Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One Read online

  “You leave a place of safety for one of danger.”

  Trell arched a cinnamon eyebrow. “A war is a place of safety?”

  “No, Trell of the Tides,” the holy man replied, his gaze deadly serious, “the Mage’s shadow is a place of safety, and you are soon to leave it. You must learn to use your three eyes.”

  “Three eyes?” Trell repeated.

  “The eye of your mind—your intelligence; the eye of your heart—your conscience; and the eye of your soul—your instinct. These are your three eyes. You must use them all, and trust them all. This above all.”

  Trell nodded. “Very well. My three eyes. Is that all I must know?”

  “No.” Istalar pulled on his greying beard, smearing the mist that had accumulated in glittering droplets. His brown eyes looked troubled. “You must know that the realm is not at rest. Far beyond this war that plagues our people, darkness lurks where light once resided, and there are unexplained—”

  A terrible rumbling erupted, drowning out his following words.

  Trell exchanged an uneasy look with the holy man, and then the earth shook with a jarring force. It pitched Trell off-balance and sent water careening out of the pool. Trell and Istalar both reached for each other. “Daw, what was that?” Trell hissed, casting a fast glance around.

  Shouts echoed from the higher cave, and another spasm shuddered through the cavern. Trell stumbled into the wet wall with another curse.

  “We’re under attack!” a man shouted—Trell never knew who, though it sounded like one of the men he’d left guarding the cave entrance. The Converted’s voice was still echoing a thousand-fold ack-ack-ack’s when another clap of grating thunder assaulted their ears, and a veritable wall of sharp stones tumbled down, forcing those below to dodge and roll. “What’s happened?” someone called to the sentry above.

  “Radov’s wielders are attacking the Sundragons. Run my fellows! The cavern is collapsing upon us!”

  As if to prove his point, the floor seemed to tip and then crash into place with an angry, jarring shudder. Trell’s feet were simply no longer beneath him, and the next thing he knew, he was blinded by a searing pain as his skull met the unyielding rock. He heard it inside when he hit, a hard clap that was both a blunt thud and fiery pain, but he was only vaguely aware of the cry that left his lips, or of the chill water that soaked his garments in short bursts as waves careened out of the pool. Some small part of his mind recognized moans and shouted prayers amid the shattering of stone. Then he felt himself being roughly shaken, and he strained to focus.

  Istalar crouched beside him. The holy man’s face was smeared with blood streaming from a nasty gash above one eye. He was speaking, but Trell couldn’t hear him.

  “What?” Trell managed through the ringing in his ears. “What?”

  The rumble in the cavern was deafening, but somehow Istalar pitched his voice above it. “You must hurry!”

  Trell fought to sit up, but no sooner had he done so than he vomited. His head pounded with a vengeance, and he couldn’t tell if it was blood or water that soaked his hair—probably both. Istalar helped him to stand, but Trell had hardly gained his feet before dizziness overcame him and his knees buckled. The holy man caught him around his chest and pushed him up against the wall. “Go!” he urged. “Go now. Before it is too late for you!”

  What was the man saying? He couldn’t tell who was talking, couldn’t remember talking, was anyone talking? Gods and devils his head was a pulsating agony, and red fog clouded his vision.

  Men were scrambling to escape. Water poured across the floor, sloshed around Trell’s ankles, and then rushed along into the darkness to find its own way out. There were bodies unmoving on the floor, dark forms half-covered in luminous water. Did the god live in the water? Was the water the god? What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he think clearly? And what was the holy man doing?

  Istalar had undone his turban and was wrapping the cloth around Trell’s head. Trell pushed feebly at the holy man’s hand, mumbling, “No—not…Converted.”

  This can’t be right, he thought somewhere among the fog of pain. Not now, not when he was so close to… Clarity returned in a lucid moment. Please, dear Naiadithine, I daren’t die before I know who I am! Where do the lost souls go?

  Istalar tied off Trell’s makeshift bandage and ripped away the remaining cloth. He took Trell by both shoulders and captured his dizzied eyes with his own. “Follow the water, Trell of the Tides!”

  Trell wiped his eyes again. “Follow the water…” he mumbled.

  The holy man pointed toward the deeper cavern. “Follow the water!”

  Trell blinked and gazed in the direction Istalar was pointing. Then he shook his head and lifted a hand the other way. “No—there,” he protested even as the holy man was pushing him in the opposite direction.

  “There is no escape that way!” Istalar insisted, half-dragging Trell toward the deeper caves. “The cave is gone!”

  Trell looked over his shoulder and saw that indeed, the entrance had all but collapsed. They were trapped.

  This isn’t right!

  Istalar half-pushed, half-dragged him out of the main cavern and into one of the caves. It was illuminated by the sacred water, its low ceiling just barely out of Trell’s reach.

  The mountain growled again, petulant and fierce. Tiny stones pelted Trell’s head and shoulders. Istalar looked up with a sharp intake of breath, and then he pushed Trell forcefully and yelled something Trell couldn’t make out because of the roaring in the cavern—or perhaps it was the roaring in his ears; it was hard to separate the two. Trell splashed face-down in the water, just barely escaping the tumble of rock that sealed off any retreat.

  Dripping and shaken, he got slowly to his feet and stood for a moment staring at the fall of rock while he battled a surge of fury that pierced through his disorientation. Had the jumble of stones claimed Istalar? He felt a choking pressure in his chest at the thought.

  Trell said a soldier’s prayer for Istalar—for it was the only one he knew—and then stood frozen by a terrible thought: is this happening because of me? Because I angered Naiadithine with that pathetic excuse of an offering? But the narrow escape had imparted a surge of clarity, and Trell realized he was wasting precious time. The rock had sealed off his escape but had done nothing to stop the water, which poured through the cracks between the stones as if running a last flight from death.

  Follow the water, Trell of the Tides.

  Had Naiadithine known this was going to happen? Trell looked down at the water swirling around his ankles, luminous and pale. There was something about it, something that tugged at his memory even as the icy current tugged at his heels.

  Come…follow…it seemed to say.

  Trell went.

  He chased the current, head pounding painfully with every splash. He could see by the water’s luminous light, which cast reflective shadows on the near walls but was never bright enough to reveal the cavern ceilings. Trell let the water be his guide, and though its fingers were icy and swift, and darkness pressed as heavily upon his shoulders as it did upon his consciousness, Trell was determined not to be afraid. Fear was the worst evil ever to plague a man, for with it came hesitation and with that, inaction, failure, death.

  Follow the water, Trell of the Tides.

  Perhaps it was the clap to his head that had conjured such blind trust, or perhaps it was the recognition that he had little to lose save his life, and what had that been to him until now? Existence, perhaps, but a parched one. He remembered neither parents nor siblings, if he had any. He could share no childhood memories, nor boast of that one doe-eyed girl who’d stolen his heart even as he stole her virginity. He couldn’t remember his mother’s smile, or his father’s wisdom—assuming he was even a legitimate son.

  And yet his was a life Istalar had sacrificed his own to save.

  So as he raced along, wet and shivering in the strange cavern of water-light, Trell knew he owed Istalar—and the Emir, a
nd Graeme above all—at least a brave attempt to live, to escape if he possibly could. All the while, the divine water communed with his spirit.

  Follow the water, Trell of the Tides.

  He wandered in the chill caverns for two long hours before he reached the end, time enough for his feet to grow numb, to trade sweat for shivering. All thought was reduced to sheer determination. His teeth were chattering loud enough to echo by the time he found himself wading deeper and deeper into a stream that eventually pooled to his waist, the current strong as it tugged him toward the dark, wet rock that was the cave’s—and his own—certain end. He could see by the water’s light that the ceiling was perhaps five paces above, close enough to know there was no escape above and none behind.

  He tried not to despair, but couldn’t help thinking, has it truly come to this?

  Yet as he stared at the swirling water, reason prevailed. All this water, but it doesn’t rise to claim me.

  There had to be an opening somewhere beneath.

  Trell ripped off Istalar’s bandage and labored out of his boots. He checked to ensure his sword was secure in its scabbard and the scabbard firmly around his waist—for life without his precious sword would be worse than nothing. Then he took three quick deep breaths and dove beneath the pool of liquid light.

  Icy fingers stabbed him, vindictive in their insistence that he gasp from the cold, but he held his breath with steadfast defiance, opened his eyes, and let the current carry him, only trusting that Naiadithine would not betray him in his leap of faith. He was quickly pulled into a narrow opening, a funnel for the water, barely wide enough to swim through.

  Daw! he thought, agonizing as he forced himself to hold his breath, forced his arms to stroke and his legs to kick despite the icy water. If the passage thinned any more, he would be caught there, trapped deep inside the mountain’s guts, left to drown.

  Breathe! his body shouted.

  Breathe! his lungs protested, burning in his chest.

  Trell felt the fingers of desperation grip him.

  Then, in a moment of surprising clarity, he realized he’d experienced this before, this dreadful panic that threatened to overpower all mental control. Somewhere, sometime…he’d almost drowned!

  Trell was so elated that a sudden peace flooded him. He found a renewed determination to keep swimming.

  He knew the moment the current yanked him in a new, more forceful direction that he was free of the tunnel, and he prayed as he swam upwards that he would find air at the top. It was a harrowing few seconds, but then he surged into the open with a choking gasp that echoed off a low ceiling.

  The current carried him swiftly along. Slowly, the blackness cleared from his vision and the fire left his lungs, and he knew he was in an underground river. There was water-light enough to see the wide stream and the smooth, wet stone of the low ceiling, but it was a faint light, moon-pale, as though Naiadithine had done her part and was leaving him now.

  His muscles cramped beneath the water; his teeth chattered, his head throbbed, and his body was numb and heavy; yet for the first time in nearly half a decade, he was grateful to be alive. He grinned stupidly as the river carried him, using his pack and its empty canteens to help him stay afloat, oblivious for the moment of any pain or danger—for he had remembered! Not a dreamed memory, but his own true recollection of life before the Emir’s palace.

  A roaring began that quickly grew in volume, and suddenly Trell was plummeting downward in darkness, falling…falling…as he felt himself rushing through air and took in one last breath. Then followed a harsh plunge into depths unknown, being caught by the current again and pulled along, only to strike against something—caught painfully on his arm, what was it?

  He held on.

  The greedy current tried to pull him further downstream, but he hooked his arm around the line—was it a line? He felt along it with numb fingers. No. A chain. Trell wrapped both arms around the chain and swam up along its length. He clenched his teeth, fought the blackness piercing his thoughts, and kicked as hard as he could.

  Don’t stop.

  Finally the current died and he was heading upward through still water that gradually grew warmer. He let go of the chain and swam with hands of ice and lungs of fire until he burst free into darkness and saw the barest glimpse of a circle of starry sky. He drew in his breath with a shuddering gasp that echoed back at him.

  He knew at once the cause. I’m in a well.

  There was the chain attached to its post. No doubt he’d unwound it all trying to pull himself up. He reached for it again, hoping to use it for a rope out of the well, but his body was trembling so violently that he couldn’t even make his fingers close around the metal. The well’s edge was too high for him to reach, and the walls were too slick to climb.

  With the fall of adrenaline, fatigue and hours in the cold set in to claim their share of him. Trell cried for help, but he heard only the echo of his voice, meek and trembling like a ewe’s pitiful bleat. He called out several more times nonetheless, and then splashed his arms in the water until they were too heavy to lift.

  But no one came.

  Because he couldn’t hold the chain, Trell looped one forearm within it as best he could, and then he rested his wet head against the cold metal while his teeth chattered and his body trembled. He knew it was important to stay awake, but it was only heartbeats before his eyelids won their battle to close.

  As he sank into darkness, his last memory was Naiadithine’s whisper…

  Follow the water, Trell of the Tides.

  Eleven

  ‘Trust, but do not be deceived. Be prudent, but do not delay. Azerjaiman waits for no man.’

  – An old desert proverb

  Trell regained consciousness like the slow pouring of honey, swimming up through a mind-fog of darkness and the near memory of chill water to the unexpected sensation of comfort. Opening his eyes, he found himself in a massive ebony bed, three sides of which were draped in diaphanous silk, the fourth layer drawn back with a black satin cord. And beyond the bed? The dim walls of a tent, but it could have been the tent of a sultan or the Emir himself, so opulent were its trappings.

  Sunlight brightened the canvas roof to a pale copper, casting a warm glow upon luxurious furnishings, ornate chests, and tables upon which rested a number of beaded lamps, a deluge of books, and several odd-looking statues. Plush Akkadian carpets covered the raw earth, and the ebony bed itself seemed a work of art. Where had he come to find such luxuries in a desert camp?

  Voices floated to him from a nearby room, their words muffled. He sat up and immediately regretted it. The onset of dizziness and a dull throbbing in his skull reminded him of the very real nature of his ordeal. Lying down again to wait for the world to stop spinning, he reviewed what he remembered:

  Someone must’ve found him and pulled him from the well.

  Someone had brought him here—wherever here was.

  Someone had healed him.

  Then he recalled that memory of drowning once before, a brief image intense with desperation and panic and even the choked recollection of gulping water—saltwater; yes, sea water—into his mouth and lungs. Trell analyzed this memory with great care. It was the first recollection he had from a time before waking in the Emir’s palace. Though the mere flash of a picture, it contained all the things a memory should have: emotion, associated perceptions, and even his own thoughts at the time.

  Fantastic!

  My very own memory.

  Trell broke into a smile as he lay staring at the copper-hued ceiling. Having just that small bit of memory gave him great hope that he could remember more of his former life. Maybe the Emir was right to send him away, yet the idea still pained him more than he cared to admit. Trell remembered that day as if it had just happened…

  ***

  When the Converted Commander Raegus n’Harnalt had arrived with a hundred men to relieve Trell and his company at the Cry, Trell’s men had cheered.

  “Ho, Tr
ell of the Tides!” the other commander greeted Trell as he’d dismounted in the middle of Trell’s camp with his men filing in around and behind him as best they could in the confined space. One found little enough flat ground along the Cry, and the steep walls of the surrounding canyon were mushroomed with brownish tents. The rock ledges became hot enough to cook on by midday—fortuitous really, for wood was scarce—and canvas tarps, secured haphazardly between rocks, provided the only shade. The sun was just coming up when Raegus arrived, but Trell’s company had been active for hours—only those who’d held the night’s watch were sleeping beneath the shade of their desert tarps.

  “The Emir is most pleased with your service,” Raegus told Trell as he approached holding out both hands in greeting. “You are to be given a hero’s welcome in Raku.”

  Trell clasped shoulders with the other commander and then pressed a fist to his heart in the desert fashion. The formal greeting thus concluded, Trell pulled off his cap and ran a hand through his unruly dark hair. It was barely dawn, but already the heat was rising, sweeping in on the tide of sunlight as if surfing its outermost reaches, a broad band of sweltering air that withered everything it touched. “Then you are here to relieve me?” Trell asked, squinting at the man as he replaced his cap.

  Raegus broke into a broad grin. Bemothi by birth, he had the long, rounded nose and almond-shaped eyes of his countrymen, but his tanned face was disfigured from numerous battles: a long scar ran from temple to cheekbone, pinching the corner of one eye, and his nose had been broken in two places. Still, his smile was genuine as he opened his arms and raised his voice to include all within earshot, “Nay, Trell of the Tides, we are here to relieve everyone!”

  His declaration met with a cheer that soon echoed from ridge to ridge, the good news spreading fast among the men. No doubt the Veneiseans heard the outburst on the other side of the Cry. Trell privately hoped they wondered if yet another victory had been gained while they baked in the sweltering heat, stalemated and outsmarted by a nameless commander of a band of renegade expatriates.