The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light) (116 page)

Phaedor looked up beneath the spill of his raven
hair to spy Tanis juggling a piping hot piece of fish between two hands and blowing gingerly on his fingers in between. He stifled a smile. “Yes, Tanis?”

The lad popped the fish into his mouth, sucked in a cooling breath around the steaming flesh, and finally mumbled while chewing, “Milord, why did you enchant the dagger you gave me
? And don’t say it’s an obvious question,” the boy hastened to add, angling a look at the zanthyr with his bright, colorless eyes, “because I don’t expect an obvious answer, so therefore it can’t be an obvious question.”  

“Indeed?”
The zanthyr gave him a skeptical look. The near firelight played across his statuesque features and heightened the mysterious quality of his emerald gaze.

“It’s just…” Tanis screwed up his face as he tried to think of how to better phrase his
question. He settled both elbows on his knees. “What I mean is, did you give me the dagger because you knew I would be needing a dagger that would keep returning to me? But no,” he answered for himself, frowning at the flames, “you’d have needed to know ahead of time that I would get into trouble, unless—oh, wait…did you maybe enchant it somehow after the fact, after you knew I was with Pelas? Actually—wait…
did
you know I was with Pelas?” 

“Are we still talking about the dagger?”

Tanis gave him a flinty look. “How much
did
you know beforehand, my lord?”

Phaedor
leaned on one elbow and extended long legs to the flames. “I knew that boys are wont to lose things.” He balanced the razor-sharp point of another of his daggers precariously on the end of his fingertip and glanced at Tanis over the hilt as he added, “A dagger that returns despite a lad’s best efforts to misplace it is something any earnest boy of good intent should have.”

Tanis was
unsurprisingly dissatisfied with this reply. He’d long noticed that the zanthyr was very good at making you think he’d answered your question when he really hadn’t answered it at all. “Are you upset that I gave the dagger to Pelas?”

“It was yours
to do with as you would, Tanis.”

“Except lose, apparently,” the boy pointed out, frowning at him.

Phaedor gave him a shadowy grin. He sent his own dagger flipping upwards three times before catching the point on his fingertip again.

There was something about his nonchalance that suddenly made Tanis
really
want to know the truth.

Tanis had tried truthreading the
zanthyr before to no avail, though he could sometimes tell when Phaedor was telling the whole truth and when his words merely masked a deeper truth running beneath them. But Tanis had recently had luck working his talent with Pelas, and this emboldened him to the possibility of success of the same kind with the zanthyr. So he focused all of his will and asked again, working his most powerful Telling, “
Did
you know I would meet Pelas, my lord?”

It should have produced an answer
from even the most rigid of opponents, but Phaedor merely chuckled, long and deep, a sort of dangerous purr-growl that could make your hair stand on end. He peered at the lad from among his raven curls and murmured in a decidedly ominous tone, “Trying your Adept skills upon me, are you Truthreader?”

Tanis gazed unhappily at him
. “It worked on Pelas.”

Phaedor made his dagger vanish with a flick of his wrist and tilted his head to regard the lad curiously
. “Why should you need reassurance, Truthreader? It was your choice to give Pelasommáyurek your dagger, just as it was your choice to follow him in the first place, as it was to leave him when the time came.”

Tanis eyed him askance
. “You’re implying that all of these decisions were of the same quality or nature, but—”

Yet even as he thought to deny it, he realized that it was so
. Phaedor had already told him that instincts often led one to the right choice. Tanis had dismissed the notion at first, but now that he’d had some days to ponder it, he was more willing to admit that
some
instinct—for good or ill—had been guiding him since the moment he’d laid eyes on Pelas.

Then another thought struck him, and he gave the
zanthyr a sooty look. “Is this what you were referring to when you said instincts were rarely wrong?”

Phaedor’s emerald gaze glittered, which was an answer in itself.

Tanis frowned down at the half-eaten fish lying on a fir branch across his lap. Phaedor often spoke in mysteries, but sometimes the lad understood the truth running beneath his words even if the words themselves made no sense. Perhaps it was an aspect of the magic that bound them together, or perhaps the zanthyr was merely pushing the truth across to him purposefully, mind to mind, allowing him to see it. Whatever the cause, Tanis was suddenly certain of one fact: He
was
being guided.

Moreover, the more he accepted this truth, the louder h
is instincts seemed to say that a higher purpose influenced the strange events of his life, or at least…he wasn’t sure, but he got the sense that there were things he was meant to do.

Maybe that’s what the
zanthyr meant when he said we’re following my path.

The idea gave him sudden chills, and Tanis hugged arms across his chest, though the fire felt warm on his face.
“I just have to trust, don’t I?” he asked softly into the darkness.

“We all do, lad,” came the
zanthyr’s resonant reply.

F
or every mystery that the zanthyr saw fit to comment upon, many more never came so close to resolution. Some, Tanis didn’t even bother asking, such as why they traveled by horse through icy, mountainous terrain as labyrinthine as a mirror maze when the zanthyr might’ve just called a portal and used the dimension of Shadow to transport them to their ultimate destination. Tanis was bright enough to know that if such could’ve been done, the zanthyr would’ve done it, so he rightly assumed that wherever they were headed, this was the way to get there.

And other questions—like the nature of Phaedor’s relationship with Tanis’s mother or what lay in store for them—continued to go unanswered despite
the lad’s best attempts to draw them forth. This was due to those answers being categorized within the mysterious and infuriating classification of “maintaining Balance.” 

Tanis thought Balance was entirely too convenient an excuse for not having to answer any questions
. Knowing the zanthyr’s disposition toward questions in general, which was not far afield of Rhys’ disproportionate loathing, he found the explanation highly suspect.

He had been brooding disagreeably over the concept of Balance for more than a few days of travel when they finally emerged from the maze of mountain
passes onto an open ridge that faced an incredible, panoramic view.

Beyond and beneath their high vantage spread a lushly forested valley
. It formed an emerald blanket that jutted up against a dark blue sea. Spanning many miles between snow-capped ridges and ocean, the canopy of trees was interspersed with rolling green hills and meadows dotted here and there with what Tanis at first assumed were sheep but which he later realized were horses.

The
zanthyr halted their mounts at the edge of the cliff and gazed silently across the pristine valley, his emerald eyes greener even than the trees beneath them, his thoughts more distant than the cloud-rending peaks at their backs. The zanthyr always maintained an effortless remoteness, even when he was being kind—which he always was to Tanis.

The lad drew rein beside Phaedor’s massive black destrier and gazed appreciatively out over the vista
. His thoughts and musings of malcontent were momentarily forgotten in light of the incredible view. “Where are we?” he asked, smiling with wonder, for the valley and its distant sea were lovely in so many ways.

“Home,” the
zanthyr murmured. He gave the boy a sideways glance full of meaning and then led away down the trail.

***

Loran val Whitney, Duke of Marion and Dannym’s General of the East, sat his warhorse at the top of a rise frowning down at the fortress of Nahavand. With the sun slanting low in the west and casting its powerful rays directly on the fortress walls, Nahavand seemed a near mirage—a sight to behold.

The high, crenellated wall began and ended in the mountainside, and the fortress’s great towers were carved from the unforgiving stone. The detail of their construction, the ornate figures depicted among the richly carved walls—this was the work of master craftsmen from a day when kings didn’t just stack stones atop each other with a bit of wet sand and call it a castle.

Loran suspected that Nahavand had seen ages come and go—certainly it had been standing longer than Radov abin Hadorin’s reign. Nahavand’s ancient engineers had taken care with its placement and design, utilizing the natural landscape to provide both protection and advantage. A trained eye easily saw how a small force could hold such a fortress indefinitely against a much larger host.

Nahavand was a treasure, yet the Nadoriin had apparently abandoned it without a backwards glance.

Loran’s knights were investigating the fortress. Some ranged north and south on horseback along the perimeter defense, while others lit torches and ventured through the open portcullis and into the keep.

Loran scratched his dark-haired head.

“I need you to go to Nahavand personally, take command of the forces there and fortify the outpost…You must make it defensible, Loran, and fortify it well.”

His king’s order—baffling words when faced with the truth. Nahavand boasted no force
 in need of Loran’s leadership. All signs indicated the fortress had been deserted for many moons.

Knowing Gydryn val Lorian well, Loran understood what his king wanted him to do at Nahavand, though he didn’t understand why he’d been given the task under such subterfuge and misdirection.

Loran’s discerning gaze noted places in Nahavand’s wall which required repair. Some of the crenels were crumbling, and one of the portcullises was stuck halfway up. Then there were supplies to consider, quarter to be found for the men and horses, fresh water and weapons… 

Nahavand’s foundation was solid, but much work would be needed to fortify it well. Still, from the looks of it, the fortress could easily protect a few thousand men.

“…it
will play a vital role in the coming conflict…”

Loran exhaled a measured breath.
Sire…
he thought grimly, teeth clenched with misgiving,
I pray you know what you’re doing.

Then he set heels to his mount and embarked upon the monumental task his king had assigned him.

END OF BOOK TWO

Underlining within definitions denotes words that may be found in this glossary.

Adendigaeth
(aden´– di gay´uth) [Old Alæic]
1
Rebirth, regeneration 
2
A festival in celebration of the Winter Solstice lasting varying lengths but traditionally ending on the Longest Night.

Adept
(a´-dept) n. [Old Alæic]
1
One born with the instinctive ability to sense and compel one of the five strands of
elae
 
2
A race of such persons, each with attributes intrinsic to the strand of
elae
that modified them
[an adept of the third strand]
3
A
Healer
,
Nodefinder
,
Truthreader
, or
Wildling
.

Angiel
(ahn g
ēl´) n. [Old Alæic] The Maker’s two blessed children,
Cephrael
and
Epiphany
, who were made in the Genesis to watch over His worlds.

Ascendant
(ah send´ent) [Cyrenaic
ascendere,
to climb] A priest or cleric serving the Prophet Bethamin. Ascedants are marked by tatooes denoting their rank and function.

Avieth
(ay´ vee uth) [Old Alæic, bird] n. A third-
strand
Wildling
race of shapeshifters with the ability to asssume two distinctly separate forms: human and hawk.

Awaken
(ah wā´ ken) v. [Old Alæic]
Adepts
who have
Returned
awaken to their inherent abilities usually during the transition of puberty but sometimes as early as two years of age.  

Balance
(bal´ans) n. [bilanx
two+scale] The term used to describe the highest force of cause and effect in the
realm
of
Alorin
; the natural laws of the
realm
which define how far the currents may be twisted out of their natural paths by
wielders
of
elae
before manifest retribution is incurred by the
wielder
. These laws are of much consideration among the various Adept Guilds and a topic of intense speculation and theorization.