The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light) (90 page)

“Yes, my lord,” Kjieran whispered, repentant and contrite.

How strange to find that there, in the Prophet’s mind, his heart still beat, his breath still came quickly in his chest, and he still felt the sting of unshed tears. Did the Prophet not understand that all of these experiences were now denied him? That the very pulse of life had been stripped away as like the withered flesh of his calves? Or did Bethamin merely choose to ignore this truth, perhaps enjoying more the fantasy of his own creation?

The Prophet placed one hand beneath Kjieran’s chin and bade him rise upon his knees. “Kjieran, look at me.”

Kjieran lifted his eyes, craning his neck as far back as it would go to meet his master’s gaze. The Prophet’s eyes were fixed upon him darkly, lustful. They scalded him with their desire—in the man’s own mind, there was no dissembling how he felt about Kjieran, or what he wanted of him.

Kjieran forced breath, forced himself to let the Prophet drink in the sight of his colorless eyes, yet all too aware of their mutual positions and the Prophet’s arousal before him.

Bethamin slipped his cold hand along Kjieran’s jaw and brought him to his feet with gentle urging. Kjieran swallowed as he complied. “It is like you are truly here,” the Prophet murmured, his dark eyes spearing Kjieran with their hunger. “Yet I know you are not.” His fingers found Kjieran’s lips, exploring their shape, their warmth, a sculptor caressing his creation. “This is an interesting experience.”

“Yes, my lord,” Kjieran whispered. His heart raced and his stomach turned and his breath felt as sand in his lungs. He wasn’t certain he could bear these torments, or even how he was feeling them at all.

“I must mention it to my brother, Pelas,” the Prophet continued. “He has an… unusual view on the value of experience.”

Kjieran did not value
any
experience if it happened within the confines of Bethamin’s mind.

The Prophet frowned, considering him. His fingers paused in their minute inspection of his face. “Yet it is not the same, your being here.” 

“The same as what, my lord?” Kjieran whispered.

The Prophet’s eyes were so terribly dark, yet Kjieran thought he saw a hint of disappointment in them. “As having you before my person in the flesh.”

Kjieran did not know what to say. Being within the confines of Bethamin’s mind, he understood what the Prophet wanted him to feel. That he was still free to experience anything of his own volition was surprising, but more startling was that the Prophet truly wanted Kjieran to desire him
without
compulsion. He dropped his eyes and whispered, “I’m so sorry, my lord.”

If anything, his contrition only deepened the Prophet’s hunger for him. Kjieran could feel Bethamin’s mind pulsating with it, as if the very room throbbed in synchronicity with his lust. The Prophet pushed his thumb into the hollow of Kjieran’s throat and then along his collarbone. “No one has ever intrigued me as you do, Kjieran,” he observed, his voice dark with desire. “What will it take for you to want me as I want you?”

Kjieran trembled. It was nearly more than he could bear, this entreaty, this offered temptation. He didn’t
want
to like this man, yet the Prophet was courting him as strongly as any paramour, courting him with hope, with possibility, with trust… 

Kjieran could not bring himself to denounce what chance he might have to save his king, even knowing what he was forsaking in the bargain—it was the little of himself he had left, and he laid it upon the table in barter.

“You’ve granted me freedom, my lord,” he managed, as the Prophet’s hand gripped his throat, “but is it freedom if you are watching my every action, my every step? If you are always there in my mind influencing my thoughts, is any decision really my own? And if my decisions are not my own, am I truly free?”

Hearing this, the Prophet dropped his hand sharply. He gazed down at Kjieran looking ever fierce and unearthly in his perfection. Though he frowned, yet Kjieran could tell he was not entirely displeased with the question.

“Normally I would say choice is but an illusion,” Bethamin remarked with one ebony brow arched, “that humanity is what it is—only ever seeking death. But you…” and his dark eyes considered Kjieran newly, “
you
,
I have made more than you were. That you are seeking choice…this is intriguing to me. It is a consequence I had not explored—indeed, I had not thought it possible, though surely it is my imprint upon you that engenders this concept. Still… I must ask my brother Pelas what he thinks of this. No doubt he never imagined such a thing could become.”

The Prophet turned away from Kjieran then, moving toward the portal in which he’d first appeared. “Very well, Kjieran. I will grant you my trust. I shall not invade your thoughts unless you call for me.” He turned in the portal and pinned Kjieran with his gaze, ever as cold and unfathomable as the endless night sky. “But I will call you regularly here to attend me,” he noted significantly then, “and when I do, I hope to see the freedom I have sown begin to reap bountiful rewards.”

“The years were long and sometimes lonely, but I was busy. I was busy living.”

- Isabel van Gelderan, Epiphany’s Prophet

Ean dreamed
of another man’s life, yet in that half-awareness one sometimes has in dreams, he knew that it had been his life, too…once.

He stood in a cavernous hall holding a bloody sword beneath a shattered dome, the crumbled
debris of its once great vaults now supporting naught but the dead and dying. The marble floor was a littered wasteland, and all around him the sounds of battle raged. There were other sounds as well…the abrasive roar of a distant, hungry fire; the unwholesome song of fallen prey as death sank its spiny claws in; and worst of all, the crackle of
deyjiin
on the tides of
elae.

His hands and vambraces were slick with blood, though none of it was his own, yet he felt as if much of the blood shed that night had belonged to him personally, so dear to him were those already fallen
.

He looked down upon the man dying at his feet: a Paladin Knight in shimmering,
elae-
enhanced armor. He came from Illume Belliel along with thousands of his brethren, come to claim Malachai ap’Kalien in the name of the Council of Realms…in the name of the new Alorin Seat. This would have been a very different battle if not for the Knights’ untimely arrival. And while the Paladins fell beneath Ean’s Merdanti blade the same as mortal men, yet he felt he fueled the wrath of entire worlds against their cause each time one died at his hand.

Ean sensed his lord approaching—indeed,
the very force of his being preceded his arrival in waves. The First Lord’s presence was ever powerful in peacetime, but that evening’s dire events had made a gale force of his wrath, and no man possessed such innocence as to stand unaffected before him.

Ean bowed his head as Björn neared, feeling an immense weight descend upon his consciousness
. He realized he’d been shouldering this burden for many months, perhaps years, now come to bear. “My lord,” he murmured wretchedly.

Björn placed a
gauntleted hand upon his shoulder, a simple acknowledgement that yet said all that must be declared between them.

Ean looked to him
. The First Lord wore a high-collared black coat and carried his Merdanti sword, and his eyes might’ve swirled with the elemental force of a nascent galaxy for the fury that shone in them. “Anglar fell. I have offered him another path.”

At this news, the man whose body Ean wore was suddenly overcome with an anguish too acute, and he drew in a shuddering breath that seemed to convey the enormity of all they had
endured…of the blood-drenched path that still sprawled in front of them, winding into a future too agonizing to contemplate.

Clenching teeth, Ean turned and settled his gaze upon two massive
gilded doors on the far side of the cavernous hall. They were barred from the inside and bound with the fifth, but still they wouldn’t stop his coming. “Somewhere in there,” he said through tightly clenched teeth, nodding toward the doors, “the traitor cowers.”

“Do not think of him thusly,” Björn cautioned as his own cobalt gaze pierced the doors
. Perhaps the First Lord could see through them to where the traitor lurked. It would be a minor feat compared to all Ean had seen the man accomplish that day alone. “He looks with the eyes of our enemy,” Björn murmured, “and as such, we dare not underestimate him.”

Ean felt his anger welling, felt
elae
pooling obediently around him, and he knew that all that had come on this eve had been as a result of the man he was about to face.

“How will I know him?” he asked
. “How will I know the traitors from the true?”

“By those who stand against you,” Björn replied with deep regret
. “Isabel has taken all those she could be sure of with her already. As to the rest…I fear the seeds must be sorted from the chaff.” 

“First Lord!” someone called from behind them, the cry nearly lost among the sounds of battle,
lost within the vast loneliness of the decimated hall. Ean turned to see a man running towards them, sword in hand. He knew his name…Cristien…but he didn’t know how he knew it. “First Lord,” Cristien breathed as he staggered to a halt. Blood caked one side of his head, his neck and shoulder soaked by it. “We’ve found them.”

Björn turned a heated look to Ean
. “Treachery lies upon the path of the indolent and cowardly,” he declared with condemnation riding the crest of his fury. He squeezed Ean’s shoulder and added with terrible sorrow, “The brave must ever face the hardest road. I would this bloody job did not fall to you, my brother, blood-of-my-heart.”

“As would I, my lord,” he answered tightly, holding his gaze, knowing with grim resolve
—with everything in his soul—that the coming battle would be his end.

Their locking of eyes spoke volumes when no words of farewell would suffice
. Björn seemed to search Ean’s gaze with his own, and then he grabbed him into a fierce hug. The embrace was unexpected, and rough, and it brought a clenching sense of grief, but Ean clutched his lord in return, for what else could he do?

Releasing him, Björn took hold of both shoulders
. Ean saw the anguish in his gaze, and it only served to disturb him more, but they were both resolved to this path. They had been upon it too long to change course now. Björn said, “May we meet in the Returning, Ar—”

Ean jerked awake, sucking in his breath with a throaty gasp. He lay alone in bed, and for the briefest, heartbreaking instant he thought
he’d
somehow survived the battle while she had not.

Lucidity returned as Ean looked around the dim room, however, recognizing his bedchamber in T’khendar, remembering himself as he was now…wherein he
realized it had only been a dream.

But was it?
He let out a little nervous laugh, hearing the unease in his own tone.

Shade and darkness—I can’t even convince myself
!

Ean
pressed palms to eyes and shook his head
.
Self-delusion ought to be the easiest thing to accomplish, but this dream, like many of the others, had that visceral quality that hinted at truth. He could still see the anguish on Björn’s face, the emotions of that night agonized and cutting…

When he looked up again, a Shade was standing at the foot of his bed
.

Ean
started with a half-cry of alarm and then, settling, exhaled in aggravation. 

“The G
eneral will meet you today in the Hall of Heroes,” the Shade informed him tonelessly and faded before Ean could remonstrate him for his untimely invasion of his private chambers.

Unnerved more by the dream than the ephemeral creature—though Raine’s truth, it was still an unwelcome
surprise to wake and find one of them standing between himself and the sun—the prince ran both hands through his hair. Where was Isabel?

He felt for the bond and sensed her at once, distant but hale. He wished for her beside him still, wanting the feel of her satin skin as much as the reassurance of her presence.
The haunting dream lingered on his thoughts, a miasma clinging to the morning to cast a pall upon the day. He feared, as with his earlier dreams, that this one also heralded a flood of new memories fighting to surface, and he instinctually feared them greatly.

He was certain, moreover, that he had
reason
to fear them.

Dream or no, the last thing Ean wanted was to keep Markal waiting
. Idle moments only stirred the wielder’s active mind toward perilous mischief—at least as far as Ean’s training was concerned—so the prince forced aside the troubling dream and hastened to dress. When he opened the door to his chambers, he found another Shade waiting for him in the hallway.

Ean drew up short
with a grimace. “Um…hello.”

The Shade steepled fingertips, pressed them to
lips and bowed, offering, “The General thought you might need assistance finding your way to the Hall of Heroes.” 

Ean couldn’t shake the underlying sense of unease that had a grip on him that morning
. If only Isabel might’ve been the one to wake him instead… He gave the Shade an uncertain smile. “The General would be correct in that assessment.”

“If you will permit, my lord, I shall escort you there.”
             

“I gratefully accept your offer.”

Thus tasked, the Shade led away down the passage. All the while Ean followed him through the maze of palace corridors, the creature kept his silence, leaving the prince at the mercy of turbulent thoughts. He couldn’t push the ominous dream from mind. The images nagged Ean relentlessly until he couldn’t help but wonder where the battle had taken place. Who were the thousands of men who’d lost their lives beneath that shattered dome? 

He was so consumed with these questions that he hardly noticed they’d arrived until the
y’d been standing still for some few moments, whereupon the Shade at last murmured, “The Hall of Heroes. I leave you now, my lord,” and faded.

The prince stood for a moment
longer staring at a pair of massive mahogany doors. They were carved in a great battle scene, where men waged war upon each other. He found the melee faintly disturbing, and the feeling puzzled him until he realized that he might’ve actually been at the very battle which the doors were depicting.

After this, he lost his appreciation for art altogether, such admiration replaced by a heavy and inexplicable feeling of guilt, and he pushed through the doors into the Hall of Heroes with his shoulders hunched against the weight of his past.

A massive room awaited him. Three rows of soaring columns ran the length of the long hall, which was sheathed entirely in pale marble. Along the right-hand wall, high, vaulted windows let in the eastern light. The long rays of morning fell short of the westerly wall to his left, which was adorned with every weapon conceivable by man, Wildling or beast. Wall sconces and chandeliers lit the hall with a cold, pale light, which Ean instantly recognized as the fifth at work.

Seeing no one, Ean slowly walked along the wall
gazing in wonder at the massive collection of weaponry. Swords of every manner and make hung among mace, flail, spear, halberd, staff, or dagger. He saw wood and metal rods linked with chain, iron shuriken, crossbows, longbows and myriad wickedly barbed arrows and bolts…it was a dizzying display.

Halfway down the wall, he reached a grouping of Merdanti weapons
. The night-black daggers and swords seemed to anchor the entire collection as it spread to left and right, as if forming the coal-dark body of a great winged moth. There must have been fifty Merdanti weapons arranged in an irregular pentagon. Ean finally recognized the shape, with a gulp of unease, as the exact outline of stars that formed Cephrael’s Hand. He didn’t imagine it a coincidence.

As he studied the collection of black stone blades, one particular sword caught his eye as truly as if his soul had been bound within its forging
. Riveted by the blade, Ean waked to the wall and reached for the hilt. It was just low enough that he might take hold of it if he stood upon tiptoes. He strained for a moment to grasp the pommel, fingers just brushing the cool stone hilt, and then with a leap he had the weapon in hand, and—

It fell with a thunderous clang onto the marble stones, all but yanking his arm from its socket as
it tore out of his hold.

Shade and darkness! The
damnable thing is heavier than an anvil!

With the
embarrassing echo of the sword’s crash still resounding through the hall, Ean bent and tried to pry up the hilt from the floor, but it was a strain to lift enough of it to get even a finger underneath.

“It takes a flow of
elae
into the blade of a sentient weapon to waken its song,” an unexpected voice said from behind, and Ean turned to find the
drachwyr
Ramuhárihkamáth approaching—not the general Ean thought he was meeting.

Tall and sleek, dressed in
his usual charcoal vest and black tunic and pants, and with his dragon-hilted greatsword extending above one shoulder, Ramu struck an imposing figure of lithe grace and supreme power.

Ean straightened to greet him, both embarrassed and infuriated by his inability to recall even the most basic knowledge of
elae
.

Instead I’m bombarded by the emotions of a man who
’s been dead three hundred years!

“
No doubt I should’ve known that,” Ean admitted as the
drachwyr
came to a halt before him. Looking back to the weapon lying like a long blemish upon the pristine marble floor, Ean added uneasily, “Especially since I’m…fairly sure that sword belonged to me.”

Ramu eyed the blade circumspectly
. “I believe, in fact, that it did.” His dark eyes were compassionate as they gazed upon the prince. He bent then to retrieve the weapon, flipped it up to catch the blade in one gloved hand, and extended the hilt to Ean. “A flow of
elae
,” he advised again, winking in encouragement. “You’ll remember, I think, once your hand finds its place.”