The Shadow Within (20 page)
He sketched a quick bow and said his good-byes, leaving Abramm to climb the stair in thoughtful silence.
Had Abramm and Blackwell left the Gallery by the main entrance, they would have passed the gaming rooms and salons in which the diehard pleasure-seekers had congregated. Harrady had talked Simon into a game of dice soon after they had left the reception hours earlier. Predictably, Simon had lost money, and finally, despite Harrady’s assurances that patience would win it back, he retired to one of the quieter salons and fell to playing uurka with Ethan Laramor. They were on their third game now, which Laramor was winning—again, to Simon’s annoyance. He knew himself to be too tired, too brandy headed, and too preoccupied with the day’s events to give his whole mind to the game, but it irritated him to lose all the same.
Gillard’s too loud laughter rang through the doorway behind and to his right, the young man dealing with his troubles in typical fashion. No matter how drunk he became, he never slurred his words, which deceived those who did not know him into thinking the alcohol had not affected him. But Simon heard the bitterness in his tone and, as had happened last night, the blustering, unguarded tongue whining about Abramm’s failure to have bared his chest and lamenting that the bowmen who’d staged the ambush had not been more accurate.
His companions took the words in jest, or so it seemed. Simon wondered how many actually shared Gillard’s sentiments. Did they suspect him of orchestrating the ambush, too? Were the fires of rebellion being kindled even now in the king’s own palace? Not that Simon could do anything to shut him up. His nephew was hurt and upset, and if Simon tried to speak to him now, he would only play more to the crowd. He had to get the boy alone. And since Simon would be leaving for the Briarcreek Garrison at dawn tomorrow to begin collecting information for his report to the king, it was now or never.
Thus he sat trying to concentrate on the game, one ear cocked on the door, while his mind roved back through the past six hours of the reception. Seeing Master Belmir, with his gaggle of Mataian attendants hovering in Abramm’s vicinity all night, had filled him with great unease. As did the man’s incessant talk of the prophesied Age of Light—one requiring the purification and dedication of all men—which he believed to be dawning on Kiriath’s horizon. Meanwhile Prittleman bragged he would soon lead his Gadrielites in a purging of old Graymeer’s, a claim Abramm had not denied. Though, with Byron Blackwell bringing by that steady stream of young ladies for the king’s inspection, it was possible Abramm hadn’t noticed.
“Well, that does it,” Laramor said, breaking into his thoughts and finally moving his archer. “I believe you are besieged, sir. Would you care to surrender? Again?”
“Yes, yes. You win.” Simon glanced over his shoulder at the door to the dicing room, from whence rang another burst of laughter.
“I’ll not ask you for a fourth,” Laramor said. “I think your chair could have played as well as you have.”
Simon frowned at him. “You needn’t rub it in.”
“I don’t know why you bothered to put on the pretense. You’d have done as well to doze on a sidebench until the boy’s done with his playing. At least you’d have gotten some sleep.”
“Aye, and missed my chance of speaking to him at all.”
“Which might be for the best.”
Simon began returning his game pieces to their starting positions. “He took what I said all out of context.”
“But he’ll be drunk now and even more sensitive. You’ll only make things worse.”
“If he was behind those attacks, he has to be stopped.”
“Does he?”
Simon’s hand froze on the figure of the archer he’d just set down. He looked up. Ethan was concentrating on carefully replacing his own pieces to their original positions, the light of the pedestal lamp beside him gleaming off the pewter-colored ring coiling around his index finger. Only when he had all the pieces put back did Laramor look up.
“It
would
be the easiest way to put things to right.”
“Put things to right?” Simon went back to repositioning his own game pieces. “You could get yourself hanged for talk like that, man. And anyway, things have not turned out at all the way we thought they would.”
“They’ve turned out almost exactly as
I
thought they would.”
“Oh come, Ethan. You don’t
really
believe the Mataio’s held him in hiding all these years, do you?”
Laramor shrugged. “I’ll admit, your evidence does refute that theory. But it’s possible they sent one of their people to Esurh to find him and bring him home, one of those men on the water with him that no one can find.” He rubbed the coil ring with his thumb. “Abramm’s the Mataio’s man, Simon. Didn’t you hear Pritt going on about his plans for Graymeer’s tonight? And the need for a purge? And Abramm standing right there, saying nothing?”
“I heard.”
“It’s only the start, you see.”
“Maybe.” Simon lined his footmen in their ranks. “And maybe not. Abramm’s barely arrived. And what he said to the Table today . . . well, it was
good,
Ethan. You can’t deny it.”
Ethan’s thumb stilled on the ring, his brow furrowing. “I thought you were with us on this. I thought you agreed he must not be allowed to rule.” He leaned back in his chair. “Or is Gillard right and he has won you?”
“Don’t be absurd. It’s just . . . what you’re talking about is not only dangerous, it could backfire terribly. It’s a last resort, and I don’t think we’re there yet.”
“So when will we be? When the purges begin? When we’re forced to wear gray doublets with little red flames and commanded to surrender our wealth and our sons to the Holy Flames to keep the realm free of evil?” He tapped his ring on the tall brass form of his game king, gray eyes hard beneath shaggy brows. “It will be far too late by then, my friend.”
Simon shifted uneasily. “All I’m saying is, give it a little more time. See how things settle out. You of all men know I’ve given my life for the good of this land, and I’m not about to let the Mataians have it. But neither will I run off willy-nilly. I want to get the lay of the land, if you take my meaning.”
Laramor had no response to that, and Simon’s glance dropped again to his friend’s hands, where he was back at that habit of twisting the coil ring.
That really is an ugly piece of jewelry
.
“Where did you get that thing, anyway?”
Laramor followed the direction of Simon’s gaze. “The ring? It’s a family heirloom. Why?”
“I’ve never seen you wear it before. And it’s—unusual.”
“Aye.”
Gillard’s game broke up then, accompanied by much laughing and jesting as the players said their good-byes. Finally the prince appeared in the doorway.
Besides not slurring when drunk, Gillard rarely swayed or stumbled, either. But it did take him a moment to focus on Simon, another to recognize him, and a third to realize why he was there. A hard, desperate light flashed in his eyes. His lips tightened and he moved on without greeting or comment.
With a sigh, the older man followed him, feeling the twinge in his hip again and fearing Ethan was right—that this would do no good. He followed him all the way back to the Gallery’s main rotunda before Gillard finally stopped and said without turning around, “I have nothing to say to you, Uncle, and wish less to hear what you have to say to me, so please stop following me.”
His voice echoed across the hardwood floor and plastered walls, their ornately framed paintings hooded now in shadow. Lantern light shone dimly through the windows that lined the rotunda’s outside wall, where the trees tossed in the breeze and scraped against the roof. Somewhere back along the corridors a door closed and voices echoed in indiscernible conversation.
Simon sighed wearily. “You’re making this too personal, Gillard. And tormenting yourself over nothing.”
Now, finally, the young man wheeled and stepped toward him. “Nothing? You said I was the son you never had. That I was more important to you than anything in life. That you would always stand by me no matter what. And there you were tonight, in front of Harrady and Foxton and all the rest of them, supporting him over me! Do you now intend to deny what I heard with my own ears?”
“You seem to have heard things that were not said. As for supporting him, I’ve done no such thing. All I sought to do was bring you to your senses.” He glanced about reflexively, assuring himself they were alone, then closed the distance between them. “What you suggested this afternoon is a dire thing,” he murmured. “A dangerous thing.”
“It’s not dangerous at all. Believe me, Uncle, if I wanted him dead, he’d be dead.”
“As I said before, don’t underestimate him. Even talking like this could get you arrested. Especially you. And with Shale Channon at the helm, it’s not just Abramm you’d be facing. You know Channon will bring good men into the guard.”
He could not see how his nephew was taking this, for Gillard’s face, like the paintings, lay hidden in shadow beneath the gilding of his pale hair.
“And there’s more to it than that—suppose you do succeed? The Mataio would surely censure you and, with grounds to stir up the populace against you, could force you to grant them concessions. . . . And it would start. Everything we’re trying to avoid with Abramm would happen anyway.”
His words died into a silence filled with the rushing of the trees, the faint scritching of the branches against the glass, the thumps and creaks of the palace at night.
“You’re still committed to getting him off the throne, then?” Gillard asked finally, his voice hardly more than a whisper.
“I’m committed to the survival of this realm. That above all else.” Whether or not that required Abramm’s removal remained to be seen, but he wasn’t about to say that now.
“Which means me on the throne and him gone.”
“But not by means of assassination.” It was unnerving not to see Gillard’s face, especially when he did not immediately reply. “You know I’ll always stand by you, son,” Simon added quietly. He meant that sincerely, no matter what came of Abramm.
Yet still Gillard stood there as the branches squeaked and the wind blew against the windowpanes.
“I never meant them to hurt him,” he blurted sulkily. “Only to scare him. I’d thought you’d realize that.”
Simon blew out a long breath of relief, staring at the floor now. “But the men who did it know you hired them—”
“No. It sprang from another, one in the ranks who will quickly emerge as the source and be dealt with. He’s accused me before, wrongly, so he won’t be believed. Especially since I’ve recently called in a debt he owes me.”
“Nevertheless, the gossips will blame you. And Abramm will suspect.”
Gillard shrugged. “So what if he does? There
are
other suspects. The Terstans want him dead as much as anyone. And I wouldn’t put it past some of the border lords, either, much as they hate Mataians.
They
certainly have experience—” He broke off, glancing toward the shadow-swathed doorway to the Gallery’s rectangular west wing. A moment he stood listening, though Simon discerned nothing more than the sounds of wind and branches. At length, Gillard returned his attention to Simon. “I thought if I put enough pressure on him, he’d go back to Esurh. Or renounce everything, like he did before, and return to his Mataian devotions.”
“Bonafil would never—” Gillard whirled toward the shadowed doorway, his blade flashing from its scabbard. “Who’s there?”
Silence and the wind answered him. And maybe the faintest whisper of someone breathing. Simon’s hackles rippled.
“I know you’re there,” Gillard said. “Show yourself now.”
Again, his words were swallowed by the quiet. Then the shadows moved, and a hooded figure glided out of the darkness of the doorway. It stopped before them, and a gnarled hand threw back the voluminous cowl to reveal a ruined face beneath a half-barren scalp. As Simon recoiled, Gillard voiced the recognition for both: “Rhiad!”
The holy man bowed his head. At his throat, the amulet of the Flames gleamed like an evil red eye.
“You’re too late,” Gillard said, almost flippantly. “The king has retired for the night.”
“It is not the king I seek, my lord, but you.”
“Me?”
“I sense we share a common interest, Highness.”
“I can hardly imagine what, sir, since I am not Mataian, and do not wish to become one.”
“I speak of our common enemy.”
Gillard stared at him. “Go on.”
“I know how it feels, Highness.” Rhiad stepped closer. “Seeing him standing there before them all, applauded and admired, so straight and strong and handsome. He took it all from me, too, just as he is taking it from you. And it galls, doesn’t it? Oh yes, it galls.”
“
Abramm
did this to you?”
“Yes!”
Rhiad bared his teeth in an expression more grimace than smile. “And I will see him pay!”
“But . . .” Gillard’s eyes roved over the ruined face and barren scalp. “How could he do such a thing?”
The Mataian ignored him. “I know what he is. I know it as surely as I know your hatred. He is one of them.”
Gillard went rigid again, his attention redirected to this new consideration. “Terstan, you mean? You’ve seen his shieldmark?”
“I was in the cistern, and it’s the only way he could’ve gotten out. And that cow of a sister. They did it together. Her hands, his power. I’ll get her, too.”
The man was raving nonsense now, and Simon saw skepticism replace the hope on Gillard’s face. “So you didn’t see the mark.”
Rhiad rushed on heedlessly. “It was
my
monster.
I
was supposed to kill it. And he stole it, just as he stole everything else. Just as he’s stealing your crown from you.” His head jerked up, eyes ablaze with their own fire as they fixed on Gillard. “Oh yes. I feel your hatred, my prince. Your jealousy. Your outrage.”
Simon laid a hand on Gillard’s arm. “Lad—
” The mad, fiery gaze switched to Simon. “And you—you only pretend he disgusts you. In your heart you admire him.”
“
Admire
him?!”
But Rhiad had already dismissed him, returning his attention to Gillard. “Don’t worry, my prince. I will take care of him for you.”