The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light) (70 page)

“Yet here we are,” she said equitably, opening her palms to the sky. He had not moved once save for the hand that absently wove its knots, save to shift his gaze to her. This, too, told her much. Her lips parted in a smile as she inquired, “What shall we do, Işak?”

She could see him deliberating. Oh, he was an intelligent man, to be certain. He could see as well as she that they were getting nowhere on their current tack—weeks of searching for Ean val
Lorian had delivered nothing save the location of the villa where he’d once stayed. There was speculation, and even the hint of possibility that he had been involved in the disaster at the Temple of the Vestals, yet this could not be confirmed despite ardent attempts. For all intents and purposes, the prince had vanished from the realm.

Which was not, in itself, an impossibility.

This avenue was also being investigated—of course it was, the Karakurt left no idea unexplored. To this end, she had well-paid contacts within the Espial’s Guild who had just that morning proven more than useful. That the information they delivered had not directly concerned Ean val Lorian’s whereabouts by no means made it dross.

The Karakurt knew there were avenues open to them beyond sitting and waiting—which Pearl and Raliax were far
too content to do—but she wanted to see if Işak would come to the same conclusions she had already reached.

It was infinitely better to have someone else do her work for her.

“I need your information,” he growled finally, all the admission she was likely to get out of such a man. He straightened and turned to her then, pocketing his string, and added with narrowed gaze, “And you want the protection of my name upon the act…when it comes.”

She broke into an appreciative smile. So he had worked it out then.
Bravo!
“Indeed,” she agreed, giving him a look of admiration.

He still held her gaze, and she admitted there was force within those grey-blue eyes, enough to make even such as her wary of crossing him. Here was a man who inherently commanded power, more perhaps than he knew himself. His tall form only contributed to his imposing strength of presence. “Where do we go from here?” he asked tightly.

“Your men think there is nothing to be done until Ean val Lorian is found,” she noted. “Mine seem unfortunately to agree.”

“
My
men,” he growled, casting her a deliberate stare. “The best of them are naught but cutthroats and spies.”

“Then what does that make you, their leader?” she inquired with an amused look.

He turned away from her. “I do not lead them.”

“Yet they follow you.”

This drew his gaze again, fast and stinging with sharp scrutiny. “Speak your terms or leave me be.”

The best Ma’hrkit toreadors knew when to bait the bull and when to step aside. She backed down, the better to draw him closer. Bowing her head slightly, a subtle nod to his superiority, or at least a feigned implication of her submission to it, she moved away from the railing, saying, “Might we adjourn somewhere more private to discuss the details of our accord?”

Wordlessly, he followed.

She could feel his eyes hot upon her as she led him to her personal chambers, windowless and bare-walled, the only place where she could be certain none of Raliax’s men might overhear and where even her own people left her alone.

There she served him rare and expensive wine. They sat beside a giant fireplace that dominated her drawing room, though the hearth was gaping and cold on that overly warm winter day. Settling into an armchair, she looked him over quietly. “An accord with the Karakurt is sealed with truths. From me to you, from you to me. If we are to understand each other—if we are to work together—this is how it must be.”

His eyes were wolfish in the room’s muted light, their mystery made more so by the shadow of his brow, by the fall of his black hair.
Always it was the wolf cornered and fierce who lurked within Işak’s gaze, never the solitary wanderer. This told her much of the hardships he’d faced. Işak never let down his guard.

He shifted in his chair, looking uncomfortable in civilized surroundings
though they seemed somehow more fitting to his person than the rough company of ‘cutthroats and thieves.’ 

“Well, what do you offer?”

Her lips spread in a slow smile. “New information. A way to flush out Ean val Lorian no matter where he hides—to bring him to us.”

She could tell that he held her in suspicious regard, but this did not discourage her in the least. If a camel could fall from a single tiny bite, so could her unique poison seduce or coerce a man into foolishly trusting once again, even one so c
learly ill-treated as Işak’getirmek.  

He watched her narrowly, mistrustfully, too wary and careful to be drawn into her web with ease. “What do you require of me?”

“A sharing of knowledge, Işak’getirmek,” she replied. “You are looking upon my unveiled face, looking into my eyes. You know then that I cannot lie. You know also that
I
will know if you attempt to lie to me. Thus are we on even ground.”

His expression darkened, and she caught but the barest shards of fractured thoughts slipping beyond his vigilant control. He guarded his secrets carefully and well—as was to be expected from a man of his craft—but the Karakurt could read a man’s expressions as easily as his thoughts, and she knew she was making progress.   

“I have given you much already,” she continued as she took a sip of wine, regarding him over the rim of her goblet. “You know me now to be a truthreader. This fact alone might be traded with my enemies to grave result. Surely you understand why.”

“There are not so many female truthreaders in the land,” he answered, holding her gaze intently, “and fewer still with their first Sormitáge ring,” and his eyes strayed to indicate the thin gold band she wore on her ring-finger.

So you noticed that, too—my, my!
Her truthreader’s ring was but one of many she wore—the least of them in weighted worth—though the engravings upon the slender gold band were elegant work. That he noted the ring at all among the many others that graced her fingers told her he knew how to spot a Sormitáge ring. Indeed, it told her much also about his other acquaintances.

“So you see what I have given you already, Işak,” she returned quietly, a tiny offering to coax the wolf into the open. “What will you give me in kind?”

She could see him begin an internal struggle at this question. Here was a man who shared no secret willingly, for so much had clearly been torn from him already.

Oh yes
, this she knew unequivocally. There was a specific feeling to a man’s mind when he built walls to keep prying minds out. Such often seemed a thick and impenetrable fog that molded and reformed around an intruder, never revealing the hidden secrets. But this was not the mental shield Işak had erected—not solely. Beneath the obligatory obscuring mists erected by any wielder trained in the art, deeper walls stood rigid, as dense and impervious as the moss-eaten battlements of the ancient fortress of Kjvngherad. Yet the Karakurt sensed that Işak’s shields had been erected not to keep others out so much as to keep his own memories within. 

So tormented…but what secrets haunt you?

That he agreed to answer her at all was impressive. That he did so without a hint of anguish crossing his features or in his tone was more impressive still, for surely the anguish lurked there among the gnarled and bloodied roots of his past. Yet his gaze was hard and cold as he replied, “What would you know?”

The Karakurt set her goblet upon the table and fixed her colorless truthreader’s eyes upon him. She was enjoying this immensely. “T
ell me, Işak,” she said, lacing her words with the barest touch of the fourth strand, “What vendetta do you harbor against the val Lorian reign?”

His expression twisted at the question—hurt, betrayal and hatred flashing in one fierce glare. He could not de
ny the truth in her accusation, and in his discomfiture, turbulent thoughts burst forth, revealing much. The Karakurt was pleased with her efforts, yet she needed more of the story to make sense of this explosion. She
would
have the secret out of him, but not by compelling it—
no, no
, he knew too intimately the twisted dagger of compulsion. Much better to coerce and coddle.

“Shall I tell you what I know of you already?” she offered while he battled his demons amid a dense cloud of fury. She draped an elbow on her crossed knee and leaned forward. “A truthreader learns the tell-tale signs of a man who is under compulsion—especially one
who is trying with every breath to fight it.
”

He stared balefully at her, the wolf brought to bay.

“I do not know the extent of the compulsion upon you, but perhaps…with the right encouragement, I could help you…modify it.”

Işak gritted his teeth and looked away. After a long, brittle silence, he pushed from his chair and stalked awkwardly across the floor to stand in the archway between her drawing room and bed chamber. His hands clenched at his sides, and his shoulders hunc
hed forward as if to contain an explosion of emotion. Finally, he said, “There is nothing you can do.”

She was aware that he now held
elae—likely an instinctive response for one who was ever under attack from within—
and knew she must tread carefully. She did not esteem him a violent man by disposition, but the compulsion patterns he fought were volatile indeed. “Patterns can be altered—”

He interrupted her with fury, spinning and snarling, “
Can you work the fifth
?”

The Karakurt drew back, startled enough by the revelation that her own mental shields faltered. It was an astonishing truth.
Who could’ve worked the fifth upon him?
“I…cannot,” she replied, staring at him in open disbelief, for he deserved that much honesty from her. She was more determined than ever to know his story in its fullness now, but she had clearly underestimated the task.

He seemed to gather himself while she gazed in wonder, and he returned to claim his wine. A long drink saw the cup emptied, whereupon he stared into the bowl and told her in a voice like gravel, “The vendetta you required from me? Gydryn val Lorian sent me to N’ghorra. A death sentence.”

She sat back in her chair, allowing him to note her surprise. “The salt mines of N’ghorra,” she repeated with the proper amount of compassion, sympathy and horror mixed in her tone. “Why?”

Işak turned her a bitter smile, full of anguish and snarling hate
. “He blamed me for the death of his sons.”

One of whom apparently lives despite someone’s best efforts,
she thought as her curiosity achieved perilous heights. “And you would slay the last of them in retribution. A fitting revenge.”

He opened arms in submission to this truth, but his smile was acrimonious and his eyes deeply shadowed by grief.

You are a complicated man, Işak’getirmek,
the Karakurt decided. There was much more going on here than she had anticipated, but the mystery could not have been more compelling.
Who were you before N’ghorra…before the compulsion patterns of a mysterious wielder stole away your will?

She stood and walked to him, for he was hurting deeply now. His thoughts spilled out in waves, and she gleaned much of his inner torment, if not the reasons for it.

She knew how to comfort a man though, and Işak was handsome for all he was clearly broken. A man such as he would not be unwelcome in her bed. She came up behind him and slipped the goblet from his hand. “I cannot rectify your plight,” she murmured in his ear, letting him know from her tone and inflection that he might take of her what he would. “I cannot repair your suffering…but I might offer
some
release.” She reached a hand to touch his cheek, and he grabbed it and spun her into his arms.

His kiss was heated, his mouth fastened hard upon
hers, but she didn’t mind. Işak was alive and warm, and though his need was impassioned and his lovemaking fierce and without joy, he didn’t leave her feeling cold inside.

“An idea is not made great m
erely because great men die in defense of it.”

- Loran val Whitney, Duke of Marion

The pirate
ship
Ransom
returned Trell and Alyneri to Cair Xerses on the third day after Alyneri’s ordeal. Once ashore, they lingered on the harbor quay watching the
Ransom
and the
Olivia D’ne
making their slow way toward the horizon, the latter’s holds a fitting bounty for Hadrian’s aid. As she’d watched the ships vanish into the sunset glare, Alyneri recalled her last sight of Hadrian, who’d shaken the bag of Agasi silver tied to his belt, winked at Trell and bidden him call again any time.

They’d spent that night at a nearby inn, and the next morning hired a coach to return them to Rethynnea. After a long day’s ride, they finally neared the villa, though it seemed a lifetime to Alyneri since they’d left—so much had happened in a few short days.