Honors for the first books of
LEGENDS OF THE GUARDIAN-KING
The Light of Eidon
_______
Booklist
Top 10 Christian Novels 2004
ForeWord Magazine
2003 Book of the Year—Silver
Science Fiction
Christian Fiction Review
Best of 2003
Christy Award—2004
Fantasy
The Shadow Within
_______
Borders
Best of 2004
Religion and Spirituality
Romantic Times
Best of 2004 Finalist
Inspirational
Christian Fiction Review
Best of 2004
Christy Award—2005
Visionary
Books by Karen Hancock
___________________________________
Arena
LEGENDS OF THE GUARDIAN-KING
The Light of Eidon
The Shadow Within
Shadow Over Kiriath
Shadow Over Kiriath
Copyright © 2005
Karen Hancock
Cover illustration by Bill Graf
Cover design by Lookout Design Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the
publisher and copyright owners.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hancock, Karen.
Shadow over Kiriath / Karen Hancock.
p. cm. — (Legends of the guardian-king ; 3)
Summary: “Abramm’s coronation is still underway, and rival leaders are plotting
their return to power. Will Abramm hold onto victory, or will his enemies succeed in
destroying his beloved realm?”—Provided by publisher.
ISBN 0-7642-2796-3 (pbk.)
1. Kings and rulers—Fiction. 2. Power (Social sciences)—Fiction.
3. Coronations—Fiction. I.Title. II. Series.
PS3608.A698S537 2005
813'.6—dc22 2005020515
* * *
KAREN HANCOCK has won Christy Awards for each of her first three novels—Arena and the first two books in this series, The Light of Eidon and The Shadow Within. She graduated from the University of Arizona with bachelor’s degrees in biology and wildlife biology. Along with writing, she is a semi-professional watercolorist and has exhibited her work in a number of national juried shows. She and her family reside in Arizona.
For discussion and further information, Karen invites you to visit her Web site at www.kmhancock.com.
Do not fear the suffering that is to come. For some of you are about to be cast into prison by the Adversary, so that you may be tried. See it through for the time appointed, steadfast unto death, and I will grant you a crown of life. . . .
—From the Second Word of Revelation
Second Scroll of Parthas
CONTENTS
PRELUDE
THE HALL OF KINGS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
INTERLUDE
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
HIDDEN TREASURE
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
INTERLUDE
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
INTERLUDE
THE GULLISLANDS
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
INTERLUDE
EXECUTION SQUARE
CHAPTER 34
INTERLUDE
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
POSTLUDE
PRELUDE
“ABRAMM KALLADORNE will fall, Vesprit.” The rhu’eman warhast Hazmul did not speak the thought aloud, but the breath of his host body fogged the window glass before him anyway, blurring his view of the snow-dusted Grand Fountain courtyard below. In the gray light of the foggy early-spring morning, a lengthening line of gleaming carriages queued up at Whitehill’s front entrance to his left, preparing for the coronation procession. “If all goes as planned, that fall will begin today.” He sipped from his porcelain teacup, then added, “All is going as planned, I trust?”
Though his rhu’eman underling, Vesprit, stood behind him, Hazmul didn’t need to see him to sense the pleased confidence rippling through the underwarhast’s essence. “It is, sir,” Vesprit replied.
“You’ve cracked the stone and awakened the miniol?”
“A couple of hours ago now.”
Servants’ voices drifted from the sitting room of Hazmul’s apartments. He ignored them. Human ears could not discern his conversation with Vesprit any more than human eyes could discern their bodies. The servants would see only the fleshly host in which Hazmul dwelt, standing at the window of his sumptuous east-wing bedchamber sipping morning tea. Underwarhast Vesprit would be a faint amber glow, unnoticed in the lamplight.
As the underwarhast began a recitation of all that had been attended to in preparation for this momentous day, Hazmul continued to sip his tea and watch the coaches gather, the end of their line soon disappearing into the fog. Down in the valley, the University clock tolled the half hour in a single deep tone. Hardly had it struck when the palace doors flew open and a party of nobles cloaked in furs and dark woolens emerged. They glided down the snow-dusted steps to the first carriage, head of the procession that would soon wind down to the Hall of Kings at Avramm’s Mount. As its doors slammed shut and the vehicle sped away, the next one rolled immediately into its place.
A momentous day this was indeed, the culmination of weeks of preparation among friends and foes alike. Today Abramm Kalladorne, whom some called king of Light and others deemed servant of Shadow, would be officially and ceremonially crowned the thirty-sixth king of Kiriath. Today he would move among his people as he had not in all the six months since he had slain the morwhol, would stand before them arrayed in the full splendor of the royal regalia and receive the crown in all the solemn ritual and majesty Kiriathan tradition could muster. And in so doing, would either convince the masses he was indeed Eidon’s choice or bitterly disappoint them with the proof that he was not.
It was Hazmul’s intent that bitter disappointment soundly edge out any thrills or encouragement—a goal he had worked toward for six months now. With four thousand years of experience, he was well versed in the ways of destroying a man and took particular pride in his ability to neutralize those servants of the Enemy who crossed into the battlefield of their so-called destiny.
It was a great and intricate dance, an effort that took time, patience, cunning, ruthlessness . . . and the ability to exploit a man’s weaknesses, day by day grinding away at his confidence. As king, Abramm had provided him many areas to exploit, but the richest had been the damage wrought by the morwhol. The day after its claws ripped through Abramm’s face and arm, Hazmul had teased to life the latent spore it had left behind. Before long, Abramm’s nearly-closed wounds had suppurated viciously, his natural spore-intolerance erupting into a raging defense that left him fevered and bedridden for almost a week. When it was over, his left arm was twisted with red, ropy scars, and the marks on his face were far from being the thin white lines his physician had predicted.
Now, after six months of living in denial, Abramm would face the reality of what he had become. Last night Hazmul had ignited his growing frustration with his arm into a confrontation with the one man able to really hurt him: his longtime friend and ally, Trap Meridon. Asked outright, Meridon had admitted he believed Abramm’s arm to be irredeemably crippled, an assessment Abramm had not received with good grace.
Today he would see the rest of what had been done to him— the facial scarring he pretended was inconsequential. Already struggling to escape the mental morass of bitterness and self-pity into which Meridon’s revelation had plunged him, Abramm’s shock at seeing his new face should push him in so deep he would be helpless against the attack Hazmul had planned for the final act of today’s little drama.
“His aura this morning has been consistently blue-black and murky,” Vesprit reported now, “and the frequency of coruscation has fallen off dramatically. I don’t see him recovering before the ceremony.”
Hazmul turned his attention briefly to the tendril he’d had on the king since early last evening, confirming Vesprit’s report. Abramm was still being dressed in the royal bedchamber. And while Hazmul could not read his thoughts at this distance—not an easy task even in the same room—Abramm’s emotional state came through clearly in the low, throbbing tones of despair.
“Probably not,” he agreed, “but I don’t want to take any chances. He’s surprised us too many times before.” Below him the noblemen and their ladies flowed from the palace in an almost continuous stream to board their carriages and wheel away. “What of Madeleine? Were you able to plant the images I suggested?”
“Her guardian put up a strong fight, but we prevailed.” The frequency of Vesprit’s essence intensified with admiration and approval. “You called it perfectly, sir. We tapped something so strong it shocked her right out of the dream.” A trill of amusement whirled through Vesprit’s vibrations as he added, “Her aura was bluewhite when she awakened, then immediately turned to scarlet.”
“Did she tell anyone what she’d dreamt?”
“Not a word. But she sat there in the bed for at least twenty minutes, her face in her hands, before the color returned to normal.”
“Weeping?” Hazmul sipped again from his cup.
“No. She was more horrified and confused. And still aroused, despite it all. . . . She seemed unable to settle that part down.” Vesprit paused. “How did you guess her feelings for him were so strong, sir? We’ve all noted their attraction to one another but . . . we had no idea hers was that powerful. She had to have been hiding it even from herself.”
Hazmul allowed himself a small smile. “I’ve had a lot of experience with these creatures.” He checked the tendril on Abramm again: still no change. “You’re sure she’ll have no contact with the king this morning?”
“She may not even attend the ceremony, sir. When I left, she was still in bed, her maid worried she’d taken ill.”
“Good. Even a chance meeting in the hall could be disastrous. Her influence on him is too great.”
“Don’t worry, sir. We’ve got the double rank of guards on her as ordered, and her brother, that idiot Leyton, is on his way to her chambers as we speak. Though, truly, sir, I doubt she’ll be able to look Abramm in the eye for days—let alone speak to him. She is as rattled as I’ve ever seen her. It was a masterful blow.”
Again Hazmul nodded. “Sounds like she’ll be no help to him during the ceremony, either, which is what I’d hoped. . . . What about the miniol? Has anyone noticed it yet?”
“No, sir. But even if they sensed something, it would never occur to them to inspect the stone.”
Captured by Alaric the Bold six hundred years ago, the border stone had been set beneath the coronation chair to symbolize Kiriathan authority over the borderlands. A benign participant in countless Kiriathan coronations, no one had any reason to suspect it harbored an ancient evil that might one day rise to take its revenge. . . .
Hazmul asked a few more questions, gave Vesprit his final instructions, then dismissed him. Below, the carriages continued to emerge from the fog to his right as others rolled away from the palace stairs to his left. About now they should be hitching up the king’s vehicle, unaware that an illicit nighttime jaunt across the Royal Preserve in the hands of two witless stable boys had cracked its front axle—a crack that would be made manifest to all in about an hour or so.
Hazmul smiled at the moving carriages. It never hurt to put redundancies into one’s plans.
He touched the tendril again and went alert with the change he sensed in it: sharp fear alternating with self-condemnation. The question of uncovering the bedchamber mirror had finally been asked. Excellent. Are you going to look at them, Abramm? he thought wryly. Or are you too much of a coward?
He waited, but nothing happened.
“Sir?” The human voice, startlingly loud, intruded upon his mental surveillance. He turned to find his manservant standing in the bedchamber doorway holding a heavy overcloak. “It’s time,” the man said.
With a sigh, Hazmul set his teacup on an end table and strode toward the servant. Well, you rarely get everything to go as you wish, no matter how brilliant and well executed the plan.
But just as the servant placed the cloak upon his master’s shoulders, a shock of dismay and anguish leaped through Hazmul’s connection with Abramm, the emotions so strong they made the rhu’ema’s borrowed body shudder in sympathetic vibration. And brought a smile to his lips. Then again, sometimes you do.
THE
HALL
OF
KINGS
PART ONE
CHAPTER
1
Earlier, as Hazmul had lingered in his east-wing apartment monitoring the king’s emotional state, the king himself stood in the royal bedchamber, gritting his teeth against the pain and bitter humiliation of having his left arm tugged like a sausage through the sleeve of his diamond-crusted doublet. Though his valets had had to work with the stiff and withered limb for almost six months now, and Abramm was well accustomed to the pain that accompanied the way they had to bend and stretch it to get it into his sleeves, it all seemed worse today. Partly because his doublet’s stiffness and tight cut made it especially difficult to don, and partly because the whole operation kept bringing to mind the bitter knowledge that his arm would never get any better. That he really was a cripple.
The garment settled onto his shoulders, its diamonds sparkling around him as Haldon tugged the front edges together and set to fastening the long line of buttons that held it close about Abramm’s torso. Barely had he begun when, behind the ring of older servants, young Jared cried out and began stomping the life from yet another of the many staffid that had come after the king that morning. As he picked up the smashed carcass and went to throw it in the fire, a page hurried into the bedchamber, stopping in the spot Jared had vacated and dropping a quick bow.
“They said Lady Madeleine has not come by yet, sir,” the blond lad reported breathlessly, speaking of the men on guard in the apartment’s anteroom.
“Thank you, Harry.” The intensity of his disappointment surprised him. After all, Maddie hadn’t said she was coming, and he had no reason to expect her, busy as she had to be on this coronation day. But he’d grown accustomed
to her checking in with him each morning, and though she could still annoy him to distraction, he found her presence buoying. And today he felt keenly the need to be buoyed.
In the half year since his triumph over the morwhol at the Valley of the Seven Peaks, nothing had gone right: the Mataio remained a threat, Gillard’s supporters remained elusive, and every project Abramm had initiated to prepare for the coming Esurhite invasion was plagued with problems. While his nobles resented and sought to stymie his attempts to wrest aid from the Chesedhans on the one hand, fires, epidemics, food shortages, insane military commanders, shipyard accidents, and freak storms frustrated his efforts to build up Kiriathan defenses on the other.
Naturally, it hadn’t taken the Mataio long to capitalize on the situation. Borne by anonymous pamphlets, its leaders’ views flowed into Springerlan’s streets and taverns, continually rehashing his many problems as they denounced him as a fraud, attacked his motives and his character, and gave specific voice to the doubt on everyone’s mind these days: if Abramm was Eidon’s choice, why had his reign been so obviously cursed?