Kingdom Blades (A Pattern of Shadow & Light 4)

by McPhail, Melissa

  Watching Sinárr’s demonstration, Tanis expected the two energy flows to collide into an eruption of power. But instead, just as Sinárr had stated, a dark emptiness resulted where the two exact opposing flows met.

  This is nullification. It is similar to the way effacement works, except that effacement is a result of admiration.

  I’ll pretend I understand this.

  Tanis heard Sinárr’s deep chuckle. As you admired your tower—you, it’s maker, observing it in the same space of its creation, with the same energy with which you created it—you unknowingly duplicated every aspect of it exactly as it was in that moment and nullified it in the doing. This is effacement.

  So…Tanis scratched his head—a singularly odd experience in Shadow’s void, where he saw neither head nor hand but felt the scratching nonetheless. How do I make it endure my own admiration?

  A valuable exploration, Tanis-mine. Let us start by making something that isn’t yours. A building perhaps—something from your world that you know is not your own invention.

  For some reason, recreating something from Alorin there in a space of his own framing felt somehow disingenuous, artful…counterfeit. Tanis couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  As he searched for something to create then, he recalled Pelas’s illusion of the tree city. This thing of Shadow, Tanis felt comfortable recreating in his own space.

  Like a potter grabbing an armful of clay to place on his wheel, Tanis swept his mind through the space he’d framed, gathered his energy, and began shaping it into the tree city.

  Crafting illusion from the aether of Shadow was very different from the way he went about it in Alorin. There, he merely envisioned what he wanted and threw up the energy of the fourth strand solidly enough for another to see.

  In Shadow, he sculpted energy into form with beams of intent. His mind became his arms and hands, moving invisible bands of imaginative decision to arrange the energy and force it to assume the shape he desired. As he achieved the form he wanted, he pushed energy into it until there was so much energy in the space that it became compact and appeared solid.

  Before his eyes, the tree grew. From lengthy roots, through trunk of stacked buildings, to branching streets, the white tree city assumed shape—

  Tanis…misgiving threaded Sinárr’s sudden query, what is this?

  Enveloped in the majestic energy of creation, Tanis heard Sinárr, sensed his disturbance, yet at the same time he really only knew the tree, the feel of his energy surrounding him, and the heady whirlwind of making.

  Tanis finished solidifying the tree and admired his handiwork. He knew he could admire the tree without fear of erasing it, for it was not really his creation at all.

  No, it is another’s. Sinárr sounded inordinately displeased with him.

  Suddenly a new space surrounded them with its bright stars beyond counting. They were in Sinárr’s universe again. Tanis realized that Sinárr had coincided his starpoints—stolen them, in a sense, and he perceived the loss of his own space as forcefully as if someone had pulled a potato sack down over his body and scooped him up inside.

  Now they stood upon a strip of glossy darkness, as a bridge, circling his tree city. He turned to Sinárr, feeling startled and confused. “What did I do wrong?”

  Emanating displeasure, the Warlock walked a few paces away from him and studied the tree city, which appeared twice as big now as it had when Tanis was constructing it.

  Then Sinárr turned his head and studied Tanis intently. Energy accumulated in clouds around him, invisible to view but needle-sharp in Tanis’s perception, crackling with static. After a long moment of this uncomfortable inspection, Sinárr slowly let out his breath. “I can see you knew not what you were doing.”

  Tanis perceived his disapproval but couldn’t interpret it. “I don’t understand what I did wrong.”

  Sinárr came back to his side and brushed his hand across Tanis’s hair, a gesture of forgiveness. He allowed the energy of his displeasure to dissipate. “Taerenhal.” He looked back to the tree. “That is the name of this city. It belongs to Rafael.” The Warlock’s golden gaze shifted back to the lad. “I suppose Pelas showed it to you?”

  “We were playing a game of illusions. This was one of his creations.”

  “Which is why you’ve been able to duplicate it so perfectly.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re upset with me.”

  “No,” Sinárr ran his hand across the lad’s hair again, “I can see that you don’t.”

  He drew Tanis into the circle of his arm and turned them to face the radiant tree. “Illusion is one of the most accurate forms of duplication, Tanis. Had Pelas sculpted this tree in stone, we would find many inconsistencies from the original. Instead he presented you a highly accurate rendering from his conception, which you then accurately recreated.”

  Apprehension fluttered uncomfortably in Tanis’s chest. “Then, what—”

  “Things created in Shadow are not just things, Tanis. The starpoints that framed the space of a thing’s original making remain attached to it. When you recreate in Shadow something made by another Warlock, it approximates also the starpoints of that Warlock.”

  Tanis was itching to move away from Sinárr, for the resonance always built powerfully between them whenever they were in physical contact, but the Warlock’s hold upon him was firm. Tanis rather suspected Sinárr was punishing him in this way, for while the Warlock enjoyed that heady interchange, it always made Tanis feel uncomfortably charged, as with a restless unease.

  “What am I missing?”

  “Think it through, Tanis.”

  Tanis thought he’d be able to think a lot better if he was standing further away from Sinárr, but he imagined Sinárr wouldn’t appreciate hearing that sentiment at the moment. Putting his mind to work on the problem then, Tanis reviewed the last few minutes. He’d stirred Sinárr’s disquiet when he’d crafted the tree.

  “If by making the tree, I approximated the starpoints of Rafael…what does that do?”

  “We anchor our universes with starpoints. What happens when you approximate mine?”

  “I can see your universe.”

  “Exactly. Your space and mine become the same space. Starpoints can be duplicated or approximated, which facilitates the sharing of space, or they can be coincided, which—”

  “Is what you did to my space just now when you claimed it for your own.”

  Sinárr stroked Tanis’s head. “For your protection.”

  “Yes, so you said,” Tanis grumbled.

  Sinárr chuckled. “Rafael is one of the strongest among us, Tanis-mine, but also perilously inquisitive and a keen observer of Alorin’s children. He will find you…intriguing, to say the least. I had hoped to keep you beneath the beam of his notice a little while longer.”

  Tanis recalled Mérethe telling him that Sinárr was as powerful as Baelfeir. “But surely Rafael is no threat to you.”

  Sinárr arched a brow. “We are all threats to each other should we choose to be, but what would we ever have reason to argue over?” Sinárr released him, allowing Tanis to put some distance between them and the resonance of power to dissipate.

  Tanis admitted Sinárr’s point. The contentions that so often plagued the races of Man—money, land, power, freedom, beliefs—could never be problems to an immortal who created his own worlds. Warlocks had every freedom they could desire.

  Except the freedom to wander the Realms of Light.

  The thought sent a twinge of unease flittering down Tanis’s spine.

  “When you approximate the starpoints of another Warlock, Tanis, the space becomes coincident.” Sinárr strolled the bridge and glanced at the lad over his shoulder. “This is the method we use to communicate to one another, to summon each other across the void. When you were building Rafael’s city, you were also unknowingly approximating his starpoints, calling out to him. I didn’t think it wise to allow Rafael to greet you in your own space, considering—”


  His attention shifted swiftly to a patch of coalescing darkness. “Ah,” Sinárr cast a voluminous look at him. “Rafael comes.”

  Sixty-eight

  “There is no higher court than conscience.”

  –Valentina van Gelderan, Empress of Agasan

  Franco Rohre closed the door behind himself and walked through the antechamber towards Dagmar Ranneskjöld’s personal study. Another long day embroiled in Illume Belliel’s politics had his head tied in knots. He understood why the First Lord had written the Interrealm Trade Measure, how it would restore to the realms freedoms that had long been usurped by various Council factions and vested interests. But Franco wasn’t at all sure that the Council of Realms itself would survive the measure’s implementation.

  The problems surrounding it seemed to grow exponentially, day by day, while the Council grew more fractured in opinion, more fractious in dealing with one another’s demands and criticisms. The Speaker was calling for order more frequently, and each time the hall took longer to calm. If hostilities continued building as they were, someone was going to end up with their head on a pike. It concerned Franco a great deal whose head that might be.

  Yours is certainly worthy, his conscience goaded. It’s a shame they can only jam it on one pike instead of the many it deserves, though.

  His concerns weren’t aided in knowing that at that very moment the First Lord was in Alshiba’s apartments working to Heal her from the deleterious effects of atrophae. If anyone got wind of his presence in the cityworld…

  Or that back in Alorin, countless of his brethren were gathering support in his name for a nomination to the Vestal Seat, in challenge of Niko. If Niko ever got wind of that…

  But mostly Franco worried about Alshiba. She’d become a ghost haunting his thoughts, a torment in his dreams.

  Coveting his liege’s woman will do that to a knight.

  Franco gritted his teeth. Oh, I’m a knight now?

  His conscience gave an inconsequential shrug. Poetic license.

  Brooding on the fidelities of knights, Franco pushed through the double doors into Dagmar’s study, and drew up short.

  Surprise for an instant stole words from his tongue. Then he pulled the doors closed behind himself. “What are you doing here, Niko?”

  Niko turned a page in the large book he was reading and replied without looking up, “I might ask the same of you, Franco.”

  Franco held up the book in his hand and the note that had accompanied it. “Alshiba asked me to return this for her.”

  “Maybe she asked me to return something, too.”

  Did she ask you to sit behind the Great Master’s desk and peruse his books at your leisure?

  Franco gave him an odd look as he crossed to the bookshelves. “I thought you were in Alorin.”

  “I thought you and I were allies. I guess we’ve both been duped.”

  Oh hahahaha he knows! The mad voice of his conscience shrieked with laughter.

  Franco slowed in putting the book back in its place on the shelf. “What do you mean?”

  Niko looked up. “Dagmar’s weldmap? Have you forgotten so soon the only thing I’ve asked of you as my deputy?”

  Franco frowned. “Niko—”

  “You gave us your word, Franco.”

  “My word?”

  “Dore and myself—don’t look so mystified.” Niko tsked his forgetfulness like a school marm scolding a recalcitrant child. “The day you attended my dinner for the Fifty Companions, you were quite definite in your allegiance.” He flipped another page in the book, rather sharply this time. “I would think you’d be more appreciative, even if honoring your commitments is too great a burden. I’ve asked so little of you in return for naming you my deputy—and you agreed to help us.”

  Franco slowly leaned against the bookshelf, the better to keep the wall at his back and Niko in clear view. Nothing about this meeting felt right. “I agreed to act as my conscience dictated, Niko.”

  Niko glanced up again. “Ah, yes. That is what you said.” His veiled smile seemed a little too hungry for comfort. “Leaves so much room for interpretation, doesn’t it? The famous truthreader doublespeak. Who knew you were so adept at it?” He looked back to the book, waving vaguely. “Doubtless you’ve gained three rings in that talent as well. Perhaps you should instruct me in the technique. I never learned it myself.”

  Because you’ve all the intelligence of a clam, his conscience snickered, who flings open its mouth when the sand comes barging in, only to let in more sand.

  Feeling uneasy, Franco looked around the space. The curtains were closed across the archway leading to the adjoining solar, lending a dingy cast to the otherwise windowless office. Or perhaps it was just the expanding shadow of Niko’s querulous mood.

  “We should take our conversation elsewhere. These are the Great Master’s private chambers.”

  “They’ll be mine soon enough. Besides,” he tapped the book lying open in front of him, “Dagmar has a copy of the Vestal Codex in his library.” Niko licked a finger and turned another page. “Rethynnea’s Guild Master had a copy, but it was stolen several moons ago.” Niko looked up to meet his gaze. “But you don’t know anything about that, do you?”

  “I told you no the first time you asked me.” Of course, he knew all about it now.

  Niko gave him a slow and—coming from him—rather unnerving smile. “See… there it is again.” He waggled a finger at him. “The careful doublespeak. Amazing that I never noticed it before. Do you ever say anything you actually mean?”

  Franco kept a careful hold on his temper. Niko wasn’t himself, and whatever was going on with him felt dangerous.

  “I see that you intend to stay. I’ll be going then.” He made for the door.

  “Doesn’t it bother you, Franco?”

  His words halted Franco mid-stride. He stiffened, braced for the next insult.

  “Seeing how much has been lost?” Niko fell back in his chair—Dagmar’s chair—and exhaled a ponderous sigh. “It doesn’t bother you?”

  Franco turned his head with a frown.

  Snared like a fly in a web.

  Shut up!

  “Reading the Codex reminds me of the greatness that once was.” Niko entreated him with his gaze, which appeared surprisingly sincere. “Wouldn’t you like to see Alorin restored? Don’t you want our race to flourish again?”

  “Of course I do.”

  Niko sighed. “So do I.” He sounded uncharacteristically earnest. “I’ve just been reading about the training required to be considered for a vestalship. There are so few Adepts who gain their first row anymore—I don’t even have my first row. Do you?”

  Franco shook his head.

  “See?” Niko gave a grim smile. “Neither of us are truly qualified. We have so much work ahead of us to restore the realm. At the very least we need to establish a new Citadel.”

  Franco stared wordlessly at him. This hardly seemed the same Niko who’d sulked off to Alorin after Alshiba’s rebuke. Had some other entity taken over his shell in the intervening weeks?

  And yet…they’d been friends during Franco’s early years in the Sormitáge, back when Niko’s renown was appealing enough that Franco overlooked his hauteur, desirable enough that he tried to convince himself there was something beneath the surface of his smile. Back when he’d had enough self-esteem to care what people thought of him; a long time back, when he’d been naïve enough to imagine Niko’s popularity would transfer to him, if only they were seen to be friends.

  But while that Niko had been no less superficial, he’d had bright ideas, bright ideals, a vision for the ways things could be that seemed to Franco a far cry better than they were. Perhaps…was it possible some of that old Niko had resurfaced?

  Franco sank down on the back of a chair. “How do we establish a new Citadel without any mages?”

  Niko blew out his breath. “Yes, that’s the problem, isn’t it?” He gave him a rueful smile, acknowledging the folly. “But ev
en if we don’t have mages, shouldn’t we try? The deaths of the Mages has kept us from doing anything for three centuries. Now our knowledge itself is dying, poor victim of the race’s intellectual enervation.”

  Hearing his own words so nearly out of Niko’s mouth paused Franco’s breath.

  “Shouldn’t we do something before the knowledge is completely lost to us, Franco? While at least a few of us who trained beneath those great men and women are alive to contribute what we know? While we’re still capable of carrying forward their torch?”

  Franco sat speechless, stunned by the rationality of this view. Of course, the First Lord and Markal Morrelaine were already doing that very thing in Illume Belliel under Isabel’s watchful eye, but Niko didn’t know that.

  Franco crossed his arms. “Who would instruct?”

  “Well, I suppose the Companions could to start with, and any of the Sormitáge maestros who desired a stronger presence. If there are others qualified that you know of, please tell me.” Niko rose from his chair and wandered the room, hands in his pockets, looking and sounding surprisingly…sane. “I mean…isn’t this what we wanted all along, Franco—the whole reason we marched behind Dore’s doomsday vitriol?” He gave him an earnest smile, reflective of their days of friendship which Franco had himself just been recalling. “Wasn’t it to have our own voice? An opportunity to explore our talents our way, instead of following always the ruts of everyone else’s passage?”

  “Yes…” Franco answered, hesitant to walk down that catastrophic road again, “but you saw where that got us.” The question was, where was Niko going with all of this?

  Niko turned him a forceful stare. “Yes, I saw—Malachai’s war. Genocide. A race dying. A realm in chaos. A Seat who abandoned us. Another who’s done nothing but mourn his abandonment—and all because we failed!”

  “We failed,” Franco felt a rather frantic incomprehension, “to…?”