The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light) (9 page)

But on that day, Trell had just arrived in the nearby town of L’Aubernay to gather supplies for Yara’s journey to Tregarion and beyond. As he was securing the wagon, his attention caught on a stranger who was conversing with the local tavern-keeper Jean-Claude, a big barrel-chested man Trell had come to know moderately well since his arrival at Yara’s. Trell was close enough to hear their discussion, especially since the stranger was speaking abominable Veneisean with a heavy northern accent and was attempting to compensate for his ineptitude by shouting.

“…expected days ago but there’s been no sign of her coach,” the man was all but yelling. He was expensively attired, but his longish moustache and pointed chin-beard made him look somewhat akin to a goat and decidedly untrustworthy. Trell expected a man like that wouldn’t have much luck getting answers from the townspeople of L’Aubernay, who misliked Northmen in general and especially the ones who couldn’t be bothered to learn their language. “My lord will pay well for any news of her,” the man meanwhile offered. “She is of importance to him personally.”

“
Oui
,” muttered Jean-Claude, shoving hands into his considerable pockets, “and you’d be?”

“I am Lord Brantley,” said the man, puffing up with importance.

Jean-Claude frowned. “Never heard of you.”

“The Earl of Pent,” Lord Brantley clarified.

“Never heard of Pent neither. Is it near L’Aubernay?”

Lord Brantley looked affronted. “Assuredly not.”

“Tregarion then?”

“
No, it’s—”

“Chalons-en-Les Trois?”

“
No,
it—”

Jean-Claude scratched his head. “Jeune?”

“In the Maker’s name, man, it’s in Dannym!”

“Dannym,” Jean-Claude repeated as if the kingdom truly was a distant land and not Veneisea’s closest neighbor.

“
I
am from Dannym,” the earl reasoned, “the woman I seek is from Dannym, and my lord
hails from Dannym. We’re all from Dannym.”

“Pent is near Calgaryn then?” Jean-Claude asked, still pondering the mystery of Lord Brantley’s origins.

“No—“

“Acacia?”

“Never mind where Pent is!” Lord Brantley snapped exasperatedly. “I’m looking for a woman—blonde, brown eyes, about yea tall,” and he motioned with his hand. “She was expected through here several nights ago.”

Trell stiffened at the description, knowing the man described the girl lying unconscious in his bed. 

“Hmm…” Jean-Claude meanwhile mused. “
Ah oui,
had a storm three nights back, we did. Road’s washed out few miles to the south. Was the mademoiselle coming from the south?”

“Possibly,” Lord Brantley returned. Trell could tell by his manner that he was wary of saying too much about her origins.

“They’d be up from Rethynnea then,” Jean-Claude supplied, nodding sagaciously.

Lord Brantley gave him an aggravated look. “I’m not certain of their exact point of departure.”

“Oh. Xerses, you think?”

“I just said, I don’t—”

“Thessalonia? Cause that would bring them in by the east road, not the south road. Did the mademoiselle come from the south, do you know?”

Lord Brantley looked nearly apoplectic. “Is there any other tavern in town?” he asked in desperation.

“Just the one. Did you need a room?”

The earl sort of stared at him. When he realized the question was actually genuine, he answered defeatedly, “No. I’m looking for a woman—blonde, about yea tall—”

“What’d you say her name was?”

“Her name isn’t important. What’s important for
you
to remember is that my lord will pay handsomely for news of her—any news at all.”

“Who’d be your lord then? The Earl of Pent?”

“No, you dimwitted fop!
I am
—oh, never mind!”  He spun on his heel and stalked across the square.     

Jean-Claude shrugged as he watched the earl stomp away. He noticed Trell then and grinned at him by way of greeting before heading back inside his tavern. Trell returned his smile, but he was wary now of the Earl of Pent and troubled by what he should do.

Trell had been of a mind to ask in town about the girl, thinking someone in her party might’ve been looking for her there, but Yara had been suspiciously adamant that they should say nothing of her until she woke and could speak for herself.

As he went about his business then—or rather, Yara’s business—Trell caught sight of Lord Brantley several times throughout the afternoon, but he didn’t cross paths with him again until they bumped into each other as the earl was exiting the cobbler’s shop. 

“You there,” he remarked to Trell in his accented Veneisean, “I’ve seen you about town today, haven’t I?”  Trell found something in the earl’s manner to be decidedly insulting, as if the man thought himself considerably higher in both station and quality of character than anyone he was likely to meet. “I’m looking for a woman. She might’ve passed through here a few nights ago. Someone might’ve seen her. You might’ve seen her?”

Trell hugged his sack of milled amaranth to his chest and considered Lord Brantley. Despite Yara’s insistence, he wasn’t sure whether or not to tell the earl about the girl he’d rescued. He did not like what he’d seen of the man thus far—the earl wore arrogance as a pale substitute for the livery of the mysterious lord he served—but Trell knew that a servant did not always accurately represent his lord. He was cautious not to judge in haste and deny the girl better help than he and Yara might provide. So, to buy time, he asked, “What did she look like, your mademoiselle?”

The earl was apparently too preoccupied with his own avarice to notice Trell’s cultured, elegant Veneisean, such a contrast to the earl’s own speech—and indeed, everyone else in L’Aubernay. “Long blonde hair, skin the color of caramel. She stands no taller than your shoulder. Some might consider her lovely in a…a strange sort of way, I suppose.”

“I think I’d remember such a woman.”

“Oh, she’s memorable,” the earl replied with some heat, and Trell could tell there was a story there. The earl’s gaze clouded for a moment, but he quickly shook it off, saying then, “My lord is desperate to find her. Her coach never arrived to its intended rendezvous, and my men and I are backtracking.”

“She could’ve passed right through L’Aubernay,” Trell pointed out. “If she stayed in town, Jean-Claude the tavern-keeper would know.”

“That man wouldn’t know his own dog if bit him on his arse,” the earl grumbled.

At this remark, Trell determined he was not fond of Lord Brantley.

“She’s young and fair,” the earl went on, heedless of Trell’s low impression of him, “unworldly. She’d be lost here in this foreign land, not speaking the language as you and I.”

Trell regarded him steadily. “She’s kin to your lord?”

“No, a…a friend of the family.”

“He must be benevolent indeed to send his men so far in search of a family friend.”

“Lord
Stefan val Tryst
is a great man, a powerful man,” the earl boasted, but Trell thought there was more air than substance to his praise. “He’s next in line for the Eagle Throne and will soon be upon it.”

Trell was surprised by both the seditious pronouncement and the earl’s lack of prudence in declaring it. He arched a brow. “It was my understanding the Eagle Throne already has a king upon it.”

“That’s open to interpretation,” Lord Brantley sneered, and he might’ve donned a mask of hatred, so changed did his countenance become at the mere reference to Gydryn val Lorian. 

Or rather, perhaps, the mask has finally come off and the true face surfaces?

Trell decided he’d seen enough of Lord Brantley. “I must be on my way. Good day to you, monsieur.”

But the earl was not to be put off so quickly. Perhaps Trell had not hidden the truth from his gaze well enough, or perhaps the man was just that tenacious, but he grabbed Trell’s arm and demanded hotly, “Might you have seen her then?” and the hungry look that was suddenly in the earl’s gaze gave Trell the certainty he’d heretofore been lacking.

Trell cast an unfriendly eye upon
 the earl’s hand on his arm, and the man released his hold. Trell slowly repeated then, “Have I seen a blonde woman standing about as tall as my shoulder?”

Lord Brantley nodded, his gaze full of predatory excitement.

“No,” Trell said, and it was true—the girl had never stood up at all. 

He could tell from the earl’s expression that he didn’t entirely believe him—that, or he wasn’t willing to give up the one thread of hope he’d latched onto. “You seem an educated sort,” Lord Brantley said with an undercurrent of urgency now fueling his speech, “and you seem to know these people, this area. I can pay you well to help me, and this woman…well, she’s the type...” He leaned in to add in a low voice, “Between you and me, there might be more in it for you should you be the one to find her. My lord doesn’t care if she’s returned to him in
exactly
the same condition, if you catch my drift.”

Trell gazed at him coldly. All he could think of was that while he’d imagined he’d been saving the girl from a raging river, in fact he’d been saving her from the brazen Lord Brantley.

“Good day, monsieur,” Trell said. He patently did not wish him luck as they parted. In fact, as he was walking away, Trell asked
Thalma
, the Goddess of Luck, to turn her eye far afield of the Earl of Pent.

The earl called after him, “That’s quite an interesting sword you’ve got there.”  Then he added menacingly, “It speaks rather loudly, to those who know its like.”

Trell stiffened, but he didn’t stop walking and he didn’t turn around.  

That had been yesterday, and all of today he’d been wrestling with Lord Brantley’s comment and the mystery of the sleeping girl. Now he walked the river’s edge with trepidation, and his grey eyes saw only trouble as he gazed into the greenish waters.

Why must serving you be so difficult, my goddess?

Fhionna’s voice seemed to answer, a bit of wisdom conferred a lifetime ago.
Naiadithine’s ways are as twisted as a river’s path, but her heart is also as true to her chosen ones as the river is to its course. If you walk in Naiadithine’s eye, you must trust that the river is taking you where you need to go. Even if all else seems false, you must trust the river, Trell of the Tides.

Trell turned from his thoughts at the sound of pounding feet just moments before a boy emerged from the forest. It was Deon, the youngest son of Yara’s closest neighbor, who often came by to help around the farmstead. “Trell!” he called as he emerged onto the path, his brown eyes bright and cheeks flushed from his sprint. “She’s awake!”

***

Alyneri dreamed of dark water. She floated upon a starless sea whose massive waves carried her, cradled her, swept her onward through the night. In her dream, the darkness was complete, yet she felt no fear of it, only a lingering regret now mostly dissolved. Her heart felt at peace for the first time since her early childhood, before the politics of kings had shattered it.

For a long time, she knew the loss of self was imminent, that the moment would come when she would cease to exist, and she welcomed such release. This life had been a winding stream of painful experiences, too painful for a sensitive young soul. She had dared to love and was mercilessly punished for it. Obeyed her king, and was exploited as due reward. Everyone she loved had been taken from her. In the numb of unconsciousness, the final sacrifice of her life seemed the logical denouement.

The first time Alyneri realized she was still alive came as a shock. Out of the peaceful ebb of her life, lightning struck the dark water. Blinding light flared, the starless sea webbed with crackling heat, and pain bolted her back to consciousness.

She saw a hand and arm moving in front of her, blurry and sanguine tinged. Voices spoke in hushed tones, one male, one female. Her head felt like a cauldron burning in the furnace of its forging. One arm was a lesser fire, and the rest of her body was cold and terrifyingly unresponsive, a doll body encased in ice.

Someone moaned, and she was horrified to realize it had been her.

“Be still child,” she heard a woman say. Then to another, “Hold her now while I stitch the wound.”

Warm hands pressed against her, and she felt heat melting through her icy flesh. Then a needle speared her temple, a blinding sheet of lightning flared across her vision, and everything went black.

The second time Alyneri found consciousness was much like the first. Only this time as pain and ice drew her from numb sleep, she couldn’t open her eyes at all. The voices were far off and strange, and her body was a lead brick occasionally trembling as with the aftershock of some terrible cataclysm but otherwise too heavy to move. As she lay aware, she heard someone approach and felt a cool hand touch her cheek. It was a blessed relief from the war between fire and ice that seemed to have claimed her body as a battleground.

“The fever is still upon her,” the same woman said, her voice pitched in such a way as to be speaking to someone in another room. There was something else odd about her voice, but Alyneri couldn’t pin thought to what it was. As the woman left her side, she tried to move her head. Pain and lightning flared with vicious delight, and down she tumbled once more into the midnight water.