Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1) (2 page)

And Eidon said to them,

“I will grant you my Light by the blood of my Son, and it will dwell in your
hearts and give you Life.

Through my Light will you know me.

Through my Light will I shield and bless you.

Through my Light will you stand against the Shadow.

Reach out, therefore, and close your hand upon it, that you may be made
alive, and My Power become yours.”

-From the Second Word of Revelation
Scroll of Amicus

“Why do we serve the Flames?”

“To ward the realm from Shadow.”

“Why must we guard our purity?”

“To keep the Flames strong and bright.”

They sat cross-legged on the barge cabin’s single, narrow bunk, facing
each other-Novice and discipler-their voices alternating in a steady rhythm
of question and answer that had gone unbroken for nearly an hour. Since the
noon prayer service they had been reviewing the six codices of the First
Guardian Station, codices Eldrin must know tomorrow for the final test of
his novitiate. He had long since learned them so well he could answer without hesitation, but he didn’t mind the repetition. Right now it was just the
sort of superficial mental occupation he needed to keep his thoughts off …
other things.

“What is the source of the Shadow?” asked his discipler, one bony, inkstained finger pressed to the page of the open catechism in his lap.

“The arrogance of Moroq conceived it,” Eldrin replied. “The passions of
the flesh sustain it.”

“Who is Moroq?”

“The dark son of Eidon and Lord Ruler of the rhu’ema. The Adversary.
No man can stand against him, save One.”

`And that One is?”

“Sidon, Lord of Light, Creator of All, Defender of Man. Soon may he
come, and swift be his judgment.”

The rhythm ended, and the silence that filled the void after it made
Eldrin’s ears ring. He noticed the heat again, the sweat trickling down his
chest beneath his wool tunic, the stifling mantle of his long, unbound hair
weighing on his back. A fitful breeze danced through the high, open portal
in the bulkhead, carrying the river’s dank odor and a disharmonious chorus
of voices from the crowds on its bank. Thunder rumbled out of the distance.

Anxiety, held at bay by the long recitation, came oozing back. Soon they
would be docking, disembarking, and marching up to the temple to begin the
long ritual that would end with his initiation as a Guardian of the Holy
Flames. Or not, if things went badly.

His discipler, Brother Belmir, smiled at him over small, round spectacles.
“Flawless, as usual. Shall we do another?”

“I defer to your judgment, Brother.” Eldrin uncrossed his legs and
recrossed them in opposite order, wincing as feeling tingled back.

“We’ll do a random selection, then.” Belmir leafed through the catechism,
yellowed pages just brushing the slender gray braid that dangled over his
shoulder. He was a small, birdlike man, all bones and angles, with a deeply
lined face and shrewd gray eyes behind the spectacles. He wore the four gold
cords of his station at his left wrist and, at his throat, the ruby amulet all
Guardians were granted upon acceptance into the Holy Brotherhood of the
Mataio.

Tomorrow Eldrin should receive an amulet of his own.

It was a day he had anticipated for eight long years; now the closer it got,
the more uneasy he became. What if he walked up to the lip of the great
bronze brazier tomorrow and the Flames rejected him?

From the beginning people said he would fail. He came from a family of
soldiers and kings, not peacemakers-purveyors of death and destruction, not
healing. As heads of state, as commanders of armies, even with their own
hands, his antecedents had spilled the blood of thousands. How dared he presume Eidon might overlook that?

“You can’t renounce your blood, boy,” Brother Cyril had rasped at him in
the Watch library the night before they’d left for Springerlan. The words had
cycled through his mind ever since, eroding his confidence. Was he unfit? Was
it only the infamous Kalladorne will-and pride-that had brought him this
far? Were his recent, unsettling dreams, and the growing uneasiness they
birthed, Eidon’s way of warning him off? Or were they simply products of his own fear, a dread that he would fail even in this?

“Eldrin?”

Belmir had resumed the catechism and was waiting for an answer. Eldrin
flushed. “I beg your pardon, Brother. Could you repeat the question?”

Belmir lifted a bushy brow, then softly closed the book and removed his
glasses. “I think we’ll stop with the codices for now. Why don’t you tell me
what’s troubling you?”

The heat in Eldrin’s face mounted. Was I that obvious? He stared at his
worn leather satchel lying on the floor by the bunk and groped for words.

“I’ve been … thinking about the Test,” he said finally.

`And?”

He made himself look at the older man. “Is it true that if I approach the
Flames unworthily, I might-“

“Unworthily? Sweet fires aloft, Eldrin? Surely you don’t believe yourself
unworthy?” His eyes narrowed. “Is this what Cyril said to you in the library
the night before we left?”

“How did you know about Brother Cyril?”

Belmir shook his head, ignoring the question. “I’m surprised at you,
Eldrin. Cyril’s been babbling that `tainted blood’ nonsense for years, and
you’ve never given it a thought. Why now, all of a sudden?”

Because in forty-eight hours I’m going to prove once and for all which of us is
right?

“He’s probably realized how far his prediction was off,” Belmir continued,
“and hopes to scare you into quitting. I doubt he’ll admit he’s wrong even
after you’ve embraced the Flames and received your Calling. He can be as
stubborn as a rusty hinge.”

“He said my House is cursed,” Eldrin murmured. “That I’ll go mad if I
attempt the Flames.”

Belmir frowned, and for a moment Eldrin expected another outburst on
Cyril’s many shortcomings. Then the stern look softened and the older man
shook his head. “There is no curse, Eldrin. It’s true there was antagonism
between your family and the Mataio once, but that is decades past.” He
snorted softly. “If Eidon wanted you out, do you think you’d still be here?
Believe me, I didn’t make it easy for you. The injustice, the abuse, the unreasonable demands-you took it all. Never lost your temper, never refused an
order, never gave up. You’ve amazed me, frankly. And I must say I’ve never had a Novice more prepared or more devoted to Eidon than you are. Don’t
doubt yourself, son. Truth be told-“

A thunder of footfalls followed by the appearance of a first-year Novice
in the doorway interrupted him. “Brother Belmir? Haverallans have come
from the Keep, asking for you and Brother Eldrin.”

“Haverallans?” Belmir frowned at the boy, closing the book. “What could
they want?”

When did we dock? Eldrin wondered. Had he been so engrossed in his
problems he hadn’t noticed?

Belmir set the heavy catechism aside and got up to lift their woolen mantles from the hook by the door, tossing Eldrin’s into his lap. “Make sure you
pull up the cowl. We’ll have to cross the open deck, and there’s sure to be a
crowd.”

“Aye, there’s a crowd,” the boy assured them. “Even before we entered
the city, people were lining up along the riverbanks. They’re on barges and
rooftops and all the bridges. And the square is packed.”

“Wonderful,” Eldrin murmured, shrugging on the mantle as he followed
Belmir into the passageway.

This was the last stop before trip’s end some two leagues yet downriver.
Here, at Springerlan’s outer edge, they were to pick up the thirty-six attendants required for the coming Procession, four for each of the nine Initiates
already on board.

All thirty-six were milling on deck as Eldrin and Belmir stepped into the
bright afternoon sunlight and pressed toward the barge’s stern cabin. Risking
a glance shoreward, Eldrin saw that their vessel was one of many moored
along the walled, railed riverbank. A crane clanked and squealed as it lifted a
half-ton hogshead from a neighboring barge to shore. Those who manned the
machine were not working at full capacity, hampered as much by their own
curiosity as by the crowd that jammed the square beyond them.

With a sigh, Eldrin ducked his head. The notion of traveling unnoticed
hadn’t seemed unreasonable at first. Being two feet taller now and eight years
older, and with his blond hair grown to his waist, he looked nothing like the
boy he’d been. Nor the soldier-prince his family would’ve made him. After
years of being out of the public eye, who was likely to recognize him?

Apparently anyone who’d ever laid eyes on his now deceased father, King
Meren, or any of the other Kalladornes-which seemed to be everyone. In every city along the river a crowd had awaited him or had gathered soon after
his arrival to gawk and whisper in his wake. Not simply idlers, but farmers,
merchants, craftsmen, their wives and children-people with other things to
do. Yet they turned out in ever increasing numbers the closer he got to Springerlan, as if they regarded him as someone important-when he hadn’t even
been that as a prince.

The barge’s stern cabin, considerably larger than Eldrin’s sleeping cubicle,
was cool and dimly lit. Four men awaited them, dark silhouettes against the
pale light sneaking in around curtained windows.

Eldrin stopped just inside the door as Belmir crossed the room and
bowed. “Glory to Eidon, and praise,” he murmured.

“May his Flames burn forever,” one of the strangers intoned. His voice was
rich and musical, the kind of voice you took notice of.

They conferred quietly, and as Eldrin’s eyes adjusted he examined the
newcomers with interest. One was tall and blond and garbed in the brown
habit of a Novice initiate, though he was much older than the norm for that
station; the other three wore the pale mantles and long, thick pigtails of full
Guardians. Only by their rank cords could one discern their exalted status as
members of the Order of St. Haverall, the most elite in all the Mataio.

The conversation ended. Sighing resignedly, Belmir turned to Eldrin. “I’m
afraid you won’t be participating in the Procession,” he said.

Eldrin wondered if he had heard right.

“The High Father feels you’ll be safer entering the city anonymously,” his
discipler added.

Safer? Safer from what?

Belmir gestured at the other men. “Brother Rhiad and his companions
will escort you.”

How can I not participate in the Procession? It’s part of the ritual. This is
unheard of… .

But the High Father’s mandates carried the weight of a command from
Eidon himself-so clearly, Eldrin had little choice.

He glanced unhappily at the one Belmir called Rhiad. A handsome man,
his sharp features were softened by large brown eyes fringed with thick
lashes. Silver-threaded black hair fell in a fat braid to his waist, and he wore
more cords of rank than Eldrin could casually count. Seven or eight at least.