The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light)
THE DAGGER OF
ADENDIGAETH
A Pattern of Shadow & Light
Book Two
MELISSA MCPHAIL
Books by Melissa McPhail
Cephrael’s Hand
The Dagger of Adendigaeth
The Dagger of Adendigaeth
A Pattern of Shadow & Light
Book 2
This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
The Dagger of Adendigaeth A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book 2 All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2012 Melissa McPhail v1.0
Cover art by Kentaro Kanamoto http://kentarokan
amoto.com
Map art by Ramah Palmer and Brandon Lidgard
Edited by Purple Pen Editing and Melissa Bowling
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Outskirts Press, Inc. http://www.outskirtspress.com
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4327-9824-6
Hardback ISBN: 978-1-4787-2013-3
Ebook ASIN: B0046A9VLO
Outskirts Press and the “OP” logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Acknowledgements
Maps
Author's Note
Prologue
Part One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
Part Two
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
Epilogue
Glossary of Terms
Dramatis Persona
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To my incredibly loyal and supportive friends and family—for your patience and unconditional love despite my becoming a missing person so often during the writing of this novel; for the endless discussions and conjecturing that so often spurred new threads of storyline, for your amazing feedback, for tea and quiet moments of inspiration, for your constant, unwavering support. And to Sarah, Juliet and Shon, for loving me in spite of my many hours spent creating with the characters in this tale instead of with you. Thank you—a hundred times, thank you.
MAPS
Dannym & Surrounding Kingdoms
M'Nador & Surrounding Kingdoms
Author’s Note
When dealing with an epic fantasy spanning multiple books—especially when said books are published over a period of years—some authors choose to include within the story of each subsequent book a sort of refresher on what happened in the book just before it, finding a way (they hope) to seamlessly integrate the backstory of say, Book One, into the forward story of Book Two.
But the tale encompassed by a Pattern of Shadow & Light does not stop, rewind and auto-generate a summary every hundred-thousand words. Therefore, you won’t find any cagey attempt on my part to bring you up to speed on what you may or may not remember. Yet I realize it may have been some years since you visited the realm of Alorin. So if you desire a quick refresher, I’ve provided that information here, within this Author’s Note.
For those of you who are well versed in the story of Cephrael’s Hand, by all means, skip this orientation and continue on to The Dagger of Adendigaeth.
***
At the end of Cephrael’s Hand, Prince Ean had recovered from his near-death episode with the Malorin’athgul, Rinokh, only to face him again at the Temple of the Vestals in Rethynnea. Teaming up with his blood-brother Creighton (now a Shade), and the Espial Franco Rohre, Ean defeated Rinokh by holding onto his pattern while Creighton pulled the man, unprotected, across an open node. This exposed the Malorin’athgul to the raw power of the pattern of the world, which unmade him, but not before Rinokh cast a powerful working that destroyed the temple. Aided by Franco, Ean and Creighton then used the same node to escape the pursuing forces of the Vestal Raine D’Lacourte.
Raine was fighting in the fray when Rinokh revealed himself, and in facing the Malorin’athgul, the Vestal was finally forced to admit that the creatures do exist. With the assistance of the pirate Nodefinder Carian vran Lea, and accompanied by the avieth Gwynnleth, Raine chased Ean and Franco across the node. However, he and the others did not end up in the same location as Ean and Franco and found themselves instead in the desolate landscape of T’khendar.
When we left the Adept Healer Alyneri, she’d been taken hostage by men sworn to the Duke of Morwyk with help from the wielder Sandrine du Préc. That same night however, their fleeing coach was caught in a landslide, and Alyneri was thrown off a cliff into a river raging in flood.
Meanwhile, our young truthreader Tanis was waiting for his lady when he noticed a fiery-eyed man, whose gruesome thoughts accosted Tanis’s sensitive mind during a chance meeting of gazes. Compelled by a sudden sense of duty, Tanis followed the man from the tavern, departing without a word of explanation for the Lord Captain Rhys val Kincaide or Alyneri.
Lastly, when we left the soldier Trell, he had just pulled a nameless girl from a flooded river near the old desert woman Yara’s Veneisean farm and brought her back to Yara for help.
“Knowledge is the dagger of Adendigaeth.
Forgiveness is the balm.”
– The Fifth Vestal Björn van Gelderan
Prologue
Three moons ago in Alorin…
The Hermit closed his eyes against the blinding afternoon sun and shifted his position on the rocky cliff. He’d been sitting there for hours, his way of relaxing, of meditating…of atoning. His deeply tanned skin testified to this habit. While his iron-grey hair and the lines at his brown eyes proclaimed a man who’d seen a half-century of life, the sinewy muscles beneath his linen tunic and wide-legged pants seemed to belong to a much younger man—indeed, much, much younger than his actual age, though he had long ago forgotten how many centuries that numbered.
Far below his seaside cliff, surrounded by olive orchards and pastures and farmland, the Agasi village of Talieri appeared as a dusting of tiny red-roofed houses cramped up against the sparkling inland sea. Toy fishing boats puttered through glassy waters, leaving wakes twenty times their length, while larger craft hoisted breezy sails to head south toward the violet-hazed mountains on the far horizon.
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The Hermit’s home comprised a landscape of chalk cliffs, green hills, and depthless blue sea-lakes that beckoned to fishermen and barefoot boys with equal appeal. Further north, in the foothills of the high mountains of Tirycth Mir, lay the Solvayre, a region of lush pastures and vineyards where grapes were grown and pressed and fermented into Agasan’s famous wines.
Even on cold days, like this one, the Hermit liked to come down to the bluffs where the easterly wind always blew, where the only sound was the call of the birds circling midway between cliff and sea. Peace dwelled in the wide-open spaces of the world, where freedom seemed a birthright to man and eagles alike. Only there, naked beneath the vast expanse of mountain and sky, did the Hermit’s overactive mind find rest.
For he was a man possessed.
Possessed by demons of his own devising—as is so often true—tormented by the chains of obligation that weighed heavily upon his conscientious soul. We are the sculptors of our destiny, his mentor had often told him, as much as the victims of it.
His mentor had taught him this truth, unpalatable as it might be, so many ages ago. The Hermit smiled at the thought of his mentor, his confidant…his friend, who was renowned as Alorin’s enemy yet remained its only hope of salvation. Could one man be so many things?
Yes, he thought, if his name is Björn van Gelderan.
And where are you now, my old friend? What role have you assigned yourself during these darkest of days?
The Hermit knew Björn had returned to Alorin, though he’d found only the briefest trace of him on the currents—Björn’s only card of calling to those who watched and waited for his coming. The Fifth Vestal had mastered the art of hiding his presence on the tides of elae—the most difficult of any undertaking with the lifeforce. Even Raine D’Lacourte would not find him on the currents unless Björn himself allowed it.
The Hermit closed his eyes and exhaled a sigh echoic of the ages he’d witnessed. Björn van Gelderan had forever changed the course of his life, and the Hermit was bound to him now, for good or for ill.
And you are Markal Morrelaine, he reminded himself, not some witless recluse gone mad in his old age. You have work to do.
He did, though he dreaded it—especially of late. The things he’d been seeing on the currents were shocking enough to bring an agonizing sense of fear into his daily work. He should have felt a measure of vindication—were not their earliest suspicions now justified?—but his heart knew only a dire sense of unease and a nagging guilt that had been tormenting him for ages like an indigestible, poisonous root. That everything was proceeding according to plan offered no solace; after all, Alorin’s Fifth Vestal had devised it.
Our plan.
Markal too well remembered the days of its making; long days and even longer nights secluded in Björn’s tower with the few they could trust while the other Vestals played at being important. Björn’s zanthyr had both stood guard for their gathering and run Björn’s bidding, returning with meals, ancient texts, weldmaps…or Sundragons.
This memory brought a smile to Markal’s face, crinkling the deep lines at his eyes.
They had been so shocked—he and Malachai and the others—when the illustrious Ramuhárihkamáth walked into the room on the heels of the First Lord’s zanthyr—for no feat was too monumental that Phaedor would not accomplish it if such was Björn’s will—and even more astonished when Ramu bent his knee to Björn and swore his oath in front of them all. So many centuries ago now, yet the memory still tasted of the excitement and promise they’d all felt in those days.
The memory brought sadness, also. Of those original nine, who remained? Malachai was vanquished, his madness a terrible sacrifice. As far as Markal knew, Cristien and Anglar fell with Arion at the Citadel, and Dunglei and Parcifal before them at Gimlalai. Their smiles, their sarcastic wit, their brilliant minds—all lost, casualties of the larger war.
The best and the brightest of Alorin’s wielders had died defending the realm against the threat Malachai became. Would that any of them might’ve foreseen this most tragic consequence.
Of the other survivors now sworn to their cause, Dagmar was in T’khendar, reportedly held prisoner by Björn—though Markal knew that was none but fantasy. The First Lord’s zanthyr no doubt was off pursuing his own motives, as ever he did when not doing his master’s bidding. Of the rest, he knew nothing; he only suspected that, like him, they were waiting to be summoned. To be Called.
And you’re still stalling, he told himself while gazing off across the sparkling blue sea-lake toward the hazy mountains beyond. The Geborahs, they called them, named for the formless power that roamed the treacherous passes of Mount Ijssmarmöen. Far beyond, across the city-states of Navárre, nestled against the lush Caladrian Coast, lay the sacred city of Faroqhar, the Seat of the Empress Valentina van Gelderan, Björn’s great, great, many-times-great grand-niece.
Markal had hidden from the Empress as much as any other. He’d known she would seek him ruthlessly for questioning once the war ended. Isolation and anonymity had been his foremost priorities, so he’d chosen Talieri to house his retreat from the world, in no small part because of the disinclination of anyone from the Imperial Court to travel there. While heavy traffic clogged the sea-lakes along their southern coasts, only fishermen and traders found their way to the sparsely populated northern shores.
The Empress left the region alone due to its proximity to the highly-prized wineries of Solvayre, whose owning families wielded great political power and were touchy about over-governance. That meant few, if any, visits from the Imperial Guard to Talieri, and no visits from Agasan’s ruling class, who were far too important to pay a stop to an isolated fishing village with nothing to boast but an old hermit living atop their highest hill.
A foghorn sounded from afar, stirring Markal back to the present. The horn meant that Talieri was calling its fishermen home. The sea-lakes of Ijssmar became dangerous with the fall of night, and a ship caught on the lakes after sundown might never make it back to harbor. But the horn held a different meaning for Markal. Had he really been sitting there for so long, accomplishing nothing? Was he so afraid of what the currents would show him?
Afraid? No. Regretful perhaps, wary of the coming days, weary from his centuries of waiting for a time he now dreaded had arrived. Night would soon fall, and he could no longer count on the morning’s arrival; in such troubled times, tomorrow belonged to no man.
Thus setting himself to task, Markal formed the pattern in his mind that would reveal the currents to him. Unlike Adepts, who might train themselves to see the currents even as a swimmer trained his lungs to hold breath, Markal had no Adept gift. But few could match his skill at Patterning.
Releasing the pattern to compel its intent into becoming, the currents opened to his sight. He no longer focused on the high mountains across the sea; instead, he studied the swirling eddies that swept along in great rosy funnels from the sky, like cyclones stained a pastel pink. The Life currents of the first strand. These pale whirlwinds brought to him the stories of countless lives jumbled together in a vortex of confused moments, disjointed vignettes he would have to piece together to discern the whole.
From the second strand, which he identified as a burnished copper sheen upon the land, Markal pieced together the travels of Nodefinders in whose activities he took an interest. One caught his eye: the Espial Franco Rohre. From Franco’s frequent travels, and from the other life pattern accompanying Franco’s upon the tides of the second strand, Markal inferred that Franco acted in the service of Raine D’Lacourte, taking the Vestal on a confusingly disjointed tour of the realm. Markal might’ve liked to delve deeper into their activities, for he felt it prudent to keep an eye on Raine D’Lacourte, but this was not his task for that day.
Releasing a new pattern, the merest whisper of intent, Markal’s sight changed to view the fourth strand, the one comprising the patterns of thought. On these tides he learned of recent workings of elae, of twisted truth-patterns fro
m the Prophet’s temple in Tambarré…of magical battles in the Kutsamak and the balance of power in M’Nador’s violent war.
All these varied strands of the lifeforce he studied and pondered, traced and deciphered. Night fell and the moon rose, but still he sat on the edge of his mountain. The night’s cold could not touch him. Even the rain, had it come, would have splashed well above his head, beading as if on glass to run in rivulets to the ground in a circle at least two paces from his crossed legs.
These small comforts he allowed himself, trifling patterns of little regard; they did nothing to ease his cramping muscles, dull the ache behind his eyes, or allay the gnawing emptiness in his stomach. To study the currents in the detail to which he was accustomed required rigor and determination. Days sometimes passed before Markal had learned all he must know.
For some, such study was a pleasurable task. In their time together, Markal had known Björn to spend a week or more sitting on his tower roof studying the currents. He would come back inside lean and hardened from his fast, his brilliant blue eyes even more dazzling than usual. For Björn, this undertaking provided a means of edification; for Markal, it felt more like torture. This was but one fundamental difference between them. Björn reveled in the laborious study of Patterning, while Markal endured it through iron-willed self-discipline and a passion for order and method. This variance evidenced the innate difference between an Adept, like Björn, and a wielder, like Markal. For Björn, the touch of elae came as life itself; for Markal, it was always a battle of will, a mental marathon.
Order and method. This was his mantra.