“Gannon,” a bluish haze wreathed Carian’s head in the damp air, “haven’t you yet resigned yourself to the incorrigibility of Fynn’s disposition?”
“You’re one to talk, vran Lea.” Fynn gave him a sour look. “Besides, my father always told me to embrace my faults, that they could become my strengths. I’m only seeking to apply dear daddy’s immense wisdom towards the bettering of my life.”
“I doubt Prince Ryan had this particular fault in mind,” Gannon grumbled.
Fynn cast him a black stare. “I assure you, my father knew well of my faults.” He stared sootily into his wine. “He found time in his busy schedule to remind me of all of them, each and every day.”
“Gannon…” Another face emerged from the haze of Franco’s unwelcome past as the Whisper Lord Ledio Jerouen stuck his ebony-skinned head into the tent from a near opening. “The brethren are assembling.”
“Ah, good.” Gannon turned his implacable, colorless gaze on Franco. “Come, Your Excellency. Our strand brothers await your address.” His tone dripped with equal parts irony and implication. Franco misliked the measures of both.
As the group was heading off—the whole crew not so subtly encircling Franco, so he wasn’t given much choice about going with them—a tall shadow leaning against a tent pole snared Franco’s attention. Upon first glance, he mistook the raven-haired man dressed all in black to be the First Lord’s zanthyr, but he quickly saw better of his mistake.
The man was of the same immortal race, but this zanthyr stood with muscled arms crossed and a smug sort of smirk on his face, as if thumbing his nose at Mother Nature and everyone else for the fact of his form coming so much closer to perfection than theirs. Something in his manner raised Franco’s hackles immediately.
Gannon noted the line of Franco’s gaze and grunted. “The zanthyr Leyd. He intentionally radiates dishonesty to conceal his vicious under-layer.”
Franco looked back to Gannon. “Why is he here?”
“A very good question.”
Taking note of their attention, Leyd pushed off the pole and met them at the tent opening; yet to Franco, the meeting more held the quality of a clutch of thieves suddenly descending to block their path.
“Evening, gentles.” Leyd shoved thumbs in his sword belt and abraded them with a sharp grin.
“Leyd,” Gannon remarked by way of a less than amiable hello. Of any of them, he claimed the best position to challenge the zanthyr; they were at least of similar builds. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, just helping Vaile’s little pussycat bring some ‘food for the troops.’” Leyd looked Gannon over, still with that patronizing smile. Then he flicked his gaze across the rest of them. “Where’s the party?”
“At the far end of my patience.” Gannon’s gaze was firm. “State your business or stand aside, Leyd.”
Leyd chuckled. “Always so bristly, Papa Bear. You think you’re a match for me?”
Gannon’s eyes tightened. “I think you’re unwelcome here.”
Leyd rocked idly on his heels, thumbs jammed in his sword belt, and cast his gaze around the pavilion. “The sa’reyths are open to all outcasts, whether or not they’re one of your preferred flavors, truthreader.”
“This isn’t a sa’reyth,” Devangshu dared comment.
Leyd cast him a dismissive sneer. “It’s a stone’s toss close enough that one could be mistaken for the other.”
What was it Franco sensed in this statement? Something hinted? Something implied? It was hard to discern the truth beneath Leyd’s insincere smile. “And yet they are not the same,” Franco pinned his gaze on the zanthyr, “just as any two zanthyrs might be mistaken for one another, yet maintain widely disparate loyalties.”
Leyd’s green eyes shifted to Franco and took his measure in a glance. His smile remained condescending, but Franco felt sure the zanthyr had taken the meaning of his comment, as surely as Leyd had meant something by his.
He rocked on his heels again. “You’d be Franco Rohre, then.” Leyd’s eyes flicked to the glowing sphere dominating the room. “Is that your weldmap?”
Devangshu’s expression darkened. “No matter whose map it is, it’s no business of yours—”
The zanthyr speared him with a stare so sudden, his entire form instantly radiating such ferocity, that the hairs on the back of Franco’s neck stood straight up in alarm.
“My business,” Leyd growled, descending on Devangshu, “is whatever I decide it is.”
“Well, that’s all done!” Alyneri came striding up, brushing her hands against her skirts. “Good evening to you all, gentlemen.” She nodded to the men and patted the zanthyr on the arm as she passed. “Time to go, Leyd. Vaile’s waiting.”
Leyd cast an oily smile across the lot of them, making Franco feel dirty simply by observing it. Then he nodded to Gannon amusedly, remarked, “Another day, Papa Bear,” and followed Alyneri out of the tent.
Carian exhaled a cloud of smoke. “What by Tethys’ tits was that about?”
The entire experience had left Franco feeling unnerved. He looked to Carian. “Nothing good.”
Gannon grunted. “Malice clings like mold to that creature’s core.” He glanced over the rest of them. “Let’s be off. We’ll be late now as it is.”
One turn of the hourglass later, Franco stood in a back alley in Dheanainn frowning at an iron-bound door while Devangshu tried again to properly activate the trace seal binding it.
“By the Dísir,” Gannon growled, “why’d you make it so bloody complicated?”
Devangshu paused his hand mid-script to turn a hard look at the truthreader. “The waves of your irritation are disrupting the pattern—never mind my concentration.”
Gannon grumblingly took a few steps back and spread his arms to encourage the others to do the same. “Give him some room, gents.”
Leaning a shoulder against the wall across the alley, Carian elbowed Franco in the ribs. “Ready, Admiral?”
Franco glared at him. “For what am I meant to be ready?” Aggravation would’ve threaded his tone even if the pirate’s bony elbow hadn’t caught him so near to where Demetrio Consuevé’s sword had left its mark.
Franco’s attempts to get any of them to explain what they were doing in the seediest part of Dheanainn at the greediest hour of the night had only resulted in an exchange of knowing glances and private smirks.
Carian clapped a companionable hand on Franco’s shoulder. “It’s time to pay the piper, Admiral.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
The Whisper Lord Ledio Jerouen came striding around a corner from behind them. “All are assembled.” He nodded to Devangshu. “You can tell him now.”
Franco clenched his jaw. “Tell me what?”
“We’ve just called a few of the brethren who’d like to hear your perspective on this Niko fiasco, Franco,” Devangshu replied soothingly, as if anything short of making a swift about-face back to the sa’reyth was likely to assuage Franco’s edginess.
Ledio meanwhile extended his hand to Franco and nodded a welcome.
Franco clasped wrists with him, but he couldn’t stop himself from frowning as he met Ledio’s gaze. It had been years since he’d crossed paths with the Whisper Lord, decades since they’d had any conversation. He couldn’t help recalling Ledio from their earlier days—misguided years, when all of them had been blighted by an inadequacy of conscience. Now Franco suffered an overabundance of it.
“It’s been a long time, Ledio.”
Ledio’s lips twitched with a smile. “I can tell by your hesitation that you remember our last conversation.”
“You made it hard to forget.”
Ledio held Franco’s hand as firmly as he held his gaze. “Do you ever wonder where we’d be if that fight had ended differently?”
Franco exhaled a slow breath. “Often.”
Ledio grinned and released his hand. “I do as well.”
Franco frowned at the Whisper Lord. “I can’t help w
ondering why you’re involving yourself with all of this. It isn’t really your fight.”
Ledio’s eyes were deeply hooded, but Franco saw strength in his golden gaze, and a certain resolve that all of them bore…that is, those of the Companions who had accepted their Callings. “When once I might’ve acted, I cowered, Franco, but never again.”
Franco considered him with a furrowed brow. He didn’t know what Ledio’s Calling had been, but he did know that every one of the Fifty Companions who had refused the First Lord’s summons had succumbed to a Whisper Lord’s daggered gloves.
Franco cast a pained look at the door where Devangshu was still laboring to work the trace-seal, dreading the moment he finally succeeded. He had no idea why any Nodefinders would’ve come to listen to him, no idea what he was supposed to say to them. He turned to Carian. “What are the strand brothers expecting to hear from me?”
“Just the usual reassurances, Admiral.” The pirate settled Franco a particularly untrustworthy smirk.
“Ah ha!” Devangshu turned a triumphant look to Gannon and pressed the latch. The heavy door swung inward to darkness.
Gannon led the group into a large, shadowed space. Far ahead, a vertical strip of light demarked a parting of drapes, likewise indicated by the general chatter of muffled voices floating to them from an adjoining hall.
Devangshu stopped before the drapes and pulled a voluminous tome out of nowhere—or rather, very likely from his stanza segreta, known colloquially as a coach, a portable leis that any Nodefinder worth his salt set up the moment he mastered the skills to do so. Then he shoved through the parting, and the murmuring from beyond quieted.
Carian grinned and nudged Franco. “After you, Admiral.”
Scratching his head bemusedly, Franco followed Devangshu through the curtains—
—and onto the stage of a dimly lit theater. A large theater. And a sea of faces staring at him.
Franco felt a fluttery apprehension blossom inside. He’d been expecting a score of Nodefinders; instead he was gazing upon hundreds. Some nearer faces he even recognized as ringed Espials like himself, men who could travel freely beneath Niko’s restrictions.
Carian and the others filed in behind Franco as Devangshu was saying to the assembly, “…friends, this is our salvation.” He held up the massive book with both hands for everyone to see.
Franco’s eyes widened. He hissed to Carian, “Tell me that’s not what I think it is!”
“The Vestal Codex,” Carian smirked, at the same time that Devangshu announced it to the audience and received roaring applause.
‘…Someone stole the Vestal Codex from the Espial’s Guild in Rethynnea—probably members of this purported rebellion…’
Franco exhaled a dramatic sigh of disapproval. “Don’t tell me, you stole the Vestals’ sacred manifesto from Rethynnea’s Guild?”
Carian shrugged unrepentantly. “D’varre wasn’t using it.”
Devangshu meanwhile had opened the book to a page he had marked and was saying to the assembly, “…Codex states that the Council of Realms has to ratify Niko van Amstel’s appointment to make it official, but—” and he looked up under his brows at the audience, “they can only legally do that if they either have proof that the Great Master is dead, impeached, or has personally abdicated.”
“Vestal appointments are for life,” Gannon murmured, as if that wasn’t readily apparent.
Devangshu closed the massive book and cradled it close to his chest. “Now, we have proof that the Second Vestal lives.”
Another roar of cheering applause erupted.
“Bloody right he does!” Carian hitched up his britches indignantly.
Franco turned him a severe look. What was the man doing? And what sort of proof was Devangshu talking about? He turned back to him feeling unbalanced.
The Bemothi held up a hand for silence, and slowly the crowd settled. “Now, I’m pleased to be able to tell you, brothers, that two among the rebellion’s leadership,” and he extended his hand towards Franco and Carian, “have been to T’khendar. They’ve seen and spoken to the Great Master personally! They could attest to this under a Telling.”
While the audience murmured with surprise, Franco swung a glare at Carian and hissed, “You told them this?”
“And why shouldn’t I?” The pirate jutted out his chin unrepentantly. “We ain’t truthbound on it.” Franco was inhaling to snap a reply about prudence and common sense, but Carian cut him off with a hand gripped around his arm and a low caution, “Think about it, Admiral: of all the thousand things the First Lord has bound us to silence about—and he’s been thorough, Raine’s bloody truth—there’re just as many things he hasn’t bound us on.”
Franco stared at him.
“If the First Lord didn’t want us spreading these truths around, he’d have bound us. You have to see the logic in that.”
The awful fact of it was, Franco did. He only wondered why he hadn’t made that connection himself.
“We’ve lived with some secrets too long,” Gannon remarked from Carian’s other side. Doubtless Franco had been thinking the thought so loudly that the truthreader had plucked it easily from the aether.
Devangshu meanwhile said to the crowd, “What I wouldn’t give to visit that place of unmaking. To look through the dark volcanic glass, as Carian vran Lea has described to us, and see with my own eyes the creature who haunts the fringes of our realm, seeking any way back inside…” He lifted a telling gaze across the sea of faces, quiet now beneath the image his words had invoked. “What I wouldn’t give to put a face to our true enemy.”
“Malorin’athgul,” Gannon said darkly, tasting of the name.
Franco could barely breathe with so much truth all flooding to the surface at once. He spun to Carian. “You told them about…” But the words wouldn’t form, his chest felt so tight. A great pressure was pushing down on him.
Carian put a hand on his arm and met his gaze with uncommon candor in his brown eyes. “Admiral, Niko is blaming the First Lord for the realm being out of Balance. By Belloth’s bloody balls, the bludger is trying to rouse support to invade T’khendar! It’s time our brethren knew the real cause of the realm’s troubles.”
Devangshu said in that moment, “Brothers, we must rid the realm of the pestilence that is Niko van Amstel!”
To which the audience applauded and Franco’s gut twisted with an ill foreboding. Like an ant upon a boulder about to tip and roll, he had the sense of something portentous in the offing, but his mind could only dimly comprehend the enormity of what was happening.
Devangshu held up a hand to quiet the group. “Now, brothers, after a detailed study of the Codex, we’ve found another factor in our favor.” He opened the book and read from a marked page, “It says, ‘…a candidate is only nominated to the position until the Council of Realms ratifies his candidacy, at which time the vestal appointment becomes permanent. Until such time as permanency is appointed, the vestalship is open to any candidate.’” He closed the book and shoved it back into his satchel, where its shape promptly vanished. “Under the circumstances, the Council might require Alorin to choose a new Second Vestal simply because the Great Master has been gone so long. Then what—we’re stuck with bloody Niko van Amstel?”
Malcontent rumbled through the theater at this.
“I’m with you, my brothers, and that’s where this passage comes into play. What it means is that even though the Alorin Seat gave Niko a vestal ring, technically he’s still only nominated to the position.” Devangshu turned a meaningful look over his shoulder and then back to the audience. “Brothers, we need our own frontrunner!”
This announcement met with an approving cheer—no, a veritable roar.
Seemingly as one, all eyes settled on Franco.
He blinked…and blinked again. Then he looked around in sudden frantic denial. “Surely you don’t mean me!”
Devangshu extended his hand to Franco and included the assembled brethren with his gaze as he
challenged, “Franco Rohre, I know I won’t offend anyone when I declare that you’ve demonstrated the most talent of any of us assembled here. Who else can say they’ve personally trained with the Great Master? Who else can say they’ve successfully plus-crossed a node?”
Franco turned Carian an incredulous glare. “You told them about the Sylus node?”
The pirate grinned. “Legendary work, Admiral.”
“Really,” Kardashian added. His black eyes gleamed enviously.
Franco gritted his teeth. “Is there anything you didn’t tell them, Carian?”
“By all the Gods of Niger,” Devangshu was addressing the audience again, “think of it, my brothers: plus-crossing nodes! Who else would dare attempt it?”
“Certainly not Niko,” Gannon muttered ungraciously.
Someone called from the audience, “How do you plus-cross a node?”
Carian stepped forward. “It’s two doublebacks, mate!”
“That’s a myth!” someone else called, while the room devolved into speculative murmuring.
Carian shoved hands in his pockets. “You’re right, of course. It can’t be done—except the Admiral did it.” He turned a grin at Franco and then looked back to the audience. “Avast, all of you!” He waved a hand for their attention, and when they’d quieted, said to them, “Now, we’ve all heard of a doubleback, that being a forked route. You take the primary ley lines of two nodes and pin them to the same nodepoint. Once traveled, the first point switches off and the second switches on. Two different passes across the same node will result in people traveling to different places. I’ve crossed one of Rohre’s doublebacks unsuspectingly myself.
“But plus-crossing now…” he grinned again, eyes bright with candid admiration, “plus-crossing, mates, means four possible outcomes. It’s four primary ley lines pinned to the same nodepoint.”
“That’s impossible!” someone shouted, whereupon arguments bounced back and forth across the theater.
Carian held up his hands for silence again and then pointed at Franco. “I can personally attest that the Admiral has crafted doublebacks and plus-crossed nodes. The Great Master himself described Franco’s work to me, and I’ve inspected them with my own eyes, my handsomes!”
Kingdom Blades (A Pattern of Shadow & Light 4) Page 24
