“Gwynnleth,” posed the prince after a moment of this, turning val Lorian grey eyes toward her, “you once told me that you’re not as young as you seem.”
She cast him a wary eye, as if wondering where this was heading. Tanis wondered too. Age was treacherous territory full of pitfalls when its conversation surrounded females.
“I was only wondering at the Avieth lifespan,” Ean clarified with a grin. “Do you live many years longer than humans?”
Still pinning him with a hawkish look, Gwynnleth nodded.
“Tens of years?” Ean inquired. “Hundreds of years?”
“Hundreds of years is not unknown,” she replied, glancing cautiously at Tanis and then to the zanthyr, who yawned. “Some of our elders are nearing five hundred years.”
“Amazing,” Ean said, giving her an appreciative smile. “And this is your actual lifespan?”
She understood his implied question. “An Avieth is proud to live and die in the natural course of time. Avieths don’t work the Pattern of Life.”
“Not ever?”
She frowned and glanced at Tanis, and the lad was suddenly aware of his talent intruding into the conversation, requiring honesty and candor from those present. He gave her a sheepish look. “There are…some who have done it,” she admitted then, looking back to Ean, “but the circumstances were irregular at best. Most of us prefer to let nature guide our lives. When an Avieth has lived too long, he loses the ability to change forms and must choose one in which to live out his remaining days.”
“Which form do they most often choose?” Tanis asked.
“The hawk, of course,” she returned as if there was no option. “I cannot imagine no longer being able to take the form. Living out my days as a human,” and she shuddered over the word, “for all intents and purposes would be the worst punishment imaginable. It is actually our gravest form of censure.”
“Are there Avieths who have been forbidden to take the form?” Tanis asked wondrously.
“A very few.”
“Five hundred years,” Ean meanwhile mused, frowning as he looked into the fire. “I can’t imagine living for so long…but I must’ve been willing to do it once.” He lifted his gaze back to her. “Do you remember your earlier lifetimes? You said you’d always been born an Avieth.”
She gave him an annoyed look, and Tanis realized that she was feeling put on the spot because of his presence at the fire. He wondered what the Avieth would’ve replied had he not been there to gauge the truth in her words. “I spoke more out of faith than empirical truth,” she admitted to Ean then.
Ean nodded in gratitude for her candor, even if it was obviously forced. “I wonder about the man I was before,” he confessed quietly, pensive and distant. “I wonder what I believed in, what I fought for. I wonder why I chose to work the Pattern of Life.” He tossed another dry branch onto the flames and watched it blaze with life briefly and then die. “I wonder if it was vanity that drove me,” he murmured then, not looking at the others, just gazing into the flames, “if it was power I sought, or youth, some other purpose that spurred me to make the choice.”
“Aging is overrated in importance,” the zanthyr observed, “especially by humankind.”
“What would you know about it?” Gwynnleth snapped. “Your race never ages at all. You need not even work the Pattern of Life.”
Tanis looked to Phaedor. “Is it true?”
The zanthyr cast him a look of droll amusement before admitting, “There are some few of us who do not age.”
The zanthyr’s deep voice carried the conversation beyond the fireside, and as their discussion continued, some of the others began wandering back toward the fire like peasants drawn to a glittering carriage. Alyneri was the first of these, and she came to stand behind Tanis and eventually sat down beside him.
Phaedor observed Alyneri’s arrival, and a flicker of a smile touched his lips. “Adepts are tied to the realm,” he continued to explain to Tanis. “No doubt your master has spoken of these truths in your lessons.”
“He spoke at length about Adepts being bound to their strand,” Tanis answered. Then he frowned. “It’s a little hard to conceptualize, the way he described it.”
Bastian and Cayal were slowly sitting down behind the prince as the zanthyr continued, “Imagine that each strand of elae is an element. The second strand would be water, the third fire, the fourth air. Now these connections do not actually exist, you understand, Tanis. It is merely meant by way of example.”
The boy nodded his understanding.
“Were there such hypothetical connections,” Phaedor went on, noting with shadowy amusement that Fynn and Brody had now joined them and were lingering just beyond the firelight, “then Avieths might only be able to shift forms through the use of fire, and Nodefinders could only travel where there was water. The patterns that link an Adept with their strand are peculiar only to that strand—the fire, water and air of elae.”
“What of the fifth?” Ean asked with his gaze pinned intently on the zanthyr.
“The fifth is tied to the land,” Phaedor answered, “and this is in fact a truth. Whereas the other strands are connected to one aspect of elae—one particular current among many, whose patterns are intrinsic to them—fifth-strand creatures derive their existence from the entire world and are therefore linked to every part of it. Where there is air, earth, iron, stone, water, fire—there is the fifth. It is elemental. It is not like other aspects of elae. It is life, yet it is not life.”
“Tied to the realm itself,” Ean mused.
But Tanis understood this more deeply than the others, for his Truthreader’s sense again resonated with the zanthyr’s own truth. Without thinking, only speaking from his heart, Tanis whispered in awe, “You are doomed to this life for as long as the realm shall be.”
Phaedor turned him a look of calm acceptance, but Tanis felt a profound sense of loss in his simple reply. “Just so.”
The group gazed in shocked silence, for no one could upstage such a fate.
Fynn was heard to murmur then, “I’ll take flab and incontinence any day.”
After a moment of careful consideration, Ean looked to the zanthyr and said thoughtfully, “Raine D’Lacourte told me that many Adepts went to T’khendar, and it killed them, but the way you describe it, perhaps it was leaving Alorin that actually killed them. Do you know the truth of it?”
“Both statements are…true…” but the zanthyr trailed off, for his attention was drawn suddenly to the canopy of fir limbs and the starlit heavens twinkling beyond. Following the zanthyr’s gaze, Tanis thought he saw a dark cloud passing lazily overhead, momentarily obscuring the stars.
Abruptly the zanthyr jumped to his feet. “Get up!” he hissed, and his tone was so commanding that no one dared but scramble to obey. He urged them all away from the campsite into the deeper forest, all save Rhys and Dorin who were on watch. No one said a word as the zanthyr ushered them into the shadows of a massive spruce and bade them collect behind his own form, his left arm extended backwards as if to enwrap them in safety, his right forefinger held before his lips, cautioning silence.
Tanis’s heart was pumping; he could sense the zanthyr’s tension resonating like the vibration of a string, tightly controlled and extremely focused.
“Rhys—” Ean whispered.
“Is in no danger,” the zanthyr returned so quietly the words were more an impression on the air than individual sounds.
They waited, but for what no one knew. Apprehension filled the space among them, fogging the air with chilling unease. Tanis looked around in concert with the others. He feared the things he couldn’t see, as did they all.
And then…
Tanis felt the stranger’s growing presence long before he saw the man, though the lad didn’t know this was what he perceived; he knew only that the air had grown colder, that the forest had fallen as silent as the grave, that even the wind seemed afraid to pass among the trees.
It wasn’t until
the zanthyr swept his hand slowly before them and Tanis saw the night congealing to obscure the group from sight that he really understood how much danger they were in. The lad had no idea what magic the zanthyr was working, but the air grew colder still as Phaedor encased them in a cloak of night, a haze of shadows that darkened everything in Tanis’s vision by several shades. Within this dome, Tanis could barely see the others crowding against the tree, and beyond it, the night seemed moonless and dense.
Then he appeared.
The man who emerged out of the darkness was a stranger to them all, but he walked among their camp as though he owned everything in his path and found it all beneath his contempt. Tall and regal in stature, he had dark hair and piercing eyes, but something about him was truly dreadful—especially to Tanis. Indeed, his thoughts were a riot of malevolence spilling out onto the currents like the Marquiin’s had done, angry and hateful and hungry for desolation. Tanis had never known such fear as what he felt in this man’s presence. He got the sense, too, that the man was more than he seemed, like a fiery figurehead upon the prow with the bulk of the ship invisible behind him.
He walked through their camp touching nothing, only his eyes alive and searching, lighthouse beacons scalding the night, splitting the very air into its tiniest parts, leaving no quarter in which to hide. He held his hands at his sides, but his fingers lifted and fell like waving tentacles tasting the air. And every time the man’s attention crossed the fire, the flames sputtered and bent, only regaining their steady heat when he turned away again.
Tanis couldn’t tell how many impressions of the man were his own, how many resonated off the zanthyr, and how many came from the others who crowded so closely against him. All he knew was that thoughts had force, and he was feeling attacked by all of the thoughts bombarding him, a cavalry charge of trampling fears. Most of all, he felt the vehemence of the stranger’s being; his emotions were piercing and incendiary to Tanis’s innocent mind, and the boy felt violated by them.
The lad made a little whimper, and the zanthyr, who was somehow perceptive of his trauma, placed a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. With the contact, the terrible thoughts ebbed and faded, leaving a tingling numbness in Tanis’s mind that was a welcome relief.
Suddenly the stranger turned and looked directly toward them, and Tanis caught his breath. He felt Gwynnleth tense behind him, and heard Her Grace inhale sharply. His heart raced as the man walked closer and peered intently into the shadows of Phaedor’s spell. His eyes were amber-gold, like the Avieth’s, but at times Tanis imagined he saw flames reflected within them. Tanis’s heart started beating frantically, and he only just held off an overwhelming sense of panic, mostly due to the zanthyr’s firm hand upon his shoulder.
When the stranger was close enough to reach out and touch him, Tanis held his breath. He stared at the man, too terrified even to move his eyes, studying his features even as the stranger studied the shadows of Phaedor’s spell. He was nearly nose to nose with the zanthyr, whose attention in turn was intently focused if infinitely still. What the stranger saw, Tanis couldn’t imagine; he only thanked every god he could think of that the zanthyr was there to protect them from this savage, hateful apparition.
Finally, when Tanis thought he must be turning blue in the face, when his lungs were screaming for air and black spots were creeping in on his vision, the stranger turned away and continued his quiet inspection, fingers undulating at his sides like many-headed snakes. When he was far enough away, Tanis silently exhaled with a massive shudder.
Only when the stranger had been gone from sight for many minutes did the zanthyr release his spell and the night brighten. Feeling threadbare and mentally ragged, Tanis hugged his arms, only then realizing that his teeth had begun to chatter from Phaedor’s chill working. The temperature of the air was noticeably warmer now, as great a disparity as the deep Gandrel to a sunny stone patio on a midsummer’s day.
No one said anything about the zanthyr’s spell, though upon its release the others moved quickly toward the fire and life-giving warmth. Only Ean and Tanis remained by the tree, the latter rooted to the earth, the former staring at Phaedor, who in turn watched the forest intently, focused upon the path taken by the stranger what must’ve been ten minutes now gone.
“You know his nature, don’t you?” Ean asked when the three of them were quite alone. He sounded unsettled, though not nearly as shaken as Tanis felt.
Phaedor made no move to acknowledge he’d heard Ean at all.
“What is he?” Ean prodded, following the zanthyr’s gaze.
The zanthyr finally looked at Ean. “He is your enemy.”
Ean’s expression changed to one of pained confusion. “Not Björn then.”
“Björn?” the zanthyr arched a solitary brow.
Ean shook his head, frowning ponderously. “I thought…I thought perhaps the man was Björn, for I know the Vestal hunts me still.”
“Björn hunts you,” the zanthyr repeated slowly, giving Ean a sideways look. “And you’ve reached this conclusion how?”
Ean glanced at Tanis, who watched him with intense curiosity, and then looked back to the zanthyr. He seemed uncertain as he confessed, “Dagmar said the Fifth Vestal would make himself known to me.”
“Indeed,” Phaedor murmured, sounding unconvinced. He turned to head back to camp.
But Ean grabbed his arm. “He came to me in my dreams,” the prince insisted.
The zanthyr eyed him calmly. “I do not doubt you, my prince.”
Tanis knew Phaedor spoke truly, yet he also knew that he didn’t. It was as frustrating as it was confusing—trying to read the zanthyr was like peering into two streams running on top of one another, each carrying different truths.
Phaedor cast Tanis an amused eye as the lad had this thought, making him wonder yet again if the zanthyr could read his mind.
Ean let go of the zanthyr’s arm and frowned after him while Phaedor returned to the fire with Tanis close on his heels.
Rhys was back in camp when Tanis sat down. The captain grew grimfaced as he listened to Fynn explain what had happened, and he kept sending piercing looks into the shadows where Ean remained.
“But who was that?” Alyneri asked. She hugged her arms and sat perilously close to the fire. Tanis worried her pale hair might catch the flame.
“One of Björn’s minions, no doubt,” Fynn declared hotly. He was pacing back and forth, his emotions too riled to find stillness. “He’s been behind this from the beginning—from the moment he sent that Shade for Ean.”
“Björn van Gelderan?” Gwynnleth said, surprised. “Seth told me he’s returned to Alorin and is a grave threat. But what interest could he have in the prince?”
“Something about his talent,” Fynn said. “Ean hasn’t told me much, only that the Vestals believe Ean poses some threat to Björn and the bastard would see all challengers to his world domination removed.”
Phaedor eyed Fynn as he sat down near the royal cousin. “You seem to have everything well sorted,” he remarked coolly. “Having ascertained your enemy, all that remains to you is how then to defeat the most powerful wielder ever to walk the realm.”
“Yes, how,” Fynn said, glaring daggers at the creature. “You might simply tell us and save us the effort.”
“But where would be the fun in that?” returned the zanthyr, though Tanis saw that his eyes were hard and far from amused. It wasn’t Fynn that disturbed him, however; this Tanis knew. So what is it?
Gwynnleth eyed the zanthyr curiously; she also seemed keen to his mood. “You didn’t see the creature that hunted us the night before you arrived,” she said. “A dragon by any account.”
“There are reported to be Sundragons in the east,” Rhys offered. “Called by the Emir’s Mage. Duke val Whitney said the fighting has reached an impasse due to their presence.”
“The Emir’s Mage,” Fynn grumbled, frowning. “I forgot all about that guy.”
Bastian said then, “My Lord, I need not remin
d you that the Akkadian Emir was behind the deaths of two of His Majesty’s sons, thy royal cousins. Perhaps it is not without reason that we look to his quarter for an enemy as well. Might his mage have sent a dragon to seek out Prince Ean when earlier attempts upon his life had failed?”
“Who is this mage to command Sundragons anyway, by all that’s unholy,” Fynn complained. “All the stories claim the creatures were allied to Björn van Gelderan during the war.”
All eyes looked to the zanthyr then, as if for explanation.
His earlier ire seemed to have faded, for he reclined on one elbow and flipped his dagger with his other hand.
“Well?” demanded Fynn in annoyance.
The zanthyr looked up at him beneath his dark hair. “You’ve nary a need of my input,” he remarked. “This storm of fiction is fast creating its own weather. Soon the tumbling snow will become an avalanche quite out of control, burying any truth beyond reclaiming. Pray, continue. I find it a fascinating exercise in futility.”
Abruptly Alyneri stood and glared at him. “You are surely the most insufferable creature ever to walk the realm!” She stormed off, but Tanis could tell she was just afraid for Prince Ean.
“You seem to think this is all some kind of grand jest, my lord,” Bastian said to the zanthyr, uncharacteristically letting his own aggravation show, “but it’s our prince’s life—and our own—in the balance. If you know something that would help us, why keep it secret?”
“Because he’s working for the enemy!” Rhys barked ferociously.
“What was that power you worked back there anyway?” Fynn demanded. “What did you do so the man couldn’t see us? Nothing I’ve ever heard of!”
“Gift horses looked too closely in the mouth may bite,” Gwynnleth cautioned. She cast the zanthyr a troubled look, but Tanis couldn’t tell if she was worried about the accusations aimed at him or his potential response.
The zanthyr yawned and tossed his dagger, making it flip three times before catching it by the point.
It was then that Ean returned. He looked weary and immensely troubled, but his gaze was hard and it settled on Fynn. “We can slit our own throats just as easily by being too suspicious as by being too trusting, Fynn,” the prince cautioned quietly. “I am grateful to all of you for your care and consideration, but if you do care for me, you will cease this fractious talk.” The others stared at him, even Rhys holding his tongue, for the prince’s internal torment was all too apparent in his expression. “I would have some time to speak with the zanthyr alone.”
Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One Page 83
