The Shadow Within (48 page)
Abramm awoke from his purge late in the morning after the ball. For a time he lay in his great canopied bed, staring at the folds of gold-threaded fabric overhead and groping mentally after fading dreams. Normally after a purge they were filled with light and wonder, but this time he recalled only disturbing snatches of scenes that made no sense. Huge dirty clouds had towered over him, menacing in their size and bellowing like angry bulls. But just as his terror swelled to the breaking point, they vanished in a puff of feathers floating in the darkness while a dog barked in the distance and a flock of chickens squawked in frantic agitation. Then a child’s face loomed out of shadow before him, wide-eyed and openmouthed . . . and he awoke.
Why would he dream of such things at all, much less following a purge? And why did it all seem to carry such resonance for him, such a sense of reality and dire portent?
But chasing the memories brought no answers, and as he grew more awake, the threat in them dissipated, replaced by one far more immediate— and real. For the return to consciousness brought with it memories of the ball, and he realized he had fallen into his purge in front of everyone.
He sat up and Haldon was right there, dressing gown in hand. As he stood and let the chamberlain slide it onto his arms and up over his shoulders, he said, “So how bad was it last night?”
“They were carrying you out of the hall when the corona took form.”
“It was seen, then.”
“By a fair number, I’m afraid, though most didn’t know what to make of it.”
“That won’t last long.”
Not with Prittleman on the prowl. And now Gillard. He will know what it is for sure
.
“No, sir. And, uh . . . your uncle was here last night.”
Abramm rounded on him. “What do you mean here?”
“Sat by your bedside for hours. He left a little before dawn.”
“And went straight to Gillard,” came Byron Blackwell’s voice from near the door.
They turned as he stepped into the bedchamber, leaving the door ajar behind him. Behind his spectacles, brown eyes darted to Abramm’s shieldmark, then up. “Captain Channon’s looking for him now. Simon, I mean. Apparently he had a predawn meeting with your brother out in the Farthington sector, after which he disappeared.”
“So they both know, then,” said Abramm.
“It would seem so, sir.”
I waited too long. . . .
Abramm turned back to his reflection in the long mirror, the Terstan shield glittering between the embroidered edges of his dressing gown. “They’ll force me to reveal it now,” he murmured.
“Yes, sir,” Byron agreed. “The Table is meeting as we speak.”
Abramm muttered an oath and turned from the mirror, shedding the recently donned dressing gown. “This is
not
how I wanted to do it.” He pressed the gown into Haldon’s hands. “I’ll wear the black again.”
“Yes, sir. You’re not going to eat first?”
“No.”
And still Haldon hesitated. “Sir, your brother did commit an act of treason last night. Trying to kill you, in front of everyone—”
“The Mataio will surely absolve him of that,” Abramm said. “They’ll laud his courage and dedication to Kiriath’s welfare, while they take over the Crown. . . .”
He wanted to let loose another oath but restrained himself.
“Perhaps you could use a patch,” Haldon suggested, flicking a glance at Byron before moving to the wardrobe to hang up the dressing gown.
“Just wear it long enough to show them you have no shield,” Blackwell said. “It would buy you some time.”
Haldon began riffling through the other garments in the wardrobe.
“But it would be a lie,” Abramm said. His eyes returned to the mirror, now across the chamber from him, the mark glittering prominently against his scarred torso. For a moment he considered the proposition, then ran a hand through his hair and grimaced. “And I’m not sure I even
want
to hide it any longer.”
“If you don’t,” said Blackwell, “they’ll destroy you.”
Haldon pulled out an underblouse.
“I have the materials,” Blackwell said, lifting a small black pouch. “We could do it now.”
Abramm frowned at him.
“You know they’ll ask you today, sir. Probably send a delegation straight to your chambers and demand you reveal yourself to them. It could come at any time. And . . .” He paused, exchanging another uneasy glance with Haldon. “You should know that most of your servants have fled. A sudden resurgence of the grippe.” He paused. “A few remain loyal, but you must understand—if the Mataio brings you down, all who served you will go down, too, whether they knew your secret or not.”
Abramm met his gaze soberly, sick at the realization that he was right, understanding now why he’d taken the initiative to bring those patch materials. And why he was pressing it so insistently. The patch made sense. And why fuss about its being a lie, when he’d been lying from the day he’d arrived? It was just that . . . he’d had enough of lying and hiding. He wanted to be known for who and what he was. It was there in his coat of arms. It should be in the people’s minds and hearts, as well. And the idea of actually covering up his shieldmark with a piece of pigskin was revolting.
If only others didn’t have to suffer the consequences of his decision.
I’ve made a real mess of things now, my Lord. What should I do? Is the time
for discretion truly past?
Hurried footsteps heralded a new arrival moments before the door creaked farther open and Lady Madeleine burst over the threshold.
“Sire!Word has just come that—oh!” She broke off, her gaze roving across his bare chest, sticking on the shieldmark, then darting up to meet his eyes as a tide of red suffused her face. Immediately she turned away. “Your pardon, sir. The door was open and I thought you would be—I’m sorry, sir. I’ll wait outside.” And with that she fled back to the study.
“That woman has no sense of decency whatsoever,” Blackwell muttered.
“Was she here last night, as well?” Abramm asked, glancing aside at Haldon who still stood at the wardrobe with the shirt, ready now for Abramm to don.
“I’m afraid so, sir,” Haldon said.
“You should have had
her
banned from the palace, not Prittleman,” added Blackwell.
“
Not
Prittleman?”
“Well, at least along with him.” He held up the dark bag again. “Shall we get on with it, sir?”
“No,” Abramm said. “I’ll see what she wants first.” He moved back toward Haldon and turned to let him slide the shirt up both arms.
“Sir, the patch will need to dry and cure enough so it looks real,” said Blackwell. “We don’t have a lot of time.”
“I said I didn’t want to do that yet, Blackwell.”
“Yes, sir.”
Madeleine waited by the pair of windowed doors leading out onto the balcony on the west wall. They were closed now, and she stared through the glass toward the western headland, her face pale beneath the freckles, her eyes cupped by deep shadow. She wore a simple high-necked gown of gray tapestry, and her fawn-colored hair was drawn into a single long braid down her back and secured with a slender golden circlet set upon her brow.
“So what is this news you have for me?” Abramm asked as he crossed the chamber to join her.
She turned with a start, blushing again at the sight of him, then dropping her gaze and finally glancing back toward the window. “Have you seen what’s happened to the western headland?”
He came up beside her and saw it was completely blanketed in a lowlying mist, though the rest of the land was clear. She told him that witnesses claimed Graymeer’s had exploded with green lightning last night, just before the wind that had disrupted the ball. Then the mist had boiled out of it, swallowing everything down to the river’s edge and as far north as Tripletree. “People on the west side won’t even open their doors,” she said. “And now there are tales coming in of mauled sheep—tens of them, apparently—of flocks of chickens slain in their coops, and sightings of a strange beast with big shoulders and skinny little hindquarters.”
“The morwhol,” he breathed. She nodded. “But they say it’s only the size of a dog, which is not what I expected.”
“Maybe it has to grow.”
“And feed?” She gazed out the window. “Except it’s eating very little of what it kills.”
“Maybe it doesn’t feed on flesh.”
She glanced at him again, one slender brow cocked.
“The Esurhites believed power was gained in the taking of life. If this beast
is
what was made in that chamber last night, then it’s Shadowspawned. Maybe it feeds on life rather than flesh.”
As she considered this, his own thoughts returned to what she’d said about the mauled sheep. Maybe those weren’t clouds in his dream. Maybe they were sheep. Was it coincidence he had dreamed of them last night when the morwhol had been out slaying them? His visions at the ball last night he’d attributed to the influence of the ring-staffid spore, but what if they weren’t? He fingered the thin scar running across his left palm, recalling that Rhiad had needed both hair and blood from him to make the beast. Had that created some sort of mystical bond between them?
Beside him, Madeleine roused herself. “There’s more. It attacked a little girl—a crofter’s daughter.”
A little girl . . . the child’s face!
Nausea began to churn in his middle. “Please tell me she’s alive.”
“Barely. The crofter and his sons drove the beast off, but— Where are you going?”
“To talk to them myself,” Abramm said over his shoulder as he headed back toward his bedchamber. “Where’s Lieutenant Merivale?” he asked of the guard on duty.
“He left with Captain Channon, sir.”
“Find them both. And see that Warbanner’s saddled and brought round to the front.” He stepped into the bedchamber as the man raced off. “I’m changing into my riding clothes, Hal.”
Blackwell was not happy. He insisted that Abramm must deal with the controversy regarding his shieldmark before things got any worse. Surely others could investigate rumors of the beast. Abramm told him plainly that he was not interested in his opinion, adding that if he killed the thing, perhaps that would counterbalance everything else.
Half an hour later, Trap and Shale Channon met him at the front entrance anteroom, as full of objections as Blackwell had been, if for different reasons. Channon still had not found Simon and was clearly invested in the search. Yet he could not leave Abramm to traipse off into the mist-covered headland in search of a monster without his presence. Trap considered the excursion unnecessary and dangerous and pled for Abramm to send him instead. He refused. And no sooner had he settled things with them than here was Lady Madeleine, waiting outside with the horses, arrayed now in her riding woolens and already straddling her own mount.
“Oh no,” he said before she could even open her mouth. “You’re not going. And don’t talk to me about researching any more songs. This is too dangerous.”
“More so for you than I,” she said, lifting her chin. “And I wasn’t thinking about a song at all. The fact is, I know more about this beast than anyone here. I can help.” Her fingers provided added persuasion as they fiddled uncharacteristically with the buttons on her blue jacket, all but pointing to the shield that lay beneath it.
She was right. Not only was she the local expert on the morwhol, but from all appearances she knew more about wielding the power of the Light than Abramm himself—and maybe even Trap. In the confrontation he was seeking, she could be as much of an asset as any of the men he was bringing. Besides, if he said no, she’d just follow anyway.
“Very well,” he said, continuing down the stair to take up Warbanner’s rein.
Today’s ride was different from the one he’d taken last week for the picnic. The streets stood silent and deserted, even at midday. Furtive faces peered from the windows as he sped by, and though he rode cloaked and with plain gear, he knew that word would soon spread of what he was doing.
They crossed the King’s Bridge and trotted into the woolly wall of mist looming at the river’s edge. It closed about them swiftly, blotting out all sight of the city and river behind them. Unlike a normal fog, this mist carried no moisture, and by that Abramm knew it to be unnatural, a byproduct of whatever had happened at Graymeer’s last night, perhaps to provide a covering environment in which the young morwhol could grow.
The crofter’s holding nestled in a broad valley some distance off the Longstrand road, where the family lived in a sod-roofed hut built half into the side of a hill. A sheep cote and chicken house, also of stone and sod, huddled not far down the slope, and it was here the beast had ambushed the little girl. Two horses stood ground-tied in the yard, their riders—the men originally sent to investigate the attack—talking to the family clustered by the hut’s open doorway. As Abramm and his party emerged from the mist, they were spotted immediately, the armsmen hurrying to attend them.
The little girl, they had learned, had gone out to collect the eggs, only to find the chickens slaughtered and the beast awaiting her. Her screams had brought the dog to her defense, which had held the creature off until the man and his sons arrived with ax and staves. But the beast was too small and quick for them, and perhaps too smart, as well, leaping to attack the father’s face where his sons could not use their weapons. They had pulled it off him only to let it slip their grasp and flee into the mist. After that they’d been too frightened—and too preoccupied with the girl’s injuries—to search further.
“We were just getting ready to start that, Sire,” the investigating armsman said to Abramm. “I doubt it’s still around, but there might be a track we could pick up.”
Abramm nodded his approval, then gestured to the people huddled by the door—a tall, sun-weathered man in homespun clothing, his slender gray wife, and two boys, one nearly grown to manhood. “I think I’ll talk to them myself now.”
“I’m not sure they’ll talk to you, sir. At least not . . . coherently.”
Abramm eyed them again, noting how their gazes flinched away. “Why not?”
“They’ve been bad enough with us. They’re sure to be . . . overwhelmed by your presence. On top of everything else. The girl was chewed up badly. They say she’s got the wound fever.”