Return of the Guardian-King (53 page)
Seeing her, he exclaimed in surprise and directed her to the ledger of her official appointments, which typically held only about a third of the names on the daily roster. She glanced cursorily at the ledger, then to a name on the roster. “Why does this Marta Brackleford keep moving down this list instead of up it? I’ve noticed her name now for several days.”
He peered at the name and sniffed. “Well . . . I imagine because other supplicants’ concerns are more urgent, madam.”
“Deciding the venue for next summer’s Hashnut Festival was an urgent concern?” She referred to a supplicant she’d met with yesterday.
He grimaced and said nothing.
“Brackleford sounds like a Kiriathan name.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He frowned. “But you know how so many of them are coming these days, hoping to trade on some alleged relationship to your husband. You cannot help them all. And not all of them deserve it.”
“No. But I should like to make the decisions as to whom I help for myself. It says here she has a gift. But it doesn’t say from whom.”
Umberley looked dismayed. “From your husband, I would imagine. That’s usually the claim.”
“And you have deigned not to inform me?”
“Your Majesty . . .” He sighed and spread his hands helplessly. “So many of them are obvious frauds. And you have so much to do.”
“Well, you’re right about that.” She set down the roster. “But find out what she wants, anyway. And where she’s from.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He left, and Maddie strolled to the window. She’d inherited the queen’s apartments, which included a great semicircular receiving chamber, with a stunning view that overlooked the east branch of the Ankrill and offered perspectives that let her look almost straight down the river toward Peregris or out toward the eastern deserts. She could not gaze upon either aspect without thinking of Abramm, out there somewhere, waiting for Eidon’s perfect time.
Since her brief time with the Esurhites, she had thought often of the vision she’d been given. Not a vision, really. Maybe more a glimpse into some other reality, her husband going about their Father’s business. And the reports that had been coming out of the southland gave an inkling of what that might be. The wave that had swamped the Esurhite fleet before it could annihilate the Chesedhan navy had been generated by a massive earthquake in Oropos, on the North Andolen coast where the Salmancan Sea flowed into the Strait of Terreo. The Esurhites’ great temple of Laevian, site of a huge etherworld corridor and almost continuous troop transfers, had completely collapsed. Stories of damage from tidal waves had come in from the Chesedhan coastline all along the Salmancan Sea, and recently she’d heard there’d also been a quake in Xorofin, though details on that were sketchy. Tortusa was said to have been inundated, but unfortunately, most of the fleet that harbored there was on the open sea—moving in force upon Kiriath.
All three events coming at almost the same time led her to conclude they probably had the same trigger.
And the trigger just might have been Abramm. But if so, there was no word about him, unless she was to believe the stories of yet another tall, blond man with twin facial scars leading a group of rebels out in the northern end of the strait. But she did not. Whatever he was doing, it was bigger than that. She’d given up on his coming down the Ankrill, but she’d not given up on his coming. It would be in Eidon’s time and from Eidon’s direction, wherever that would be. It was not a thing she chose to share anymore, for she knew it would only resurrect all the doubts about and criticisms of her mental state. Which no one needed right now, least of all her. She knew what she knew. And if no one else believed her, so be it. Perhaps one day things would be different.
Umberley returned. He paused, then added stiffly, “Serra Brackleford’s gift is a book, which she will only surrender to you personally.” He paused, then added stiffly, “She says she came through the Kolki Pass and spent the winter at Caerna’tha.”
Maddie snapped up her head from the list as the floor lurched beneath her. “Caerna’tha?”
“Yes, madam. She said she has come down with a group along the Ankrill through Trakas.” Umberley looked thoroughly chagrinned, for it was common knowledge this was the same route Maddie claimed Abramm had traveled last year. He should have questioned Marta Brackleford sufficiently to have discovered this when she’d first requested audience.
Maddie saw no need to reprimand him, though, for he was well aware of his fault. Besides, she was too intent on finding out what Marta Brackleford knew to be distracted by lesser matters. “Trakas,” she murmured. Trakas was south of Obla, and just west of the Great Sand Sea.
Dismay tempered her surging excitement as she recalled the terrible storm, and her husband’s body lying half buried in sand. Was the vision in the amber real, then? No, he could not be dead. She had seen him afterward. He had sorrowed at not being able to come to her. Then her heart clenched as a new thought occurred: What if she had seen not her living husband but Abramm gone on to the realm of Light? There
had
been light all around him. . . .
Her middle twisted, and panic flapped at the edges of her soul. Then she jerked up her chin and made herself take a deep breath.
Find out what is really
happening first,
she counseled herself.
If it’s real and true that you will never see
him again in this life, then you may fall apart
. She faced Umberley and said calmly, “I will see her now.”
Marta Brackleford was a small, purposeful woman, with dark, expressive eyes and black hair caught into a bun on her nape. At once she handed over the book, which was wrapped in worn and wrinkled brown paper tied with string and stained with water spots.
“You claim to have known my husband,” Maddie asked, turning it over in her hands.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The woman dropped her gaze respectfully to the floor.
“You will not mind, I hope, if I ask you to describe him.”
“He was taller by a head than most of the men in our party, ma’am. Only Rolland stood as tall. His hair was long and blond, and he wore a thick bushy beard, darker than his hair. He has twin scars running down the left side of his face.”
“That’s a description anyone could give.”
Marta nodded, pressed her lips together, and tried again. “His eyes are so blue they make your heart catch. His brows are dark and level, and the way he sometimes cocks one is utterly endearing. His hands are mesmerizing— beautifully shaped, long fingered, and strong, but callused and rough from the work. And his smile, which doesn’t come very often, is like the sun parting the clouds after a storm.”
“I don’t think I much like your second description,” Maddie said, somewhat aghast.
Marta smiled. “You’re right. I lost my heart to him, even knowing his belonged to another. And still does, I might add. You have no worries there. But I think perhaps from my description you believe me now.”
“You have done much to advance your case,” Maddie said warily.
The other woman nodded. She gestured at the book, now in Maddie’s hands. “He gave me that when he set out into the desert to rescue our friends from slavery. He instructed us to leave immediately for Fannath Rill, but we decided to wait a week, anyway, and then that great sandstorm blew in off the desert. When three weeks later they still had not returned, we headed south. Abramm arranged for a riverman to take us to Deveren Dol, but the man even went so far as to escort us to Fannath Rill. Your husband said you would see him rewarded for his time and generosity, but I fear he has returned to Ru’geruk disgruntled and disillusioned, since it has taken me so very long to finally meet with you.”
Maddie raised her eyebrows at this gentle scolding, and Marta flushed. “Not that I expected to be allowed to see you at all, Your Majesty,” she added, her flush deepening. When Maddie still said nothing, the woman dropped her gaze to the floor and murmured, “Forgive me, madam. I meant no offense . . . .”
“And I took none, Serra Brackleford. Please, be at ease.” Maddie turned her attention to the parcel in her hands, vaguely disappointed now that he’d not sent her something more personal. If it was truly from him.
“It’s from the library at Caerna’tha, Your Majesty.”
Caerna’tha
. Warm memories of Maddie’s time there bloomed distractingly, and for a moment she forgot she had a guest. Reluctantly she shook it off.
“We were snowed in all winter,” Marta was saying. “And when he wasn’t working, your husband—we called him Alaric—spent much time there.”
“Alaric! So he’s going by that name again.”
And when Marta looked at her in puzzlement, she added, “It’s his second name. Abramm Alaric Kesrin Galbrath . . . He’s used it before when he didn’t want anyone to know he was king.” She paused, realizing he’d probably started using it to get out of Kiriath undiscovered, and by then had cemented his alternate identity with the people he traveled with. “One last question . . . Where did my husband sleep in Caerna’tha?”
“Where did he sleep?” Marta’s dark brows arched at this odd question. “He chose one of the unheated dormitory rooms rather than stay with the rest of us in the Great Room. For which he was gossiped about relentlessly. No one could quite figure out what he was about. He was always standoffish, except maybe with Rolland and Laud at the end. But given who he was, I understand it now.”
“And the others. . . ? They didn’t know who he was?”
Marta shook her head. “He was supposed to be dead, after all, and in many ways he seemed a normal man.” She nodded at the book in Maddie’s hands. “I saw him write a note and slip it under the front cover before he wrapped it up.”
A letter . . .
With suddenly trembling hands, Maddie pulled off the string and unfolded the wrapping from around the leather-bound book. Its title, inscribed in the Old Tongue, caught her eye at once:
The Red Dragon
.
She nearly gasped. Even without the letter, she would have known by this that Marta’s tale was true. For who but Abramm would select such a title for her? The book was obviously very old, a treasure that would normally make her tremble with awe. Today she cared only for the wrinkled rectangle of brown paper she found behind its cover. That it was filled with the script of the Old Tongue gave her a start.
He’s learned to write the Old Tongue now. . . ?
She closed the book and laid the note flat against its cover to read:
My heart, my life, my dearest love—
Marta will have told you why you are reading this note and not feeling
my arms about you, though the latter is what I most long to do. I do not
know why Eidon is taking so long to bring me back to you, but it has
become clear to me that he is not in nearly so much of a hurry as I am.
The one advantage of staying in Caerna’tha through the winter you’ve
already seen. I have learned to read the Old Tongue. There were many
wonderful books there to learn it with, and I have gleaned much about the
regalia and the guardstars and what is going on in realms we cannot see.
You would love it, though I think I would become insanely jealous with
such an unending line of ink and paper suitors clamoring for your attention.
You will have heard about my promise to Krele Janner, the boatman
who brought us down. Reward him well. He was a faithful servant. And
I hope you can give Marta a position on your staff. She is a good woman.
A widow, thanks to the Gadrielites. I believe you can trust her. Finally, I
do not know by what route Eidon will bring me back to you, only that he
will. Have faith, my love. I will come. He has promised me that.
I remain forever yours,
Abramm
Tears blurred her vision by the time she got to the end, having no doubt now that he had written it. She read it again, then set both book and letter on her desk and broke down completely. Tears ran down her face as she wept into her hands for want of him. Sometime in the midst of it, Marta came and put her arms around her, and the queen of Chesedh wept against her shoulder as if they had known each other all their lives.
Abramm and his companions left the banks of the Okaido River the same morning as the barge sank, eager to escape the scene of their deliverance and any Esurhites who might happen down the river. They’d come ashore east of the town Abramm had selected, which had been flattened by the earthquake. Finding no survivors, the northerners helped themselves to what weapons and provisions they could find—including six live chickens and a kettle to cook them in—and moved on. Trinley, of course, had to debate and dispute everything Abramm said, demanding the most silly and time-wasting things be done, but Abramm held his tongue and let it go. It wouldn’t matter in the end.
The map he’d taken from the wheelhouse showed that the road running north out of the town eventually cut through mountains into North Andol. Following it was a gamble, since, being the only one on the map, there was a good chance the road would be used by other travelers. Worse, the map indicated that near the mountains, the road wound past a location marked with an Andolen beehive crown—possibly a former monarch’s residence—which could be problematic if they had to pass too near it.
They were a troop of eighteen men, on foot, most of them blond or brunette and half naked, none of them Esurhite. Back at the river they had stripped the Esurhite uniforms from three drowned soldiers and gave them to the men they best fit: Galen, Cedric, and Borlain. Even so, they were sure to draw the notice of anyone they passed, particularly soldiers. And palatial residences tended to have many of those around. But in this land of mistveiled sun, they would surely get lost without the road, so Abramm insisted, despite Trinley’s vigorous objections, that they should keep to it. All the possibilities for disaster he would leave in Eidon’s hands.
Of course, once Abramm determined what he would do, Trinley sought to undermine his leadership by trying to get the others to return to the river. When that failed, he wanted to lead the troop himself, a demand Abramm dismissed with the observation that Trinley did not speak the Tahg and thus was ill suited to conversing with anyone they might meet. Abramm, on the other hand, was fluent in the local language and could easily be taken as one of the Darian, who often held positions in the Esurhite army. Defeated and sulking, Trinley dropped back to the middle of their procession and said no more.