Shadow Over Kiriath

After the message, people lingered around the new couple, commenting on how good they looked together. They were a study in opposites, all his strength and sternness of feature setting off Briellen’s soft, girlish radiance. Or perhaps it was Briellen’s insubstantiality that made him resonate with such masculine strength and power. Whatever it was, even Maddie had to admit they made a stunning couple.

  But she didn’t have to dwell on it. Nor did she have to stay and listen any longer; she had fulfilled her duty. But she did have to speak to Abramm about the library and thought it better she do so here, in plain sight, rather than risk another firestorm of gossipy exaggerations.

  It took some doing, but eventually she got him alone, Briellen momentarily cornered by a pack of drooling male courtiers—not something she appeared to mind at all.

  “You were right,” Abramm said, watching his fiancée with a relieved smile, “she is charming. And I’m astonished at how well everyone’s responded to her.”

  Having had enough of such talk to last a lifetime, Maddie went straight to her business. “What of the library?” she asked quietly.

  “It’s under guard, as I promised.” He turned his gaze back to her, his expression mild and detached. “We’ll be having a general reception in the morning from nine until noon. You should be able to get some work done then.”

  She frowned. “I don’t think I should go back there. Gossip’s already spread that I was seen entering and exiting your apartments this morning in a servant’s smock.”

  His brows drew down but his eyes twinkled. “I don’t know why you thought that would work in the first place.”

  “Well, it was the first thing Briellen confronted me with, so I don’t think working out of your apartments will be a good thing.”

  “No . . . probably not. I’ll have the books sent to you. The ones you stacked on the table. I’ll send Philip Meridon with them as a guard. For you and for them. We can set up a study room with a lock, as well, if you’d like. Beyond that, I suppose we’ll just have to trust Eidon to keep them safe.”

  “Yes. I suppose so.” The conversation was over, but she couldn’t seem to say the words to steer it in that direction, couldn’t seem to find her tongue at all now as she stared up at him, helpless to stop herself. He stood there meeting her gaze, possibly uncertain what to say next, though she couldn’t tell. Indeed, for the first time in months she found his expression impossible to read. Abruptly he stepped back with a nod, murmuring the words of disengagement, and she watched him walk away, aware now of the glances that flicked her way and the people whispering to one another around her.

  Desperately she took command of herself—though far too late—and headed for the door.

  ————

  Shortly after his initial interview with Darak Prittleman, Gillard had fallen asleep again. The next time he awoke he rested higher on his pillows than before, wore a clean shirt, and found his hair tied back into a queue. He also found, to his dismay, that the long beard that had sprouted from his jaw over these last six months had been shaven away, despite his having turned down Prittleman’s offer to do so.

  Prittleman himself sat at his bedside, a small smile on his face as he watched Gillard stroke his barren chin. A tray bearing a bowl of steaming porridge and cup of tea rested on the bedside table by his knee. Seeing Gillard was awake, he asked him how he felt. “Better” was all he could say. Neither said anything about the beard, Gillard preferring to think Prittleman had gotten some other Guardian to do it rather than consider the prospect of his clumsy hands coming anywhere near his face or throat with a razor.

  As before, Prittleman fed him messily and told him again what had befallen him, assuring him that plans were being put in place to rectify the injustices done.

  “Has he released the High Father yet?” Gillard asked when he seemed to have run down.

  Prittleman said he had not, and gained a second wind as he rattled on about some other Guardian having gone to plead his case, only to be arrested for his impertinence. “They’re going to have to choose a new Father,” Prittleman said gravely. “Abramm won’t let Master Bonafil talk to anyone. My guess is he’s already dead.”

  As the days passed, Gillard slept less, ate more, and soon was able to feed and shave himself. Unfortunately, even though he could complete such simple tasks without mishap, they always drained him of energy, so that he fell back onto his bed weak and exhausted, where he would sleep for hours. Thus, it was more than a week before he felt strong enough to stand, though Prittleman warned it was too soon and stood by to catch him, frowning grimly.

  Indeed, just swinging his legs over the side of the bed made him so woozy he had to sit for several moments, eyes closed, before the world settled. Then, ever so slowly, with Prittleman holding his arm, he eased onto his feet. His legs wobbled like noodles as a pins-and-needles prickling shot up and down them. Gradually, though, the muscles recalled what they were to do and his stance grew firmer.

  He looked up at Prittleman with a smile. “There! That wasn’t so bad.”

  Prittleman smiled back now, his expression looking pained as always. “Wonderful, sir! Wonderful!”

  But despite his words, something suddenly seemed very wrong, though Gillard could not figure out what it was.

  “Shall I help you back into your bed now, sir?” Prittleman suggested after a moment.

  “I want to walk to the window.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  “Either help me, Prittleman, or get out of my way.”

  Grim-faced and reluctant, Prittleman helped him shuffle across the scarlet rug to the narrow window, on whose ledge he propped himself, breathless but triumphant. Gazing at the newly greened hills outside, he sighed. “What I wouldn’t give to take a ride just now!”

  “Oh, my lord!” Prittleman exclaimed in alarm. “Even if you were fully well, that would be impossible. The king’s men are searching everywhere for you.”

  Gillard scowled up at him, only to be hit again with that disconcerting jolt of wrongness. Again he sought to understand the cause . . . and finally it hit him: he was looking up at Prittleman. They stood toe-to-toe and he was looking up at the man, when previously he’d been the taller by nearly a head. More than that, Prittleman seemed broader across the chest, thicker of bone and muscle than Gillard had remembered him. How was it possible a man his age could have grown so much? Or was it. . . ?

  Gillard looked down at his hands—narrow, skeletal, revoltingly feminine. He examined the rest of his body and found an echoing shrinkage—not just of height but of bones and muscle, too.

  “Pox and plagues!” he choked in horror. “How is this possible?”

  “Abramm did it, as I’ve told you,” Prittleman said. “With his evil Terstan power.”

  Gillard stared at his hands and feet, at his thin, bony legs. No. This cannot be.

  Suddenly, all his strength left him, and his legs, wobbling wildly, gave way as a great purple-and-black cloud billowed up around him. He was vaguely aware of Prittleman catching him and carrying him back to bed, and then a dry, nasal whisper: “Remember, my prince—as Eidon has delivered you, he can also restore you. You have only to ask. . . .”

  CHAPTER

  17

  More than two weeks had passed since Briellen’s arrival. With his wedding a mere twelve days away, Abramm stood alone on the balcony of his apartments, savoring the fresh sea scent and quiet solitude of the early, fogbound morning. Sparrows chirped in the gnarled oak nearby, its barren branches glimmering with the bright green buds of new growth. Occasionally one of last season’s few remaining dead leaves came loose, fluttering down to the black-and-white terrace below, where a servant was attempting to sweep the tiles clean.

  Beyond the terrace a row of cedars spired against the mist-blurred backdrop of the city and its river, a broad silver ribbon running down to the bay. Barges and small craft already cluttered its surface, the common folk having begun their day hours ago. Most of the bay lay cloaked in f
og, the tall-masted ships riding at anchor barely visible through the veil, which muted even the bells and shouts down at the docks.

  He pulled a bare hand along the water-beaded balustrade, clearing away the condensation before bracing folded forearms on the damp marble. Leaning over them, he stared thoughtfully southeastward in the direction of the Gull Islands out there far beyond the fog, but near enough a galley could reach Springerlan in three days if the seas were calm. As they were today, and had been for the last week.

  But not because the Shadow holds my shores. At least, not yet.

  He could feel it gathering, though, and reports said it now held most of the Sea of Sharss. Every morning he came out here to watch the mist, to check the moisture, to reassure himself it was not yet here. But he knew the time was coming. The darkness was inexorably approaching, and with it the invading armies. Would Kiriath be ready? And was this Chesedhan alliance he’d worked so hard to make what Kiriath truly needed to repel them after all?

  He remembered vividly the night he’d met his bride. How he’d watched her come up the red runner in his throne room, as astonished by her beauty as everyone else. Indeed, the eyes of every man in the room had been fixed upon her, and he had sensed their admiration and desire—and their vicarious satisfaction that it was their king who’d won her. Yet even in his astonishment Abramm himself had felt a curious flatness. Amazing as Briellen’s beauty was, it seemed brittle and evanescent, a thin shroud of ice, easily shattered. And so it was.

  As she came out of her curtsey and lifted her gaze to his, her eyes had fixed in startled horror upon his scars and she’d stiffened in obvious revulsion. Though it had to have been only a moment before she’d regained her poise and her calmness of expression, the damage was done. He had spoken the formal exchange of greetings by rote, the words hardly registering as he sought to wrestle down his panic and pain, and he thought perhaps she’d done the same.

  To her credit, though she’d obviously not been prepared for his disfigurement, she’d adjusted to it quickly. Not once for the rest of the evening did she give any sign she found the scars disturbing. She’d been warm, witty, pleasant, interesting, and sweetly flattering. Everyone loved her, and he heard no more objections to his coming union with a Chesedhan princess, neither that night nor in the days to follow. The misgivings were now completely his own.

  In the nearby oak, the sparrows erupted in a furious cacophony of chirping, drawing his eye to where they fluttered and jumped about a black, heron-shaped bird he recognized immediately as a feyna. Ignoring the sparrows, it flew out of the oak to the balustrade some ten strides down the balcony from him and stabbed its needlelike beak into one of the railing’s marble carvings. Which turned out to be a staffid’s carapace. Still sluggish from the cold, the staffid writhed in slow motion, its color shifting from ivory to its natural gray and blue. The feyna shook its head, then flipped its prize into the air to catch and swallow it whole, extending its slim, dark neck as it worked the resulting bulge downward.

  Grimacing, Abramm returned his gaze to the terrace below him, and his thoughts to the mounting restlessness that had plagued him of late. Although he had tried hard to please and entertain his bride-to-be, as the days passed she had grown increasingly discontent. There was always something wrong: the entertainment was shoddily done, her seat was lumpy, the chamber drafty, the décor old-fashioned, the food bland, the servants rude. . . . She wanted to have a dance when they had a reception, a night of game playing when they had a dance, a symphony when the Table of Lords was to meet.

  Worst of all, though she’d not yet said it to Abramm’s face, he’d heard she was growing increasingly frustrated with his “fanatical” insistence on attending Terstmeet every night—particularly one she didn’t even consider a proper Terstmeet. After the second day she had refused to continue attending until she was offered services to her liking. She wanted the glass paintings, the golden plates and sticks to hold the stars and sparklers, the incense, the multiple choirs, and all the other accoutrements typical of Chesedhan services. Since Kesrin had no intention of catering to her, Abramm either had to let her go unsatisfied, replace Kesrin with someone more amenable to her desires, or provide for her a separate service.

  It had all blown up a few days ago when she had insisted he take her out to Two Hats Island, a trip he considered unacceptable on account of the fog and recent galley sightings. But when he’d refused, she’d only conspired with Darnley and Nott to arrange a voyage anyway. He’d stopped them—forcibly— right before they embarked. For two days afterward, she’d all but refused to speak to him, while at the same time flirting outrageously with the other men.

  And then, in her volatile way, she changed, having either forgiven him or simply grown bored of being angry. Or maybe it was the picnic in the palace orchid house yesterday that had placated her. Or the evening performance of Maddie’s White Pretender song put to stylized actions which had amused her very much. Whatever the reason, suddenly she was all smiles again, plying him with flattery and shameless flirtations. All of which was much more pleasant than her earlier behavior, but made him uneasy, nevertheless. As much as he wanted to believe her affection was genuine, he sensed otherwise.

  Now, with the wedding hardly more than a week away, he found himself battling an increasing aversion to marrying her.

  The feyna had been walking toward him down the balustrade for some moments now. As Abramm watched it from the corner of his eye, it stopped within arm’s reach and turned its head to eye his left arm, angled to the right in front of him. The ovoid scar on his wrist, much smaller than in the days after he’d first received it, gleamed beyond the cuff of his shirt. The creature eased forward, and he felt the Shadow part of him stir with interest.

  Suddenly the feyna drew back its head and jabbed its beak downward, only to be impaled by the spear of white light that leaped from Abramm’s hand. The spawn jerked backward, wings flapping wildly as it staggered on stilt legs, then toppled out of sight toward the fog-shrouded terrace below.

  “Would that all your problems were dispatched so easily,” said a familiar voice from behind.

  Abramm turned. Trap Meridon leaned against the doorframe, holding a cup of tea. “Too bad you can’t use that offense on your Chesedhan friend this morning,” he said with a lift of his cup.

  He took a sip as Abramm turned back to the balustrade, frowning at the reminder that he’d be facing off with Leyton Donavan in fencing practice a couple of hours hence. The match was the direct result of the challenge issued and accepted the night of Abramm’s coronation—another burr among the irritations his betrothed had brought him. After Rennalf had rudely awakened him to the sorry state of his fencing skills during their face-off at Graymeer’s, Abramm had put off setting a date for his contest with Leyton. Every day he delayed, after all, meant one more day’s worth of improvement. But the Chesedhan had badgered him relentlessly, and when the man began to hint Abramm might be afraid to face him, pride had taken over and the meeting was scheduled. Even then Abramm had assumed it would be no more than a quick bout in the practice hall with only his trainers and regular fencing partners as audience.

  Leyton had other plans, inviting all Briellen’s Chesedhan entourage, guards and ladies both, which had finally arrived last week. Even Briellen claimed an interest in the match. With so many Chesedhans planning to attend, Abramm’s nobles decided he would need supporters of his own, whereupon Blackwell suggested they might need a bigger venue. But Abramm did not want to confer on the affair more significance than it deserved—which a bigger venue would do. More than that, the likelihood was great he’d be humiliated, and that would be hard enough to swallow without having the whole city on hand to watch it.

  Which raised the question of why Leyton was so intent upon it in the first place—and especially that so many of his countrymen see it. They’d both acknowledged Abramm’s skills had been lost to injury and that he was still in the process of regaining them. Both expected him to lose . .
. so . . . did the prince desire only to discomfit him, then? And for what purpose?

  Unless they didn’t want the treaty to occur, either . . . but then, why even go to all the trouble of coming here?

  He didn’t much like the answer that came so quickly to his mind: They didn’t come for the treaty. They came for the regalia. Still, even that didn’t answer why Leyton would desire to deliberately humiliate him.

  “I heard you had word from Ethan,” said Trap, drifting forward to stand at the balustrade and gaze off over the fogbound docks.

  “Aye. The pigeon came in just at dusk last night.”

  “And?”

  “Not good. The barbarian warlord Aistulf visited Balmark Manor at least four times. And now Rennalf’s openly talking rebellion, using his outrage over what I did to the Hasmal’uk stone as his excuse. I doubt he’d be so bold if he hadn’t made some kind of an alliance.”

  “At least we know he’s back north.”

  “For however long that will last.” Abramm sighed. The barbarians, splintered by intertribal rivalries and warfare, were not a serious threat in themselves, particularly not when combined with the geography of the Kiriathan northland, whose passes had long been guarded by the border lords. It had always been as much for their own protection as for Kiriath’s. But if they had switched sides, it would not be a good thing.

  “I was hoping they’d have sense enough to see they’d be better off aligned with me, but apparently not,” Abramm said.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Ethan said most of them still favor you.”

  “He said that before the business with the stone. And Balmark’s not the only one who’s irked with me for that. I probably shouldn’t have had it made into sovereigns.”

  “You needed the money,” Trap said flatly. “And anyway, you couldn’t have turned it into sovereigns if you hadn’t turned it into gold first. The transformation works as much on your behalf as it does against you. Maybe more.” He paused and sipped his tea. “Eidon still has his hand on things, my lord.”