The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light) (26 page)

“Not home. Not right away. The location of my home should be a secret, but I cannot trust that it hasn’t been compromised.”

“Where then?”

Pelas pulled him closer within the circle of his arm, reassuringly close, though his embrace was perilously cold. “I have an idea.” His doorway appeared, slicing down through the lightless dark, and then they stepped out into a shipyard.

Tanis blinked in the bright sunlight, whose warmth was a welcome relief. Pelas looked quickly around, assured himself they were alone, and then turned the boy a smile. “Ready?” Without waiting for an answer, he led away
.

“The hottest fire forges the sharpest steel
.”

- The Second Vestal Dagmar Ranneskjöld

Işak Getirmek
stood upon the balcony of Niko van Amstel’s Bemothi manor gazing into the mist. The morning was tepid and damp, the air heavy from a late-night shower, and the mist rising out of the jungle enveloped the world in haze. Işak awaited Dore’s permission to leave with an eager anticipation that he smothered beneath feelings of
guilt—for he dared not let the man know his true thoughts.

The binding Dore had placed upon him so many years ago bound Işak to Dore and made his mind vulnerable to the wielder’s inspection. That this working did not bind Dore to Işak in return was perha
ps the only grace allowed him. To endure a mutual bond with Dore Madden would surely have driven him mad.

Işak felt cold.
So
cold. Cold enough that his fingers and lips were blue, despite the balmy jungle climate, too cold to work the knots of his string as he whiled away the torturous hours. Standing in the rain through the night had leached all the warmth from his blood, but he welcomed the numbing chill, for it soothed the ever-constant, ever-painful fire that was Dore’s bond.

He’d been waiting for more than a day on Niko’s private balcony, waiting for his master to release him, but Dore remained upset about the episode with Franco Rohre,
days earlier. Işak had tried explaining why the Espial had so revolted him, but there was no explaining things to Dore—even had he been telling Dore the truth, which he patently had not.

Dore had punished Işak for his disobedience, punished him with blood and with pain laid in through the pattern of binding until Işak wept, until he’d crawled, stripped and bleeding, to weep at Dore’s feet, begging him for reprieve. Dore had finally relented, but it was long after he’d made Işak beg him to punish him more,
long after he’d sworn to his master that he deserved whatever Dore meted out. In Dore Madden’s eyes, everyone deserved due punishment. Nor did any subsequent healing offer redemption, for Dore made the experience as painful as possible, that no part of it might be a release.

Ironic
, Işak thought bitterly
.
Had Franco chosen any other manner of revolting pastimes to focus upon, Işak could’ve easily ignored them, for he’d been privy to the worst sort of filth in N’ghorra. Ill-chance alone led Franco Rohre to pick sodomy to accost Işak with—oh, clearly the man had recognized Işak’s fourth-strand patterns and retaliated; Işak almost respected the Espial for that—but Franco’s visions had been…

Işak closed his eyes.

Such vivid images were agonizing reminders of the shadows lurking in Işak’s own past, memories long repressed—long hidden from Dore lest he exploit them ruthlessly. So he’d fled the room—even knowing his sure punishment—rather than risk Dore unearthing such memories and subsequently using them to destroy the last vestiges of his humanity.

A wind blew, raising gooseflesh on Işak’s already frigid skin, and he shuddered as the wind raked across him. But it wasn’t the air that chilled him now.

Memories
drew forth that numbing ache, that clenching fear that accompanied the rending of hope…memories of an adolescent who’d lost his innocence in the salt mines of N’ghorra, at the hands of a cruel man who saw beauty and wished to destroy it, who thought nobility an outrage and honor an affront.

Many years later, Dore had repeatedly raped Işak’s mind
like the prisoner had raped his body, and now he couldn’t decide which man he loathed more.

It was mid-morning before Dore appeared, but Işak hadn’t moved—how could he when Dore had forbidden it?

“Işak, come,” Dore commanded, and Işak pulled himself away from the railing. His muscles cramped violently after so many hours of stationary use, but his face revealed none of this pain, nor did his thoughts betray the depths of his hatred for his master.

“Niko will take you to the Cairs today,” Dore told him. “W
e have reason to believe the prince is there. You will have the help of powerful allies loyal to Niko, loyal to me,” and this last he stressed with a jolt upon the bond, a not-so-subtle warning that while Işak might soon be on his own in the world, he would still be watched. “You will have the Karakurt’s network at your disposal and a company of Saldarians to aid in your task.” 

“Mercenaries,” Işak growled.

“Skilled agents sworn to our cause,” Dore corrected with a scowl and a lick of his spider-thin lips. “Radov has used the services of their leader many times. Now he loans them for our use.”

“How magnanimous of him,” Işak muttered ungraciously. The last thing he wanted was a host of spies watching his every move. “They are under my command?”

“I’ve said as much,” Dore grumbled. He settled Işak a piercing look. “You will find the prince, and you will bring him back to Tambarré for questioning. You will do everything in your power to apprehend Ean val Lorian short of killing the boy.”

“I doubt he will come wi
llingly, or easily.”

“Bind him to you from the outset,” Dore advised. He licked his lips. “It is the most effective way.”

Işak admitted this truth, but he also knew bindings were difficult to manage in the thick of battle. “And what if there is no way to gain him except through death?” he queried. “What then would you have me do?”

Dore scowled ferociously. Clearly he did not want to admit the possibility of failure, but Işak knew the man was no fool—never mind that he was entirely insane. “If there is no other way,” Dore said finally, leveling his reptilian gaze upon Işak, “if he cannot be bound to your will and defies all attempts to apprehend him, then and only then, shall you slay him. If your only choice is mortal, you will stand over this upstart prince
until his body is as cold as a campwhore’s tit.” 

Işak felt the stroke of compulsion laying itself upon him, new thorns of iron twining within the pattern of binding, spearing his already bleeding soul. Thus was Işak set to Dore’s will like a clock wound
each night, with no choice but to count the endless hours until dawn, until time had all bled out and naught but emptiness remained.

“Go now,” Dore murmured, eyeing him iniquitously. “Glory awaits.”

“The more outrageous a belief system, the greater

the probability of its success.”

- The royal cousin Fynnlar val Lorian

Kjieran walked
the long hall of his dormitory wrapped in a linen robe, his body damp from the baths. Though he’d soaked for the better part of an hour, he still felt unclean.

Earlier that day, he’d been called upon to attend three candidates testing for Bethamin’s Fire, and none had survived the testing. Each time Kjieran watched another truthreader succumb to the Prophet’s corruptive power, he saw the end of their race approaching. Easily as many truthreaders died as lived to become Marquiin—perhaps more—and Kjieran feared that at this rate Bethamin would destroy the entire strand of Adepts singlehandedly.

Yet even as he watched such men writhe and scream upon the pristine marble floor, he couldn’t help but feel a measure of envy. They were the lucky ones.

It was Kjieran’s job to dispose of such men, who were deemed unclean as a result of their failure to endure the Prophet’s malignant attack upon their consciousness. Kjieran always handled his brothers of the fourth with the deepest sympathy and regard, whispering the Rite for the Departed over their bodies as he carted them to the crematorium. And while he knew he’d done as much as he could to guide them to the Returning, he still felt guilt. Guilt because he couldn’t save them from being chosen, because he regularly stood by while the Prophet continued his wholesale slaughter of Kjieran’s race—of his own Adept strand.

Guilt because he was so desperately relieved that he hadn’t been the one being tested that day.

With such memories so fresh on his mind, Kjieran thought the worst when he saw the Ascendant standing outside the open door of his bed chamber. Had they found him out? Was he being taken for questioning? He did a quick mental survey of items in his room, wondering if anything could incriminate him—yet he was always so careful! He slowed his approach, wondering if it was too late to turn around. But of course it was. The man had no doubt noticed him long ago.

“Ascendant?” Kjieran asked with downcast eyes as he neared.

“It is well that you have bathed, acolyte,” remarked the Ascendant, “for the Prophet calls you to his chambers.”

Remembering the last time he was called to attend the Prophet, Kjieran hesitated to ask, “May I dress, Ascendant?”

“I should hope so,” the man grumbled, looking Kjieran over like some kind of heathen.

Kjieran hurried to don his acolyte’s tunic and pants and then followed the Ascendant to the Prophet’s chambers. Once again the man stopped just before the towering doors, leaving Kjieran to find his own way.

This time the Prophet awaited him at a stone table set with a meal. Kjieran knelt at the Prophet’s feet and bowed his head. “My lord,” he murmured with his colorless eyes fixed on the marble tiles.

“Hello, Kjieran,” came the Prophet’s deep voice. “Take that seat there. You shall dine at my table tonight.”

Kjieran received this news with a sinking feeling of dread. He obediently stood and took his seat as instructed, keeping his eyes downcast. The plate before him held a varied display of Saldarian dishes, the aromas rich and heady after so long eating the steady diet of beans and bread they served at the acolytes’ tables.

“You may eat, Kjieran.”

“Yes, my lord.”  Kjieran ate in silence, all too aware that the Prophet was studying him the entire time. He suddenly felt like a wild animal coaxed from safety with the promise of food only that the hunter might observe it more intimately. The idea made him shudder, and the food became suddenly unpalatable, but he didn’t dare stop until the Prophet required it or the plate was empty.

“I would know more about you, Kjieran,” the Prophet said after a long time of just watching him.

Kjieran settled his hands in his lap, eyes downcast, but deep within he trembled. He bit the inside of his lip to keep himself focused, to keep above the raw desperation, for he’d realized while he ate—the special attention, the late night rendezvous, this meal…

The Prophet was courting him.

“Tell me your story,” Bethamin commanded with only the slightest hint of compulsion to sweeten the order. Even that feather-light touch made Kjieran almost heady with the need to tell his lord everything. Raine’s protection alone allowed Kjieran to see these patterns for what they were—to at least be able to acknowledge they were at work, even if he often could not resist them. In both cases, the knowledge was disheartening, but at least he was not tormented with guilt—as so many others were—over why he loved a man that was so dreadful in every way.

Somehow finding the courage to speak, Kjieran told his lord of growing up in Agasan, of training at the Sormitáge, and of his assignment to the Court of Dannym. He did not embellish, but neither did he make the story too thin, for he sensed that the Prophet was searching for deeper things. He asked questions of him that were tender and painful. He wanted Kjieran’s most intimate thoughts and dug them out forcefully like deep-rooted tubers, leaving him feeling raw and gaping in the retelling.

When Kjieran was finished, the Prophet asked, “Do you resent this king for releasing you from his service?”

“How could I, my lord,” Kjieran replied quietly, “when his expulsion brought me to you?”

“Of course,” replied the Prophet dismissively, “but do you desire his death as retribution for how he wronged you?”

Kjieran thought fast to form a reply—only a truthreader knew how easily one might avoid an answer without seeming to do so, how a skilled conversationalist could speak one thing and mean something else entirely. “I desire that he should receive his due reward for the many crimes enacted during his reign.”

The Prophet considered his answer, and then he stood and slowly approached Kjieran, giving him ample time to appreciate his perfection of form. He stopped, and Kjieran slipped from his chair onto his knees before the man, knowing this was expected.

He did not, however, expect the Prophet to sink his hands into his hair like a lover and pull him back to his feet. Bethamin placed his chilling hands on Kjieran’s shoulders, and his thumbs caressed the pulse points where Kjieran’s blood throbbed through his veins. Kjieran’s thoughts ran riotous with fear, and he struggled to overcome them.

“Why do you tremble beneath my touch?” Bethamin asked after a moment.

Kjieran braved haltingly, “Because…because your flesh is cold, my lord.”

“And if it were not?”  The Prophet’s hands became warm upon his flesh. One hand moved around his throat while his other thumb found Kjieran’s lips. “Then would you desire me?”

Kjieran felt no compulsion. The Prophet expected the truth, live or die by it. Kjieran sucked in a shuddering breath. “I do not think so, my lord.”

Abruptly the Prophet released him, and Kjieran sagged in relief, fighting desperately to stifle his terror and grief.