The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light) (101 page)

“No, no,” hal’Jaitar grumbled, waving the man irritably off, “I know where they’ve gone. The king has told us his intentions.” He strummed his long fingers under his chin while he contemplated the spy. After a moment of silent stroking, Viernan ordered, “Get a force to Taj al’Jahanna. I want Loran val Whitney and all of his knights under lock and key until further notice.”

The spy grimaced. “How are we supposed to do that?”

Viernan leaned toward the man and pinned him with a murderous gaze. “Get them all drunk on wine and women. Give them a case of dysentery. I don’t
care
, but ensure that Loran val Whitney and his knights remain in Taj al’Jahanna until further notice!”

The man ducked a bow to his master and then another to Radov, who waved him brusquely out of the room. When he turned back, Radov noted that Viernan had that look again. Like
he
was in charge.

Radov wasn’t sure how to deal with Viernan. One didn’t merely
deal
with Viernan hal’Jaitar. You couldn’t easily plot the demise of a man who could read your mind—at least, Radov suspected Viernan could do it. The man had
eight
Sormitáge rings. He wasn’t sure what Viernan could do. Wielders couldn’t be trusted any more than truthreaders or spies. They were all of them rats. Would that he could poison the lot of them en masse. And all the val Lorians with them!

Speaking of val Lorians.

“What of the prince?” Radov demanded of Viernan without looking at him. Let the man know his displeasure. “I will see Raliax tortured and beheaded for this. Perhaps stoned.” Radov’s eyes searched the room, envisioning the man’s demise. “Whipped and
then
stoned…”

“Raliax failed you,” Viernan agreed, “but perhaps we can turn the prince’s survival to our advantage.”

Forgetting he’d vowed not to look at Viernan, Radov spun him a fast glare. “How?”

“We need the Dannish forces to end this war with Abdul-Basir. The Veneisean armies, too long stalled at the Cry, have begun a retreat back to their bitch mother to nurse their wounds.
Useless!
” Viernan added with a drawn out hiss through his yellowed teeth. “But with Dannym’s forces at our command, my prince, we shall regain Raku.”

“Not with those bloody dragons,” Radov grumbled.

“Leave the dragons to me.”

Radov arched a brow at Viernan. He really was getting above himself if he thought he could fight a Sundragon. Radov wondered if Viernan was still fit to perform his duties. Surely any man with an ego so inflated was naught but a liability. Maybe he should release him now…it might be safer…
but no
. He needed Viernan. Viernan…
handled
things. Like that bloody parley. What a farce that was! “Gydryn was complaining about the parley,” he murmured to his absinthe, held close to his lips. “He wants us to go through with it.”

“The parley is a trap, my lord,” Veirnan assured him. “Though supposedly on neutral ground, the valley is watched round the clock by Basi scouts. Tis naught but a ruse to lure you into the open so the Basi might dispose of their most vital enemy.”

Radov cast him a bland eye. “Tell me something I don’t know, Viernan. Isn’t that what I pay you for?”

“Ah, yes I see your point, my lord,” Viernan returned with a sly smile. “What has worked once will work again. Your wisdom always impresses me, my prince. We will use the parley as we have in the past—stage an assassination and blame it on the Basi.”

Radov frowned. “Whose assassination?” He didn’t see how killing Trell val Lorian at the parley would get them anywhere. Too many questions. Where had the boy been all this time, anyway?

“The val Lorian prince has proven resilient to my questioning about his past,” Viernan muttered as if in answer to this question.

Radov wanted him out of his head! “Assign him to Taliah,” he muttered, casting the man a glare of accusation.

“Yes, of course. Taliah could gain us the information we need,” Viernan agreed, “she is quite efficient in her Questioner’s duties. But there is so little vengeful satisfaction in her work. Who delights in plucking the low-hanging fruit? No, my lord, Taliah’s work is effective, but...I think I have a better way to gain the answers we seek. Yes…” and his gaze became suddenly bright, his smile adder-sharp. Radov knew that look. It was the one Viernan got when he was planning something nefarious.

“And then my lord,” the wielder continued, lifting those dangerous black eyes to meet Radov’s suspicious gaze, “then we shall set into motion your brilliant plan. When all is done, Loran val Whitney will be begging us to lead the Dannish forces into a press on Raku.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Viernan smiled humorlessly. “Have you not said the trouble with the Dannish army is the Dannish leadership?”

Radov suspected he’d thought it more than spoken it, but he really couldn’t remember. Since that Belloth-spawned Marquiin dared touch him, his mind was a storm of fearful, confusing images and violent thoughts clashing and gnashing and tearing each other to bits. None of these factions occupying his mind had the least sense that he was in charge. He tried to stay out of his head as much as possible.

Radov stared into his empty glass. The absinthe was quiet now. He felt a little unsteady on his feet and decided a nap was in order. Dropping the glass upon the carpet from fingers suddenly gone numb, Radov staggered across the room. When he reached the door, he pressed one hand to the frame to still the floor beneath him and turned Viernan a glazed look over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure anymore what he was agreeing to, only that if Viernan planned it, he’d better go along. Wasn’t that what he paid the man for?

In a slurred voice, he said, “Let it be so.” Then he stumbled through the door and collapsed into the arms of his guards.

“There is something dead inside him—and it remains there, watching.”

- The Nodefinder Devangshu Vita,

on Dore Madden

Işak’getirmek
stood at the window in the stone-walled keep, staring out into the night while his left hand idly worked a length of string into elaborate knots. This habit of his was one of the few pieces of himself he retained from before N’ghorra. Usually it calmed him, allowed him to focus his thoughts while working out the nervous energy that came in consort with a mind hostilely occupied by another’s will. But on that night, it seemed that every knot represented another mystery…another lie.

Işak and the Saldarians sheltered in the keep of Count Basil of Doane, one of the Karakurt’s wealthy patrons. The plan had been to stay just one night, but Işak needed time to question his prisoners and collect his thoughts…time to understand what was happening to hi
m. And to decide what to do about that damnable dragon.

Beyond the shadow of the high tower keep, a full moon shone upon a dark mountain lake where waters of captured night had congealed into mercuric waves. Jutting mountains surrounded the valley where they sheltered, the slopes of which were furred with hemlock and pine, aspen and fir. The roar of a near waterfall filled the night, its icy waters spewing from beneath the tower’s frost-bound foundation, a luminous pouring of the captured moonlight as it b
led from the lake.

Işak had been at the window for hours. He liked to tell himself it was to facilitate the first-strand pattern he worked in search of the Sundragon, but the larger part of him knew a different truth, and his pounding headache proved it.

The fact was, he couldn’t take his mind off of Trell val Lorian, despite the fact that every time he thought about their meeting, his head exploded with pain.

Submitting to the throbbing for a moment, Işak pushed one arm against the edge of the window al
cove and rested his forehead against it. He willed the agonizing ache to stop but knew it would remain, even as the devastating images now lodged within his consciousness remained, memories and pain inexorably mingled.

Increasingly, Işak cursed Dore Madde
n and Trell val Lorian both, for each man represented an opposite end of the malicious path that had him pinned.

Just like that bloody Sundragon.

Işak couldn’t see Şrivas’rhakárakek in the darkness, but he knew he was there somewhere, for the first-strand pattern he worked still resonated with the dragon’s powerful presence. Işak wasn’t sure how Rhakar kept following them—he’d spent many an hour during their journey from the Kutsamak to Doane imagining how he would break the news to Dore that Sundragons
could
in fact travel the nodes—but he suspected the Sundragon’s steady tracking had something to do with him, that the creature was able to find him specifically on the currents.

W
hy
was the dragon following them? This question tormented him endlessly. Rhakar seemed not to care about Işak’s prisoners—certainly not enough to free them. What then did he want? For that matter, why had he attacked Sharpe in the first place? And why was Işak so certain the creature had been in search of Trell val Lorian? Yet clearly the prince was not in his possession now, so why did Rhakar follow him still? 

He heard Joss’s heavy boot steps coming up the stairs outside his tower room, and he straightened back to his task just moments before the man reached him. “Is he out there?” he growled low i
nto Işak’s ear, his breath coming sour from a mouth too near, his body close as he tried to see over Işak’s shoulder through the window.

Işak gave him a irritated look
. “Do you want to work the pattern or should I?”

Joss backed off. “What does he want?” he
asked disagreeably. “Why doesn’t he just come for us?”

Işak shook his head and turned back to the night. No matter how many times he asked himself such questions, he always reached the same lack of an answer.

“Could’ve been in Tambarré by now,” Joss muttered.

“
And how do you think the Prophet would react upon finding a Sundragon in his city, Joss?” Işak growled in reply, his temper riding a fine edge.

“But that’s the whole point! Let the Prophet take care of the Belloth-spawned dragon—he’s not our proble
m.”

“Not our problem,” Işak repeated, shaking his head as he looked coldly upon the man. He thought of trying to explain to Joss how returning to Tambarré with a Sundragon in tow would be as grievous a mistake as bringing the Emir’s entire army to the Prop
het’s doors and handing them the temple keys. He thought of asking Joss to speculate on their chances when Bethamin learned of such treason, and perhaps elaborate for the man on the Prophet’s unique interpretation of forgiveness.

But he quickly realized how futile such a discussion would prove. Joss and his crew were base ruffians, involved only for the spoils and the coin and an occasional chance to bury their seed in a woman unlucky enough to get caught in the crossfire. They had no idea what the Prophet
could do to a man. They’d never met Dore Madden.

“We can’t return to Tambarré without Ean val Lorian,” Işak said, reining in his temper, which was wasted on a m
an like Joss. “We keep to the plan as originally devised.” 
Traps within traps…

“The plan was
to keep moving,” Joss grumbled. “We’ve been here for days—”

“We will move on when I
determine it is safe to do so!” Işak snapped, bristling at the man’s insubordination. Privately, he admitted that doing anything was likely better than sitting and waiting—especially for men like Joss, and especially when the waiting involved contemplation of a dragon eating you as it had eaten your friend such a short while ago that his body might still be digesting in its gut when you joined him there. He envied Joss such simple fears.

“You’re wasting my time.” I
şak turned back to the silvering lake and the night. “What do you want?”

“There’s a crafter here says he has the commission you requested,” Joss answered with resentment hardening his tone.

Finally!
“See that he’s paid for his efforts and have the package brought to my chambers.” Joss shuffled his feet, and Işak sensed some hesitation in him. “What else?”

“Count Basil has a large shipment departing in the morning for Kandori,” he said after a moment. “He wants to make sure you think it’s safe to…you know, w
ith the dragon and all.” Joss blundered haltingly through the last, as if still not quite believing the words were leaving his mouth.

“I doubt a Sundragon cares overmuch about the business of an obscure count. What’s in the shipment?”

“How am I supposed to know?” 

Noting his
defensive manner, Işak arched a raven brow.

“Oh, all right…” Joss ground out, “the count says cider,” and he added sharply under his breath, “but I ain’t never seen a barrel of cider so heavy it takes six men to lift it onto a wagon—”

Işak sighed. “Get to the point if you can find it.”

Snapping shut his mouth, Joss glowered and remarked, “See…the way I make it, title or not, nobody lives like this from sellin’ cider, and there’s said to be gold in this part of the Assifiyahs—”

Işak cast him a sharp look of warning. “If you steal from Count Basil of Doane, you pilfer the Karakurt’s own coffer. Attempt it at your peril.”

Joss threw up his hands. “I’m only
saying
—”

“How large is the shipment?”

Joss exhaled in frustration. “
Four
wagons.” He gave Işak a flat stare that made clear his desire for alternative leadership.

“Tell the Count it’s safe for his shipment to depart in the morning, and that we’ll be leaving with it. We make for the Castle
of Tyr’kharta. Ensure the Nodefinder and your men are ready.”

Joss glared bitterly at him and stalked out.

As the man’s footsteps were fading, Işak attempted to work his first-strand pattern again, but it was no use. The concept wouldn’t form, and now the package the crafter had delivered was consuming his thoughts.

Making his way to his chambers then, Işak fo
und the item he’d commissioned waiting for him on a table. He unwrapped it with growing trepidation and stared uneasily at the molded velvet mask lying in a bed of silk.

He didn’t entirely understand the motivation that had driven him to commission the mask.

Işak had never before worn his scar with shame, yet ever since facing Trell val Lorian, his disfigurement had felt a brand of degradation. It was more agonizing now than it ever had been in N’ghorra, where such marks were badges of pride.

Taking up the molded velvet mask with rueful misgiving, Işak moved to a standing mirror and pressed it to his face. It fit well. Too well, though that had been the point of the crafter making a plaster cast to be certain of its form. Işak had paid handsomely to have the ma
sk made and delivered so quickly, using the cover of the Sundragon’s presence to delay their departure. The mask covered the top half of his face, leaving his jaw bare. It looked like him, and yet…not. It was perfect.

Işak hated it.

More and more, Işak looked upon the day he’d encountered Trell val Lorian as a pernicious stroke of Fate. The intricate latticework supporting the illusion of his past had been fractured at that meeting, uncapping a boiling geyser that spewed a striated mud of warped memories. His mind felt like formless clay too saturated with confusions to hold any shape. The uncertainty of his past tormented him endlessly now. He’d never thought to question it until Trell appeared and shattered everything he knew…or thought he knew.

New
ideas—
frightening
ideas—had sprouted from the sluggish memories that now oozed forth. Işak couldn’t dig the ideas out no matter how he tried, so they thrived in the broken vessel of his recollection—possibilities that grew ever more likely the longer they remained, the more he had time to reflect upon them and despair.

The truth most damaging to his psyche was in knowing that he
should have
wondered,
should have
questioned long before now, and it sickened him that he’d never thought to do so.

But why would I when my memories seemed so real?
he’d asked himself the last few nights as he lay in tormented sleeplessness, his head a blazing fury.

Only because you’re Dore Madden’s favorite toy
.

But now…now he had the mask and could question his prisoners. Now he would know whether his awful suspicions were correct. Knowing would change nothing, of course. Even were the truth as he suspected, he was bound to Dore until the end of his days.

This was the cruelest blow of all. 

Securing the silk ties of his mask behin
d his head, Işak drew up the hood of his cloak and headed out. He’d been wanting to question the Lord Captain Rhys val Kincaide since their first night together. Just yesterday he’d stood for more than an hour outside the door to the cellars, where the prisoners were being held, willing himself to go through. But in the end, he hadn’t been able to do it.

Every time he thought of asking the questions that haunted him so desperately, his head exploded with pain and his stomach turned so sickly he feared unconsciousness would claim him. The headaches he could bear; it was the looks he garnered in such moments that infuriated him.

Işak told himself the mask was meant to hide his true expression, that the captain might not see him in a moment of sudden weakness and read into his thoughts, but a deeper part understood that this was not at all the reason he’d commissioned it.

Whatever the mask’s true purpose, Işak was safely bound to anonymity as he swept down from the keep tower and through the castle halls, a hooded specter intent upon some arcane craft. The Count’s people already gave him a wide berth, with servants backing to the wa
lls to let him pass, but now they watched him go by with dreadful unease, their gazes betraying thoughts both frightened and accusatory.

Oh, they knew him as a wielder, as the leader of the Saldarians, and they whispered of his magical battle with Rhakar—the tale having spread rapidly from the mouths of his men through gossiping whores and loose-lipped guards. The privileged within the Count’s inner circle even knew him as a favored minion of the Karakurt. But none of them understood the mask.

Işak gave no heed to their speculations—what care had he what they thought of him? It was his own conscience whose gaze he couldn’t bear.

The prisoners were being held in separate rooms in the count’s ‘dungeon’—which was little more than a row of windowles
s storerooms repurposed for incarceration. But the doors were thick, and the chains, recently installed to secure each man to the walls, were strong.

The two Saldarians who’d drawn the nightshift rose from their game of dice when they saw Işak coming down
the long flight of stairs.