Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1) (55 page)

“Philip’s insisted all along he got away,” Carissa put in. “Remember?”

Both men turned to gape at her. Evidently the laxity with respect to the
veil did not extend to conversation. With a frown of annoyance she returned
her attention to her grapes, cursing anew this horrid land and its repressive
culture.

“She is forward, this wife of yours,” Fah’lon commented mildly, eyeing
her with amusement.

“The northern blood,” Danarin growled, frowning. “Sometimes she cannot help herself”

`And who is this Philip?” Fah’lon asked.

“One of our servants,” Danarin said.

“Well, he is right.” The Esurhite spooned onions into his mouth. “In truth
both the Pretender and the Infidel escaped to the SaHal and re-ignited the
Dorsaddi’s sacred Heart. They say it has burned a hole six leagues wide in
the mist over Hur and that the rains have come early there-gentle rains, not
our usual deluges. It is rumored that the Dorsaddi have experienced some
mighty religious revival and have even found their Deliverer.” He paused,
wine cup halfway to his lips. “Surely you’ve heard the stories.”

“Wild tales, I thought. People laughed at them.”

“The men in Jarnek are not laughing, friend. Nor is the great Beltha’adi.”
Fah’lon took a long draught from the cup, then set it down and wiped his
mouth. “He was supposed to be sitting in Hur by now, counting his victories.
Instead he’s scrambling to replace the men he’s already lost. Official count is
less than a quarter of the two Hundreds he sent in, but the truth is closer to half. Another Hundred arrived two days ago-camped out there in the
wadi-and he’s working his priests near to death bringing in new men
through the etherworld corridor in Khrell’s temple. He is frantic to beat the
rains.” He chuckled softly. `And all the while the Pretender heckles him.”

Danarin looked up from the chicken leg he was gnawing. “You really
believe the Pretender is here in Jarnek?”

“Who do you think is orchestrating all these little raids, the wasp stinging
the elephant? The Dorsaddi have brought the fight to Beltha’adi. Taunting
him. Taunting his men. They appear, and the soldiers rush to meet them, only
to have them vanish back into the canyons. Snipers pick off members of the
patrols, so that many of the men are afraid of even leaving Jarnek. And
despite the picket lines and the sentries-double the normal number-they
still sneak into the city, burn the weapons stockpiles, steal the food, vandalize
the temple itself, all right under the soldiers’ noses without being seen, much
less caught.”

He laughed. “The best one was two nights ago when they diverted water
from the fortress cistern into the main camp down there. Washed away half
their gear and drenched everything. To say nothing of scaring the wits out of
them. They thought the rains had come?” He shook his head, still chuckling.
“It was a grand sight, let me tell you?”

Danarin was watching him intently now. “I can’t imagine Beltha’adi
would agree.”

Fah’lon burst into a new round of chuckling. “No, I can’t imagine he
would.”

Danarin returned to his chicken with studied casualness. “I had heard
your sympathies did not lie with the ruling power, sir, but I did not expect
you to be so blatant about it.”

“My sympathies are well-known. I have expressed them to the Supreme
Commander’s face, in fact. Why do you think those soldiers are skulking in
the street outside my house?” He leaned closer and spoke conspiratorially.
“He believes I am in league with the Pretender himself and has my house
watched in hopes of capturing him one day.”

Danarin put down the bone he had gnawed clean and rinsed his fingers in
the bowl provided. `And are you? In league with him?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I just enjoy the baiting.” Fah’lon smiled. “If
Beltha’adi’s soldiers invade my home and turn up nothing, he’ll have much to answer for among the local Brogai. And he has enough to worry about
right now, without having to contend with them.”

Danarin had nothing to say to this, and conversation took a new turn.
Outside, the twilight deepened toward night, the lights of the soldiers’ campfires burning like orange stars along the lines of the converging drainages.
Crickets sang from the garden foliage and nighthawks called. Every now and
then loud bursts of laughter arose from the camp out of sight immediately
below them.

They had almost finished the final course-a jellied fruit mold with
sweetened yogurt-when the laughter turned to a chorus of angry shouting,
even as a yellow flickering danced across the facing cliffs. Fah’lon was on his
feet and out on the terrace in an instant, Danarin on his heels. Carissa followed more slowly.

It was true they could see the amphitheater from Fah’lon’s terrace,
though it was some distance up the wadi. Its bench seats were carved into
the curved wall of the canyon to form a half bowl that faced them almost
directly, the wadi floor widening at that point to form the arena. Smooth,
sandy, and bare, the expanse would have made a great place for the soldiers
to set up their tents, though none had. At its midst someone had planted a
heavy pole on which was impaled a huge black bird, headless, but still obviously a veren. Flames already burned its lower body, licking up around its
chest, wherein was plunged a heavy stake topped with the large, stylized
white diamond that had become the Pretender’s insignia.

“See?” Fah’lon said with great amusement. “He lives. And while they’re
dealing with this, he’ll probably steal into the temple and put out the flames
again. Or loose the livestock and frighten them into a stampede. They did
that last week, and I don’t think the handlers have gotten them all back yet.”

“Clever, perhaps,” Danarin said, “but I don’t see how you can ascribe it to
one man, let alone identify him as the Pretender.”

“I know King Shemm, and this is not his style.”

“Still-“

“You would like to know … have I seen him? Have I talked to him?”

“Yes.”

Fah’lon grinned. “So would Beltha’adi.”

They watched while men tossed buckets of water at the burning veren,
then pushed over the post to untie it. No livestock were apparently loosed, and if anything was happening at the temple-out of sight around the cliff
wall-there was no sign of it.

Once the flames were out and things quieted down, Fah’lon led his guests
back to the dining area, where they were just finishing the remains of their
desserts when a servant hurried in. He whispered something into his master’s
ear that caused Fah’lon to nod.

As the servant departed, the merchant addressed his guests. “I fear some
business has come up to which I must attend. If you’ll excuse me?” Danarin
nodded, but Fah’lon hesitated, his gaze flicking to Carissa, a slight crease
forming between his brows. He almost turned away, then said, “The terrace
and gardens are especially nice this time of year. I urge you to explore them
at your leisure. It would, however, be wise to keep your lady covered.” He
smiled slightly. As I said, the soldiers watch us always.” Again he hesitated,
as if he wanted to say more. Then his eyes flicked back to Danarin, and the
hesitation vanished.

“Have a good evening,” he said and strode briskly from the room.

As Fah’lon’s footsteps died away Danarin turned to Carissa with a smug
expression. “It is the Pretender? And Fah’lon knows him-I’ll bet my bag on
it.,,

“We don’t care about the Pretender,” she said. “Why didn’t you ask him
about the Infidel?”

Danarin’s dark brows arched. “I didn’t think we cared about the Infidel,
either.”

“Philip does.”

“I thought you were through with that. I thought you’d convinced him
he had to let his brother find his own way home. For that matter, he probably
has.” He gestured generally around them. “This business is a Dorsaddi matter-of no concern to Meridon.”

“Well, perhaps he’s made it his concern. He has been exiled, after all. And
the Dorsaddi did help rescue him.”

“I still don’t see how that concerns us. Frankly, I think we need to get out
of here as soon as possible. This place is a powder keg waiting for a lit match.”

From somewhere in the house came a singing bark, and she looked
around, startled. “Was that Newbold?”

Before he could answer, a white-and-gold cat raced through the doorway
and fled into the front anteroom. They heard another bay, then voices yelling.

Danarin shook his head. “I cannot believe you actually brought that dog
with you.”

“Without him we’d never have known Meridon was really the Infidel.” Or
that Abramm wasn’t the Pretender.

A servant arrived bearing steaming cups of tea. After that they were left
alone, listening to faint bangs and clatters from the kitchen and the murmur
of voices, which finally faded to a deep, empty silence.

“Sounds like we’re the only ones here,” Carissa said presently, feeling
increasingly uneasy.

“They’re probably just done for the night,” Danarin assured her. “How
about we take a look at Fah’lon’s garden?”

If anything, the sense of breathless expectation was stronger outside,
though it may just have been the new mugginess that had lately crept into
the air. It made the veil she’d redonned more uncomfortable than ever, and
in a fit of petty defiance, she unfastened the face part and let it hang. They
were alone in their host’s private garden, for Haverall’s sake? And anyway, it
was too dark for some spying soldier to tell the color of her eyes.

Fah’lon’s garden consisted of a series of walled terraces linked by short,
wide stairways. Pots and planters held carefully pruned trees and shrubs and
spilled over with sweet-scented flowers. Freestanding oil lamps lit the way.
Here and there, stone benches stood around unlit braziers or small domed
ovens.

The last terrace ended in a waist-high wall overlooking the camp in the
wadi below. The acrid stench of burning dung tainted the air, unblunted by
the flowers’ sweetness. Behind an iron gate, a narrow stairway wound down
through the rocks to what appeared to be a delivery area below. Beyond that,
the slope tumbled toward the wadi, steeply on the right, less so on the left.
Neighboring villas glowed amidst the rocks, and she could see figures walking
back and forth from time to time in the lighted windows. If there were soldiers out there, she did not see them.

In the amphitheater across the way they’d removed the veren’s carcass
and added a ring of torches to illumine the sandy floor and ranks of empty
bench seats. “Why doesn’t anyone camp there?” she asked, gesturing toward
it.

“It’s reserved for the contest,” Danarin said.

“Contest?”

“Rumor has it that Beltha’adi’s challenged the Pretender to personal combat.”

“You mean like the Pretender asked for in the Val’Orda?”

“Yes.”

She frowned at him, noting uneasily that he had given the impression of
having somewhat less knowledge-and interest-on this subject when speaking to Fah’lon.

“If the Pretender wins, Beltha’adi’s promised to spare the Dorsaddi. If
Beltha’adi wins, the Dorsaddi become his slaves.” Danarin leaned his elbows
on the top edge of the wall. “So far there’s been no response. Unless that
headless veren could be considered a response.”

Carissa sniffed. “The Pretender would be stupid to face him now-if
Fah’lon’s right that the Dorsaddi already have the upper hand.”

Danarin smiled that irritating, condescending smile. “Fah’lon’s biased.
What have these Dorsaddi wasps done that’s of any real significance, after all?
Once Beltha’adi has enough men and magic, they won’t have a chance.”

“So why issue the challenge?”

“To bait him. Every day the Pretender doesn’t respond, he looks more the
coward. And the Dorsaddi can’t stand cowards. Moreover, it’s to the
Supreme Commander’s advantage to resolve this as soon as possible. He has
a war going in Andol, after all, and this is hardly helping.”

“I suppose there are the rains to consider, too.”

Danarin looked at her sidelong, a half smile on his face. “Indeed. I suspect
both sides would like to wrap this up before then.”

His gaze dropped to her chest, and his brows drew together. “Where did
you get that?”

She looked down, saw the ugly stone of the staffid-warder gleaming
against the dark folds of her gown. “Oh. Philip gave it to me this afternoon.”

“His taste is … uh … unusual.” The dark eyes flicked up to hers, watching her intently.

She shrugged and blushed. “He’s only a boy. What would he know about
fashion? I thought it was rather sweet of him. He said it was supposed to
ward the staffid.”

“It’s ugly enough, I suppose. Does it work?”

“I haven’t seen any since I put it on.”

“Well, it hardly does you justice.”

She snorted. As if that matters when I must go about perpetually veiled
and shrouded.”

“It matters to me.”

He turned fully to face her, his expression sober. The lamplight washed
across the well-formed planes of his face, accented by the narrow, dark beard
and those long lashes. She swallowed, finding it suddenly hard to breathe.
Warmth spread over her chest and neck. And irritation, directed at both him
and at herself for responding to him when it was the last thing she wished to
do.