The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light) (76 page)

“Then
love
me—love
us
,” she laughed, bringing joy to lighten the space between their hearts. “Never let your doubts obfuscate the truth, my lord,” and she pulled away to cup his face with her hand. “That there
is
hope. That my brother guides us as truly as Polaris calls her sailors home. That these sacrifices will not be for naught.” She stood on tiptoes to kiss him, long and deep. There was no divinity more pure than her kiss. “Stay the course,” she whispered then, their lips close, her advice a lover’s sweet promise. “Be our inspiration.
Lead
us, my General. We are all looking to you.”

Ean opened his eyes to a grey dawn where night yet lingered, clinging heavily to the world, the moon’s devoted lover disinclined to depart. Isabel lay in his arms, her chestnut hair draped across the pillow they shared, her eyes shut beneath the ever-present blindfold. The strip of black silk seemed a torment to him after that dream, a punishment. His soul felt bruised.

A name weighed heavy upon his heart.

Arion T
avestra.

It had been his name, once.

‘They say she’s loved only one man in all her life.’
Julian’s words, haunting him now.
‘His name was Arion Tavestra. He was one of the First Lord’s generals.’

Ean knew that these were just the first of many memories trying to surface, sieving through the holes in the veil of death, holes made by other memories already speared forth. But Ean didn’t want these memories. They were too painful, too layered with grief. There was an enormous feeling of guilt associated with them, and Ean feared their truth.

Later, as they rose together to greet the day, Isabel sensed Ean’s mood and didn’t question him on it, only kissed him deeply before she departed. Ean expected she knew his struggles better than he did.

As soon as he could break away from his lessons with Markal, Ean sought out Julian. He hadn’t seen the lad since the First Lord’s Masquerade, and he missed Julian’s effortless company, his lightness of spirit.

Ean found him in between lectures—the First Lord was running a veritable Citadel in the lower levels of the palace, with blue-robed Masters, many of them now Shades, leading classes and taking on students in advanced studies.

As he emerged to find Ean waiting for him in the back of the lecture hall, Julian’s face lit with enthusiasm. “Ean, I’m thrilled to see you!” Julian grabbed him into a hug. “We’ve just been learning about the Twelfth Law.”

“Which one is that?”

Julian quoted at once, “
A pattern need not be perfect, but the wielder’s concept of it must be
.”

“Interesting.” 

“But tell me…” Julian adopted a conspiratorial manner and spun about to ensure they were alone in the passage. “Is it true?” He pulled Ean toward an alcove and the hall’s tall windows and then launched into a dramatic recounting of everything he’d heard of Ean’s relationship with Isabel.

The prince sighed at the stories already circulating—it didn’t seem to matter in what realm he dwelled but rumors about him spread like wildfire.

“So it’s true,” Julian surmised from his pained expression. “You worked a binding of the fifth layered with form on Epiphany’s Prophet.”

Ean grimaced, nodded.

Julian’s face lit with awe. “Brilliant!”     

“Julian,” Ean said, trying to get them off the topic of his and Isabel’s romance. He affected a lightness of tone that he didn’t feel as he posed, “I wondered if I could prey upon your vast knowledge of Adept history,”

“Anything,” the lad agreed with a smile.

“What do you know of Arion Tavestra?”

Julian gave him an odd look, but he answered, “He was one of the First Lord’s closest friends, a General during the Adept Wars, and a member of the Council of Nine.”

The familiar name rang a chord in Ean’s memory. “Isabel mentioned them once. What’s the Council of Nine?”

Julian frowned at him now, his gaze genuinely concerned. “They really don’t tell you anything, do they?”

Ean gave him a rueful look. “It is important that I remember what I can on my own—which isn’t to say you can’t offer some aid to that end.”

The lad leaned back against the wall and crossed his ankles. “Well…” he began, regarding Ean uncertainly, “the Council of Nine is the First Lord’s war council, but it’s more than that. It comprises his closest advisors, those who have been with him since the beginning.”

“The beginning
 of what?”

“I think since they first learned of the threat to Alorin and began planning what to do about it.”

Ean frowned. “How long ago was that?”

Julian gave him a wide-eyed look. “A
long
time ago.”

“Who sits on the Council now?”

Julian scratched at his head and dislodged a tuft of blonde hair to stand on end. “The Council hasn’t changed, Ean. Only…”

“Only what?”

“Well…some of the chairs are empty.”

“I see.” Ean felt that weight descend upon his heart again. “Like Arion Tavestra’s?”

“And Malachai’s.”

Ean held his gaze. “What else? About Arion, I mean.”

Julian shifted and crossed arms, narrowing his gaze as he thought it over. “Arion led several of the important battles. Köhentaal, Gimlalai. He was responsible for apprehending the other Vestals and bringing them to T’khendar. And he was at the Citadel when it fell.”

Ean’s throat felt tight. “How did…he die?”

Julian shook his head. “No one knows—at least, the ones who do know aren’t telling. The whole battle of the Citadel is shrouded in mystery. As far as the people of Alorin are concerned, the only survivors were the Fifty Companions, and they’ve been truthbound not to speak of that night. Those of us in T’khendar know that others survived the fall, but they’re equally as mum about the whole thing.” He frowned suddenly. “But Ean, wouldn’t—wouldn’t the First Lord just tell you if you asked him?”

“I’m sure he would,” Ean answered, but hearing the truth from the First Lord would be more than he could bear. He gave the lad a weak smile. “Thanks…for answering my questions.” 

Julian looked concerned. “Ean…” He reached a tentative hand to brush his arm. “You know, it can’t be as bad as you think.”

Ean grimaced. “How not?”

Julian frowned. “It’s just…whatever is tormenting you…it’s not like
they
don’t already know about it. I mean…whatever it was you think you did…obviously they’ve forgiven you.”

Ean admitted he had a point. He turned to look out the window and clenched his teeth, working the muscles of his jaw. “I think, Julian,” he confessed after a long and depressing silence, “I think the problem is that I can’t forgive myself.”

Ean took his leave of Julian soon thereafter, but he had no destination, no agenda. He walked aimlessly through the palace, head down and shoulders hunched, hands shoved in his pockets. Seeking answers from Julian hadn’t been such a good idea. It seemed the truth was painful no matter how he learned it.

Eventually his feet brought him to the yard where he most often practiced with Markal. Ean picked up a stick he’d been using as a wand during an earlier lesson and twirled it absently through his fingers. In their recent training, Markal had been working with him on the use of talismans, as covered in the Seventeenth Law:
The use of talismans must focus force without limiting scope.

Ean preferred to use his hands when any focal point was required at all, but Markal constantly tried to disabuse him of this inclination, saying it was terribly dangerous.

‘Talismans of themselves may have no power
,’ the wielder had explained
. ‘They merely become a focal point for the channeling of the force. Rather than summoning all of this force and holding it within a nebulous concept of one’s own sphere, a wielder channels the force through his talisman.’

‘But why can’t I just be the talisman?’
Ean had argued.

To which Markal had replied critically,
‘Because then all of the force of your working has to channel through
you
.’

Ean still didn’t understand why it was such a problem. Looking at the stick in his hand, he pointed it at the empty air and channeled the second strand through it. The air started spinning in front of him. He altered his intention, layering a pattern of the fifth, and the air became sand. He channeled more energy into the layered pattern, and the vortex tripled in speed, skyrocketing upwards until it was easily a hundred feet high and towering above the courtyard walls.

He changed the concept of his intent, and the sand became a surging geyser of water and cascading spray.
Higher
, he thought with gritted teeth.
Faster.

Elae
flowed into him, focused through his intention into the stick, his talisman, and shot forth to alter the patterns at work. The geyser grew, it spun faster, spraying water across the entire courtyard so that Ean was soon drenched and dripping, and still he forced it to continue.

His head started pounding, and he knew he should stop, but focusing his will required all of his concentration, which meant he had no room for guilt and regret. He deemed a pounding headache was probably worth a few moments of peace.

And then he heard a voice behind him.

“
Ean
.”

The prince released the patterns, letting them expend themselves. A momentary shower of rain pelted him as he turned to face Creighton, dripping and cold and immediately anxious. “Creighton,” he replied, and then he bowed his head, remembering their last encounter and the way he’d so unforgivably slighted his closest friend. “I’m so sorry.”

The Shade remained untouched by the water pouring down until it was gone, the pattern expired. “Ean…” Creighton called the prince’s gaze back to him. “There is nothing you could do that I would not forgive. And you are right to feel as you do. I am not the same man I once was…no matter how we might both wish it so.”

Ean heard the choked desire in his blood-brother’s voice, and he realized that they were united in that wish.

“You might not believe me,” the Shade said then, recovering his composure, “but I chose this path.”

Ean grunted. “You’re right—I find that hard to believe.”

“Yet I
was
given a choice,” Creighton insisted. “It didn’t seem like much of one at the time, but as I look back on it now, I see that it was a fair one. I
did
choose to become a Shade when I agreed to keep this form rather than fade from the world. I chose to give my oath freely, and I’m proud of that decision.”

Ean gazed at him with profound admiration. “You are where I want very much to be, but I…just can’t seem to get there.” He realized that here was someone who truly understood him, and that they were not so different after all. Both had come through death and emerged again, and both had been irrevocably changed by the encounter.

We are none of us truly the shells we wear.

Suddenly making a decision, Ean reached for his friend and drew him into a fierce hug. “I’m trying very hard to see
you
beneath the shell you wear,” the prince murmured, agonized by the truth of it. “I beg you be patient with me, my brother.”

Creighton swallowed as he hugged Ean in return. “Would you prefer an illusion? I…could work the same illusion I worked in your dreams.”

“No, I want to come to know you again in this form. I want only truth.”

The Shade in Ean’s arms smiled, and for a moment, the man that was Creighton shone brilliantly through. “Take as long as you need, Ean,” the words a gentle absolution. “There is only eternity before us.”

After a moment more, Ean pulled away. He nodded and released Creighton. “Thank you.”

The Shade shrugged, murmured dryly, “Don’t mention it.” His obsidian gaze swept Ean then, noting his drenched clothing. He arched a brow. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not especially,” Ean grumbled. Then he added with remorse, “But I will, if you want me to.”

Creighton motioned for them to walk, and Ean fell in beside him as they traded the courtyard for an arcade of sculpted columns, each one supporting an elaborate arch. “It seems that you are battling demons of your own devising,” the Shade observed as they walked.

“Very probably,” Ean admitted.

Creighton glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “So much of everything that we deal with is simply happening within ourselves.” Seeing Ean’s surprise at this wisdom, he explained, “When you share a mind with immortals, you are privy to an immortal’s understanding.”

Ean admitted the obvious truth in that.

“The First Lord says we limit ourselves by our viewpoints,” Creighton said then, “by what we are willing to experience, by what we are willing to let others experience, and by what we are willing to let ourselves believe.”

“Belief isn’t my problem,” the prince muttered.