Return of the Guardian-King (64 page)

He stood there, staring hard as the words battered at his heart and the water in his eyes turned to tears. Then,
You want everything, don’t you? Just
like Lema said. You want me to keep nothing for myself. It’s not fair!

And for the first time in weeks, his angry thoughts received an answer.

“Not fair? I gave up everything for you, held nothing back for your sake,
though you were my enemy. . . .”

The image of Tersius suspended on that pole for the darkness to consume eclipsed that of the monarch on his throne, and Abramm saw that all the vicious, selfish, pride-driven thoughts and feelings he had entertained since leaving Horon-Pel—thoughts and feelings that should have earned for him instant destruction—had gone to Eidon’s son instead. Every one of them. There was nothing more he owed. Nothing more he’d ever owe, no matter how vicious and selfish he might become. . . .

A flash of light ripped through the darkness that had wound itself about his soul, and he saw again the purity and perfection he had witnessed in the throne room, the glorious promises on the walls, and his own callous, arrogant disregard for all of it. He was a worm, helpless, insignificant, disgusting in himself, and yet . . . loved. Even now. Even in the face of the greatest failure of his life. . . .

And at that moment, the hard, angry stone that had been his heart cracked into a thousand pieces, and he stood there stunned to tears by the magnitude of Eidon’s mercy. As the wind howled and the deck swooped up, blocking sight of the rocks for a moment, then crashed down again, a rush of alarm swept through him and he turned to Rolland. “Aye, head back for the open sea! Now!”

Instantly Rolland turned to bellow the command sternward.

By then the waves were huge, making the turnabout a terrible gamble, lest they be caught sideways and swamped. But the moment Katahn gave the order for the starboard oars to lift and rest and the portside oars to pull, the rain stopped and the waves began to subside. By the time they had completed the maneuver, all was calm again—and daylight had returned.

They left the bay on flat gray seas beneath flat gray skies, gliding forward on nothing but their momentum. In the rowing gallery below, the men shipped their oars and slumped in exhaustion over the handles while those on deck stared at sea and sky—and the rocky island behind them, in a silence born of awe and fear.

They stared at Abramm, too, as he made his way back toward his cabin. For the first time since he’d left Horon-Pel he saw himself as they must: a man driven mad by grief, consumed by the Shadow within him. The black thing in his side had colored everything. When he passed Katahn and Rolland, he asked them to join him in the cabin, and there he showed them the wound that wouldn’t heal.

Rolland had already seen it briefly, of course. But even so, his reaction was, if anything, stronger than Katahn’s—they gagged and turned away as the dreadful stench hit them. When they had recovered sufficiently to approach his bedside to examine him, their faces still turned various shades of gray and green.

“Why have ye hidden this from us?” Rolland asked finally.

“I believed it would get better on its own.” Abramm thought a moment, then shook his head. “No, the truth is, I was ashamed.”

“I’m assuming you’ve at least
tried
to purge it,” Katahn said.

“Many times. And each time it takes more out of me. I’m not sure I could even do it anymore.”

“Maybe . . .” Katahn glanced at Rolland. “Maybe we could try.”

“Go ahead. But I don’t think it will work.”

They tried. The spore fought them off and punished Abramm for letting them do it.

Afterward, the two men stood beside his bed, staring at the dark thing on his side. Then Rolland left without a word and returned shortly with the speaking stone.

“Will ye listen?”

Abramm almost refused, but then he recalled those moments on the prow in the storm and nodded.

Laud’s voice arose from the stone, teaching about destiny, and a chill crawled up Abramm’s back as he realized it. There was no way to control what the stone spoke, so he knew Rolland had not set this up deliberately. It was Eidon who spoke to him now. . . . “A man who’s born a king will always be a king. Even if he abdicates or his realm is taken from him. If he abdicates, it’s his choice to do so, but it doesn’t change what’s in his blood, what was his heritage, nor the promise that lay before him of what he could have been. And if his realm is taken, even then he is what he is. Not in power, perhaps. Not even recognized, perhaps. But still a king.”

In the crystalline globe that blazed above the stone a man appeared, face scarred but familiar, dark eyes warm and wise. The same man Abramm had seen earlier on the rocks outside, enwrapped in glory on his throne: Tersius. Though Rolland and Katahn both listened intently to the lesson, they did not seem to see him, nor did they give any sign when he spoke:

“I did not remove your realm from you for discipline, Abramm. You know
that. I have made you a king, and you will always be a king. I promised you even
as you left that you would have it back. And already you have seen the beginnings
of that restoration.”

I know that, Lord.

“The dark spore turned your heart . . . but it did not have to. I would not
have let him come against you with it, otherwise.”

And yet . . . you know my weakness for her.

“A weakness you could have overcome. One, in fact, you already had.”

But a weakness you knew I would not overcome.

“But only because you chose not to.”

Abramm held his gaze for a moment, then sighed and conceded.
You are
right: It was my choice. I wanted what I wanted, not what you had given me
. Like a boy throwing a tantrum.
I still don’t understand, though. You led me into
that arena, knowing what would happen. Knowing I would fail.

“Knowing you would fail and fall and finally get back up again, and from the
failure understand that it doesn’t matter. You are mine. I have bought you, and
no matter what you do, you will always be mine. I do not see your failures,
Abramm. I see only the man you will become.”

The lesson ended, and the bubble of light extinguished, the stone lying quiescent on the desk where Rolland had first set it. His two companions sat in their chairs, watching him, as if waiting for him to break the silence.

Eidon’s voice sounded in his head:
“They can help you remove the spore. They want to help you. And you need them to.”

You know we’ve tried.

“Try again. It will be different now. You are different now.”

And now Abramm heard the sounds of the ship creaking around him again, and the men’s soft breathing, as if a cloud of silence had lifted off him. He turned his head to look at them.

Rolland leaned toward him. “Is it better at all, sir? Did the lesson do anything?”

Abramm smiled at him. “Yes, actually. It did a lot. And if you are still willing, I would very much appreciate your help in getting rid of this thing in my side.”

They looked at each other sharply; then Katahn stood and approached the bedside. “Tell us what do to.”

Rolland stood beside him. “Should we put our hands on it er somethin’?”

Abramm considered a moment. “No. I think it’s at the stage it’ll want to spread.”

He had them lay a cloth over it, and then they pulled up their chairs and sat beside him, and though Abramm did not tell them to, Rolland laid a hand on his forearm while Katahn rested one on his knee. They closed their eyes, and he saw the Light flare around them, then draw down toward the thing in his side, which lurched and writhed. The pain was horrible. His scream broke their concentration and they jerked back, breaking contact.

He frowned at them, panting and frustrated. “Do it again. I’ll try not to scream this time.” As they complied, he closed his eyes and focused on Eidon . . . seeking to add his own Light to theirs. The moment he did, a black cloud reared up in his soul, a twisting dragon shape with a hatefully familiar face. He saw then how it had linked to the Shadow within him, feeding, giving it strength, the shadow in turn allowing the spore to multiply. And he’d let it do so for too long.

His own Light had grown thin and feeble from being ignored. But when he used it to seek out that in the others, their strength drew it into them, then rushed back to him on the same connection, illumining a multitude of rooms in his soul that had for too long been locked in darkness. Old memories and long-cherished knowledge stirred to life, forgotten truths and principles building upon one another in a wild, intoxicating whirlwind of understanding. He had no control anymore. His thoughts and power ran everywhere, but the others’ focus brought him back.

Suddenly the fire seared in his side, a sensation worsened by the violent writhing of a mass that shouldn’t be there. The pressure built, the pain increased, and it seemed he could hear the thing screaming within him. His focus wavered, but his friends held him to them—strong, purposeful, sure of what they did. He clenched his teeth, tried again to focus, and suddenly the dark thing burst—black spore and mist fountaining out of him into the cloth he’d put over the wound, sizzling and smoking as their combined strength consumed it.

Then the Light took him completely, and he was no longer in the stuffy, stinking stern cabin but in the throne room again, surrounded by the wonderful light, freed momentarily from the darkness of his fallen flesh. Again he experienced that moment of understanding that had come to him in the Hall of Records. What had been done and why, what his place in it was, what remained for him to do . . .

He opened his eyes, and for the first time in months, he felt good. The heavy weight he’d been carrying around unknowing had lifted. He felt alive again, almost hungry and filled with energy. The cabin looked brighter and cleaner, and even Rolland, slumped and snoring in the chair at his bedside, was better looking than Abramm remembered him.

As he drew a deep, half-yawning breath, Rolland started awake. “Ye’re back, sir!” The big man’s blue eyes widened and then he grinned. “Oh, and ye look
much
better.” They pulled the spore-stained cloth and bandages away to find Abramm’s side whole and healthy once more, only a small crescentshaped scar revealing there had ever been a wound at all. But though it looked fine now, he knew his ordeal was not quite over. Parts of the spore had residualized the moment the Light had begun to burn and would on some future day flare back to life if he did not take the proper steps to prevent it.

Rolland went out and returned with Katahn, who was even more astonished by his dramatic improvement. He’d been in a holding pattern over the last day, waiting for Abramm to wake up to know where they would go. “We head north along the coast,” Abramm told him immediately. “Back the way we came. We’ll make port at Elpis and advance on Fannath Rill from there.”

They made much better time heading north than they had south, for they had the currents’ help, but it still took them almost three weeks. During that time, Abramm listened to the speaking stone twice a day and spent the interim hours regaining his strength and fighting skills. Appalled by the squalor into which he’d let his person fall while the spore had him, he’d trimmed his hair and beard back to the much shorter, tidier lengths he’d worn as king, and rifled through Katahn’s clothing stores for cleaner, sounder shirts and trousers than what he’d been wearing. It wasn’t long before he felt more his old self than he had since he’d left Kiriath.

Though speculation was rife aboard ship as to what the conditions in Chesedh were, he mostly stayed away from that subject. He’d already gotten himself into enough trouble dabbling in unfounded and evil speculations—he wasn’t eager to start again. But given his observations of the Esurhites’ activities in the Neck when they’d crossed it weeks ago—and the absence of any Sorite galleys—he’d guessed that Peregris had fallen. If Chesedh’s leaders had not been taken there but fled to Fannath Rill, then it was likely the invaders had pressed north after them. Of all potential scenarios, the best was that they had the city under siege. Because from the devastation Abramm had seen in North Andol, he knew Belthre’gar couldn’t keep a siege going for long.

Elpis was one of Chesedh’s oldest fortress cities, dating back to Ophiran times. Long home to a strong contingent of Kiriathan exiles, Abramm hoped to find allies here, both Kiriathan and Chesedhan. Along with Mareis, to the east, Elpis was home to the fleets that kept the Esurhites at bay in the Salmancan Sea. Defensive fortifications bristled atop the cliffs that lined the narrow inlet, each with its own set of docks. Though Abramm’s vessel was neither challenged nor fired upon as it sailed up that long gauntlet, at every new fortification men stood along the walls to watch it pass. By the time the newcomers reached Elpis itself, tiering up the notch at the inlet’s end, the locals were fully informed. The Elpian navy had been mustered, and a group of men in merchant’s robes and military tunics had gathered at the end of the newly built dock at the base of the notch.