The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light) (34 page)

As the centuries drew endlessly on without answers, without solutions to the multitude of problems they now faced, they’d lost faith—Raine had never had much to begin with—and chosen to side with the facts, as impossible as they seemed. They couldn’t be blamed for that, could they?

But Raine was starting to believe that they could.

The pirate snoring loudly drew the Vestal’s gaze, offering a momentary respite from the agony of these thoughts. He pocketed Björn’s coin and turned down the lamp as he left, envying the pirate his rest, for he knew with certainty that he would find none of it that night.

“Never ask a god for patience. He will teach it to you.”

- The Agasi wielder Markal Morrelaine

Twelve days
before the solstice, the festival of Adendigaeth began, launching at sundown with the First Lord’s Masquerade. Ean stood beneath the towering arches that marked the entrance to the grand ballroom, looking out across a vast sea of masked heads. It seemed the entire realm had convened to celebrate, though Julian had told him that each city in T’khendar would hold its own celebration.

Still, it took him the better part of an hour to find Julian in the crowd, and meanwhile everyone he met bowed to him just as the townspeople had, just as Julian had bowed to Ramu. It was unnerving.

“Ean!”

The prince turned at the sound of Julian’s voice. The lad came toward him looking resplendent in a deep crimson coat of lush velvet and matching pants. His fair hair had been tangled around sprigs of the darkest holly, and his mask was that of an older man with tiny horns extending from his forehead.

“Welcome, oh, Holly King,” Ean said, recognizing the familiar likeness at once. “And will you battle the Oak King tonight?”

“Not if I can help it,” Julian said from behind his mask. “His name is Ferdinand and he’s a good deal stronger at swords than I am. Here—have some wine.” He handed Ean a goblet. “Hey, have you seen the First Lord yet?”

Ean shook his head.

“Raine’s truth,” Julian remarked, looking a little wild around the eyes, “his costume is…creepy.” At Ean’s curious look, the lad nudged him and said, “Come, I’ll show you.”

The prince followed Julian through the crowd of masked faces, noting costumes that ranged from traditional—honoring the solstice theme—to extreme, representing impossible creatures or mythological gods. Here and there he took note of a particularly ornate headdress or costume, but mostly he just took in the scene overall in broad slashes of brilliant color.

Ean didn’t know whose idea his own costume had been—he certainly wouldn’t have picked it for himself.
Baldur.
He knew the legend, which was a favorite of the Danes. He wondered if Dagmar had somehow arranged…but he couldn’t see the Second Vestal choosing him to represent the handsome and much beloved son of two gods, who was murdered by his brother and then resurrected by his father.

Still, the costume itself was gorgeous. His black velvet doublet was worked all over with sparkling crystal spirals, and he wore a diamond-encrusted mask of similar black and silver swirls. In one hand, he carried a spear tipped in mistletoe, the weapon his godly brother Hodur had been tricked into using to slay him.

After trekking from one side of the vast ballroom to the other, Julian finally pushed a hand to Ean’s chest to stop his forward progress and whispered in awe, “Look—there he is!”

The First Lord wore a jeweled sapphire coat and a silver mask similar in nature to his Shades. He stood talking to a man Ean identified from his silvering hair as Markal Morrelaine, though the fearsome horned mask he wore would otherwise have made it impossible to tell his identity. It wasn’t until Björn turned to someone behind him that Ean realized the god he was portraying.

Ianus. The Two-Faced God.

Indeed, as Björn turned to speak to someone else, the silver face on the back of his head picked right up in conversation again with Markal.

Ean took half a step back in surprise.

“I know—it gets you right here, doesn’t it!” Julian said with a grin, pushing a hand to his stomach, just below his ribcage. 

Julian was right. Seeing both faces talking at once was both disturbing and morbidly fascinating.

“Of course it’s the perfect costume!” Julian said, veritably oozing the odd combination of awe mixed with disgust. “Ianus is the ancient Cyrenaic god of beginnings and endings—you know, their version of Cephrael. He’s associated with doors and gates and the beginnings of a journey. In some legends, they speak of him as being able to see the past and the future, but most of us view those concepts as part of Epiphany’s domain. Still, a great costume, you must admit.”

“Unquestionably,” Ean agreed, perversely mesmerized by the two talking silver faces.
How does he do that?

Then a flash of fire caught his eye, and Ean forgot all about the Two-Faced God.

He saw the Phoenix moving above the crowd, its fiery, feathered crest cascading back from a crimson head. As the Phoenix neared, Ean saw that the mask’s beak extended to a graceful point hovering over Isabel’s nose, and beneath she wore a crimson blindfold. Her silk gown was encrusted with rubies, citrines and garnets—fire captured and bound to her will—and an ornate jeweled collar hung around her neck, sparkling in time with dazzling earrings of citrines and yellow diamonds.

Ean felt his heart beating a rhythm unique to her alone. He stood riveted by Isabel’s presence—the moment she entered the room, he had eyes for no one and nothing else.

“By Cephrael’s Great Book,” Julian murmured appreciatively. “She’s something, isn’t she?”

Isabel stopped about ten paces away from the staring boys and greeted her brother. As she turned her back to Ean, he saw that her chestnut hair was braided with gilded feathers.

“Why isn’t she with anyone?” he asked Julian, even though the very idea of her being with another man filled him with a dread so palpable he felt it in his knees.

“They say she’s loved only one man in all her life.”

Ean’s breath stuck in his throat. He grabbed Julian’s arm. “Who?” he gulped. “Is he here?”

“That would be something if he was,” Julian remarked, taking perverse amusement at the stricken look on Ean’s face. “He died three hundred years ago. He’s famous though. His name was Arion Tavestra. He was one of the First Lord’s three generals.”

Ean started breathing again.
If he’s dead, then at least I have a chance.

“Well, go on,” Julian encouraged, nudging Ean. “Get it over with. She’ll either love you or laugh at you. Might as well find out before you waste any more time pining over her.”

Ean gave him a flat look. “I’m not pining.”
“Drooling then,” Julian corrected with a grin.

Fixing him with a sooty stare, Ean straightened his already rod-straight shoulders and headed purposefully toward the group that was Isabel, Markal and Björn. The First Lord saw him almost at once and held open one hand to receive him.

“Ah, Ean,” he said in greeting. “Welcome. I applaud your choice in costumes. I trust our modest fete is to your liking.”

Ean looked at the thousands of people eating, drinking and making merry and wondered what a fete that wasn’t ‘modest’ would look like to the Vestal. “It is beyond words, First Lord.”

Björn turned to his sister. “Isabel, have you had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of our newest arrival?”

She looked at Ean and yet did not, for clearly her eyes were covered with the crimson blindfold, but just the recognition of her attention came as a heady draught to his head. “Ah yes,” she murmured with the quirk of a smile, “he spent some time staring at me from the ramparts, I believe.” Her voice was honey, liquid light, a loving caress—any word representing that ineffable quality of tone that held both music and emotion.

“Well, that’s nearly a meeting,” Björn noted amiably. “Ean val Lorian, may I present my sister, Isabel.”

Wearing the most devious shadow of a smile, Isabel extended her gloved fingers toward Ean.

He took them and pressed a chaste kiss upon the back of her hand. Though her eyes were tantalizingly veiled from him, he had the feeling she was watching him all the same.

“Excuse us but a moment,” Björn said, and he and Markal moved away into the crowd.

“What may I offer you, my lady?” Ean asked as he straightened with eyes only for her.

One corner of her lips lifted in a delicious half-smile. “What have you to offer, my lord?”

My heart and soul in a vial to wear around your neck.
“Would the lady like wine?” he asked. “Something to eat? Shall I escort you somewhere, or merely stand here within the shadow of your beauty and admire you?”

“Mmm,” she murmured, thinking over her options. “Any of those sound delightful, but I think I must choose the first.”

For half a second, Ean was sure she meant his unspoken thought. “Wine then,” he managed and began looking around for a steward. He was loath to leave her side even for a second, but fortunately stewards were plentiful, and he quickly waved one over. “White or red, my lady?”

“Red is the lady’s favorite,” she murmured, her voice throaty and so inviting of his desire.

Ean was quite inundated by it already. He chose a goblet for Isabel and placed it into her hand, acutely aware of the blindfold separating them. Gently he closed her fingers around the stem. “Thank you, my lord,” she purred.

Mindful of her comfort, Ean looked around and spied a bench. What made it most ideal was that it was outside on the patio and away from the larger crowd. “There is a bench in the garden that seems to be waiting for us,” he suggested. “Will you sit, my lady?”

“If you will but guide the way, my lord.” She lifted her hand as he’d seen her do with Markal, and it was with immense pleasure that Ean placed his arm beneath her outstretched hand.

As they walked toward the towering glass-paned doors, which stood open to admit the evening breeze, Ean was so heady he might’ve been treading on starlight. Her near presence, the blessing of her attention, exhilarated him beyond measure. He thought he might die tomorrow and be the happier for having had this one night to bask in the glory of her notice. But then that would mean he would be without her, and that thought was too horrible to contemplate.

Finding the bench, Ean helped her sit upon it. “May I join you, my lady?”

“Please do, your Highness,” she said with a secretive little smile.

Oh, to know what thoughts she protects behind that veil!
“Please…don’t call me that,” the prince said as he lowered himself beside her.

“Then what shall I call you?”

Husband.
“I am Ean.”

“I am Isabel.”

He still had her hand in his. She seemed willing to let him keep it, and since he was quite unwilling to let it go, the arrangement suited them both.

“Isabel,” he said, gazing upon her, “you are a vision.”

“As are you,” she said. “A perfect Baldur.”

“I doubt that very much,” he disagreed with a smile.

She gave him a skeptical look by way of a delicately arched eyebrow—truly, even partly hidden by the crimson silk, her face was enormously expressive. “Have you met Baldur, Ean?”

“No, madam. I haven’t.”

“Then it isn’t fair to contradict me, is it?”

Ean chuckled. “I suppose not.” As the night’s quiet descended, he gazed upon her and a verse came to him. He spoke it as it came:

From the ashes of my heart

Rising sweetly stirs the sleeping dragon

The beast that roared unending
,

T
il fires extinguished

Now
wakened by the Phoenix

Love reborn
.

Ean flashed a sheepish grin, though he knew his face was invisible to her. “I’m sorry,” he laughed, feeling enormously foolish. “I don’t know where that came from.” 

Isabel smiled with delight, and he adored her for it. “I don’t remember your being this charming the last time.” 

“I…” Taken slightly off guard by her comment, Ean quickly recovered. “I suppose I learned something in death.”

“That is as it should be. Do we not celebrate the imminent opening of the Extian Doors and the renewal of all souls this night?”

“A myth, surely,” he posed. “Parable at best.”

“Yet all myths are symbolic of some truth,” she pointed out, “else they would not endure the ages.”

“Your wisdom humbles me, my lady.”

Silence descended again as he gazed at her, but the silence was soft, like a soundless caress. Ean might’ve let it last forever, the night a blanket binding them together, but she said, “You may ask the question on your mind. I will answer if I can.”

Ean hadn’t realized he was desirous of anything beyond her attention, but the moment she said it, the question materialized. So he did as she bade him. “Tell me then, why do you wear the blindfold?”

“Because of a promise I made once,” she answered, and though her tone remained light and gentle, he knew this was all she was going to say about it.