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

by McPhail, Melissa

  “My mother claims she saw him once in the market, and my cousin says he thought he saw him in the service of a count, but these are only stories.”

  Fynn’s heart was racing. “Well, I hope he may turn up one day.” He looked to his empty goblet. “Excuse me, Livinia,” he murmured. “I fear the wine has gone to my head.”

  “Perhaps some air, my lord,” she advised sagely, nodding toward two glass-paned doors leading to a balcony.

  Fynn stood and bowed politely. “As always, your company is a pleasure.”

  “Likewise.”

  “Friends and fellows, Livinia.”

  “Friends and fellows,” she murmured. She returned to her book and the royal cousin took his leave.

  Outside on the balcony, Fynn gripped the railing and took several deep, measured breaths. The practice was supposed to be calming, but all it seemed to accomplish was to make his head spin faster. The things she’d told him…it was almost impossible to believe, but Livinia had assured him that her source was beyond question.

  By Cephrael’s Great Book!

  Fynn wiped a hand across his sweaty brow and gaped into the night. Trell is alive!

  ***

  Alyneri gave up on sleep shortly after Ean left her room. She’d tried lying in bed for a while, but it was too lonesome and depressing, so she got up again, donned her robe, and headed out onto her patio. Her rooms overlooked the gardens, and she imagined she could hear the waves breaking along the coastline, though it was quite impossible from such a distance.

  Still, it was pleasant sitting outside in the night listening to the creatures that thrived while humanity slept. Nights in the north were always cold, even in the heat of summer, and by now Calgaryn would be buried under a foot of snow. How amazing it was to sit outside in the deep of the night and enjoy the air, so soft upon her skin. The sound of the crickets was lulling, and she was almost ready to drift off again when the thump of something landing on her patio jarred her to wakefullness.

  She stiffened in her chair and spun, but she relaxed when she saw it was only Phaedor. “Shadow take me,” she exclaimed with a nervous little laugh. “It’s you.”

  But the zanthyr advanced toward her with formidable intent, and his black gaze did not lighten. Instead, he swooped in and swept her up into his arms. She let out a squeal as he cradled her body against his chest and ran, but the squal became a scream when he leapt for her balcony railing, caught it with one booted foot and launched the both of them over the side.

  Alyneri squeezed her eyes shut against the dizzying rush of wind as they fell three stories to the earth, certain the zanthyr had lost his mind, that they would be crushed to death at any moment. Yet he landed with barely a jerk, already running.

  That’s when she understood.

  “No! Oh, no!” A sick feeling clenched in her stomach. “What’s happened? Where is he?” She clung to the zanthyr’s neck as if clinging to hope. Tears filled her eyes and spilled away with his bounding steps.

  The zanthyr carried her as if upon the wind, trees flying past faster than the eye could follow, the rhythm of his running feet a barely discernable thumping in the night. Only moments later they emerged onto a broad lawn. She saw a dark form half-submerged in a raw trench in the earth, and her heart leapt to her throat.

  In one motion the zanthyr set her down and threw himself to his knees beside the prince. For a moment, Alyneri stood back in shock. To see Ean thusly, his eyes dead and staring…she felt faint…

  Phaedor grabbed her roughly by the elbow. “He lives. He lives,” he said again, shaking her somewhat ungently, “but not for long without our help. Pull yourself together!”

  Alyneri managed a weak nod.

  The zanthyr returned his attention to Ean and laid hands on his head. When Alyneri made to do the same, Phaedor hissed, “Don’t! Not yet!”

  She pulled her hands back quickly, but not before she’d felt the chill rising off of Ean’s flesh. It was the most horrible thing she’d ever experienced. While the zanthyr worked his craft, Alyneri covered her face with her hands and tried to stop shaking. She didn’t need rapport with Ean to know his body was broken. To have seen him lying with his limbs at such wrong angles…his flesh misshapen and black with bruising… She drew in a shuddering gasp and stifled a sob, trying to find the courage to face what was to come.

  The zanthyr remained still as stone for longer than Alyneri liked to recall, every single moment of waiting spent taut with fear. Finally, Phaedor said, “Now.”

  Alyneri lifted her face out of her hands and pressed palms to her eyes. Taking her bottom lip between her teeth, she nodded.

  It took immense bravery and every ounce of discipline she could muster for her to lay her hands upon Ean’s broken body knowing what she would face. She wasn’t wrong in her expectations.

  “Epiphany, no—!” Alyneri stifled a shuddering sob. Nearly every bone in Ean’s body was broken—his pattern was so frayed there wasn’t enough of it left to weave back together. To save him, it would have to be recreated in its entirety. Feeling anguish welling in concert with despair, Alyneri looked in desperation to the zanthyr.

  “It can be done,” he assured her in his resonant voice. “It must be done.”

  She drew in a shuddering breath. “But I don’t know it! I cannot repair so many threads of an unknown pattern. If just a little more had remained—”

  “I know it,” the zanthyr said, his voice a calm presence amidst her raging storm of fear. “I will guide you.” He placed a strong hand over hers and captured her gaze, lending her strength. “You and I will weave him back together again.”

  Alyneri bit her lip. Her breath came in shuddering sobs, but the zanthyr’s gaze was unwavering. It would be done, she realized, and the thought lent her strength to face the task ahead. If the zanthyr willed it so, no force within the realm could prevent it.

  So did they begin.

  Alyneri gathered what strands of Ean’s pattern she could find and began smoothing the ends, and the zanthyr guided her in their re-weaving. His presence in rapport was a powerful force, a brilliant star shining too brightly to look directly upon. It occurred to her at some point as they worked together that the zanthyr was darkness and mystery without, but within, his aura shone with divine purity…a power so potent…like the very spark of the cosmos itself.

  I have drawn out of Ean the power that sought to leech his life, the zanthyr told her at one point much later in their working, their minds so closely connected in rapport that she wasn’t sure if he’d said the words aloud or simply placed the thought into her head. But we must work quickly now, for it has drained him to a single ember.

  Alyneri had known that much just from looking at Ean’s pattern—what parts of it had remained, that is; what was usually so bright and shining had become as dull as ash. But the strands she and the zanthyr had rewoven were golden threads linking to those burned and frayed remains, and ever so slowly their brilliance was overtaking the ashen roots. Heartened, Alyneri worked tirelessly, always aware of the zanthyr’s near presence, always grateful to know he was there.

  Dawn came, and daylight drew the others. Fynn, Tanis, Rhys, Dorin, Bastian, Cayal, Raine and Seth…they all came with expressions of shock and dismay, outrage and regret, but neither Alyneri nor the zanthyr made accommodation for them, nor stopped in their administrations to explain the tragedy that had occurred during the night.

  The sun grew higher, warming the day, and people came and went. Guards rushed to and fro, servants spoke in whispers; food was brought and went uneaten, until finally all had come, some lingering to provide quiet comfort or support unclaimed, and taken their leave once more.

  Only Tanis stayed the course, sitting at Alyneri’s side with dutiful patience, saying nothing, asking for no attention, merely a quiet, calming presence. Finally, when the sun shone low in the clear blue heavens and their shadows fell long upon the grass, Alyneri inhaled with a shudder, released Ean’s head as she withdrew from rapport, and tippe
d over into Tanis’s lap.

  The others rushed forward from the fringes then, their faces drawn, red-rimmed eyes pinned expectantly on the zanthyr. With the utmost care, he lifted Ean from the wreckage of the yard and cradled the prince’s limp form against his chest. “What can be done has been done,” he told them, offering no more hope than the truth. Then he turned and carried the prince to the villa.

  Rhys lifted Alyneri into his arms and followed after the zanthyr. She fell asleep along the way, but she woke again as someone was putting her into her bed. She managed to open her eyes just enough to see Tanis helping her under the covers. “Your Grace…” the boy murmured miserably, but she was too tired for explanations…

  When she woke again, the zanthyr was standing at her bedside. Night had fallen, and a meal sat untouched on her table. She thought to push up but was too weak even to lift her arm. Phaedor placed a cool hand across her forehead, and she wondered in her deliria of exhaustion how his hands always managed to be just the right temperature. “Ean…” she whispered.

  “Improves.”

  She inhaled a whimpered cry, for the ache she felt was a palpable thing.

  “Sleep, Your Grace,” the zanthyr admonished gently. His hand brushed across her eyes, and she slid back into darkness…

  The third time she woke, it was to again find the zanthyr standing over her. She gazed up at him for a long time, feeling an admiration so deep it was nearly overpowering. “You’re Healing me, aren’t you?” she whispered, looking up at him. “Renewing my strength while I’ve been sleeping?”

  “I am no Healer,” he said with a shadowy smile.

  “I beg to differ. Help me sit up?” With great care, he helped her into a seated posture, whereupon she noted her table again set with a meal. “Lunch?”

  “Breakfast. Are you hungry?”

  “Famished.” She held out her hand to him, and he helped her to the table. She still felt weak but stronger than she might’ve imagined after what they’d done.

  What they’d done was the impossible.

  She was still reeling from the shock of Ean’s near death and the success of his revival as part of the same endless moment, loss and relief inextricably but confusingly entwined. Sitting carefully, for she felt immensely dizzy if she moved her head too quickly, Alyneri took up a piece of toast and managed to chew it, though just holding the bread exhausted her.

  We rebuilt him from the smallest ember of his soul!

  No one would believe such a thing could be done, but now that Alyneri knew it was possible, she promised never to let a man die if even a single strand of his pattern could be found.

  The zanthyr sat with her in silence while she ate. She was acutely aware of his presence but in a way that made her heart jump happily every so often. Phaedor had claimed an inexplicable part of her heart as they’d worked so tirelessly to save Ean, and she found herself thinking of him wistfully that morning, wishing he would linger much longer than the shared time of a single meal. It was more than a bond of duty they shared now, more than concern for the same man; during those long hours of rapport, Alyneri saw something in the zanthyr that few had ever been allowed to witness, and she felt bonded to him now in a way that quite confused her.

  When she’d eaten all she could, she lifted her gaze to meet his. He’d been watching her steadily all the while, his face so perfect in its construction, his eyes disconcertingly compelling. She found herself blushing beneath his stare, but she didn’t care that he saw her blush. He’d seen her naked soul, and she’d seen his. “I know what you are,” she observed after a moment.

  He broke into a crooked half-smile, his eyes glittering with amusement. “Indeed, Your Grace?”

  She held his gaze. “Yes. You’re a mirror.”

  He arched a brow, intrigued. “Do explain.”

  “All of your charades…your banter and impudence, it’s all in mimic of others. You mirror back to people the same emotions they radiate toward you—mistrust, contempt, ill regard…tempered of course by your own disposition, but mirrored all the same.”

  “A fascinating observation,” the zanthyr noted, and she was relieved to realize there was no sarcasm in his tone, only interest. “Yet if this assessment be true, then must needs I have no identity of my own? Who am I then, really, if I am but a mirror?”

  “You’re not only a mirror,” she corrected. “Just a mirror to those who…who need you to be.”

  “You haven’t answered the question,” he noted.

  She lifted her gaze and forced herself to consider him then—not that looking upon his face was the least bit objectionable, but holding his gaze for any amount of time was as difficult as staring into the sun. She remembered the brilliant light that was his aura as they worked through the night to save Ean, and she braved, “Who are you really? I must submit that your nature is closest to Tanis’s own.”

  Phaedor really arched brows then.

  Seeing not the man before her now so much as the image of him as they’d shared rapport, Alyneri continued thoughtfully, “There is compassion in you that isn’t quantifiable in words.” Then she chided with a gentle smile, “Don’t bother trying to deny it, Phaedor, for I have seen your truest aura with my own soul’s eye.”

  Phaedor cast her an enigmatic look. He stood and helped her to rise also, taking her hand in his. “And what will you do with this information, now that you have so decided?”

  “I suppose…I suppose I shall love you for it,” she admitted suddenly, surprised by her own brave candor. “What else can I do?” She gave him a tragic smile as they walked toward her bed. “I am doomed to love men who do not love me.”

  At this the zanthyr paused and took her chin in hand to lift her eyes to his. “The man to whom you have given your troth will love you more deeply, more completely, than you will ever comprehend.”

  Gooseflesh sprouted on Alyneri’s arms. She knew prophecy when she heard it.

  Suddenly tears flooded her eyes. Before she could think what she was about, she stood on tiptoes and planted a kiss on the zanthyr’s mouth. It was meant as a token of her gratitude, yet the moment her lips touched his, a current thrilled through her. She felt electrified and heady, and her knees went weak. She was grateful for his strong hand upon her elbow.

  “Perhaps a little more rest, Your Grace,” the zanthyr suggested as she shakily withdrew. He gazed down at her with a shadowy smile.

  Alyneri didn’t trust herself to speak. She nodded.

  Phaedor helped her back to her bed, and Alyneri climbed beneath the covers still tingling from head to toe. He left her then, but it was a long time before she stopped remembering the feel of his kiss and drifted back into slumber.

  Fifty-four

  ‘The angiel and their earthly brethren are inextricably tied to the realm; thus is their gravest mission to ensure its posterity.’

  – Sobra I’ternin, Eleventh Translation, 1499aF, Genesis, Book 2, Verse 5

  Tanis thought Faring East was possibly the most crowded street he’d ever seen. Carriages, wagons, carts, and coaches packed the wide boulevard, which was divided down the middle by islands of orange trees groomed into perfect spheres, while men and women of every race and even more varied attire maneuvered the shell-paved streets.

  Prince Ean had made no change in the five days he’d been unconscious, and everyone was out of their heads with worry for him. To make matters worse, Fynn and Brody had gone missing the day after His Highness was attacked, but the Fourth Vestal assured him that the royal cousin was merely looking into something and would return soon.

  The others seemed to occupy themselves well enough, but Her Grace couldn’t take it—she couldn’t handle watching the prince lying there with the shadow of death upon him, barely breathing, his face pale and drawn and his eyes bruised. She knew, and so Tanis knew, that the bruises were everywhere on his body, and the constant reminder of what had been done to him made her physically ill. So she’d asked the captain that morning if he would accompany her i
nto town, and Rhys, having also had enough of staring impotently at his dying prince, had agreed.

  Thus the three of them headed off to the Market District to do some shopping, an activity which Her Grace had always declared to be ‘soup for the feminine soul.’ Of course, in contrast to other ladies of the peerage, Her Grace’s shopping list called for such items as brushroot, kingsfoil, and that most rare of commodities, black krinling oil; and her list of places to visit included apothecaries, gypsy Healers, and alchemists.

  As Rhys, Alyneri and Tanis walked the Thoroughfare—called Faring East, Faring North, or Faring West by the locals, depending on what stretch of the five-mile boulevard one was traveling—Tanis saw representatives of every imaginable race: golden skinned Bemothi in their colorful, flowing silks, women and men both with long, ebony hair gathered into jewel-studded combs or held at the nape of their necks with metal bands; Khurds in turbans and loose desert robes, scarves across their faces so only their deep, dark eyes could be seen; and pale and powdered Veneisean high-born dressed in elaborate lace and embroidered satin, the men wearing ornate half-capes and carrying silver-worked canes, the women tittering beneath scallop-edged parasols trimmed in long, beaded fringe.

  There were others too, of a darker variety: Xanthian Foresters dressed in hunting garb, with arm-guards for archery sewn into their paneled suede jackets, longbows slung over their shoulders. Jamaiian sailors walked along with their jaunty swagger, long hair tossing on the sea breeze, ears and noses full of silver hoops, some of them dangling charms or jewels; and of course there were plenty of sellswords, too. Tanis may have only been fourteen, but he could spot their type, and whenever he turned his Truthreader perception their way, a feather-light brush with their mind, he came away again feeling…oily.

  But all the joy of encountering these myriad peoples was lost when they reached the Piazza de la Mer. Across the wide paved plaza on the far side of its central fountain, a large group of people were mingling in front of a stone wall, and Her Grace walked closer to investigate.