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

by McPhail, Melissa

  “No,” Tanis admitted, “but that doesn’t mean it’s not the truth. You’ve never told me that you care about Prince Ean, but I know that you do.”

  Rhys gave him a sour look and grunted.

  After that, they darted across the street, slipping between a covered wagon with two red-cheeked girls peeking out the back and a violet coach pulled by a quad of matched greys. On the sidewalk again, they turned a corner around a jeweler and came in view of Her Grace’s chosen tailor at the far end of the lane. Tanis was relieved to see the shop; he might not have volunteered to go along with the captain if he’d known so much walking would be involved. Moreover, they’d long missed lunch, and his stomach was protesting mightily.

  As they side-stepped around a tinker mending a copper pot in the middle of the sidewalk while a mother-hen of a woman stood waiting impatiently above him, Tanis pointed out to Rhys, “You know, my lord, admitting that you care for someone doesn’t mean you’re admitting to weakness.”

  Rhys came to a dead halt and spun to glare at the boy. He looked half-furious and half-mortified. “Stay. Out. Of. My. Head,” he growled, emphasizing each word with a stone-hard finger jabbed in Tanis’s chest.

  “I’m not in your head,” the lad insisted, shrugging away.

  Rhys turned and strode off again. When Tanis caught up with him, he said, “But even if I was, that doesn’t make what I said any less true.”

  “You have an annoying habit of talking out of place, boy,” Rhys grumbled.

  “I can’t help what I know,” Tanis argued. “It’s not my fault if your feelings are obvious to me. And anyway,” he blustered on, “you shouldn’t be thinking that you’re not important to Prince Ean—”

  Rhys stiffened and looked like he was about to say something, but he hunched his shoulders and pushed on instead.

  “—because you are. You’ve got the most important job of any of us. Prince Ean may not always be able to depend on the zanthyr, but he knows he can always depend on you, my Lord Captain. The king gave you the honored position of guarding the life of his only remaining son. What could possibly be more important than that?”

  Rhys halted to yield way to a Krothian noblewoman, her ladies-in-waiting, and her stewards coming out of a shop. The veiled ladies had their heads together talking in whispers, while the two liveried young men looked haggard beneath their bundles of packages, hat boxes, and long bolts of silken cloth.

  “Fine,” Rhys muttered as the youths labored past.

  His acknowledgment caught Tanis off guard. “I beg pardon?”

  “I said fine,” Rhys repeated. “Perhaps all of your questions are doing you some good. You might show a bit of intelligence—sometimes.” He started off again.

  “Does that mean you don’t mind my asking questions, my lord?” Tanis inquired with a bright smile as he rushed to catch up.

  “I guess not,” Rhys reluctantly conceded. Then he added hastily, “As long as you don’t ask me.”

  Alyneri was seated at a little table in the back room of the tailor’s shop when Tanis and Rhys returned. Her Grace looked to have enjoyed a meal—the remains of which Tanis eyed wistfully—and was sipping on a cup of hot tea. “Ah, how good of you to return, my Lord Captain,” she observed as Rhys barged in, ever the bull in the china shop, “and so promptly at the stroke of midday as we discussed.”

  Tanis had noticed that sarcasm was generally wasted on Rhys.

  “Are you ready?” the captain barked.

  Alyneri sighed. “Yes, Captain.” She set down her teacup on its delicate saucer and stood with graceful precision, as if dining at the king’s table instead of the back corner of a dressmaker’s workroom. Nodding a farewell to the tailor’s wife, a mousy little woman who was mostly concealed behind the wire-framed torso she was laboring to attire in an organza gown, Her Grace handed a large rectangular package to the captain and preceded him from the store. As he followed, Tanis thought of showing Her Grace his new arm sheath, but he reconsidered at the last minute, guessing rightly that the information might not be so well received.

  As the unlikely trio of Healer, Truthreader and solider walked—with Alyneri in the lead lest Rhys set the pace and push them all into a sweat—Her Grace put a hand on the much taller captain’s arm and said, “If you don’t mind, my lord, I’d like to continue east to an apothecary which is said to boast a supply of black krinling oil from Dheanainn. It is all but impossible to find this particular oil in Dannym.”

  Rhys sighed and shrugged. Perhaps all the walking had gentled him toward her, or else he really was just too tired to argue about it.

  As they continued along Faring East, Tanis passed store upon store whose tall front windows displayed an array of eye-pleasing artifacts—fine hardwood tables and gilded chairs upholstered in velvet or striped satin, jewel-hilted daggers and gold-worked swords, a sea of stained-glass lamps hanging from elaborate chains, perfumed soaps and scented oils in colored glass bottles, fine lace linens and heavy down-filled quilts; countless stands displaying beads, statues, gems or bangles; vases and carpets from the Akkad; Agasi porcelain; ivory, jade and ebony artifacts from Avatar…the vista was endless.

  “Just how far is this place, Your Grace?” Rhys muttered as they were passing a store displaying leather goods of varying design.

  “I was just told it was on Faring East, my lord,” she answered.

  “And who told you this again?”

  “The alchemist of Z’hin—you remember…the store with all the bat wings?”

  “Oh,” he said, frowning. “Him.”

  “He said if I wanted black krinling oil, there was only one place to go for it, and that was the apothecary on Faring East.”

  “Faring East is a long road, Your Grace,” Rhys grumbled.

  Tanis didn’t begrudge the captain his complaint; he was the one carrying all of Her Grace’s packages.

  “At some point it becomes Faring North, so it can’t go on forever,” Alyneri reminded him sweetly.

  For some reason, the captain didn’t seem heartened by this news.

  They soon passed a prosperous inn called the Heart of the Lion, which was entered by way of two gold-wrought doors shaded by a luxuriant crimson awning trimmed in gold fringe. Just beyond the awning, a taverna opened upon the street by way of a wall of tall double doors—all of them thrown wide to let in the day—so that as Tanis walked by, he had a clear view of the inn’s guests as they refreshed themselves at little round tables draped in white linen or at the wide bar along the back wall. At present, the taverna sported a healthy congregation of patrons, all of whom looked as prosperous as the inn itself, if told from their lavish garments and the way the inn’s wait staff bent, bowed, blanched and bolted.

  Just beyond the taverna, they came upon the apothecary.

  Alyneri stopped before a simple wooden door set with a stained glass window in the image of a gryphon. The orifice looked rough and provincial next to the Heart of the Lion’s ornate, gilded entrance. Her Grace straightened the bodice of her gown, though it needed no tending on her trim figure, then nodded to Rhys to open the door, which he did.

  Tanis was quick to ask her before she entered, “Your Grace, may I wait outside?”

  Alyneri looked surprised, but she replied, “I suppose, Tanis, but mind you don’t wander off.” She turned and went in, and Rhys followed, not quite slamming the door behind them.

  Tanis slipped back to the inn and sat down in an unobtrusive chair at the outermost table of the café, which was growing more crowded by the minute. It seemed a large wedding party had just arrived, for the flower-strewn bride was still perched on one shoulder of her groom in the Bemothi style while he labored to find a place to sit and the rest of the boisterous guests converged on two hapless waiters. At a table closer to Tanis, a sallow-complexioned Veneisean lord dressed in garish violet-red satin was courting a rather corpulent lady in a mustard yellow tulle gown, the torrid color clashing violently with the man’s attire. Just looking at the pair of them
made Tanis’s eyes hurt.

  As he was rubbing them, a serving girl broke through the crowd of wedding guests and rushed up to Tanis with her tray held high. She set down a glass mug filled with a pale amber liquid in which floated a drowned looking mint leaf and rushed off again without a word. Tanis leaned over and sniffed the drink. Unsurprisingly, it smelled of mint.

  As Tanis was sitting back again, his eye caught on a man on the far side of the café. His long black hair was slicked back from a noble’s peak, and his almond-shaped eyes tilted slightly up at the corners. He wore a jacket of amber velvet with thread-of-gold cloth pulled through the slashed sleeves, the collar open to reveal a crimson silk shirt beneath.

  Tanis couldn’t say why the man captured his eye, only that there was something about him, something…fascinating. He had a dangerous sort of look to him though, a certain feral quality, as if he would as easily gut you as offer to buy you a drink. Like the wedding guests, the stranger had that amber-eyed, caramel-colored skin of a Bemothi, and yet Tanis felt sure the man was from somewhere far more remote. There was something vaguely familiar about him, too, although Tanis was hard-pressed to say what it was.

  As if feeling the lad’s gaze upon him, the man turned his head and looked directly at Tanis. Two odd sets of eyes regarded one another then; one pair colorless, the other strangely golden—yea, even from that distance, Tanis could see the way the man’s irises danced around a black pupil. Tanis resisted the urge to flinch, though his pulse quickened at once.

  Beware! instinct shouted—no, it screamed.

  Immediately on the heels of this warning sense, Tanis felt a sharp, stabbing pain behind his eyes, and suddenly terrible visions flashed to mind: images of mangled flesh and torture and rivers of blood—so much blood! Tanis saw the stranger drawing the razor edge of a blade through the flesh of his victim’s back, blood pouring from the wounds, drenching bare fingers that steamed as they touched…

  Tanis tore his eyes away from the man and stared at the table top while his heart raced and his eyed burned with threatened tears. He trembled as strongly as if he stood naked in the wind-ravaged northern wastes. That fiery gaze and the images behind it had unnerved him immeasurably, and he felt a dry-throated panic and a sudden sense of being trapped. Both sensations urged him to stand and flee, yet Tanis was scared to try lest he discover that he somehow couldn’t move.

  Abruptly, the serving girl appeared in front of him, blocking all view of the stranger. Tanis looked up at her with such a surge of relief that he might have kissed her had he not been so afraid his knees would buckle if he tried to stand.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed when their eyes met. She darted a guilty look around the café, as if expecting to see the city guard coming after her. “Are you…” she whispered, leaning closer to him, “are you here to question me, milord?”

  “Uh, no,” he replied, barely croaking out the words from a throat as suddenly parched as the desert sands. “No, I’m…” he worked a little moisture back into his mouth. “I’m just waiting on my lady, if it’s all right. She’s next door,” and he thumbed over his shoulder toward the apothecary’s shop, glad to note that his hand, at least, wasn’t shaking.

  “Oh,” said the girl, looking relieved. Then she frowned. “Is the tea not to your liking, milord? May I bring you something else?”

  Tanis had forgotten about the drink. He cast it a mistrustful look. “It’s tea, is it? Cold tea?”

  “To cleanse your palate,” she offered helpfully.

  Tanis blinked at her. “My what?”

  She seemed to see him then as if for the first time. A young lad in a tailored blue-grey tunic detailed in silver thread, the fine garments of a nobleman’s son, with shoulders too broad for his slender frame, sandy hair falling across a slightly pointed nose, and colorless eyes like the deep waters of a clear running stream. “Oh,” she said for a third time, “you’re just a youngling, aren’t you?” Smiling then, she reached out and cupped his cheek. Tanis thought she had a pretty smile, even if her front teeth were crooked. “Cider then,” she decided. “We’ve some just up this morning—not too long in the barrel, if you get my drift,” and she winked as she left, taking the untouched tea away with her.

  Cold tea, Tanis marveled. He wondered if Her Grace had ever heard of such a thing.

  That’s when he noticed the stranger stand up in a swirl of amber cloak and leave the tavern without so much as a glance his way. Still feeling jittery, Tanis followed the man with his eyes, frowning. After such a terrible shock as the stranger had leveled him, Tanis thought he would’ve cast him a parting glance at least, but the man seemed to have forgotten Tanis entirely. The lad pondered this with furrowed brow. Could it be that the stranger hadn’t intentionally caused the interchange of gruesome images? If so, the man didn’t know that Tanis was aware of his crimes…

  The strangest feeling beset the lad upon this realization. He felt compelled to know what dark business this stranger was about; he felt it was somehow his duty, as if he owed it to the Vestals, to Prince Ean, and to Phaedor…as if stopping the man from committing more crimes was entirely his responsibility now.

  Moving so slowly and deliberately that he might’ve been entranced, Tanis stood and followed the stranger out onto the street.

  ***

  Alyneri started as Rhys slammed the apothecary door, and she spun her head with an accusatory glare.

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  The front room of the shop was lined with shelves sporting a myriad of jars, some containing herbs and other hosting samples of a less appealing character, but even with Rhys’ bold announcement of their arrival, no one came to greet them.

  After waiting for longer than seemed appropriate, Alyneri offered, “I’ll just go and see if someone’s in the back. I shouldn’t be but a moment.”

  Rhys grunted something unintelligible and found a chair, though the tiny thing was much too small for his bulk; he looked not unlike a bear attempting to sit upon a child’s seat.

  Alyneri headed through a partition and into the next room. It was also empty of a living soul, though some of the specimens that eyed her through their large glass jars seemed entirely too lifelike for comfort. “Hello?” she called, looking around. That’s when she noticed that a heavy door inset with bubbled glass was ajar. She pushed her head through the parting and called down the long hallway, “Is anyone here?”

  She thought she heard voices from a room at the far end, so she slipped through the opening and followed the sound, not noticing that the heavy door slid closed behind her. Sounds of clinking china and feminine voices became clear as she reached the end of the hall. Rounding the arched opening, Alyneri drew in her breath sharply.

  Two sets of eyes lifted to behold her, one unknown, and one entirely unwelcome.

  “Why Alyneri,” said Sandrine du Préc, “what an unexpected surprise!” She stood from the table where she was having tea and came around to embrace the duchess. Alyneri smelled the woman’s familiar fragrance as she returned her embrace—albeit uneasily—and the scent brought an uncomfortable fluttering to her stomach.

  Pulling away, Sandrine took Alyneri’s hand and turned to the dark-eyed woman sitting at the table. “Maegrid, may I present the Lady Alyneri d’Giverny, Duchess of Aracine.”

  Maegrid nodded her head respectfully with lowered eyes. “An honor, Your Grace. Please, won’t you join us?”

  “Truly, you have impeccable timing,” Sandrine said as she released Alyneri’s hand and returned to the table. “Maegrid was just about to pour the tea.”

  Maegrid set out another cup and saucer for her, and Alyneri realized the matter had already been decided. “You are the apothecary?” she asked politely as she sat down, though her heart was racing and she felt a sense of wrongness about the entire scene. What was Sandrine doing here?

  The woman nodded with downcast eyes, her attention upon the dark tea flowing out of the pot.

  “The duchess is here on pilgrimage,” Sandrine
noted to Maegrid. She looked to Alyneri and told her, “I paid visit to the temple yesterday, myself. To stand within Alshiba’s compassionate hands…there is absolution in it, I vow.”

  “I have not yet visited the temple,” Alyneri murmured.

  “Mayhap we should go together,” Sandrine suggested with a smile. “I am eager to return.”

  Alyneri met her gaze and suppressed a shudder. The way Sandrine looked at her…it was as though the woman saw her as a thing to possess, and her smiles were always reptilian.

  With downcast eyes, Maegrid handed Alyneri her tea, and she sipped it politely. It was redolent with anise, cinnamon and clove and sweetened with licorice root. Alyneri drank more deeply of it and set down the cup in its saucer to find Sandrine watching her hungrily.

  She felt her heart flutter. “I confess my—my surprise, Sandrine,” Alyneri managed. “Such a…coincidence.”

  “Coincidence, or providence,” Sandrine replied with that coldly calculating smile. “Have you not come for black krinling oil?”

  Alyneri took another drink from her tea to hide her dismay. As she set down the cup, she noticed her hand was trembling. “How did you know that?” she managed.

  “Any Healer worth her craft has a stock of black krinling oil, and Maegrid has the only supply in all of Rethynnea.”

  Alyneri gazed fretfully at her and wondered what she wasn’t saying. “I think, perhaps, I should be going,” she said as she stood. Abruptly the room spun, and the next thing she knew she was lying on the floor.

  Sandrine’s face hovered above hers. She pulled back Alyneri’s eyelids and gazed into each eye. “Good,” she pronounced, looking up at someone out of Alyneri’s view. “Take her.”

  Hands lifted Alyneri from the floor. “You…what…?” she managed, but her heart felt weak and her breath wouldn’t come. She realized only then that she hadn’t seen either woman drinking of the tea.

  They carried her outside into an alley, her faceless kidnappers, and laid her on the seat inside a carriage. Alyneri managed to drape a clammy, trembling hand across her forehead but knew that sitting up would be out of the question.