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.
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 redroofed 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.
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, manytimes-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 highlyprized 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
from 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.
He studied through the night, sitting without moving while the moon set

and the stars fled the coming dawn. Soon the paling in the east became a
glow, then a fire that burned in an orange-gold sky, flaming rose-hued clouds
above a silver sea. And still he studied.
The townspeople called him va dänstaty, which meant ‘the statue man’
in the Talieri dialect. They’d called him other things, too, over the centuries:
warlock, sorcerer, necromancer. They didn’t know the difference between
such words, or that in all his days, he would never have deigned even to
acknowledge a necromancer’s dark delving. They knew only that he’d once
orchestrated magical workings there upon his mountain, that he’d caused the
earth itself to rise up into his current home, and that through all the
generations, he never aged beyond his seeming fifty years.
At the end of the Adept Wars, in the early days of his retreat from the
world, the township had been frightened of him, worried that his immortality
came from the vampiric demons of myth. Children had thrown rocks at him,
and the village people shut their doors whenever he came to town. Those
children had long since grown and lived and died, telling their stories to


grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and he’d become a living legend.
Once they’d feared him; now they tolerated him—still a mystery, but no
longer a threat.
He found none of this surprising. What did surprise him was how long
he’d remained a subject of gossip and speculation. Had he made his home in
the east, where few living wielders remained and magic was synonymous
with myth, the people would long ago have forgotten him. Here, in an empire
where the workings of elae were prevalent, even commonplace, where
wielders walked the Imperial Court of the Sacred City with the status of
nobility…here, people remembered his one long-ago working and feared it.
Perhaps a people who know magic know also to respect it, he often
reasoned.

Perhaps. Or perhaps he merely gave the people of this remote village
something to talk about. He didn’t begrudge them their intrigues; if nothing
else, they ensured his solitude.
Solitude indeed, Markal mused. There was nothing like studying events
elsewhere in the realm to reinforce one’s own sense of isolation.
He sighed and shifted his position. An annoying pebble had worked its
way beneath his thigh, and he brushed it away before settling back to task.
He’d learned all that he could from the first four strands. Time now to
embark upon his most dreaded duty: the study of the fifth strand, the most
ancient of elemental magics.
The fifth’s golden flows had begun to carry upon them a taint heretofore
unknown to elae’s currents. Even when Malachai’s Shades had hunted Alorin
with genocidal blood on their blades, the fifth strand had not carried such a
stain upon its tides.
This evil was not unexpected—indeed, he’d been watching signs of it
fomenting for the last three-hundred years. Yet his lack of surprise did
nothing to quell his instinctual flinch each time he found evidence of it—
evidence of their presence.
Markal’s heart broke to think of the terrible ramifications of
Malorin’athgul in Alorin. He wanted more than anything to track them down,
to stop them with any means available, even should it mean his life. But the
First Lord had given him a different role to play, one just as important, or so
Björn assured him. Yet this role his conscience—his heart—would never
have chosen.
Order and method.


These cornerstones kept him aligned with a vital purpose, long disguised
within a web of apparent treachery. They kept him primed through all the
centuries for his most crucial of tasks. Thus he studied the fifth strand,

observing its golden flows with a heavy heart and a troubled soul.
By midday, Markal had seen all he came to see. But as he began the
weary process of focusing back on his surroundings, his elae-heightened
senses perceived the near presence of another.
Impossible! Here?
The shocking discovery nearly shattered his rapport with elae, but he
was Markal Morrelaine, a man who counted an unshakable composure as one
of his most famous attributes.
Markal released elae and turned to look behind him just as the man
rounded a rise, climbing the narrow bluff with the ease Markal had always
remembered of him. The man saw Markal looking and waved.
Dagmar Ranneskjöld.
Markal sat rooted to the earth, his pulse quickening. The Second Vestal
looked exactly as Markal remembered, and yet…more than he remembered.
Dagmar also seemed to possess a certain weariness of spirit, one that Markal
too often saw revealed in his own reflection. Strange to observe it now in a
man he remembered as having an inexhaustible eagerness for confrontation.
All these thoughts passed in a single moment, the space of an indrawn
breath, and then Markal was on his feet and waving in return. He bent to
retrieve his polished rowan staff and walked with long strides to greet
Alorin’s Second Vestal.
They met near the edge of the high bluff, two tall silhouettes against the
azure sky. Dagmar flashed his famous smile and opened his arms. “Markal, it
has been a long time.”
Markal grabbed the Second Vestal in a rough embrace. Incredible to
find Dagmar here, in Alorin. “What of Raine?” He pulled back to take
Dagmar’s shoulders with both hands. “He will see you on the currents.”
“Raine is otherwise engaged.” Dagmar winked one pale-green eye.
“Besides, have a little faith, my old friend. Might not the First Lord have
taught me some few things in our long years together?”

Markal noted the dry humor in his tone, but his attention shifted more to
the Vestal’s oathring as it caught the sunlight, the jewel sparkling with blue
fire. There was something ominous about seeing the ring and knowing what it
meant that Dagmar wore it still, even as Björn no doubt did. Moreover, that


the stone’s color remained as true as the day of its forging.
He suddenly felt again the urgency they’d all shared during those last
days of the Adept Wars. The frustration, the ineptitude, the guilt—the
emotions welled up to claim him in one fierce moment, unprepared as he was
for their return. He relived them now, prompted by the mere sight of a square
blue stone set in a heavy silver band worn upon a man’s middle finger.
Perceptive to Markal’s state of mind, Dagmar placed a hand on his
shoulder and captured his gaze with his own. “What is it? What burdens
you?”
Markal shook his head. “Seeing your ring, remembering the time before,
I wonder…” He gave Dagmar a troubled look. “I wonder if I am the man I
once was. If I am still the right man for the task assigned me. It has been
three centuries since I commanded the lifeforce beyond a whisper.”
Dagmar laughed. “What’s this? The great Markal Morrelaine doubting
his ability? By Cephrael’s Great Book, I never thought I’d see the day!”
Markal frowned at him.
Dagmar just chuckled, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and said
with a twinkle in his eye, “Come now, don’t begrudge my moment of
gloating. Surely you remember how insufferable you were.”
Markal grunted. “Humility has a way of creeping in unannounced.”
They started off together, walking the stony path toward Markal’s villa.
“It’s amazing to be back in Alorin,” Dagmar confessed after a moment.
“Björn said it would be marvelous, that I would want to hold elae until I
couldn’t breathe, until I exhausted myself trying to contain it…until it

consumed me.” He glanced Markal’s way, catching his gaze. “The lifeforce
flows in T’khendar, but it never feels the same. To be so long away from
Alorin…” His cheery smile faded. “It was difficult.”
They strolled away from the cliffs, trading the open vista of blue waters
and sky for Markal’s orchard of olive and pear trees, the latter bare save for a
few brown remnants, fodder for the east wind. Once they passed beyond the
bluff, the wind died to a gentle breeze, as it always did, and other sounds
returned: the distant brays of sheep and goats, the myriad chirping of birds, a
quiet rustling of tiny animals in the underbrush. Dagmar grew quiet, as if
relishing the harmony of nature.
Markal, however, was brimming with questions. Yet as they headed
down a stony path bordered with long, silver-green grass, only one question
mattered. “How long do we have?”


A gusting breeze sent a cascade of golden-brown leaves sweeping across
their path, and Dagmar caught a leaf as it fluttered down. He gazed at it
pinned against his palm. “Events progress quickly.” He glanced Markal’s
way as he closed the leaf in his fist. “We are pebbles of warning, you and I,
announcing the avalanche that follows.”
“And Björn…?” He let the thought trail off, not really wanting to voice
such questions.
“You wonder if time has changed him?” Dagmar filled in the rest
anyway, arching a flaxen brow. “Changed him, perhaps, as it changed
Malachai?”
Markal looked away, shamed by his own doubts.
“Fret thee not.” Dagmar could not have been more confident, nor his
gaze more genuine. “Björn solved the mystery of deyjiin. It can be worked
safely now by a select few, when due precaution is taken. And my oathbrother, your mentor…he is as immutable as the fifth itself. But come, there
is so much to tell you. Much has changed in T’khendar since Malachai’s day,

and many we thought lost were spared in the end. So let us enjoy what time is
given us here. At dawn we must depart, for you are needed in T’khendar.”
Markal spun him a concerned look. “So soon?”
With sober acceptance in his green eyes, Dagmar nodded. Then he
flashed that famous smile and grabbed Markal around the shoulders again.
“But that’s tomorrow, eh? For tonight, let’s you and I make a cavernous dent
in your wine cellar!”
Markal could only smile and nod acquiescence, for in his heart, he had
accepted the truth, and it was precisely as he’d feared.
Tomorrow was no longer his own.


Part One