The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light) (13 page)

“Might you tell us of this?” Niko inquired.

Franco turned to Niko and affected a regretful expression as he confessed, “If only I could.” Let them decide what to make of that.

From Niko’s look of understanding, the man had interpreted Franco’s reply as he’d intended. “I see, of course. It is only natural that Raine D’Lacourte would truth-bind you. Is there anything you can tell us?”

Franco set down his wine untouched. “Why are you so interested in the Fourth Vestal’s activities, Niko?”

“We heard he was in search of Björn van Gelderan,” Dore answered. As Franco turned the wielder an unreadable look, Dore added, “Surely you are as eager as we are to know Björn’s whereabouts.”

“From what I hear, it’s not Björn coming after all of us to call in his debt,” Franco snapped, his composure momentarily lost at facing this man after so long and so much. Dore alone among the Companions had not fled to the catacombs. They’d all been sure he’d perished at the Citadel, yet somehow he’d escaped both the battle and Björn’s justice. A galling irony.

“Be that as it may,” Niko said evenly, “the more information we have, the better prepared we shall be.”

Franco
didn’t think there would be much Niko could do to prepare for a Shade appearing at his bedside, but he said only, “We didn’t find him, so there’s not much I can offer.” He felt the strength of the fourth-strand patterns leveled upon him intensifying, which only made him angry, so he fought back with images of Niko performing fellatio upon the man in black. This brought a grunt of disgust from the wielder, which in turn drew Dore’s eye to the man in annoyance. 

“A few more questions, if you might indulge us, Franco,” Niko proposed, ignorant of the depraved visions Franco was presenting on his behalf, “before we get to the point of our meeting.”

“Certainly, Niko,” Franco said as unctuously as he could manage while upping the intensity of Niko’s imagined pleasure at his work upon the stranger in black. The wielder squirmed in his chair.

Irritated ostensibly at the wielder writhing beside him like a man with imminent diarrhea, Dore said brusquely, “We hear that lately you’ve made the intimate acquaintance of the Fire Princess
Ysolde Remalkhen
.”

Franco couldn’t help but be impressed by the extent of their information. Niko has spies deep in Calgaryn to know that. “Just so,” Franco admitted, for there was no point in denying it—and it certainly helped confirm the libertine image of himself which he hoped to uphold. 

“Did you then also encounter the crown prince upon his recent return?”

And what interest could you possibly have in Ean val Lorian, Dore?

Franco did not like this unexpected turn of questioning, which brought him too close for comfort to his own recent activities on the First Lord’s behalf.

It took incredible force of will, but he did what he must. He forced himself to imagine the most despicable visions of Niko he could stomach. It took more fortitude than he imagined to refrain from shuddering as he mentally shouted the scene.

The wielder shuddered on his behalf, drawing a hostile glare from Dore.

Franco deemed the wielder too distracted now to be of much use to Dore, so he answered with careful duality, “I did cross paths with the young prince.”

Dore brightened—that is, if the malicious intensity boiling within his gaze could be considered such. “What do you know of him? This Prince Ean?”

“Very little,” Franco lied, eying the wielder surreptitiously to be certain he noted nothing untoward in the comment. “Only that the prince seemed aggrieved by his mother’s attempted assassination on the afternoon of his return.” He added as an afterthought—to help perpetuate the lie, “And there seemed to be some trouble with an heiress? I really can’t recall.”

Dore’s manic expression fell into obvious frustration. “Did the Fire Princess mention nothing of the prince to you? She did not share in his plans perhaps?”

“Conversation was not the focus of our evenings, Dore,” Franco replied while at the same time imagining the man in black kneeling now before Niko’s bare form—

The wielder stifled a groan and launched abruptly out of his chair. He sped from the room looking unwell.

Franco felt immensely gratified.

While Dore stared after the man in bewilderment, Franco asked, “Why the interest in the prince, Niko?”

Niko waved a hand absently. “It’s Dore who garners some fascination with the boy.”  He added brusquely, “Dore?”

The man tore his gaze from the retreating wielder and fastened it instead on Franco. He stared at him blankly for a moment, during which time Franco honestly wondered if the man had mentally vacated to another realm, and then at last remarked, “The Prophet has his eye on the val Lorian prince.”

Franco stilled. “The Prophet?” He schooled his voice to indifference, but inside he was screaming. “The Prophet is…a patron of yours, Dore?” he managed.

“I have long been Advisor to the Prophet Bethamin, even before he moved his temple from Myacene to Tambarré.”

Franco went cold. By Cephrael’s Great Book, that would be more than three decades! It was horrific news.

Dore said grimly, “The Prophet is most displeased that a certain prince has been lately killing his Marquiin.”

It took a moment for Franco to understand his intimation. “You mean…you speak of Prince Ean?”

“The Prophet has reason to suspect him, yes.
Good reason.” He turned his gaze to the black-robed wielder, who stood outside on the balcony in the rain, and frowned again.

This was disheartening information to say the least. After everything Ean had already been through… Franco decided he’d best steer the conversation away from the prince before his true thoughts betrayed him—with or without the nameless wielder there to work the fourth. “What work do you do for Bethamin, Dore?” he inquired, letting his tone betray his unease. “Is that what this meeting is about?”

“Dore’s work is his own, Franco,” Niko soothed, sensing his agitation but mistaking the reason for it. “But you needn’t worry. The Prophet is our ally.”

“Oh indeed,” Franco returned flatly. It was time to move this meeting along while the contents of his stomach remained within it. Franco looked to his host. “I tire of this questioning, Niko. Why have you invited me here? What’s this about?”

Niko gave him a gratuitous smile saturated with insincerity. “We are but old friends getting reacquainted, Franco!” He opened palms in a beseeching gesture. “Surely you’re not offended by our interest?”

‘
Gain his confidence in whatever way you must…’

Dagmar’s
command weighed heavily upon Franco’s already overtaxed conscience. Appearances, appearances!

Franco reined in his anger and apprehension and dampened it beneath a shield of sour protest. “No…of course not, Niko.”

Niko settled him a pleased smile. “To the point then, as you have so graciously requested.” He crossed ankle over knee and clasped hands in his lap, a studied gesture intended to disarm the conversation. “Franco,” he began then as his pale gold eyebrows furrowed with disingenuous concern, “you must know that the realm is out of Balance.”

Franco nodded for him to continue.

“We believe,” and he indicated Dore as part of the we, “that to rectify and restore Balance to the realm, we must have a full complement representing us in Illume Belliel. This is imperative, Franco.” He leaned in to add with a conspiratorial frown, “I must tell you, we are not the only ones who trust to this solution.”

Franco watched Niko’s face for any hint of his deceitful nature, but the man was impressively vacant. “Let me see if I understand,” he replied, taking a measured breath. “You believe the realm is out of Balance because all five Vestals aren’t sitting in some chairs in Illume Belliel?”

“It is the only explanation that fits,” Niko assured him. “Think about it: the timing of the war, the circumstances surrounding the Second Vestal’s disappearance and the Fifth’s betrayal…all of these events exactly correlate to the moment the Adept race began dying.” He opened palms to the ceiling as if his logic was incontrovertible. “There really can be no other reason for it.”

Franco sat dumbfounded. He was, in fact, so thoroughly flabbergasted that the moment left him entirely without response. It was so beyond the limits of reason! “I must…think on this,” he said ineptly.

“Yes, it is astonishing, is it not?”

“Quite,” Franco heartily agreed.

“We must know where you stand, Rohre,” Dore demanded then, suddenly paying attention to the conversation again. “Are you with us?”

Franco was so unbalanced that it took him precious moments to derive what Dore was asking. The shock when he did realize it nearly thrust him from his chair. “You’re…” he fought to control his fury, to suppress the urge to draw his blade and cut off both their heads before violently eviscerating the rest of them. “You’re planning to
depose the…Second and Fifth Vestals?” 

“That is a harsh word,” Niko protested in an injured tone, “and not fair to our intentions. No, not fair at all.”

“The Second Vestal could be dead for all we know,” Dore pointed out curtly, “and the Fifth is disavowed. The Alorin Seat should have confronted the matter centuries ago. If she’d the courage then to do what was needed, our race would not now be dying.”

“It must be done,” Niko said, clasping hands in his lap resolutely, as if he was well and truly regretful about their intended coup. “For the good of the realm, of course.”

Franco fervently wanted a drink, but he’d be damned if he’d imbibe anything given him by Niko van Amstel.

‘
Gain his confidence in whatever way you must…’ 

Damn Dagmar for leveling such an order
! Damn Niko for his accursed plotting! But above all, Franco knew he was truly damned because he hadn’t had the courage three centuries ago when all might’ve gone quite differently. Now it was long too late.

“I confess...” Franco managed, knowing he had to say something, “I am most…concerned by this course of action. What if it fails?”

“We have powerful allies,” Dore assured him with a wicked smile.

Franco cringed inside. “What allies?”

“They prefer to remain anonymous,” Niko said, “but I assure you they are most capable of following through at their end of things.”

“And…”
By Cephrael’s Great Book! Franco felt dry-throated with panic and fury both. “And what does this plan involve?”

Niko gave him a reassuring smile. “Right now, nothing is needed from you save knowing that you stand with us. When the time comes, of course…” and his smile broadened, “well…then you will need only vote as your conscience dictates, yes?”

‘Others have received such invitations—voting Guild members…’ Dagmar’s words took on a deeper and far more ominous meaning.

“Who?” Franco managed. “Who will replace the Great Master?”

Niko cast him a knowing look of abashed acceptance.

Franco very nearly lost his composure entirely. “You,” he croaked.

Niko nodded in false modesty. “We searched for others—even your name was upon the list of candidates—but in the last, this burden was thrust upon me. Dore and the others eventually convinced me—over great protest, I must say, for surely others are equally worthy—that it is my duty to accept the role, for the good of the realm.”

Franco couldn’t help himself asking, “And the Alorin Seat? She also trusts to this solution?” He remembered Alshiba’s calm determination at Mark Lavin’s abandoned manor and her resolute unwillingness to generally believe ill of the Fifth Vestal.

“Alshiba and I have an understanding,” Niko replied with a smile that was too smug for Franco’s ease. “As I said, we’ve spent much time together.”

Franco wanted to strangle him. So it’s not enough to
propose unseating the Second and Fifth Vestals, but let’s slander the First while you’re at it by insinuating shared intimacy with the likes of you? Niko’s audacity defied comprehension.

“And what of Björn?” Franco posed, keeping his emotions in close check now. “Who will replace him?”

“We have several wielders in mind. As you know, it will take a Guild vote to elect the candidates for the Second Vestal, but the Alorin Seat alone may propose the Fifth. Even then, the appointment must go to the Council of Realms and can only be ratified by the Speaker.”

“And you intend to influence that decision? You think you
can?”

“We are certain of the matter,” Dore intoned in a voice like gravel.

Franco was ready to impale him with the closest sharp object to hand. He knew he had to get out of there before he lost control and killed the both of them—or at least himself in trying. “Well…” he said slowly, calling up a smile as sincere as Niko’s own, “when the time comes, Niko, you have my word that I will vote as my conscience dictates.”

Niko opened arms. “That is all we can ask of any of our Guild brothers, is it not, Dore?”

Dore grunted disagreeably, no doubt disgruntled by the fact that his wielder wasn’t still there to disprove Franco’s fealty. The cadaverous wielder shoved out of his chair and stalked out onto the balcony, where the storm now raged.