The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light) (27 page)

“Look at me, Kjieran. Meet my gaze.”

Kjieran lifted his eyes to look upon his lord. The Prophet’s gaze in return was fixed piercingly upon him. He took Kjieran’s face in his hands and ran his thumbs over Kjieran’s cheeks, over his lips. His darkly seductive gaze assessed Kjieran like a sculptor examining his work, searching for flaws. “I do not usually care for a truthreader’s colorless eyes,” the Prophet remarked with the breathless, husky timbre of lust, “but there is something unique about you, Kjieran. I do not understand why I am drawn to seek you out.”

Kjieran held the man’s gaze, too terrified to look away, though he felt scalded and sick with despair.

The Prophet stroked his lips with one thumb, separating them. The same thumb parted Kjieran’s teeth and hovered in the space between. “I have played games of desire with many men and women,” he said thoughtfully, running his thumb slowly along the edge of Kjieran’s teeth while his breath came ragged and fast. “I can make my body respond to my will, make my phallus erect to give others the pleasure they claim they desire, but I do not know if these things are true, and I have never felt desire myself.” 

Kjieran’s entire body was taut and quivering.

“Yet I think I begin to feel desire for you.”  The Prophet hooked his thumb inside Kjieran’s teeth and gently tugged his mouth apart that his thumb might find Kjieran’s tongue instead. He wet it with Kjieran’s saliva and rubbed it across his lower lip, and the truthreader thought he might truly be sick. “Tell me, Kjieran,” Bethamin murmured, “How can that be?”

“My…my lord?” Kjieran whispered wretchedly.

The Prophet released his face and ran his hand slowly through Kjieran’s hair. He couldn’t tell if the man enjoyed this or merely explored his body to satisfy some personal interest, for he was so deliberate in his motion. “This concept fascinates me,” the Prophet admitted as his hands continued their sensitive inspection of him. “If I desire you, what exactly do I desire? I do not desire your immediate death, for that would leave me without your company, and I find your company intriguing. I don’t desire your obedience, for I have that already. I cannot compel you to desire me without knowing the falsehood of your kisses. What then am I desiring?”  The Prophet eyed him circumspectly with his dark and potent gaze, clearly expecting a response.

Kjieran tried to gather his wits about him, but it was so hard hanging onto the fringes of his sanity while all manner of fearful visions assaulted him. “Perhaps… perhaps my lord wishes that I would also desire you?” he whispered.

“Yes, I believe that goes without saying. But is that all of it? Or is there something else?”

Suddenly the Prophet took hold of the back of Kjieran’s head and fastened his mouth upon his. The kiss thrilled electrifyingly through Kjieran as Bethamin’s tongue probed deeply. Just the slightest whisper of the Prophet’s chill power bled through the seal of their lips, but even that gossamer wisp seared Kjieran. The Prophet’s strong arms bound Kjieran, the entire encounter not one of pleasure but of tasting, testing…a feral creature deliberating on how well Kjieran would sate his hunger.

When the Prophet released him, Kjieran gasped and fell to his knees. He dropped his head and stared hard at the floor, willing himself not to cry.

“How very interesting,” the Prophet remarked into the silence that followed. “I wonder…desire is not effectively compelled, but can it be stoked, persuaded…enticed?”  A long silence followed, wherein Kjieran held his breath and prayed that the Prophet did not mean to explore these things tonight. At last he said, “I must think further upon it.”  He stroked Kjieran’s hair once more. “You may go, Kjieran.”

“Your will be done, my lord,” Kjieran all but wept, and as soon as he was beyond the doors of the Prophet’s chambers, he fled.

“Come and kiss me here in plenty. Love’s a stuff will not endure.”

- The Immortal Bard Drake di Matteo

Ean met
Julian for breakfast. On the previous day, the ebullient youth had shown the prince around Björn’s palace, which Julian and his fellows affectionately called the White Forest for the sheer number of turrets, cupolas and spires that graced its towers. Today he and Ean would be venturing into the city.

Niyadbakir.

Ean was still in awe, still confused, still slightly mistrustful and apprehensive of what each new day would bring—for certainly the other shoe had to drop any minute. Julian, on the other hand, trusted to a fault. He’d been in T’khendar almost the entire time Ean had been dodging assassins, and he seemed to know half the palace populace. He eagerly answered any question Ean could dream up and was always willing to lend a hand to anyone who needed help. Ean wondered how long such a pure soul could stave off the cynicism that inevitably accumulates as innocent minds become corroded by the tarnish of hard experience. He felt he’d long passed that threshold himself.

Thoughts of innocence, however, necessarily reminded him of Tanis…of Alyneri, and of the many others who no doubt felt he’d betrayed them. It didn’t make for a pleasant mood to start his morning.

After taking breakfast on Ean’s patio, they headed off for a ‘day on the town.’  Julian wanted him to know all of the ‘best leisure places,’ though Ean doubted he’d be seeing much leisure in any place as soon as Björn deemed him ready to…what? Ean still didn’t know what the man had in mind for him, and it didn’t sit lightly with him to face a future so wholly unknown.

As they were heading out of his rooms, Ean grabbed his sword and was belting it on when Julian said, “You won’t need that, you know.”

Ean looked at him uncomprehendingly.

“Your sword,” he clarified with a smile. “No one wears weapons in Niyadbakir.”

Pausing with his leather belt half threaded, Ean arched a brow. “I find that hard to believe.”

“No, it’s true. I mean, wear it if you like, but you’ll be the only one doing so.”

“Is that because of the First Lord,” Ean asked skeptically, “or his Shades?”

“It’s because of Isabel,” Julian said quietly.

“Who is Isabel?”

Julian shook his head and flashed a grin. “You’ll find out soon enough. Come on.”

Somewhat reluctantly, Ean left his sword hanging in the armoire.

Julian led Ean out of the palace and onto the ramparts of the Court Wall, one of several connecting walls surrounding the palace and overlooking its many courts and gardens. It was a brilliant morning but cooler than it had been the day before.

“What season is it here?” Ean asked as they were passing above a rose garden nearing the end of its bloom.

“Oh, it’s winter,” Julian said, “but the winters here are mild—this is about as cold as it gets—or so they tell me
. It’s almost Adendigaeth
—
you know, the Solstice Festival. It begins with the First Lord’s Masquerade Ball.” He turned Ean an excited smile. “I’ve been hearing about nothing else since I arrived—Adendigaeth is the biggest celebration of the year.” 

“Why?”

“Because it signifies rebirth—the Returning.” When Ean just looked puzzled, Julian explained, “In ancient texts, Adendigaeth is a magical time. The
Sobra’Iternin
says this is the time when the
angiel
Cephrael and Epiphany return to Annwn, the Otherworld,
where all life was formed and where the Maker resides. At the gates of Annwn stand the Extian Doors—the real ones, mind you. Seeming as diamonds and standing a hundred paces high, they’re actually formed of all the strands of
elae
woven together. Mortal eyes cannot look upon them, for their brilliance reflects the Maker’s own essence. On the Longest Night, the
angiel
open the Extian Doors to allow all the waiting souls to journey through Annwn, that they may learn the secrets of death and Return.”

Julian motioned them along the wall as he added, “We celebrated the Solstice in Jeune, where I’m from, but I don’t think many people really paid attention to what they were celebrating. Here, Adendigaeth is sacred.”

“Calgaryn celebrates the Longest Night with parties that last until dawn,” Ean noted, “but I remember learning that the tradition grew out of a hallowed vigil.”

“Exactly.”

The more Ean heard, the stranger it all became. He shook his head and muttered, “This place is nothing like I’d imagined.”

“I know!” Julian laughed. “You were expecting red skies and scorched earth and all, right?”

Ean gave him an intense look. “I suppose so.”

Julian shrugged. “The city
was
basalt when Malachai raised it from the bedrock of the realm, but the First Lord changed it to alabaster a long time ago.”

Not even bothering with the wonder inherent in that feat, Ean asked, “Why?”  It seemed like such an enormous task to serve no purpose at all.

“Dunno,” Julian said. “I guess he thought it was prettier this way.” When Ean gave him a dubious look, Julian laughed and said, “Master Morrelaine likes to say the First Lord did it to provide a lesson.”

“Who is Master Morrelaine?”

“Markal Morrelaine?” Julian supplied. “He’s our instructor.”

Ean sort of stared at him.
Markal Morrelaine!
How many more surprises were in order this day? Already he’d learned the Extian Doors—the ones he was sure he’d seen before—were the doors to the Otherworld where the dead souls went for rebirth. Now he’d learned that the most famous wielder in history—Björn and Malachai notwithstanding—was an instructor in T’khendar. “So, Markal Morrelaine…” Ean managed, getting a grip on his incredulity. “What about this lesson?”

“Well he has a saying:
How deep does the alabaster go?”

Ean glanced at him curiously. “And the answer?”

Julian flashed a grin. “All the way to the other side. It’s Master Morrelaine’s way of telling us not to trust merely to surface phenomena but to look beneath the effect to view the cause—to find its source.”

“Its pattern,” Ean supplied.

“Just so.” Julian looked pleased at his level of understanding. “It also means for us to look for deeper meanings in everything—not merely to trust that what we see is the truth. It means for us to evaluate what we’re observing by comparing our observations against what we already know. And it means that no matter how complex things appear, there is a simple truth that once found will dissolve the complexity.”

“He sure crammed a lot of meanings into one saying.”

Julian gave a rueful sigh. “Master Morrelaine is fond of weighty proverbs.” Then he brightened. “But oh—you’ll be able to see him. This way!” He set off in a trot along the crenellated Court Wall, which wound like a massive snake embracing the multiple cloisters, yards and gardens that flanked the lower levels of the palace. Eventually he stopped at one of the crenels and rested elbows on the merlon, which was wide enough to accommodate both of them shoulder to shoulder and another besides.

As Ean joined Julian in gazing into the yard about thirty paces below, he saw a score of men and a few women—many of them seemed close to his own age—engaged in some form of physical training. They moved slowly through a sequence of exact poses, hands extended and knees bent, positions changing with each maneuver. It reminded Ean of the Dance of Swords his own swordmaster had taught, only more complex.

“What are they chanting?” Ean asked, having noticed that the low murmur was actually words spoken in a different language.

“The Laws of Patterning,” Julian supplied with a grimace. “Master Morrelaine feels we should know them verbatim—in Old Al
æic.” Suddenly he pointed. “That’s him, there.”

The silver-haired man Ean had seen the day before was just then emerging from beneath the sheltering roof of the adjacent loggia. But Ean hardly noticed him, for once again,
she
walked with him.

Just seeing her, Ean’s heart bolted into a frantic race as if to prove its worth and claim her favor. Her presence reached out and captured him wholly.

That day she wore a flaxen dress with a high waist and belled sleeves. As before, the black silk blindfold bound her hair, and she carried a tall, shadow-dark staff. Ean watched as she and Markal stopped in front of the group, who continued their slow and exacting maneuvers.

She tapped the staff lightly upon the stones, but the result was a resounding clap that echoed in the court and brought the entire class to a halt. They straightened and turned to her.

“Again, but like this,” she said in a crystalline voice—
that voice!
  It speared Ean. His chest constricted, and his breath refused to flow. He
knew
that voice.

The woman led the group through a series of connected motions, extending her staff before her with one hand as she slowly ducked and twirled, twisted and spun, her arms working their own complicated adjoining pattern, finally ending with her staff held in both hands above her head.

Ean realized he’d just seen the class do this sequence, yet something had been different as she led them through it a second time. The difference was so minute—it was amazing anyone would’ve noticed the difference at all, much less how to observe such a thing while blindfolded.