The Shadow Within (7 page)
“You’ve saved our lives.”
“My children will eat now.”
“We owe you everything.”
Many a tearstained face presented itself, and it must have been fatigue that made his throat keep closing up. These were not highborn nobles, but commoners—freemen, merchants, and sailors—and he was humbled by their response to him.
The nobles, thankfully, had not turned out yet. Stiff with exhaustion, ragged, dirty, and stinking of sweat and sea and kraggin, Abramm could not have presented a less regal impression if he’d tried. The commoners might not mind, but the nobles would be aghast. And in light of what he hoped to do in the coming days, he wanted nothing so much as to get to the palace and a bath as soon as possible.
That would deliver him from Belmir, too. After the Guardian’s initial greeting, when puzzlement mingled with an apparently genuine pleasure at their reunion, the man had said little, walking at Abramm’s side in a quiet display of Mataian support. That Abramm allowed it, hinted as well, unfortunately, that the Mataio had Abramm’s.
Working his way up the dock, Abramm had been clasping hands and receiving thanks without much thought beyond satisfaction at this validation of his choice to return. But when his gaze caught on a small golden shield glittering between the open neck edges of a man’s fine leather jerkin, a mark supernaturally burnished into the man’s flesh, he stopped in his tracks. His gaze flicked up to the man’s face—pale, age wrinkled, with dark bushy brows overshadowing shrewd brown eyes and bristly salt-and-pepper hair cut short in defiance of current fashion.
The man stuck out his hand. “Everitt Kesrin, Your Grace. Owner of the Westland Shipping Company. You have saved the livelihoods of myself and all whom I employ, and for that you have my thanks.”
At his side stood a plain young woman, her fawn-colored hair hastily caught into a pair of Chesedhan-style braids, her wide blue-gray eyes fastened upon Abramm as if he were Alaric the Second reborn. She was not the only one to stare, though the others in the suddenly silent crowd had perhaps different reasons. As Abramm regarded the offered hand, a squall of conflicting thoughts blew through his mind—the realization of what this man was doing, the understanding that Abramm’s own action would be marked and replayed for days to come, the fear of where that would lead, the purpose of his return. . . .
He hesitated only an instant, then clasped the man’s hand firmly, a scribe’s hand he judged it, soft as his own had once been. “It is my privilege to serve,” he said quietly, holding the merchant’s gaze. “And my pleasure to know you.”
He started onward, but Belmir lingered behind. “Freeman Kesrin,” he said dryly. “Bold as ever, I see.”
Kesrin was executing a short bow as Abramm turned back to observe. “Why should I not be bold, Master Belmir, when I stand enfolded in Eidon’s Light? Though I fail to see boldness in my actions today. Am I not allowed to express my thanks to our celebrated deliverer like everyone else?”
“As you make sure he knows exactly what you are when he accepts that thanks. Don’t think your motives are not obvious, Freeman.”
No more than yours, Master Belmir,
thought Abramm.
Kesrin only shrugged. “I find no fault in my motives. We have long been free in this land to pursue whatever faith we choose. I hope that will not change with the coming of our new . . . king?” His dark eyes shifted back to Abramm, one bushy brow lifting, and Abramm was seized with the desire to conjure a kelistar in front of them all.
That
would certainly be an action noted by the crowd. And Gillard. And the Table of Lords.
He put away the crazy bravado and said, “You have nothing to fear from me, Freeman. I have every intention of enforcing the freedoms Kiriathans have long guarded.”
“Even if Eidon’s law says otherwise?”
“I have always understood that
is
Eidon’s law.” He glanced at Belmir. “That, in fact, it was this very freedom which allowed the Matiao itself to survive two hundred years ago when it was but a tiny gathering of eccentric cultists.”
Belmir frowned over his spectacles. As he drew breath to speak, however, some intuition of the need to maintain royal decorum spurred Abramm to end it. Nodding to the Terstan merchant and the starstruck girl at his side, he strode forward to acknowledge the next person in line. In his wake he heard Kesrin say, “Master Belmir, are you
sure
this is your Guardian-King?”
Guardian-King?
Abramm’s stride faltered. Was
that
why Belmir was here? Because they had decided—Eidon alone knew why—Abramm was their Guardian-King? The thought made his incipient nausea lurch. No wonder Simon had raced away and Everitt Kesrin had come out to bait him.
Belmir ignored Kesrin’s jibe, returning to his post at Abramm’s side, smiling and lifting his hand to the crowd as if nothing untoward had happened. But after a moment Abramm leaned down toward him and said quietly, “I must tell you sir, that if you believe I am your Guardian-King, you are gravely mistaken.”
Belmir flicked him a smile. “You killed the kraggin, my son. You have to be him.”
“Brother Rhiad did not share your assessment.”
“Rhiad sees Terstans around every corner. He means well, but all know he is unbalanced. It’s clear the power he sensed was not in you, but in the kraggin as it fought for its life against the Flames.”
Abramm smiled and waved, chilled by the mingle of truth and falsehood in the Guardian’s words and not knowing how to counteract it without saying everything.
“He had hoped to have the victory over it himself,” Belmir went on, “and was not pleased when Eidon favored you instead. Still, we all see it for what it is: Eidon’s Chosen returning to take up the Crown that has awaited him since he left.”
“But that is not possible,” Abramm said.
“Why?”
“Because I no longer hold with Mataian teachings.”
“You may have strayed from the fold, my son, but you’ll be back.”
“I assure you, I will not.”
Belmir smiled benignly over his spectacles. “Eidon’s hand is upon you. You cannot help it.”
From suspected heretic to the Mataio’s prophesied Guardian-King in but a few hours. Incredible. It was the ultimate irony that Abramm would use his Terstan power to kill the kraggin—in a blundering, uncontrolled, appallingly visible burst—and have it viewed as proof of Eidon’s anointing. If it were not so galling, and if he were not teetering on the edge of being found out, his bid for the crown ruined before it began, it might have been humorous.
Ahead, where the pier met the main dock, the Mataians had erected a red-and-white awning above an overlook from the street ramping down to dock level. Several benches had been brought down, upon which were seated what appeared to be the High Father of all the Mataio and his chief aides. Abramm didn’t suppose he could ignore the High Father of one of the major faiths of his land, particularly in light of what he’d just said about respecting his people’s religious freedom. Fortunately he also saw, standing on the dock below the holy men, the horses he’d asked Lieutenant Channon to procure for him and his armsmen. If he had to meet with High Father Bonafil, at least he would do it eye to eye.
He knew his fatigue was all too obvious when Channon offered to help him mount—he refused, of course. No self-respecting Dorsaddi accepted help in mounting. It was bad enough he had to use the stirrup to climb aboard rather than simply swinging into the saddle, but he could barely move his left shoulder and his back was ominously twitchy. Well, only a little longer and he’d have some privacy in which to attend to both his person and his hurts.
As Abramm reined his horse over to address the men sitting on the overlook, he saw that Belmir had rejoined his holy brethren and was whispering something into the High Father’s ear. Abramm recognized none of the others. He only knew the High Father’s name because Channon had told him earlier that Saeral had died of a heart attack four years ago and Bonafil succeeded him. The new High Father was the typically handsome, placid-faced sort that ascended to his station, with mild blue eyes and soft lips. His auburn hair, liberally sprinkled with gray, frizzed now with age above the long braid. As befitted his station, he wore no rank cords, a sign, the Mandates said of his extreme humility. At his throat—as at the throats of all Guardians—gleamed the red amulet of the Holy Flames, said to carry the very spark of Eidon himself. It was an amulet Abramm had once longed for with a passion that was painful, an amulet that now reminded him chillingly of those worn by the evil priests of Esurh’s Khrell. Right down to the dim, fluttering glow lurking within each one of them. Not the spark of Eidon at all, but something else entirely. And he wondered as his gaze stopped on Bonafil—was this Saeral in a new body?
The breeze rushed around Abramm and over the waiting holy men, widening their eyes, wrinkling their noses, and inciting a startled exchange of glances. A couple of them even coughed slightly, and one man sneezed.
Bonafil kept his nose-wrinkling to a minimum, remarking in a gentle voice, “Sweet Fires, man. That is quite a stench.” No one else in all this crowd could have spoken such even to the crown prince, let alone the man who could be king by week’s end.
“You’ll forgive me, then,” Abramm said, “if I hasten on to the palace, where I may indulge in the bath we all agree is needed.”
“I’ll only take a moment, Your Highness.” Silence once more enfolded them as Bonafil’s blue eyes moved down Abramm’s form and up again. “Is that a
weapon
you wear on your hip, my son?”
“It is, in fact, an Andolen rapier, Father.”
The High Father received this information without reaction, studying Abramm’s robes and hands and face. He wrinkled his nose again, then looked across the crowd and the docked ships to
Wanderer,
forced by her deep draft to anchor farther out in the harbor, while at his side, Belmir smiled with calm assurance. Bonafil’s gaze returned to Abramm. “Are you indeed responsible for the monster’s death, then?”
“I and the men with me, yes.”
“ ’Tis a remarkable feat you have accomplished, then.”
“ ’Twas by the power and mercy of Eidon.”
Light flickered in Bonafil’s eyes and simultaneously in the amulet at his throat, raising the hairs on Abramm’s nape. “And now you come to claim the Crown.”
Not Saeral
. Abramm thought.
Another
.
“You will need Eidon’s help, I think,” remarked Bonafil.
“I will indeed, Father.”
Again the silence and the thoughtful regard. Then Bonafil nodded as if Abramm had passed some unspoken test. “You will have the Brotherhood’s full support.”
And here it was: the moment to speak or keep silent. Abramm spoke: “I appreciate your generosity, sir, but as I told Master Belmir, I no longer hold with Mataian teachings.”
Bonafil nodded. “Nevertheless, you have our support.”
It was on the tip of Abramm’s tongue to declare he neither wanted nor needed their support when suddenly he understood. No one knew he had become the White Pretender, or that he had spent the last four years as the close friend, confidant, and advisor to King Shemm of the Dorsaddi. High Father Bonafil no doubt saw him as a simple scribe fresh out of slavery and easily manipulated. This was a bid for power. Abramm could probably offer any insult short of revealing the shield on his chest, and Bonafil would bear it.
“I fear I will disappoint you in the end,” Abramm said finally, glancing at Channon. His lieutenant had been waiting for that sign and now turned to give
Wanderer
a casual salute. On deck, Captain Kinlock should have them centered in his spyglass and—yes. Here came the flash that showed he had received the signal.
Abramm turned back to Bonafil, pulling the thick queue of his hair over one shoulder and drawing up the hood of his robe. He lifted a hand in casual salute of his own. “Good day, sir.”
Bonafil’s soft mouth dropped open as Abramm pulled his horse back and around. It was a borderline breach of etiquette and a calculated risk, but as heir to the throne he was justified in not waiting for dismissal. It was also a clear indication that he had turned from Mataian persuasions.
Before anyone could protest, though, a mighty squeal of wood and metal erupted from out on the bay, drawing the throng’s attention. Abramm glanced again over his shoulder as the kraggin’s corpse was hauled from the water by cranes set up aboard both
Wanderer
and the whaler that had accompanied her. As the great gray-and-ivory carcass slithered upright into view, the crowd exclaimed in muted susurration. Among them only one kept his attention on Abramm: a figure in Guardian gray standing at the junction of pier and dock, a man whose ruined face and barren scalp only accentuated the fire of hatred burning in his one good eye.
Have you remembered me yet?
Abramm thought at him. With a shudder of foreboding he settled himself forward in the saddle, urging his horse after Channon’s. Leaving the now-distracted crowd, they trotted into the back ways of Portside, which Channon’s men had earlier cleared of spectators, and rode on toward the palace.
They rode through the Portside sector and into the hilly city beyond, where a busy service road switchbacked up the steep face of the long escarpment from whose seaward-most point the palace overlooked the bay. Pedestrians and delivery wagon drivers automatically made way for the detachment of Royal Guard as it headed for the southern service gate, eyeing the cloaked figure it escorted with interest. If they guessed who he was, Abramm did not know, for he was paying little attention.
His headache and nausea had worsened dramatically, his middle cramping so violently at one point it doubled him over. With that, it dawned on him that this wasn’t just a case of jitters or a bad smell or not having eaten. Nor was the increasing weakness and throbbing pain in his left arm the result of physical exertion or injury. All were the unmistakable signs of spore sickness.
At first he couldn’t think how he’d been exposed, until he remembered he’d been swimming in the kraggin’s blood. Diluted by seawater, the spore’s initial effects would be unnoticeable, increasing gradually over time as they multiplied within him. Cursed—or blessed?—with unusual sensitivity to the stuff, he’d be dog-sick by the end of the day unless he initiated a purge first. But a purge would not only cocoon his body in an aura of Terstan Light— hardly a spectacle he wanted just anyone to see right now—it would also require several hours to complete. He’d have to find a place where he’d be sure no one would stumble onto him. And with no one but Lieutenant Channon available to guard him, he wished yet again that he hadn’t sent Trap away. Well, no help for that now. At least in the course of the night’s events, Channon had shown himself an honorable man, a fellow Terstan and already devoted to Abramm’s cause.