The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light) (54 page)

He seemed to focus somewhat, his dark eyes looking up, glazed with pain.

“Your wound isn’t mortal,” Trell hissed remorselessly, “but I can fix that readily enough.”

The man coughed again, but he was listening.

“Where? Where are they taking her?”

“…olivia…danae,” he managed. Then he passed out.

Trell dropped him and ran.

***

Alyneri boarded the
Olivia D’ne
bound and gagged
,
dragged between burly men with perpetual scowls and sour breath. Hairy hands pitched her aboard with all the ceremony of a bag of cabbages, and she fell to her knees and had trouble getting up again until a hand slipped beneath her arm to steady her.

She would’ve preferred the Earl of Pent had left her on the decks.

“How nice to see you again, your Grace,” remarked the earl as Alyneri pulled her skirt out from beneath her feet and straightened to face him. Thank Epiphany her mask had come off during the struggle, for it would’ve diminished the effect of her baleful stare. “It is with profound relief that I find you in such a healthy state,” the earl remarked then, boldly looking her over. “Alas, Lord Everly did not fare so well in the accident in Veneisea. We finally found him dead in a town several miles downriver.”

A fitting end for the man
, she thought ungraciously
. I hope they found him stuck head-first in the mud.

Lord Brantley untied her gag, and she spit out the foul rag with a shudder. He seemed to be waiting for some kind of thanks, but when she merely returned a level gaze, he frowned at her, grabbed her upper arm and said poisonously, “I had a late meal prepared for your arrival. We shouldn’t let it grow cold.” 

She went stiffly with him into the captain’s cabin—not that she had any choice. He shoved her inside, slammed the door behind them, and walked to a round table in the middle of the large room. “Now then. Come…sit,” and he pulled out a chair for her at the table. “There’s no need to make our voyage unpleasant. We have two long weeks ahead of us, and we might enjoy such time in conversation…or even dalliance.”

When Alyneri merely stood rigidly by the door, Lord Brantley’s expression darkened. “Or, if you prefer, I can pitch you below decks to entertain the crew. They mislike having women aboard on principle, but I’m sure a lovely thing like you can find ways to make it worth their while.”

Alyneri wondered if he would dare make good on this threat, yet she couldn’t put such a crime past a man who would sell truthreaders to Bethamin’s Ascendants. So she walked over to the chair and sat down with her bound hands stiffly in her lap.

“Excellent,” Lord Brantley murmured. He took a chair across the table and draped a linen napkin across his knees, proceeding then to uncover the many plates of food that the ship’s cook had prepared.

Alyneri admitted the food smelled wonderful, but she’d take her chances with the crew before she ate anything dispensed by the Earl of Pent. He didn’t seem to mind her reluctance to eat, clucking at her about nervous stomachs and women of delicate dispositions while he gluttonized himself.

Throughout the meal, Alyneri stared at Lord Brantley and thought of Tanis and what would’ve become of him if not for Epiphany’s blessing, which somehow made him immune to Bethamin’s Fire. She thought of the Marquiin who’d died in Tanis’s arms, and the boy Piper, who was probably also dead by now, a victim of the Prophet’s corruptive Fire. For each of these crimes she blamed Lord Brantley, and the flames of her hatred warmed her stomach better than any wine.

When the earl had sated his appetite for food, he sat back in his chair and wiped his longish moustache with his napkin, regarding Alyneri all the while. “Morwyk is anxious to make your acquaintance, your Grace,” he said as he settled the greasy linen back in his lap. The man seemed naught but an overgrown rodent with his long nose and the way his moustache twitched when his lips moved. “Imagine our dismay when we parted in Acacia, only to shortly thereafter learn of your impressive connections.”

Alyneri just stared at him.

Pinning her with his gaze, Brantley rose from his chair and moved to sit on the edge of the table next to her. He reached a hand to take up a lock of her hair, rubbing the strands between his fingers. “I never would’ve taken you for an heiress.” 

She shifted her gaze to meet his. “Do you know what the Kandori do to men who try to ransom the heirs to their fortune, Lord Brantley?”

He settled hands in his lap and gazed eagerly at her. “Do tell, your Grace.”

“They open up the bowels of such men and tie them by their intestines to the branch of a tree. If the men survive this punishment, the Kandori set smoke to drive out the carrion ants, who feast upon their organs. It is said to take many days to die in this fashion. By the time their hearts give out, such men are hardly recognizable.”

“A fitting end, no doubt,” Lord Brantley said with a wan smile. “I think his Grace has other plans for you than ransom, however, my dear. A sweet virgin as yourself, as yet unwed, would make a fitting gift for one of his sons.”

“I understood his sons to have wives already.”

“Wives are easily dispensed with,” the earl pointed out with a sharp sort of smile. Just when Alyneri was deciding this meant she was safe from the crew, Lord Brantley continued, “That being said, if you were no longer in a condition befitting one of his sons, the Duke has mentioned other uses for an Adept of your talents.”

Alyneri caught her breath. What he insinuated…she could only imagine what the corrupt and amoral Duke of Morwyk might do with his own personal Healer. First-strand patterns could be used to harm men as easily as heal them, and she knew many patterns that might be repurposed to cause pain or even death. No Healer would willingly sully herself by using the pristine patterns of creation to such degraded purpose, but Adepts could be compelled against their will…

Alyneri knew too well…there were patterns for just about every insidious and dreadful thing a man could dream up.

She must’ve paled at these thoughts, for Lord Brantley smiled with satisfaction. He reached a hand to touch her face, and Alyneri impulsively jerked away from him, her loathing beyond measure. This angered him, and he grabbed her head by the back of the head, pulling tightly upon her hair to force her to look up at him. “The sooner you come to understand who your masters are, Alyneri, the smoother this will go for you.”

His fingers hurt her, and she feared him and his threats, but Alyneri determined not to succumb so easily to the earl as she had in Acacia. She supposed there must be worse things than having one’s body raped. The rape of the mind was infinitely worse.

Whether or not the Duke of Morwyk had the means, compulsion at least was something Lord Brantley could not manage. “He will come for me, you know,” Alyneri said weakly, working hard to quell her tears before they fell.

Brantley stared hard at her for a moment longer, and then he released her with a jerk. “Who?” he inquired, pushing off the table. “Your knight from the city? I think not.”

He doesn’t know him,
she realized with a swallow. Alyneri trembled as fear settled in deep, but she took some small solace in knowing Trell at least was safe from the earl.

Brantley walked to pour more wine. “No, your bonnie knight was easily dispensed with, I’m told. By now he’s lying in an alley somewhere. The sooner you realize I am your last hope, the better this will go for you.” He crossed back to her and boldly ran a hand down her cheek, his eyes hungering for her in a way that made Alyneri cringe.

She dared not defy him again in something so benign, but his touch sent chills of revulsion coursing through her. No less disturbing was wondering if he spoke the truth about Trell, and yet…if Epiphany gave her one grace in this disaster, it was the sure hope that Lord Brantley had underestimated him.

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He stroked her chin and murmured, “I can even make things pleasant for you.”

“I seriously doubt that, Lord Brantley,” Alyneri answered tightly, fighting back tears. Inside, her heart was in a panic, and her stomach was so twisted and anxious that she felt sick. The man was absolutely vile, and the idea of him touching her more intimately…

“You say that now,” the earl remarked, his expression stony, “but you may reconsider before this is through.”

Alyneri merely stared hatefully at him.

He frowned at her while his moustache twitched, clearly deliberating on his tactics for swaying her affections. Then he seemed to decide something. “Look here,” he said, and he pulled a dagger from a sheath behind his back, “if you promise to behave, I’ll cut those bonds of yours. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

Alyneri nodded in spite of herself.

He cut her free and then sat there smiling at her, as if this simple act of kindness should entitle him to great rewards.

A knock upon the door spared her his lascivious consideration, and he walked to open it. A man stood without. He murmured something too low for Alyneri to overhear. “Very well,” said Lord Brantley, sounding annoyed. “The drunkards likely got sidetracked. Leave them if we must sail with the tide.”

The man muttered something else, and Lord Brantley closed the door. She saw him lock it and pocket the key. Turning to her then, the earl leveled her a hungry sort of smile. “Now then, where were we?”

“The forgiveness that most often eludes us is that which we grant to ourselves.”

- The First Vestal Alshiba Torinin

Emboldened
by his recent successes, Ean sought out Björn one night with a question—the first he’d managed to craft into an inquiry that didn’t also sound an accusation.

He found the First Lord in his library in counsel with Ramu, but the Sundragon waved off Ean’s apologies for interrupting with an explanation that his business was complete and bade them both good evening. Ean watched him leave feeling an immense affinity for the man. There was much to emulate in Ramu—Ean barely knew him, but that much was readily apparent.

Björn received Ean with equal grace as Ramu took his leave. He poured wine for them both and asked as he handed Ean a glass, “So…what have you come to ask me tonight? I would tell you anything you wish to know.”

Caught off balance by this candid inquiry, Ean stumbled to formulate the simple sequence of words he’d spent at least half an hour crafting in his rooms just moments before. “First Lord,” he began, using the term of respect for the first time, yet surprised that it felt so natural crossing his tongue, “what role am I supposed to play? You’ve known me from the beginning, while I—Raine’s truth, I recall hardly a fraction of who or what I’ve been. I believe I’m to become a player in your game, but I don’t truly know what game we’re playing, or…or even exactly what we’re trying to do.”

Björn considered him, and Ean tried to hold his gaze in return. Bearing in mind that he’d recently come within a hair’s breadth of letting Markal decapitate Isabel, holding Björn’s gaze should have been effortless by comparison. But it was one of the more difficult moments of his day. One could not stand before Björn van Gelderan and not feel the emanation of his presence. It radiated, as palpable as the feel of the sun upon your skin. The fact that he seemed so humbly unaware of his own power and yet so obviously confident in it was a compelling contradiction.

“Walk with me,” Björn said after a moment, finally releasing Ean from the force of his gaze. The prince visibly exhaled, relieved to find his breath returned to him, his body once again under his own volition and not held helplessly in the thrall of the Fifth Vestal’s potent consideration.

Ean moved at his side. The Vestal walked with a purposeful stride that was yet graceful and relaxed for all its surety. He cast the fifth before him to open two tall, mullioned doors and led Ean out onto a grand balcony.

Sunset bathed the world in crimson and gold. The sky seemed a sheet of flame, while the city and countryside undulated beneath variegated waves of gold-limned shadow. The high mountains across the valley loomed darkly, their peaks as a great swath of jagged basalt towers, while lush hanging valleys collected the night as water and their trees greedy with thirst. High, thin waterfalls split the darkness in silver-gold streaks, as if moonlight dripping down from the veil of clouds. And nearer, just below their high balcony, the alabaster city glowed rose-hued and brilliant, seeming reborn as the day died.

Overwhelmed by the astonishing beauty, Ean blurted, “This must be paradise.”

Björn glanced his way. The First Lord had his own sort of beauty, one that seemed somehow reflective of the same magical light that existed in the moonlight waterfalls and the gilded air, or the glimmering alabaster stones. “Paradise,” he mused, reflecting on the idea. “This concept conveys an ultimate, an unattainable absolute.” He arched a dark brow. “Perhaps such can exist in some dimension, on some plane of existence. Yet…there would be no game in paradise.” He cast Ean a wry look. “Do you see? Games require obstacles—challenges—while perfection necessarily excludes their very existence. The Laws of Patterning tell us there are no absolutes; rather, there is Balance in all things.” 

He looked back to the view and gestured with his goblet. “T’khendar was not meant as a paradise. But there
is
a reason to introduce beauty into the world, Ean. Revolution may be fueled by the worst sort of vice, but beauty is the driving force of any evolution with the potential to bring about higher states of being.”