“But you claim your predictions are.” Aldaeon’s colorless eyes held a shade of skepticism. “Even knowing you as I do…I needn’t point out that none of these predictions have yet come to pass.”
“None that I shared with you,” Björn corrected with an easy smile. Then his expression sobered. “But they will. It’s nearly a surety.”
Aldaeon frowned. “You speak with such assurance, your letter, warnings as proclamations…by any other view, they might be construed as threats.”
“You know me better than that.”
“I do,” Aldaeon cautioned, “but many others do not. With your absence so notable, the aspersions upon your past…I fear they’ll lay upon your head the very villainy you say you’re working to prevent.”
“There’s nothing new in that, Aldaeon.”
“Björn…”
Björn lifted a hand to pause the elf’s protest. “My reputation is a cheap sacrifice for what we’re trying to accomplish.” He didn’t need to say, and so is yours, for this was evident in his steady gaze.
Aldaeon pressed his lips together and regarded Björn with a deep furrow between his brows. Suddenly he leaned forward and hissed under his breath, “Do you have any idea what would happen to me if I proposed even a quarter of what you wrote in that letter? Do you know how many Seats already want my head? If I so much as hinted at the possibility of opening negotiations with the Warlocks of Shadow, the Council would crucify me.”
Björn fingered his glass quietly and regarded his friend in silence, just the hint of his thoughts reflected in his gaze.
Aldaeon sat back forcefully in his chair. “Don’t say it,” he groused. “I know what you’re thinking: why is my head more precious than yours?”
A smile flickered on Björn’s lips. “I was contemplating what your handsome head would look like hanging above the Eltanin Seat’s mantel.”
“Ah, yes,” Aldaeon arched a dour brow, “Mir Arkadhi. He is one who makes me wish I had eyes in the back of my skull.”
Björn set his empty glass down on the table and sat back again. “I found five atrophae in Alshiba’s apartments today.”
The Speaker blinked at him.
“They were mor’alir. The patterns hinted of Eltanin work.”
“Five atrophae.” Aldaeon frowned ponderously at this. “Do you think Eltanin is behind the attempt on her life?”
“It’s hard to say. Eltanin sits behind a lot of things without standing directly behind anything.”
“There’s a certain text. What did you do with the atrophae?”
“I left them where they were, minus a few patterns. There are probably more. I’ll need to search the entire mansion.” He ran a finger thoughtfully along the arm of his chair. “Whoever intends her harm…you can’t think they’ll rely solely on atrophae.”
The elf gave a powerful exhale. “I’ll offer her additional protection.” He leveled Björn a look of perilous concern. “I do not know if she will accept it.”
“Thank you, my friend. We both know Alshiba’s importance to this effort.” With that, Björn pushed to his feet.
Aldaeon fingered his glass with speculation in his gaze. “And what of her other illness…the one that’s been ailing her ever since you left?”
Björn offered a resigned smile. “I’m working on a cure for that one as well.” He nodded and started off.
“You know I can’t let you leave.”
Björn paused—halted more by the apology in Aldaeon’s tone than from his words. He turned back to see a host of Paladin Knights flooding onto the balcony. There would be no escape in that direction. Not this time.
The study doors flew open, and more Knights streamed in. They wore elae-enhanced armor and were surrounded with shields of the fifth.
Björn looked back to Aldaeon and arched a brow.
Shadows of apology veiled the elf’s countenance. “Of course, you understand…I had no choice, my friend.”
Björn exhaled a slow breath while eyeing the incoming flood of Knights. “Of course.”
The Speaker stared at the bourbon in his glass unhappily. “An honorable man cannot set friendship before duty, Björn.”
“I wouldn’t respect you nearly as much if you did, my friend.” Björn scanned his gaze across the Paladin Knights. There might’ve been fifty of them altogether, come in the name of claiming him for the Council Inquisitor. An appreciable number—what they might send to a faraway realm to put an end to a conflict of kingdoms—but not outrageous, considering he was their quarry.
A smile twitched on Björn’s lips. “Impressive.” He turned with interest back to Aldaeon. “All of this took time to arrange. How did you know?”
Aldaeon exhaled a measured breath. “Alshiba alerted me. She knew somehow that you’d been in her apartments.” He arched a brow. “It appears she may still be vexed with you.”
Björn’s gaze hinted of amusement. “I think more than somewhat.”
“I am sorry, my friend.” Aldaeon truly meant this—Björn could see the contrition in his expression, feel it in his thoughts. “But you’re wanted for questioning—rather vehemently, I believe.” He looked with resignation to the Knights and gave a weary sigh. “Take him into custody.”
The closest two moved towards Björn—
Spiraling sapphire patterns burst out around them, forcing them to draw back.
Aldaeon hissed an oath and jumped to his feet.
The same patterns flared around him, shooting forth along an invisible barrier to roughly outline the shape of a cube.
Suddenly the room erupted into a kaleidoscope of dazzling aquatic swirls, as every Paladin Knight tried to move and found himself encased in a celantia’s invisible box.
Björn looked to the milky stone beneath his feet and thought, dissolve.
Marble faded out of existence. He dropped in a whisper of the fifth and landed lightly on the floor one level below.
The Speaker slammed his hands against the celantia surrounding him. “Björn!”
Björn looked up at him through the rather large hole in the floor/ceiling. “Of course…you understand, I had no choice, my friend.” He pushed a hand to smooth back his hair and then held it out towards Aldaeon, a gesture of gratitude. “Though…I really must thank you for the pattern of the celantia. I’m finding it endlessly versatile.”
Aldaeon growled a frustrated oath.
Behind the Speaker, the knights were all attempting to escape the celantias; Aldaeon’s study appeared as a star webbed with tentacles of undulating blue light.
The Speaker at last seemed to take note of the large hole in his floor. He leveled an exasperated glare at Björn. “This tile is made of a Starstone that has to be grown from Valerian crystal!”
Björn grinned at him. “Open my gift.”
For a heartbeat, the elf stared. Then he swung to the table before him and grabbed up the small marble box. Inside lay a glowing crystal that shone like a star. Aldaeon looked back to Björn. “This took time to arrange.” His tone conveyed equal parts admiration and vexation. “How did you know?”
Björn winked. “Because I know Alshiba.”
Aldaeon cast an aggrieved look down at him. “I’m keeping the bourbon.”
“I would have it no other way.” Björn touched his brow in farewell.
“Björn!”
Björn looked back up at him.
Aldaeon pressed a hand against the celantia. Spiraling patterns flared all around him, casting flickering blue light across his pale features. “You know you don’t help your case with these illicit appearances.”
Björn pointed an admonishing finger at him. “Never let our friendship come before your duty, Aldaeon. I’m counting on you.”
Then he flashed a smile and rushed away into the dark.
Thirty-two
“When a truth becomes a fact, it loses all its intellectual value.”
–The Adept Cassius of Rogue
To Felix, the Empress’s personal apartmen
ts seemed a small palace. Following a dozen paces behind the dark form of the zanthyr, Felix moved from one gargantuan, palatial room into the next gargantuan, palatial room until all the gilt, velvet and marble began to blur together.
In many locations, he noticed silvery nodes winking at him, and each alluring summons sang a siren’s call. These portals were shadowed by twisting, but he might’ve traveled them as easily as any other—and they knew this, the vengeful sprites. Felix eyed the nodes uncertainly as he passed. He was sure they’d somehow all been put there just to test his fortitude.
He thanked the Sanctos—especially his many-times great-grandfather Dominico—that he’d never bungled his way onto any of those nodes. He could just see himself stepping off the node and finding the Empress of Agasan in her dressing gown. The thought brought a cold and clammy chill to his flesh. He doubted the Empress would’ve been as receptive to his charms as her daughter had been.
Though the zanthyr strode many paces ahead, he yet dragged a wake of static through the air such that Felix, walking in his wake, felt like insects were biting him all over. Scratching uncomfortably at his rear end and silently cursing the zanthyr, Felix followed Phaedor beneath a marble-framed archway into a vast gallery that might’ve easily seated three hundred people with room to spare for dancing and an orchestra, probably an entire troupe of acrobats…
A procession of important-looking personages was heading towards them from the gallery’s opposite end. Felix could tell they thought themselves very important from the severe upward tilt of their noses. He also noted, with some delight, that all of them were on a collision course with the zanthyr.
When it became clear to them that the zanthyr did not intend to move out of their path, the Sobra Scholars in the lead veered out of Phaedor’s way with sidelong glares.
Next came a tall man wearing a really expensive coat and the chain link badge of the Commander of the Imperial Guard. He merely adjusted his course to avoid Phaedor and maintained his quiet discussion with his two aides. Felix in turn gave the Commander a wide berth. He never much liked getting too close to any of the Empress’s Imperial Guard, and definitely wanted to avoid the notice of their infamously merciless commander.
Last came a woman wearing black breeches and a belted coat, boots to her thighs—all of which framed her curves in all the right ways. She wore her long, honey-brown hair in a complicated braid, and a Sormitáge ring glimmered on each of her fingers.
Felix’s eyes widened.
The only woman in the Empire with a full row was Francesca da Mosta, Commander of the Imperial Adeptus. Francesca cast her lovely hazel eyes across Felix as she passed, eliciting all kinds of inappropriate thoughts in the lad, which he had to severely censor from the two truthreaders following in her wake.
Felix turned his head over his shoulder to watch the commander for as long as he could. It wasn’t every day that a woman with a body like that wore clothing that showed off her curves like that. Francesca da Mosta was the stuff of fantasy to just about every unmarried male in Faroqhar, and a few too many married ones to boot.
Felix was still looking over his shoulder at the commander’s retreating form when he suddenly realized he was catching up with the zanthyr, whereupon he felt compelled to complain, “Well, that was bloody unpleasant. Thanks so much for not vouching for me. I think the bastards forgot to inspect up my arse—”
That’s when he looked forward again and saw the assemblage of important personages staring at him—the truly important kind, that is, the kind that just were important without feeling the need to convince you of it.
Felix’s mouth stopped at the same time as his feet, so that he sort of stood there wavering at anchor. His mismatched eyes darted around, recognizing Vincenzé and Giancarlo, who in turn were giving him their usual goon stares.
Just beyond an open archway stood the High Lord, who Felix had only ever seen from afar; and beside the High Lord stood a dark-haired woman of tall stature and graceful bearing wearing a dress worth a small kingdom, with Nadia’s diamondine eyes and dark hair, and whose depthless gaze had Felix instantly quaking in his boots.
“Well, Felix di Sarcova,” the Empress said in her famously deep and throaty voice, so like and yet unlike the countless imitations Felix had heard of it, “…let’s talk about nodes, shall we?”
Felix cast a desperate look at the zanthyr—he’d gotten him into this, hadn’t he?—but the infuriating creature merely summoned a dagger out of nowhere and cast it flipping into the air.
Whereupon Felix remembered his protocol before the Empress. He dropped to his hands and knees and then pressed himself flat onto the cold stone floor. The chant Nadia had taught him came to his tongue, and he began speaking the words—probably butchering them; who in the provinces actually spoke Old Alaeic?—taking care to properly enunciate each of the accented vowels as Nadia had instructed. “Cuithné no du’or, ‘im aenné thuithné cor, du’déannae du’dor…”
When the Empress didn’t offer the expected reply, Felix braved a glance up at her. She was standing with a finger poised beneath her bottom lip and gazing down at him with a faint arch to her brow.
He hurriedly pushed his nose back into the marble and chanted the next verse, “Amananaé, amananaé, halem-halem amananaé—”
“What are you doing, child?”
Felix paused his chanting and stared for a second longer at the marble blurring before his vision. Then he lifted his head to the Empress again. “Am…I not supposed to…Your Majesty?”
“The Empress may be addressed as Aurelia,” the High Lord advised.
“A-Aurelia,” Felix amended. Feeling jumpy and unnerved, he sat tentatively back on his heels and darted a look around at the others. The Caladrians were glaring at him as though they thought him engaged in some ill-conceived joke, while the High Lord looked baffled and the Empress rather amused. The zanthyr just flipped his dagger.
Felix realized the Empress was waiting for an answer. “The, uh…princess said if ever I met you…Aurelia, I was to prostrate myself and say these verses.”
“And did my daughter tell you what these verses meant, child?”
“No, Aurelia.”
“A children’s rhyme…about donkeys.” The Empress turned and began walking towards a hearth and two velvet armchairs set near it. The train of her gown whispered across the marble in her wake. “I fear my daughter was having a bit of fun with you, Felix.”
Felix felt his face flush and dropped his gaze. “Come to think of it…” he clenched his jaw to hold back his embarrassment, “it was after I made a comment about her teeth.”
The Empress seated herself in the high-backed chair, which was as grand as any throne, and spread her silk skirts around herself. She settled that disturbing gaze on Felix then—he felt her attention spear him all the way across the room—and motioned him to approach.
Felix sort of shuffled across the marble tiles to stand before the Empress. He felt pea-sized and was worried his voice would sound the same. All he could think about were the zanthyr’s words of caution counterpointed with Vincenzé’s many threats, which took on an uncomfortable new probability.
She reclined in her chair and rested her hands casually on the arms, but there was nothing casual in the way she was looking at him. “Vincenzé says you’ll have nothing to offer me but half-truths; that your every attempt will be to shirk responsibility and divert my attention elsewhere. He believes the best thing I can do is lock you away for using an unregistered variant trait to travel twisted nodes and kidnapping the Princess Heir.”
Kidnapping the Princess Heir?
Felix gulped. These truths were accusations for which he had no defense. For the first time, he realized that without Nadia to speak for him, his acts couldn’t be even remotely justified. He stood rooted to the floor with a dry-throated panic welling, cinching off his breath so that it came in embarrassing little gulps.
“Marius found evidence of your pattern upon the second strand currents
during the Quai game and believes you may have been involved somehow in assisting this unforgivable attack.”
Felix darted a frantic look at the High Lord.
“This would be treason of the highest order, Felix di Sarcova, incurring a sentence of execution after a lengthy course of torture.”
Felix’s swallow felt painful in his chest.
“Yet Phaedor assures me that you will prove yourself valuable,” the Empress’s merciless gaze pinned Felix into immobility, while her tone felt a searing blade of derision, “as unlikely as that sounds to all of us here. Perhaps you might begin by explaining what has become of my daughter.”
Felix couldn’t help himself. He heard his tongue whisper, “What has become of her?”
“That is precisely what you are going to tell us if you hope to have any chance of living free beyond this night.” She lifted a finger to point at him. “You may begin at the beginning.”
Her mental nudge prodded Felix’s tongue into quick action, and before he knew himself, the words were tumbling across his lips, grateful to be free at last. “My roommate Malin was kidnapped, and no one was doing anything about it—leastwise not the right things…”
The story unfolded in its fullness: how Felix had started using the nodes to investigate the names on Malin’s fateful list, how he’d inadvertently found himself in Nadia’s chambers, and their subsequent pact to find Malin together.
While Felix was speaking, the High Lord came and seated himself in an armchair near the Empress, while his Caladrians took up positions behind him. Felix had no idea where the zanthyr had gotten to. The one time he braved a look behind him, the creature was nowhere to be found.
“Not for thievery, then,” the High Lord muttered when Felix was speaking of the several times he’d been caught in the private chambers of Sormitáge faculty while engaged in a search for Malin’s abductor.
Felix dared glance to the High Lord. With his shoulder-length dark hair, just barely grey at the temples, his fine crimson coat, and the effortless elegance of his bearing, the High Lord exemplified the ideal Agasi nobleman. Felix felt an utter pauper by comparison. “No, Your Grace.” He dropped his gaze. “Though…I suppose…no less illegal.”
Kingdom Blades (A Pattern of Shadow & Light 4) Page 46
