Kingdom Blades (A Pattern of Shadow & Light 4)

by McPhail, Melissa

  Because of all the gods, Cephrael knew how much he was going to need it.

  Fifty-nine

  “The only difference between an historian and a bard is how skillfully the lies are crafted.”

  –The Adept Nodefinder Vincenzé of Caladria

  The four most notable architectural buildings in the Sacred City of Faroqhar were also some of the city’s most important: the Tower, a spire of pale green marble where operatives of the Order of the Glass Sword conducted their clandestine operations; the crenellated Fembrand, fortress, home and training grounds of the Imperial Adeptus; the sprawling marble-columned Forum, where the Patrician Senate met in their daily administration of the Empire; and crowning the highest hill with its gold and crystal domes seen for miles in every direction, the Sacred City’s prized jewel—the Imperial Palace.

  Within the cool marble confines of the latter, Valentina van Gelderan, Empress of Agasan, sat back in her chair and stared at Liam van Gheller, Endoge of the Sormitáge, certain she must’ve heard him incorrectly.

  “I’m sorry, did you say petition?” She tightened her gaze upon him. “Someone is petitioning the Order of Sobra Scholars to overturn their own ruling?”

  The Endoge gave a minor wince. “Forgive me, Aurelia, but the petition will actually be addressed to you.”

  Her eyes widened considerably. “They want me to overrule the Sobra Scholars and declare a pattern safe to work?” It had never been done. It never would be done. The Sormitáge was the ultimate word; judge, jury and executioner in matters of Patterning. “Who are these fools?”

  Liam passed a hand across his bald pate. “The movement is gaining uncommon support from both sides of the populace, Aurelia, Adept and na’turna alike.”

  “I thought it was a petition. Now you tell me it’s a movement?”

  “The Adepts who approached me want to be allowed to work the pattern on those in need.”

  “Those in need.” You could’ve cut her dubiety with a knife.

  The Endoge looked wan. “The leaders of the movement claim they’ve identified many unAwakened na’turna. They believe the Literato N’abranaacht’s pattern will waken their ability.”

  “Preposterous.” Valentina pushed out of her chair and cast him a severe look as she walked to the sideboard.

  The Endoge followed her with his gaze. “The Sobra Scholars agree, Aurelia, but half of Faroqhar saw the Literato N’abranaacht working the fifth. He claimed with his dying breath to an audience of hundreds that this pattern had Awakened him. The Sormitáge Tribunal ruled the pattern too speculative for broad use and refused to give their sanction, but it is, nonetheless, hard to refute the possibility of the pattern having done something to give N’abranaacht access to the fifth.”

  Access he’d long possessed and hidden from the world, Valentina inwardly groused.

  It was still a shock to her, the spiraling events that had culminated in a fabled Malorin’athgul rescuing her daughter-heir, but she’d spoken to the one called Pelasommáyurek, read his words with her power, observed him on the currents. She and Marius could no longer deny the truths Phaedor had long been claiming.

  Valentina slowly poured wine into two crystal glasses, watching the sanguineous liquid swirl and fill, trying to find any perception to lead her through this sudden quagmire—demons wielding deyjiin, hundreds kidnapped, her consort heading north into some kind of trap, trusting that Phaedor and a hundred men could do what all of the Adeptus apparently could not, and now this pattern rearing its ugly head…

  She sensed these were but pieces in a much larger puzzle, the broader game playing out on the mortal tapestry—her great-uncle’s game, no doubt—but her purview must necessarily remain the Empire and its wellbeing. Would that such a view wasn’t so stilted.

  Valentina exhaled a pensive breath. Her Sight in this area had become a lake of fog. The currents showed only events already passed, giving no hint towards future. Instinct was shouting so loudly it kept her awake at night, yet its maddening screams formed nonsense words, and reason bade her ignore them.

  She turned with goblets in hand and rejoined the Endoge. Their chairs were set before tall mullioned doors which stood open to admit the breeze. A line of Praetorians stood watch on the terrace beyond the fluttering curtains, but they would hear nothing of Valentina’s conversation, for the ancient wards surrounding the room allowed neither a whisper of sound nor a fragment of thought to pass their boundary.

  She handed Liam a goblet and seated herself with a frown. “Whether Adept or na’turna, the educated peoples of Alorin understand the impact the demise of the Adept race would have on the realm. Na’turna depend heavily upon our skills and craft for defense, Healing, merchandising, trade—you well know how long is the list, Liam. The realm depends upon our skills for its very way of life, and all have suffered from the race’s decline.” Valentina sat back in her chair and fixed her colorless gaze on the Endoge. “A pattern that could Awaken Adepts even after they’ve passed their adolescent years? I can see why both sides of the populace would support it.”

  Liam exhaled a ponderous sigh. “Too many see its value, too few its danger.”

  Valentina considered him while her mind explored the implications of the pattern’s use. “What are the terms of this petition?”

  “They’re asking for detailed testing and study, human trials, experimentation on na’turna—with volunteers of course—”

  “And return us forthwith to the darkest days of the Quorum.” Valentina grunted into her wine. “They claimed all of their torture and sacrifice used willing volunteers.”

  “The Sormitáge equally fears such a return, Aurelia. It’s been centuries, yet our studies keep the Before close in our minds. The Quorum with its dark undertakings, Warlocks from the Shadow Realms commanding armies of mortals bound to their will…” He shook his head. “Even Malachai’s scourge upon our race did not compare to those black times.”

  Black times—devastating times—when free will was held as a currency in trade. Alorin had been hard-pressed to defend itself against Warlocks when at its Adept prime. Should such immortals find a way back into the realm now, they would tread the fabric all but unimpeded, binding men to their will in a single glimmering glance, playing vicious games with humanity for their own entertainment.

  Nadia had described encountering a Warlock while being held hostage by the Malorin’athgul Shail. This news had disturbed Valentina almost more than losing two hundred Adepts, for she feared that where one such creature walked, more would surely follow.

  Liam traced a hand across his bald head again, an agitated gesture from a man who was rarely discomposed. “We scholars remember, Aurelia, but others…suffice it to say the movement in support of this pattern gains more followers by the day. The new Second Vestal Niko van Amstel has lent his approval to the petition, and his opinion carries considerable weight among the younger generations.”

  Valentina brushed a stray strand of hair from her brow. Well, this is certainly an elaborate mess.

  Epiphany bless the day Phaedor had returned to the Empire. Without his warnings and counsel, she might’ve been desperate enough to entertain notions of this pattern’s potential. Now she worried more about its potential to create havoc.

  Valentina lifted her gaze back to the Endoge. “What do we know about the pattern?”

  “Literato N’abranaacht claimed to have found it among some ruins in Myacene.”

  “Belonging once to the Quorum of the Sixth Truth, no doubt.” Or worse. If he was really a Malorin’athgul, who knew where the pattern had originated?

  Liam traced an eyebrow with a finger. “The Sobra Scholars have yet to pinpoint its origins. It’s unlike any of the other Quorum patterns found to date.”

  “Even had the pattern been discovered under less questionable circumstances, we would still have reason to be suspicious of it.”

  The Endoge shifted in his chair. “This is why I’ve come to you, Aurelia. This pattern defies our unders
tanding. The Order of Sobra Scholars has requested that you put it to the Council of Realms for their review.”

  “I could present the matter to the Alorin Seat,” Valentina wasn’t sure why the idea made her uneasy. “It would delay any imperial ruling on the petition, which might be a boon.” She considered the idea more fully, letting her mind wander along as many threads of consequence as she could imagine.

  But every thread doubled with a strand of doubt. By the Lady’s blessed light, would that Phaedor had not been so acute in his criticisms! For too long she’d depended on her Sight to guide her, to the exclusion of all other perceptions. Now those awarenesses were drowned beneath a cacophonous uncertainty. What her Sight could tell her was that a darkness was coming. She watched its approach as a squall crossing the open sea, spreading veils of shadows, consuming the sky.

  Feeling oddly unbalanced, Valentina lifted her gaze back to the Endoge. “Who has access to the pattern?”

  “The Sobra Scholars, but it’s possible N’abranaacht’s disciples may have obtained a copy.”

  Valentina’s brows rose considerably. “Disciples?”

  “Self-proclaimed in the wake of the literato’s death.” The Endoge winced into his wine. “They’re calling him the Martyr of Myacene.”

  “Epiphany preserve us.” It didn’t take the Sight to predict where this path was heading. Valentina sat forward in her chair and captured the Endoge’s colorless gaze with her own. “Liam, it’s vitally important that this pattern is studied, but it must be done by the Adeptus engineers and the Order of the Glass Sword’s Patternists, who are knowledgeable in the combat arts.”

  The Endoge frowned as he held her gaze. “With due respect, Aurelia, were not your engineers trained by my maestros?”

  “Yes, but as you might imagine, their training became more specialized after they left the Sormitáge.” She set down her glass and regarded him severely. “I have a strong suspicion there is more to this pattern than meets the eye. To my knowledge, the Sormitáge does not walk elae’s dark paths.”

  He drew back. “Assuredly not.”

  “But the order has much experience with them, Liam. Its operatives have vital reason to be knowledgeable about all of the Paths of Alir.” Valentina let out a low exhale as she sat back in her chair again. “And I very much suspect inverteré patterns are somehow involved with this pattern of our intrepid literato.” Two pairs of colorless eyes held one another. “I would like you to personally ensure a rendering is delivered immediately to Francesca da Mosta for the Adeptus to review, Liam.”

  The Endoge rose from his chair, bowed with a murmured, “Your will be done, Aurelia,” and departed to do as his Empress had tasked him.

  ***

  Shailabanáchtran stepped out of Shadow into the laboratory hidden in his Sormitáge apartments and cast his gaze around the icy room. Inverteré patterns hung in the air, suspended in a balance of forces, while the perpetual rift in the cosmic fabric behind him funneled elae into Shadow and gave his Warlock colleagues easy access to the realm.

  His eyes scanned the dim room while his mind studied the currents, seeking energetic impressions of disturbance. But all remained the way he’d left it.

  He’d placed N’abranaacht’s rooms in the care of one of his puppets, of which he had many scattered around. He need not compel all of their minds at the same time, as he’d once manipulated the Hundred Mages; rather, he could simply trigger the dormant compulsion when he had need of a particular puppet’s perspective, and wear his eyes around the world as the puppet acted upon his bidding. When Shail later withdrew from his puppets’ minds, such men and women had no memory of his occupation, no concept of having done anything beyond their own will.

  Shail employed compulsion liberally in carrying out his games, but he considered it an inelegant tool. It was simply expedient, pragmatic; why walk when you could ride? But he found little merit in its use.

  Pride came in walking among thousands of learned Adepts, interacting with them, deceiving them every day, making each one think he was naught but a lowly na’turna—him! A god among fleas! And requiring no power whatsoever to fool them into thinking he was their equal; simply their own ignorance, their pathetic inclination to ignore unwholesome acts, their mortal propensity to see only what they wanted to see, what they wished to believe; and to believe only those things that made them feel stronger, smarter, less aware of their innate uselessness.

  Shail thrilled in this deceit. He derived a sublime, almost divine, pleasure in making all the world think he was other than he was.

  Pelas for all of his failings had at least convinced the mortals he was only a simple artist; yet he’d never run in the circles Shail had navigated. No one looked to an artist expecting to find strains of Adept power. No, Pelas’s Immanuel di Nostri was an effective but ultimately uninspired disguise.

  Shail found his puppet standing in the drawing room awaiting his arrival, a glassy-eyed statue in flowing Palmer’s robes. He was a handsome man of perhaps five and twenty years, fair-haired and beardless, as was the Palmer’s way, with hazel eyes and a sensual mouth. Yes, quite a nice looking young man. People would follow him. They would believe him. There was an earnestness to his gaze—when not vacant in wait of Shail’s overtaking—that could be quite compelling.

  Shail traced his fingers along the man’s jaw as he studied him. He recalled what it felt like to look through those sweet eyes, to know what his puppet knew, to feel his passions, yearn for his ideals, and with every breath, to watch him betraying the things and people who meant the most to him.

  Shail exhaled contentedly. The innocent ones were always the sweetest to claim, the low-hanging fruit so ripe for the reaping, juicy unspoiled berries plucked from the bush with all of their goodness bursting beneath his compulsion’s probing tongue.

  The uninitiated might expect the corrupt or dissolute to be quicker to compel, but so often their minds had petrified, rutted from trundling too long upon the muddy paths of false ideals, now hardened into aberrant shapes. Such minds had to be broken before they would properly conform to his desires, and who but a madman like Dore Madden had time or inclination for such labored pursuits? No, a mind free of evil intention was far easier to corrupt.

  Shail ran his thumb down the Palmer’s eyelids, closing each. He had big plans for this one, and soon.

  He took the man’s chin in his hand and roused the puppet’s consciousness with a thorny mental hook. What have you seen since last I was here?

  The puppet rewound his thoughts through the moments since Shail had last scoured his mind. Shail watched his unspooling memories with a narrowed gaze.

  Wait—a face in the crowd, surrounded by flashes of steel. Who was that?

  “The Princess Nadia,” the puppet said dully, his answer lifelessly reeled up through layers of compulsion. “She’s been seen often of late on the Sormitáge campus in the company of a Marquiin of the Prophet Bethamin.”

  A Marquiin? Shail worked the muscles of his jaw. What was Darshan up to now? When Shail had given Nadia as prize and peace offering to his brother, the possibility Darshan would release her never crossed his mind. What did it mean that the princess had returned to Faroqhar in the company of one of Darshan’s puppets?

  He considered a few threads of possibility. Then he sank into an armchair and called the mortal tapestry into mental view. Toying with the threads of this endlessly pliable fabric had become his favorite pastime. If Pelas had spent more time drawing on this canvas, they might’ve actually gotten on well together.

  Sometimes Shail found it effective to push his will along a specific thread of the mortal tapestry, but usually he preferred the outcome when he simply sketched an outline of his intention and let Balance fill in the rest of the picture.

  Releasing one such intention into the tapestry to let Balance get to work, Shail then reclined in his chair, closed his eyes, and poured his consciousness into his puppet. The man’s eyes flew open. But a very different being now gaze
d through their lens upon the world.

  Operating the puppet’s body as if his own, Shail retrieved the Palmer’s hood from its place on a hook and fastened the mask across his borrowed face.

  Let’s go for a little stroll, shall we?

  ***

  The Princess Nadia walked with Caspar down a cloister linking the Sormitáge’s Physical and Theoretical Sciences building with the Hall of Sobra Scholars. The sunlight was casting long, diffuse rays between the columns, lending a peaceful cast to the afternoon, but Nadia’s mind still knew a tempest. No matter where they were, she and Caspar endured deyjiin’s raging wind together, Nadia’s bond acting as a tiny sanctuary amid the maddening storm.

  She’d thought she would grow inured to the perpetual tempest of Bethamin’s Fire, or at least more accustomed to it, but she felt it always, heard it always, as if she and Caspar sheltered within a dome’s lantern while the wind and rain raged around them.

  How he endured it, Nadia didn’t know. She at least could shut it out by closing off the bond, but she only did this in moments of great desperation, for doing so abandoned Caspar to weather the storm alone.

  Because Caspar had been Marquiin, her Praetorians didn’t trust him—especially the wielders among her guard—though he’d given them no reason to doubt his loyalty to her. They seemed to fear he would do or say something to corrupt Nadia, however, and were far too interested in her private conversations with him.

  When her mother had announced she would allow Nadia to retain the bond with Caspar, he’d practically prostrated himself with gratitude. He was willing to endure any necessary strictures. But Nadia considered her Praetorians’ eavesdropping a sore infringement on her personal freedoms.

  Accordingly, she’d taken to conversing with Caspar via their bond and doing her best to look like she wasn’t conversing at all.