to press her hands to Claire’s shoulders while Annaliese shouted for linens and water and a mad commotion ensued.

  Alyneri quickly shut herself off from the noise and pushed hands to Claire’s belly, spearing her awareness down into rapport with an urgency she’d never known before.

  “I have hold of her,” Sandrine murmured in Alyneri’s ear, but her tone was grim. “You’ve got to get those babies out now.”

  “How?” Alyneri hissed.

  “Any way you can!”

  Alyneri silently cursed and cast her awareness again toward the impenetrable womb. It made no sense that this one part of Claire’s body would remain opaque when all else was so transparent. She tried again to send her sight through the uterine wall, but she might as well have been poking a cow hide with a rounded stick for all the difference it made.

  Think! Think! She told herself desperately. You’re smarter than this!

  Alyneri could sense Sandrine in rapport with Claire. The other Healer was a powerful presence, strong as sunlight spearing over a ridge. She had tapped into Claire’s energy channels and was monitoring them closely. Alyneri knew if it came to it, Sandrine would push her own energy into and along those channels to keep Claire alive, but she could only push so far before Sandrine herself would be in danger. Alyneri knew the woman would not make that sacrifice.

  Then something her mother once told her came to mind. ‘The womb is a world unto itself.’

  Of course! Alyneri quit trying to pierce through the uterine wall, which would necessarily be thick enough to survive all penetration save from the sharpest steel, and instead searched for the opening where the placenta fed through the womb. Down, she swept then, following the trail of life-giving blood until—

  “It’s detached,” she whispered under her breath, hardly knowing the words were said aloud. Where the placenta had detached from the uterine wall, Alyneri’s awareness spilled into the womb and saw the babes at last. They were curled head to toe and toe to head and filled the sack so tightly there was not an inch to spare. He’s twisted, she realized, noting how the lowest babe had his head turned in the wrong position and couldn’t enter the birth canal.

  But what can I do?

  “Alyneri, you must hurry,” Sandrine hissed, the strain evident in her tone. “Find a way.”

  Alyneri had been so deeply in rapport that she hadn’t noticed that Claire had stopped screaming. It was a bad sign.

  Alyneri desperately reviewed her craft, images flashing through her mind while she tried to think of anything to help Claire. She could make the woman’s body change and grow, but she could do nothing for the babes. She’d never attempted to achieve rapport with a child still in its mother’s womb, without the benefit of tactile contact. Yet without this, she knew all three would die.

  Alyneri could already sense Sandrine working to stop the hemorrhaging, but the babies would die in the womb without their lifeline and take their mother with them.

  Alyneri’s head was already aching from the effort, but she pressed on, finding strength in her purpose to save three lives this night. She closed off all sensory perception from her own body until she knew only those of Claire’s. Secluded within the quiet of the womb, hearing only the noise of the flowing of blood in Claire’s veins, she cast a line for the babe, her own lifeforce seeking that of the unborn child’s.

  Once. Twice. Again.

  Over and over she cast for him, managing only the most tenuous thread, a gossamer wisp that moved on the barest breath; too hard a breeze would banish it. Her head was pounding, and her breath came ragged in her lungs; she climbed a mental mountain that drained her body no less than a real climb would have. But she pressed on, throwing the line, throwing the line, throwing the line.

  And then…finally…

  It stuck.

  She had a sense of him.


  Exhaling a ragged sigh of relief as she drew the babe gently into rapport, Alyneri inwardly wept, If only I had a clue how to make him move!

  ***

  Ean walked the length of the comte’s long patio while the last vestiges of sunset bled into darkness and night settled upon the world. As the moon rose from behind the Eidenglass, dense clouds rolled in to obscure it, taking away what starlight lingered, until at last Ean stared into a vast canyon of night. Below him, the twinkling city lights seemed a spread of fallen stars, their celestial homes abandoned for ripe, earthly pleasures.

  He had waited as long as he could to give Matthieu’s men time to find Tanis—he’d even sent his own men in search as well, though Fynn had equally gone missing when last they scoured the estate—but thus far there was no sign of the lad.

  Ean was conflicted by the choice before him. Creighton had already died for him; his companions knowingly risked their lives just traveling with him, and he would be damned if he let anything happen to Tanis merely because someone thought his skin too precious to risk.

  Yet…he knew it was certainly a trap laid for him specifically. As much as he resented the knowledge, he understood that his life was important—to his family and his kingdom in the very least. ’Twas the height of irresponsibility then to walk knowingly into a trap and risk his father’s kingdom in the bargain. The dilemma leveraged Ean’s honor and pride against his deepest sense of duty, and it was an agonizing choice.

  Ean pushed a hand through his cinnamon hair and lamented, If I stay and Tanis dies, I will bear his blood upon my conscience for all eternity.

  Walking to the patio’s edge, he gripped the stone railing tightly, battling over what he must do. If I go, there is a chance we will both survive. If I do nothing, I will never forgive myself.