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

by McPhail, Melissa

  “So, Gwynnleth of Elvior,” Ean said, gingerly clasping hands behind his head, “might you be willing to tell me why you came at so fortuitous a moment to save me from certain death?”

  She arched a ginger brow at him. “I was sent to your aid by the Fourth Vestal.”

  Ean released his hands and pushed up on one elbow to better see her. “Raine sent you?”

  “He believed the Tyriolicci had agreed to hunt you—as we both discovered to be true, you a bit more acutely than me.” She crossed arms and stared discontentedly at him. “I stayed because…well, you are not as I expected.”

  The prince lifted a solitary brow in amusement. “I didn’t realize you had any expectations of me at all.”

  “A common failing of men in general, I’ve noticed.” She wandered over to the windows and pushed aside the sheers with slender fingers. “That Raine D’Lacourte sent me to protect you seemed a curiosity to me,” she told him as she gazed out into the hazy dawn, “so I lingered here to see why he would think your life worth saving.”

  Ean turned his head to watch her at the window, but instead of her slender, leather-clad form, he saw Creighton dying on the blade of a Shade; he saw Fynn rushing to engage the Whisper Lord; he saw the zanthyr spinning to catch a dagger out of the air, his cloak flying on the wind…

  Exhaling a pensive sigh, the prince murmured, “Isn’t all life worth saving?”

  She turned him an unreadable look over her shoulder. “I’ve watched your companions since I arrived.” She turned her attention back to the dawn. “So far I’ve seen your cousin willingly throw himself in the Tyriolicci’s path to save you, and I’ve watched the Healer—who would bear your children if you but asked—push herself beyond exhaustion to heal you. The young Truthreader watches you with awe, even while you sleep, and the King’s Guard have such respect for you one would think you already their liege.”

  Ean felt only regret in hearing these words—except for her absurd assumption about Alyneri. “I am blessed with the loyalty of brave companions,” he replied, feeling only the weight of their lives as an endless pressure upon his heart.

  She turned him another unreadable look, one ginger brow raised. Like the owl sitting upon its high limb espying the whimsical and ordinary with equal dispassion, there was something detached about her, as if she merely observed humankind but had little interaction with or care for them. Something about her manner reminded him of the zanthyr, too, though he couldn’t say what it was—the impression of an impression, perhaps—but he realized he trusted her, much as he’d instinctively trusted the zanthyr.

  “So you stayed,” he said quietly, “and you observed. And now?”

  She walked over to him. “You have two chances left.”

  “And what outcome are you hoping for? That I should prove you right and be just like all the others of my race, or that I should prove you wrong?”

  She regarded him levelly, her strange golden eyes at half-mast. “I have no hopes in the matter at all.”

  “I’m just a curiosity, am I? Were you bored in Elvior?” He paused and considered her more intently, “Or are you running from something—someone?”

  Gwynnleth leaned against the bedpost, her expression revealing nothing of her thoughts. “Why is Raine D’Lacourte invested in your welfare?”

  Ean slowly sat up and shifted his pillows to rest back against the headboard. If nothing else, conversing with her was much like with the zanthyr—a sometimes elliptical and often warped conversation that never ended where it seemed that it should. “I’m not sure.”

  She arched a brow at him again.

  “What I mean is I’m not sure of his motivations. It seems to me the Vestals have their own agendas which they may or may not share with us, and what they do share may not be the whole truth.”

  She chuckled. “You are wiser for your years than I gave you credit for, Prince of Dannym. I take back the first mark.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “Careful,” she chided, narrowing her gaze. “Sarcasm will cost you two marks.”

  Ean gave her a crooked grin. “I shall endeavor to do better.” He peered under the covers and noted his own nakedness. He lifted grey eyes back to her. “Have I any clothes?”

  Casting him a long look, she walked over to an armoire and retrieved a pair of pants, which she tossed to him. Ean donned them while she watched, neither averting her gaze for propriety nor seeming to care that he stood with his assets fully revealed to her. She was just so odd.

  “The Whisper Lord…” He glanced at her as he walked toward the armoire, feeling every muscle in his body twining and tensing with each step. “At the end, he was chanting something. Did you hear it?”

  “Indeed, Prince of Dannym. He said, Tur or’de rorum d’rundalin dalal.”

  “That was it all right.” Ean shoved his head through a tunic and asked as he pushed arms with care into the sleeves, “How do you know that the words?”

  “I have fought many of them.” She looked to him, and a stubborn glint came into her gaze. “Avieths are uniquely suited to battle the Tyriolicci. It is why Raine D’Lacourte sent me to protect you.”

  Filing that knowledge for investigation at a later time, Ean asked, “Do you know what the words mean?”

  “But of course. He was chanting, ‘Dare to live fearlessly and fear not to die.’”

  Death is only the beginning. Ean recalled too well the Geishaiwyn’s similar chant. What fascination did these Wildlings have with death that they hired out to cause it and made up chants to mock it? “And what is the Avieth battle chant?” he asked as he reached for his belt.

  She arched a ginger brow. “We do not toy with our prey before we claim it.”

  “How practical of you.” He buckled on his belt and looked around for his sword.

  “In the corner,” she advised, motioning with her eyes.

  He gave her a wondering look. “Thanks.”

  She shrugged indifferently.

  “So, Gwynnleth,” Ean posed as he claimed his blade, “do I have your influence to thank for the upgrade in quarters?”

  “No. It was the Veneisean Healer who required it on your behalf. Something to do with your declaration to her.”

  Ean slowed in buckling on his sword. “My declaration?”

  “Where you proclaimed your betrothal to the duchess.”

  Ean grimaced. He’d forgotten all about that. “I see.” It had been a foolish error, however noble, for now that his identity was broadly known, they were all in danger. Two days sleeping, for Epiphany’s sake! My enemies might be amassing beyond the gates even now!

  The Avieth’s earlier words suddenly struck a terrible chill in him—the thought of another Whisper Lord lying in wait and taking down Ean’s entire company in the process of claiming his bounty was too much to bear. Shadow take his carelessness!

  “You spend too much time in your head, Northerner,” Gwynnleth remarked, eyeing him critically. “Wasted time.”

  “What—I shouldn’t think?” Ean protested, glaring at her.

  “But you’re not thinking, are you?” she inquired with her head caught with that imperial tilt that women of any race seemed to manage so well. “You’re regretting.”

  Her haughty manner roused his ire—that and how completely she seemed to know his mind. He jerked his belt tight and shoved a hand to the hilt of his sword. “I have many lives in my charge, Gwynnleth of Elvior. Should I feel nothing for their safety? Should I simply shrug indifferently, like you, when my choices place them in danger?”

  A half-grin twitched at the corner of her mouth. It was the closest he’d seen her come to a smile. “You clearly care for them, Northerner. Anyone can see that. What you fail to display is leadership.”

  Her words were a fiery arrow to his gut, their truth stabbing into him painfully. He deflated, feeling bruised and bare beneath her scrutiny. How could she see so deeply into his soul?

  “I am perhaps not as young as I seem,” Gwynnle
th offered as Ean struggled to repair his shattered ego, his eyes burning and his jaw tight as he held her tawny gaze. “I have fought for many great leaders even as I have known pain beneath the command of others. You are the kind of man people want to follow, Ean val Lorian, but true leadership comes at a price.”

  “And what is that?” he growled, the words laced with a bitter edge. “Their lives?”

  “Sometimes. More often it is a personal cost: to bear the largest burden, to put forward the bravest face, to command the greatest courage from oneself for the sake of others. Your regret merely weakens all, for they would depend on you to lead forward, not pin them down mired in past failures, afraid of future missteps.”

  Ean admitted that most of what she said rang with unquestionable truth, but one thing didn’t sit right with him. “So let me get this straight,” he challenged. “My companions give their lives, but I pay the price?”

  She came over and handed him his cloak, but he got the sense it was not an offering of a garment but of a sacred trust. “One day you will understand,” she said simply.

  Ean took the offering and released his angst with forced patience. What good did it do to argue with her? Holding her close attention, he posed tightly, “Is that the day I will prove you right…or wrong?”

  She considered him. “Perhaps both.”

  “Then I look forward to it.”

  Gwynnleth arched a ginger brow and shook her head. “You are not as I expected.”

  Ean shook his head. “Alas, milady, the good ones never are.”

  ***

  Tanis felt slightly like a long-tailed cat in a corral of hungry hogs as he lugged his bags down to the yard dodging soldiers and stewards and horses being readied to ride. His Highness had awoken only that morning, but already they were heading out. The boy didn’t quite understand everything that had come to pass since his chambermaid had drugged him and run off in the night; he was just excited to be off again. To Tanis, their stay at the comte’s villa seemed somewhat caught out of time. It felt as if events in the world beyond needed to catch up with them, and now that they had, everything sprang into motion once more.

  As the lad reached his own horse, one of the comte’s stable hands took his bags and shooed him off saying something in Veneisean which the boy couldn’t understand. The yard was a fair madness of shuffling packs and bundles and shouted orders in two languages, so rather than get stepped on or jostled or caught unwittingly in the middle of stomping horses or burly soldiers or something else unpleasant, Tanis sought the safety of a marble bench until it was time to go.

  In the near distance, Rhys was seeing to his horse while the prince stood near him talking with the comte’s man, Matthieu. They were close enough that Tanis had no trouble hearing their conversation.

  “All’s well that ends well,” Matthieu was saying amiably to Ean as Tanis sat down on the bench. “At least now we know why zee ordair to stay within zee walls, eh mon ami?” He elbowed Ean and arched brows suggestively, as if the prince’s identity wasn’t broadly known by all of the comte’s staff. “I confess I am not so sad to see you go,” he added with a grin. “I am too old for all zee commotion! When next I play zee cards with the city guard, they will think me a liar if I tell them zis tale.”

  The prince said something Tanis couldn’t make out save that it was in good spirits, and then Matthieu glanced over at the Avieth, who was talking to three of Matthieu’s men. From her body position and the glare in her eye, she seemed ready to match swords with them. “And what of zee héroine?” he asked in a low voice.

  Ean turned to follow his gaze just as Gwynnleth pulled her black-bladed sword and spun it as she split the shaft apart, making two swords out of one. Matthieu tensed, but Ean held up a hand, a shadowy smile hinting on his lips. “Wait,” he murmured.

  Matthieu’s men laughed and drew their swords in turn. They pressed them to foreheads with short bows, and then jested with each other to see who would match blades with the Avieth first. One man stepped forward swinging his weapon in challenge.

  “Ah, mon dieu,” Matthieu exclaimed, shaking his head. “Idiot! Now I will have to pay zee chirurgeon to sew ’im up.”

  The man made a show of swinging his blade and then suddenly lunged at Gwynnleth, but she danced easily to the side and struck his rear with the flat of her blade, sending him pitching forward. He caught himself on both hands in the dirt to the sound of laughter from his fellows. Straightening and brushing his hands against his britches, he settled an angry glare upon the Avieth and struck out after her with a snarl. Again she easily deflected his advance, this time spinning as his blade passed harmlessly by to impale sack of flour stacked on a near wagon.

  There followed an embarrassing display of humiliation wherein the Avieth quickly pinned, disarmed, or struck down Matthieu’s men, never losing her composed look of concentration no matter their goading insults or laughter. When each had regained their weapons with black glares, she offered to take them all at once. They brightened at this and formed a line against her while Ean grinned and Matthieu muttered in dismay, shaking his head.

  The men rushed her as one, and the sound of the swordplay that followed caused a momentary stilling in the busy yard as everyone turned to watch. The Avieth fought with both swords spinning, crossing and uncrossing her arms as she spun the blades in figure-eights. Tanis had never seen anything like it. Prince Ean and Matthieu both watched intently, and Tanis caught a hint of the prince’s thoughts as a particularly strong impression bled through, something about the zanthyr that had saved him, who Tanis well remembered.

  As quickly as it began, it was over, and Matthieu’s men lay in the dirt with thin lines of blood at the base of their throats from Gwynnleth’s careful skill, her mark of reminder that humility is the greatest of virtues.

  Matthieu stomped over to them and waved them all up amid a florid tongue-lashing, demanding they pay the Avieth the proper respects. As the men were grumblingly acknowledging her victory, Fynn arrived with Brody in tow. The royal cousin was walking slightly crooked, still favoring his torn-but-now-repaired side.

  “Raine’s truth, Ean,” Fynnlar complained as he arrived on the scene, “your Healer did something wrong while she was messing with my insides. I’ve been awake all morning and haven’t wanted a drink. What did she do to me?”

  Ean cast him a crooked grin. “Relax, Fynn. Things could be worse.”

  “How?” Fynn demanded.

  “Instead of taking away your thirst for drink, she might’ve given you a conscience.”

  Fynn blanched. “Belloth’s Balls—that would be worse!” He dropped the satchel he’d been carrying at his feet and looked around, espying the Avieth. “Who’s the broad?”

  Ean followed his gaze. “That’s Gwynnleth. She saved our lives. Don’t you remember?”

  Fynn frowned at her. “Vaguely. Mostly I remember a lot of blood seeping out of my gut. So what’s her story?”

  “She’s here on behalf of the Fourth Vestal.”

  “The Fourth Vestal,” Fynn repeated dubiously, his tone intimating, Don’t you mean the Third?

  Having properly schooled Matthieu’s men, Gwynnleth strolled over swinging her blades idly at her side. Tanis admitted she was something to look at. Though she wore man’s attire, it somehow accentuated her feminine shape instead of obscuring it. Gwynnleth spied Fynnlar staring at her and arched a ginger brow. “Does the sight of a woman in pants emasculate you, Northerner?”

  Fynn grinned. “Au contraire, ma chère. I was just imagining how such pants would look on my bedroom floor.”

  She arched a disapproving brow and turned to Ean, who held up both hands in protest. “He’s not included in my three chances.”

  Gwynnleth grunted and looked back to Fynn. “These pants were made for me by artisans of Doane, Northerner,” she told him with one imperially arched eyebrow, “sewn from the skin of a lamb who willingly gave its life in sacrifice. No lambskin is ever so supple as that from a ewe who dies witho
ut regret.”

  “I imagine the skin beneath them is more supple still,” Fynn observed with a grin. “I’d be happy to compare the two and let you know.”

  “Gwynnleth, may I introduce my cousin, Fynnlar,” Ean said blandly.

  She looked Fynn up and down with her tawny eyes and didn’t seem impressed by what she saw.

  “Fynn, Gwynnleth will be riding along with us until I use up my three chances to prove her wrong.”

  “Or prove me right,” Gwynnleth said, “which outcome I am predicting rather quickly.”

  Fynn arched brows in surprise. “Can she ride?”

  “Of course I can ride,” she returned indignantly. “’Tis only mankind that need break a creature to its will, for the children of nature see your failings and know you to be toxic to them. Avieths need only ask and a horse will carry us.” Pinning her tawny eyes on Fynn’s horse, she whistled then, and the animal whinnied and pulled free of Brody’s hands, trotting over to her. Gwynnleth held out one hand for the horse to sniff while smiling daggers at Fynn.

  “Traitor,” Fynn accused the horse under his breath. Looking to Gwynnleth, he said then, “So you speak to lambs and horses too. Was that your mating call just then?”

  Gwynnleth eyed him imperiously. “Mankind thinks itself so above the Wildling races, but we must look down our noses to see the tops of your heads.”

  “Gee, you don’t say,” Fynn remarked, rolling his eyes. “I suppose otherwise you’d be flying so low we could stab our dinner with a fork.” He looked to Ean and added, “Then again, I don’t imagine Avieths would make for a decent meal. Their meat is too chewy and tough.”

  “Better hard and tough than flaccid and fatty,” she said with a sweet smile.

  Tanis would’ve stayed to listen to Fynn’s retort, but just then he saw Her Grace descending the long staircase from the manse, so he trotted over to greet her and see if she needed his help.

  The duchess walked with the comtesse, who carried one of her babes in swaddling, and the Veneisean Healer Sandrine du Préc. The comtesse paused halfway down the hillside and hugged Alyneri. Then the duchess and Sandrine continued down together. Tanis met them at the bottom.