The Shadow Within (16 page)

You must try to win your brother
.

His thought flow stopped. Where had
that
come from?

Shrugging mentally, he went on. Laramor had a good grasp of the border situation, though he seemed completely unconcerned about the Esurhites and—

You need to win your brother
.

He frowned. That was a ridiculous notion, as distasteful as it was impossible. Why was he even thinking it?

But the third time it intruded, he gave up in exasperation and confronted it.
Try to win my brother? I’d rather throw him in my dungeons!
In fact, last night, seeing him for the first time in years, he’d wanted to do a great deal more than that. Everything he loathed about Gillard had manifested itself in that Council Hall. Even now his sly, baiting words made Abramm’s blood boil.
“So why did you not come to Raynen? Why did you
simply disappear?”
he’d asked oh-so-innocently, secure in the knowledge that without two witnesses Abramm could bring no accusation against him.
“I sold you into slavery,”
he’d seemed to say, “
and there’s not a thing
you can do about it!”

Abramm had wanted to fly across the chamber floor and strangle him on the spot.
Nothing I can do about it? Well, we’ll see—

You must forgive him, Abramm
.

And again his inner monologue halted. That thought wasn’t from him.
Forgive him, my Lord?
He felt vaguely ill.

My son has paid his debt, and
I
have forgotten his transgressions. How is it
then that you dare to remember them?

Abramm knew the Words very well—could cite that passage by sector and line, in fact—but right now could not care less. Outrage smoldered in him as a dozen memories of that fateful night in Southdock tumbled through his mind. The feel of the net dropping over his head; the narrow, fishysmelling room; Gillard throwing back his cowl to reveal himself so Abramm would know exactly who was doing this to him.

It is not so easy for me to forget, my Lord. He—

Is a very unhappy young man who is confused and deceived—

And arrogant and selfish and egotistical and just plain mean.

And you, of course, are never any of these things, since you are perfect
.

Abramm scowled at the sea gulls swooping and wheeling against a cloudstreaked sky.

Lord, you know I know I am far from perfect.

You need to forgive him, Abramm.

But—
Abramm ground his teeth together as a hundred more rationalizations sought to flood his mind. But how could he refuse the One who had bought his very soul?
All right, my Lord. I forgive him, but for your sake and
only by my will
. A sick, horrified feeling churned in his stomach.

You must try to work with him
.

Work
with him?! Never! Not after what he did!

And what was it he did, my son? I seem to have forgotten
.

Abramm exhaled his frustration.
I
will
forgive him, Eidon. But I can’t work
with him. He’s insufferable and he hates me.

You need to offer your hand in peace.

He’ll only slap it away.

You must offer it anyway. As I offered mine to you, though you slapped it
away many times, were no less insufferable, and hated me even more than he
hates you
.

He could never argue with Eidon. When would he learn that? Somehow he always ended up like this—without a leg to stand on, feeling foolish and chagrinned, face-to-face again with his own worthlessness.

I will offer him peace, my Lord. Though it’s certain to be rebuffed, and I’ll only
look the fool . . .

But Eidon, he knew, cared nothing for how Abramm looked to others, and thus he shouldn’t, either. After that he was left to consider his cabinet selections uninterrupted, and before long it was time to turn back. Angling southwest off the track, he put Warbanner to an easy canter, and soon they reached the wide, hard-packed road edging the Keharnen Rise. Springerlan sprawled below them in a golden haze of smoke and mist bisected by the barge-clogged river, gleaming like molten gold in the sun’s lowering rays. Beyond loomed the western headland, shrouded in purple shadow as it stretched southward to form the bay. At its farthest seaward end, old Graymeer’s Fortress was just visible as a jagged upthrust against the darkening blue haze of the sea.

They had ridden along the rim only a few minutes when the drum of approaching hooves brought them all around. To Abramm’s surprise it was Byron Blackwell who cantered up to join them, his lifeless brown curls tied back for the ride under a wide-brimmed hat. Looking bemused behind his spectacles, he pulled his horse to a stop and dropped the king a truncated bow. “Your Majesty.”

“I certainly didn’t expect to meet you out here, Blackwell,” Abramm responded.

“It’s been a full day, sir. A hard ride in the preserve always clears my head.”

“I didn’t know you were a horseman.”

“A passion we share, I’m guessing.” He eyedWarbanner significantly. “Not too many can ride that colt.”

Abramm acknowledged the compliment with a nod, sensing it was genuine. At his invitation, the man joined him, and they continued south along the road, the palace a distant gleam behind the trees and hills ahead. Beside them the gulls wheeled in a salmon-tinted sky, winging at eye level with them across the sheer cliffs.

“I must confess,” Blackwell said as they rode, “that this meeting is not
entirely
by coincidence. When I saw the gulls circling, I hoped it was you.”

“Did you.”

“I’ve had something on my mind since last night, sir, but I wasn’t sure how to approach you with it.”

Abramm encouraged him with a glance.

“I fear I should not have stopped you from baring your chest to the Table. Better would have been to have let you settle the matter then and there.” He paused. “You might want to find a way to be seen bare-chested in the next day or so. Perhaps invite guests for early tea and wear your blouse unfastened. Or take a morning stroll around the lake. The more people who see the truth, the sooner you’ll be free of the accusations.”

Abramm received the advice soberly.

“You do see my point, don’t you, sir? If you do nothing, the question will only fester, and already its—”

“I see your point.” Abramm gazed over the valley to his right, watching the light change as the sun slipped behind the headland, turning the clouds to dramatic fiery slashes in a salmon-run-to-pale-blue sky.

“I know it’s distasteful,” Blackwell added after a moment. “It’s just that poor Raynen’s fate is so much on everyone’s mind again.” He shook his head. “There’s not been such a dramatic case of Terstan madness in a long time. I’ll tell you plainly it horrified even those among us who wear the shield themselves.”

Those among us? Are you trying to tell me something, Count?
“I’m surprised you allowed him to reign that long,” Abramm commented blandly.

“We’d have removed him sooner, but Gillard refused to accept the Crown in his stead.”

“Gillard?!”
He’s willing to sell me to the night ships to get me out of the way,
yet wouldn’t remove Ray when he was obviously incompetent?

Blackwell shrugged again. “They say he loved your brother very much.”

He doubted Blackwell had any idea how much that statement cut to his heart.

After a few moments, the count added quietly, “It should be done soon, sir. Time is crucial in these matters and—” He stopped, his eyes flicking to Abramm sharply. “I’m assuming, of course, the accusation has no merit. . . .”

Abramm cocked a brow at him. “Are you asking me if I wear a shield, Count Blackwell?”

At once the man averted his gaze, red-faced. “No, sir. Of course not. I just . . .”

“I appreciate your advice, Count. For now, though, I think I shall take one last run.”

And so, with the sea breeze in his face, tainted even here by the ammonia of the kraggin, Abramm nudged Warbanner into an easy rolling canter. But it wasn’t nearly as pleasurable as it had been earlier, for Gillard weighed on his thoughts now, and some part of him held Blackwell responsible.

Even so, he couldn’t deny Blackwell
had
pretty much single-handedly saved his bid for the Crown last night. He’d learned today that the man had become count only four years ago, after his father died in a hunting accident. Elected speaker of the Table of Lords a year later, he was generally characterized as a political middle-of-the-roader with a conservative bent and a low profile.
“One of those men no one notices much—until they end up Speaker of the
Table,”
Lord Foxton had confided with a grin during their private meeting this morning.
“I don’t know him well, sir, but he seems a good man and a hard
worker, and most everyone likes him. And he’s served on a goodly number of
committees.”

They slowed again some ways farther on, eyeing uneasily the great cloud of gulls boiling up from the road where it bent out of sight into a copse of trees. Channon said he didn’t like the looks of it, and though he didn’t much like the idea of taking to the hollows either—not at dusk with all the spawn they had these days—he thought it the better risk. “But we mustn’t dally,” he warned.

Thus they descended the forested hillside at a trot as the world turned ruddy around them, the fiery streaks overhead fading slowly to pink. Already the scent of damp grass mingled with whiffs of pine and hickory in the still air, and with the squirrels gone to their holes, the only sounds were those of the riders themselves. They started across a meadow cloaked in purple twilight, the gulls swooping and diving above the trees to the right. Whatever had caught their attention, Abramm’s party was going to miss it.

Then, halfway across the swale, Abramm’s nape tingled with the sense of imminent attack, triggering an instinctive, hard-won set of reactions. Dropping onto Warbanner’s neck he kicked the animal forward just as a flight of arrows burst from the hickories to the right. By then he was off the road and galloping over the hummocks in an arc headed round toward his attackers’ position. Another horse followed close behind. He thought at first it was Channon, until he heard his captain bellowing from much farther away for some to “Get them!” and others to “Cover the king!”

Then Abramm was among the trees himself, engulfed in the deepening twilight. He checked Banner and, as the horse slid to a stop, groped for the sling that wasn’t there, settling instead for his sword. As it hissed from its scabbard, he sat rigidly, scanning the gloom-cloaked foliage and tree trunks, suddenly aware that he wore not one piece of body armor.

The other horseman caught up then—it was Blackwell, his eyes wide in a pale face as he clung to the saddle, reins flapping uselessly, his horse, unguided, having instinctively followed Warbanner. As the count came even with Abramm, the sudden prickly awareness of shadowspawn washed over him, setting his old wrist scar tingling. At the same moment, air stirred above and behind, and he wheeled Banner to face it, glimpsing black wings, a long beak, a glowing blue-white eye. His rapier flashed, white light shimmering down its length as it sliced the feyna in half and flicked back to decapitate another, Banner shying and squealing all the while. Two more came at him, then three, as he slashed and stabbed with one hand and fought to control Banner with the other.

A cry drew his attention to Blackwell, unhorsed in the chaos and caught in a bramble bush, one arm trapped beneath him, a ring of blue eyes shining in the darkness around him. Abramm urged Banner forward, but the horse refused, snorting and swerving away. With an oath Abramm leaped off him, reaching the count just as the spawn attacked. Slashing and thrusting with his rapier in one hand and a stout branch in the other, he drove them off, Eidon’s Light flowing effortlessly out of him.

Then it was over. He stood, weapons raised, breathing heavily, waiting to be sure they were gone, before turning to Blackwell, still caught in the thicket and staring at Abramm with wide, startled eyes. Dead feyna littered the ground and dangled in the brambles around him.
Well, I guess he knows the
truth about my shield now,
Abramm reflected wryly.

A distant crashing brought him around with the sinking realization that Warbanner had fled. He turned a full circuit, intense irritation washing over him. He knew better than to drop the reins of so young a horse under such conditions. What was he thinking? Nothing. Nothing but how to stop the feyna.

Banner wouldn’t stop until he was back at the barn, and afterward, when Abramm came riding in on someone else’s horse, all the grooms could smirk and smile I-told-you-so’s.
Well, it’s only what you deserve for being so stupid
. Grimacing, he tossed the branch aside, sheathed the rapier, and turned to pull Blackwell from the brambles.

“Are you hurt, sir?” he asked as the man straightened on his own two feet and brushed his clothing.

“A bit bruised, but I’ll do.” Blackwell had recovered his poise, meeting Abramm’s eyes evenly and thanking him for his assistance. “My own sword was caught under me. If you hadn’t acted so quickly—” He shuddered.

Abramm returned his gaze unflinchingly, wondering irrationally if by some incredible happenstance he hadn’t noticed the Light. Before he could broach the subject, however, they were interrupted by the crash of horses trampling the underbrush accompanied by low, harsh cries. Abramm stepped forward, instinctively positioning himself between Blackwell and the direction of the sounds, his hand once more on his rapier as he wondered whether it would be best to stand and fight or seek cover before they were discovered.

Then Channon burst into view, his relief at finding Abramm palpable. “Eidon lives!” he murmured, swinging down off his horse. “Are you all right, Sire?”

“We’re fine,” Abramm said, irritated all over again by Banner’s loss. At least Blackwell had lost his mount, as well, though since he
had
fallen off, it wasn’t much consolation. “Did you catch any of them?”