Wrayth

SIXTEEN Plans and Patterns

Zofiya dreamed of her time in Delmaire. It was a pleasant dream—one without any sign of her father. She held Kaleva, a toddler, warm, soft and giggling in her arms. They sat in the sun on a warm stone bench in one of their father’s palace courtyards, totally alone. The thick smell of honeysuckle and roses had almost made her giddy. She was wrapped in such happiness that she struggled to hold on to the sensation.

Then Kal had slipped off her lap and ran toward the fountain. As she watched, the water flowing in it had turned to blood, and she—unable to move from the bench—had cried out to him to stop, but he wouldn’t. He just kept toddling toward the danger, arms outstretched, laughing and crowing to himself. Her cries made no difference to him.

It’s a dream! A dream! She screamed to herself, trying to wake herself before her brother reached the deadly pool and tumbled in.

Zofiya struggled to regain consciousness—as if it were her life that was at stake, not Kaleva’s. She only knew that she didn’t want to see the end of the dream.

Finally, her own shouts woke her. When she realized she had made it from the dream world and opened her eyes, she was disappointed.

The Grand Duchess Zofiya was still a prisoner. The cruel device was pushed back against the wall, but its needle and tubing still ran into her arm. At least though, she was now mercifully alone. She lay back and pulled experimentally at her bonds—but there was no give in them. Carefully she considered her options. The links were strong and she couldn’t really put all her weight against them, since her legs were bound too. However if there was a way to lubricate them she would perhaps be able to fold her hands and slip out of them. She’d always been flexible, and if she sawed back and forth, enough of her own blood might do the trick.

Zofiya flicked her head and strained her eyes to look around the room. Freed of the influence of whatever potion they’d given her, she could make out that she was definitely in a cellar. Against the wall were some implements that looked like hoes and shovels, and the smell of dirt filled her nostrils. It had been a far more pleasant environment in the dream.

However, one thing was obvious; they hadn’t expected to kidnap her so soon. Her falling into bed with Merrick had just been a fortuitous event for them, and so they had apparently had to make hasty arrangements. This could play to her advantage should she get at least her hands free. Considering del Rue’s physical attributes, Zofiya hazarded she might be able to get the best of him. No telling how weak she might be if they kept her here too long and under the ministrations of the device.

So yes, it had to be soon.

Zofiya began to work both of her wrists within the confines of the chain. Without drugs, it was going to be very painful. However, she’d only just started when a door opening somewhere in the shadows alerted her that she’d run out of time. Hastily, Zofiya slumped back on the bed, glad at least that she’d not hurt herself too much yet.

Del Rue came in whistling from the other room. She could hear his boots shuffling through the dirt of the floor, and made note of how long it took from the first door opening until he entered her room. Only six seconds. She tucked that information away, just in case she needed to run in the dark.

“How is my little princess this morning?” he asked conversationally. When she did not answer, he sighed dramatically. “Come, come, you are awake, so let’s not play these games. I have other, far more interesting ones for you.”

Zofiya turned her head and looked at him, keeping her face carefully blank. “I am sure you do, but what if I don’t want to play them.”

He shrugged. “That is neither here nor there.” He set down a jug of water on the stool just out of reach of the bed, then a plate bearing a wedge of cheese and some bread.

Zofiya’s mouth watered, and she ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth. She hadn’t eaten much at the party, and nothing at all after with Merrick in her room. She didn’t know how long it had been since then.

Del Rue busied himself with the device, filling up several empty containers that were part of its inner compartments. As he worked he whistled, though his back was to her. “My, you have taken quite a lot of houndsbane and myrwood.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Very impressive really.”

The Grand Duchess’ short laugh seemed to catch him off guard. “Obviously you don’t know anything about the Delmairian Royal Court. All of the King’s children are exposed to small doses of poisons throughout their lives. It’s an occupational hazard that everyone lives with.”

He frowned at that. “How very inconvenient, but I do have some other tinctures that are quite rare and most likely will do that trick.” He snapped shut the device’s housing. “I’ll have to send out for the ingredients though.” He didn’t look at all impressed at this delay to his plans.

“Sorry,” she said, her voice full of mock distress, “I do hope I haven’t upset your timetable.”

A bright and terrible light flashed in his eyes: a glimpse of something that Zofiya was fairly sure could not be human. The shadows around him seemed to grow deeper, and his words when he spoke boomed in the tiny cellar. “I was inclined to be kind, but now I see that would be wasted on you.”

He snatched up the food, and stalked away, slamming the door behind him. It was, the Grand Duchess considered, like dealing with a very dangerous child.

She was having a hard time keeping up with his moods, and it was impossible to know how to approach her captor when he flip-flopped so often. Zofiya had known more than a few conspirators and traitors in her time and handled them easily. It was obvious to her that struggling against him was not working in any way, yet she could not find it within herself to soothe the man.

Hearing the final door to the cellar bang shut, Zofiya turned her eyes upward, back to her bindings. She didn’t know how long her father’s paranoia with the tinctures all those years ago had bought her, but she would assume it was enough. She began to yank and pull on the chains in earnest. Blood flowed as she set to with grim determination.

The Grand Duchess had no way of telling how long she tugged and pulled on her arms, sawing them back and forth against the rough metal, but eventually she felt her right hand slip. The pain was making her breath come in short gasps, and she shook her head trying to clear the spots that rose before her eyes.

She folded that palm as best she could and readied herself for a final tug. She knew she mustn’t scream, because she had no idea where her captors were. So when she pulled, Zofiya bit down on her own lip. Every muscle concentrated on that right hand. She tensed her legs, bracing herself against the bed, and then yanked hard.

The skin tore, the hand felt like it was being crushed in a vice, but she didn’t give up. Finally, the hand slid free with a liquid pop that seemed very loud in the chamber. Zofiya allowed herself to lie there for a minute and let the pain wash over her. Then cautiously, she raised her arm to examine the damage. Despite having felt quite the contrary, she still had a hand. The skin was torn, bleeding and starting to swell without the constriction of the cuff.

Yet she could not cosset her hand, now she had it free. It had work to do. The first order of business was get herself disconnected from the vile machine. She would have loved to have knocked the thing to the floor, but again that would make far too much noise, so she pushed it away on its wheels. Now able to twist about and get some leverage, she made quick work of the bed, bending the strut and getting her left hand loose. After that, her feet, tied with rope, were quickly freed.

Zofiya sat up quickly, and immediately wished she hadn’t. Her head was swimming and it took a long moment for her eyes to focus. This new point of view took a moment to get used to. There was only one way in and out of the room, a simple wooden door. Taking a moment to rip up a sheet, the Grand Duchess bound her wounded wrist and examined the place for a weapon of some kind. Nothing bladed was present—that would have been far too lucky—so she yanked out one of the struts from the bed, and swung it experimentally a few times. It should do in a pinch, but feeling like she was, the target would have to be slow moving.

Testing the door, Zofiya found with some surprise that there was no lock. After taking a breath, she pushed it open a fraction and glanced in. This next room was as dimly lit as her own, and so, crouched over, she crept in. The smell was the first thing that hit her, actually stopping her in her tracks. It was the odor of urine and excrement, and not just a fraction, but a considerable buildup. She’d been on campaign with her father as a young woman, and despite the joys of traveling with the King, she’d still been exposed to the more visceral side of life in a camp. However in a closed space, on top of her already fragile condition, the smell was so overpowering that for a second she had to choke back her own bile. She held her shirt over her nose and went on.

A single lantern hanging from the wall lit this room’s prisoner. He was restrained, but not as she was. This old man sitting cross-legged on the floor was collared around the neck with a chain running from a fixture on the wall. The opposite side of the room was where this poor creature had been forced to defecate. It was a state that Zofiya would have been outraged to have any of her dogs in—let alone a man. After she conquered her disgust, she took another step into the room.

Zofiya glanced around, making absolutely sure that they were alone.

“Are you all right?” she whispered, bending down toward him, though the smell lower down was no fresher. The man did not acknowledge her presence, merely continued what he was doing.

The floor they stood on was dusty and strewn with straw, as a house in the countryside would have been. This debris of dust and wheat was what fascinated her fellow prisoner. He had sorted out the larger pieces of stalks to one side, and piled them behind him, so that what lay before him was a clear surface. He was drawing.

Zofiya tilted her head and stared as he worked. They were not words, but symbols. Despite the peril of the moment, the Grand Duchess circled around him to get a better look. She had never seen anything like it. These were curved interlacing strokes, elaborately curled and curiously beautiful. As she stared, she thought she could make out a couple of shapes she recognized; two runes she’d last observed on the Gauntlet of Deacon Sorcha Faris.

Crouching down, she addressed her fellow prisoner once more, “Old man, what are you doing?”

He continued on as if she were less than a shade in his perception.

Not used to being ignored in any shape or form, Zofiya grabbed him by the shoulder, and gave him a little shake. “Do you want to get out of here or not?”

His eyes now darted up to meet hers. They were perfectly clear pale blue, like looking into a sparkling mountain stream, but they were not focused on her. She noted how his hands still traced the symbols in the dust. “You are here.” His voice was sweet and light for such a wizened-looking man.

She glanced down to where he was tapping. She couldn’t see her name, her personal sigil or anything else, but a shiver ran up her spine. It was completely illogical, but she felt that he was right. Somewhere in the twists and turns he had mapped out, the little Princess of Delmaire and the determined sister of Kaleva was sketched.

Zofiya shook her head; maybe it was the blood loss and whatever del Rue had pumped her full of. A thought followed soon after. If her captor had seen fit to capture this old man as well, then he had to have some real value. It would undoubtedly be bad for the Empire and her brother.

Rising, she hastily examined the man’s restraints and immediately saw that he’d been here a lot longer than she had been, and was far better secured. The bolt that fastened his chain to the wall was sturdy and screwed into the beam of whatever house they were in. Turning her attention to the other end, she accidentally stepped through the old man’s creation.

He immediately stopped, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, staring at the floor without saying a word.

“No time for this,” Zofiya muttered to herself, while tilting his head forward. “This has been on a long while hasn’t it, old sir.” The flesh on each side of the steel collar was covered in scars where his neck had rubbed against it and then healed.

Nothing in this room was going to break this piece of the blacksmith’s art, nor were her bare hands. For some reason, tears sprang to her eyes at the thought. Ridiculous that a man of such short acquaintance could bring such emotion out in her, but Zofiya wanted to protect him. He reminded her of the quiet nuns of Hatipai in the temple in Delmaire—the ones that had never realized they served a geistlord. She pressed her hands around his, for a moment stilling his reconstruction of the design on the floor.

“What is your name?”

He looked up at her with those incredible eyes. “Ratimana,” was all he said, before returning to what he was doing. As if that was enough explanation of everything.

She had to go. Del Rue or one of his cronies could return to check on her at any minute. “I will send someone back for you, Ratimana. As soon as I am back with my brother. I promise.”

He did not glance up, not even when she reluctantly walked toward the far door. Zofiya glanced back once, but he still drew on. Many times in her life the Grand Duchess had wished for some of the talents of a Sensitive Deacon, but never more so than now. Something about that old man suggested he was more than he seemed. She would send her best Imperial Guards back to retrieve him, and a brace of Deacons just to be sure.

The next door was also unlocked, the final chamber in what she guessed had to be a root cellar of some house somewhere on the Edge of Vermillion. This one was unoccupied and much larger. The first thing she saw that raised her hopes immediately was a set of crooked stairs leading up. Scrambling up them proved to be dangerous as they lurched most alarmingly, but Zofiya reached the top, and felt a grin spread on her face. A pair of cellar doors.

She pushed on them. Then when that did not work, she applied her shoulder. Nothing budged. Taking a calming breath, she examined them more closely. With her fingertips she traced the outline of the doors. They seemed sturdy, and the gaps were packed with dirt and rocks.

As she sat back on her heels, Zofiya realized that the cellar door had been most effectively sealed shut on the other side by a thick application of rocks and dirt. How were del Rue and his minions coming and going through?

Carefully Zofiya climbed back down the stairs and set about searching the rest of the room. It was larger than the other two, but not big enough that another entrance could be effectively hidden. She’d given up on stealth now. Desperation and frustration were growing. In her nightmares she had dreamed of her brother caught in a situation like this—but never herself. All those years of putting his safety first, and the worst thing she’d imagined was getting killed. Being turned into a pawn in someone’s grand game had never figured. Perhaps she needed a larger imagination in the future. Depending on what that was.

She reached the far side of the cellar, and found only a narrow tunnel. This looked freshly constructed, because the brick walls on each side were ripped apart. Holding her broken bit of bed frame before her, Zofiya followed it.

The air in the tunnel suddenly became very close, and her skin began to itch frightfully. One summer in Delmaire she’d spent an uncomfortable hour by the lake while her father examined the latest addition to his river fleet. For three days after she’d itched to the point she’d wanted to rip her own skin off. This moment reminded her uncomfortably of that one. Every part of her body wanted her to stop moving forward and just go back. Maybe that cellar door wasn’t as blocked as she thought. Maybe she hadn’t checked all the corners of the last room thoroughly enough?

These thoughts made no sense, but felt so compelling. She’d been exposed to magic before, she knew the signs, so Zofiya kept plowing forward, one foot in front of the other.

The end of the short excavation ended in strangeness. An oval was described in the dirt, as tall as Zofiya was. It was outlined with the gleaming opalescence of tiny weirstones. That could not be good. Still she had a feeling this had to be the way del Rue was traveling. When she was within a few feet of it, she extended her hand cautiously.

The surface was icy cold like she’d plunged her hand into a lake, but after only an inch, it did not yield any further—no matter how hard she pressed. She had to get to Kaleva. He must be turning Vermillion upside down to find her. What was he imagining happened to her?

However as Zofiya stood there thinking those things, hand still clamped to the surface, the darkness began to resolve itself. The Grand Duchess frowned and peered closer. Was she imagining it, or could she actually see Kaleva? His face was coming into focus in the darkness.

His expression was one however that she had never seen on her brother before. He looked angry; not just slightly annoyed, but truly and deeply angry. It reminded her of some of the expressions she had seen on the faces of men about to go into battle. Her father had some island folk that went into a maddened state before heading into a fight. The bulging eyes and clenched teeth had frightened her as a child, and seeing a similar look on her brother’s face was worse.

“Kal!” she shouted, keeping her hand on the surface, lest she break whatever magic was allowing this to happen. “Kal, I am here!”

He didn’t move at all, so not even a whisper of her scream was getting through. Then the scene around the Emperor began to make itself known, and she saw him. Standing at her brother’s side was del Rue. Zofiya howled again, trying to pound her way through the barrier with her other hand. She even kicked at it, but nothing broke.

Taking a long breath she bottled her frustration back inside her, and concentrated instead on what was happening on the other side. It looked like the interior of one of the aristocratic chambers in the palace, and she surmised that this was the room del Rue had been given. It was luxurious, more like something a visiting Prince could command rather than a minor noble.

Kaleva was speaking to del Rue, waving his finger and pointing in a totally uncharacteristic manner. Zofiya’s stomach clenched. She hated seeing her brother like this, and most especially knowing that she was the cause of it. Abruptly she had an idea.

Cautiously she pressed the side of her head against the surface. One side of her face grew numb, and her ear felt like it might break and fall off, but she was able to make out faint noise from the other side.

“…and the Arch Abbot says he will not hand over that cursed Deacon for questioning.” Kaleva’s voice cracked with rage. “I never should have let them take him in the first place.”

“You were in shock, Your Imperial Majesty. You cannot blame yourself for what happened then. What is important is what happens now.” He gestured Kaleva to sit, and after a moment the Emperor did. “Have you given any further thought to what we discussed yesterday?”

“The Pattern?” Her brother looked distracted.

“I have been warning you, Imperial Majesty, for months, about the perils of this Order you brought with you.” Del Rue pressed. “Now the man responsible for your sister’s disappearance is safe behind the skirts of the Mother Abbey.”

“It wasn’t him!” Zofiya then screamed her brother’s name again, but he made no gesture to suggest he had noticed it. Her hands clenched on the surface, but she could not look away.

“But they have rid Arkaym of the geists, and been very useful to—”

“Darling.” A voice from outside of the range of the tunnel made itself known by cutting off the Emperor, and Zofiya immediately recognized it. The Empress was apparently also present. “You yourself said it was the Arch Abbot of the Order who was the one that conspired to destroy Vermillion last year. We cannot forget either that the Deacons who you sent to Chioma, only a season ago, returned with my home in flames and my father slain. Now, to top it all off, they have taken your sister.”

Kaleva shook his head, glancing down at the floor. Zofiya knew that gesture from times past. He was coming to a hard decision. He was making his mind up with the poison of del Rue dripping in his ear. She pounded on the surface that stood between them.

“Much like the old Native Order, this one has fallen prey to avarice and power.” Del Rue leaned in closer to the Emperor. “You can always summon more Deacons from your father’s domain if you like. The Order of the Eye and the Fist is not the only one in the world.”

“You must think of your people!” Ezefia came into view, stunning as ever in an Imperial scarlet dress, and sat next to him, resting one hand on his knee. “It is about their safety as well as your own.” She made a sharp gesture, and one of her ladies appeared, carrying something on a cushion. With the care the lady-in-waiting displayed it could have been made of glass. Whatever it was however was a mystery, since it was covered with a blue piece of velvet.

“You got the Pattern from the vaults, my love,” the Empress cooed. “You must know what needs to be done.”

Zofiya sunk to her knees, keeping her face and hand pressed to the surface. “Kaleva, no! Whatever they are doing, turn away. Please!” She yelled it toward him, as if he could hear her by some kind of Deacon Sensitivity. If only they’d been twins, or born with the power. Too late now to hope for that.

Kaleva took the cushion from Ezefia’s lady, set it on his knee and then drew back the covering. The Grand Duchess ceased her wailing and looked. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen—and it was not the first time she’d seen it. Two pale blue marble tablets, about as long as her forearm, rested before her brother. A filigree of writing was carved into them, and soft blue light ran from the lines. From her angle she could not see what the words were, but she could remember from memory. The ten Runes of Dominion and the seven Runes of Sight. She’d last seen the Pattern, though she’d never heard it called that, on the wharf in Delmaire, just before they sailed for Arkaym. She recalled the Arch Abbot handing them to Kaleva reverently, and offering them up as a symbol of trust between the Order and their Emperor.

Back then she’d been too busy organizing her troops for the largest sea journey of any army in history to take much notice of what the Order did. As far as she knew he’d placed it in a box and sent it to the vault with all his other treasures.

However now, just looking at them, Kaleva’s face blanched. His hand hovered a few inches above them, but did not dare to touch the stones. Even del Rue and the Empress were silenced for a spell.

“The inscription is indeed lovely,” del Rue said, wetting his lips, “but if Your Imperial Majesty can see beyond that…”

“Think of Zofiya…” The Empress glanced up, locking eyes with del Rue.

Kaleva cleared his throat. “What do I do?”

The Grand Duchess was riveted, unable to move or say anything; trapped on the other side of the barrier and rendered impotent.

“One must simply break it.” Her brother must have been too foolish or perhaps too enmeshed in del Rue’s machinations to notice that the older man was leaning forward, and his eyes were hard stones fixed on the Emperor.

“Snap it? It’s that simple?”

Ezefia smiled and simpered, as if she were asking her husband to pass the salt, rather than destroy a partnership that had brought Arkaym back from chaos. “You are the Emperor, and it is your right.”

“No, no, no,” Zofiya muttered under her breath. “Don’t be an idiot, Kal! Think for yourself…please…”

Her pleas dissolved in the ether and never reached her brother. Kaleva straightened in his chair, and then leaning forward took up first the Runes of Dominion and then the Runes of Sight, and then simply by placing them against the low table before him, bent them in half and broke them. The snap of the fragile stone echoed in the room and in the corridor Zofiya watched from.

Zofiya found that she was holding her breath, but there came no rumble of thunder or shower of geists. Nothing.

Del Rue’s grin could not have been bigger. He looked as though he had fallen in a pit of gold and then been showered with naked women. The Empress too appeared delighted.

Meanwhile the Grand Duchess could barely hold back her rage. Kaleva! She loved him, and he was a fine Emperor when it came to day-to-day things. Handsome, kind, but the flaw in him had reappeared. That thread of weakness in her brother, the desire to please that their father had fostered in all his sons, had now come to the fore. It would be his people that would suffer for it.

All three rose to their feet, leaving the broken remains of the Pattern lying on the table. No longer gleaming with blue light, they were reduced to mere shards of rock. Utterly unremarkable.

“Now we can go gather the Guard and besiege the Mother Abbey.” Kaleva smiled bleakly. “I shall have that Deacon and answers to what they have done.”

“The Presbyterial Council and the Arch Abbot are the ones to be held accountable,” del Rue said nodding. “It is not the fault of the everyday Deacons that they followed their orders.”

“I shall be merciful,” Kaleva said, as he walked out from view, followed by his conniving Empress.

To think, Zofiya thought grimly, I was once happy he chose her, and thought her a sweet girl. That man has twisted her somehow.

Del Rue closed the door on them and strode toward the portal.

Zofiya swallowed and backed hastily away down the tunnel. She only had a dubious piece of wood to defend herself, but she would damn well give it a try. Taking up a position to one side where the tunnel opened up into the larger cellar, she marshaled her remaining strength and waited, stick held ready. If she was able to get in one good blow on his head, she might have a chance to overpower him. Just what she would do after that was a question that could wait until he was lying at her feet.

She heard del Rue’s footsteps crunch on the dirt as he came toward her, and she let out a soft exhalation in preparation. Then she stepped around the corner, yelled in pent-up rage and frustration and drew back her weapon to strike.

However, before she completed her downswing, green fire enveloped her. It did not hurt, but she could feel the little strength left in her limbs drain away. When her captor withdrew the flames of Shayst, she was left limp on the floor, having trouble gasping for breath, and at the point of crying tears of despair.

She heard his words drop on her like hail. “I am a master of both Sight and Dominion, silly girl. Did you think I wouldn’t feel you standing there waiting for me?”

He rolled her over with the point of one boot and stared at her with all the chagrin of a disappointed parent. “My little miss Grand Duchess. Whatever have you done to yourself getting free? I am going to have to clean you up or that wound could get quite infected.”

She didn’t have enough energy to reply to him: not a sneer, not a clever remark, not even a groan of pain. He scooped her up easily into his arms and began carrying her back the way she’d come.

“Never mind,” he commented, “we shall start at the beginning again and all will be well.”