Shadow Over Kiriath

  Makepeace? Despite being genuinely impressed by Amicus’s theatrics with the Flames, Gillard felt his brows draw down in displeasure. What kind of a woolwitted name is that? Is this his revenge for my refusal to believe? He makes me go through this nonsense, then gives me an idiotic name? Makepeace, indeed! The only way I’m making peace is by making Abramm dead!

  The Flames subsided, the amulet darkened, and Amicus’s eyes reverted to their normal pale blue watery state. Now he broke into a broad smile, perhaps in welcome, perhaps also in amusement for his prank. “Please, brothers,” he said, opening wide his arms, “let us welcome Brother Makepeace into our family.”

  Eight months, Gillard thought grimly as the others now gathered round him. That’s all I’m staying. He touched tentative fingers to his shaven scalp, nausea fluttering through him at the smooth, slick feel of it. Eight months at the very longest. Enough to get my strength back and gain a feel for what all is going on . . . who of my supporters remain alive and free. Then we’ll see about making peace. . . .

  ————

  Abramm lay on his back in the royal bed, staring at the golden folds of its canopy above him. It was well into the early hours of the morning, and while he’d fallen asleep shortly after going to bed, another unsettling dream had awakened him, and now he couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t remember the details, only that Maddie was in trouble. It was the second night he’d had it, and that, added to the reports of possible galley sightings off the coast of Blackcliff, troubled him deeply.

  In fact, as he lay there he wondered why he’d ever thought to send her by open sea in the first place. Why not upriver to Sterlen, then across the moors to Avramm’s Landing? No chance of running into Esurhites that way. But when he’d sent her, there had been no Esurhite sightings off Blackcliff, and the sea route was the quickest way to her final destination. Less chance of her changing her mind and coming back by that route, too. And more chance she’d find a berth on a ship to the Isles. . . .

  He closed his eyes to the pain of that thought, a hard weight pressing on his heart. It was pain he’d hoped he was past feeling, or soon would be. Now he wondered if he might never be past it. If anything happens to her out there . . .

  His eyes flew open, staring at the canopy again so he wouldn’t see the images that had welled up in his mind. He’d sent her away so she’d be safe, and now . . .

  Trap’s accusations had dogged him for the rest of the day, though he’d tried hard to dismiss them. But when that night in Terstmeet Kesrin chose to speak on guilt, Abramm was forced to reconsider. He did not think the two men had conspired together. Kesrin deliberately avoided such things precisely to ensure that his listeners not suspect him of such. “I want you to know it’s not me who’s saying it,” he often told them, “but the one who’s given me the power to speak it in the first place.”

  Eidon.

  Once Abramm had broken through that barrier, he had become increasingly suspicious of the true nature of his motives. For he could not deny he felt a tremendous shame regarding the sin he’d committed with Shettai. But as Trap said, was that sin any worse than belittling Foxton before all the cabinet? Why pull that one out of so many others—he’d hated Eidon, cursed him, thrown his Star of Life away—to flail himself with. Tersius died for all of them, paying the full penalty Eidon had required of all men. If because of him Abramm was clean in Eidon’s sight, how could he not be clean in his own?

  To put your own standards above those of the Almighty? Trap’s right. It is hubris.

  Which meant he had hope. Which meant maybe he wasn’t doomed to live out his life in loveless solitude—or worse, a loveless marriage—because of what he’d done. If that was all behind him, the penalty fully paid for . . .then maybe what he felt for Maddie was legitimate. Something to be accepted and embraced instead of denied.

  He recalled the moment he had kissed her—a memory never far from his mind—the way the Light had flared between them, the feeling of being knit to her as he’d never been knit to anyone save Eidon himself. As if she were the other half of him, finally come together. He’d always believed Shettai had been that other half, taken from him as punishment for his lust. . . . But he had not even known the Light when he had been with her. Nor had she, for that matter.

  So how could he think that was the only relationship for him? Or even, really, the one Eidon had intended for him in the first place? What if there was and always had been another?

  Maddie.

  Suddenly he saw it all—from the very moment he’d met her on that dock when he’d first returned to Springerlan. She’d looked at him as if he were a hero then, and still did. She’d been the first to pry out his secrets, the one who saw him for the man, even as she saw him for the hero. The balm and buoy of his soul. The light of his life.

  She was the one.

  It was as if dark bonds were snapping off his soul, chains coming loose, light flowing into darkness. As the guilt let go of him and he opened his eyes to the tremendous wonder of what Eidon wanted to do in his life, he felt a surge of exultation.

  Only to feel it die as he realized that, even if she could be persuaded to come back, he was still bound to Briellen. And to back out of it now could well mean the sundering of the alliance Kiriath desperately needed.

  Oh, my Lord Eidon, I have made a mess of it all again, haven’t I?

  He lay there exquisitely aware of his helplessness and failure, but this time there was no guilt in it. Eidon knew what he was. Eidon had known before he was born that he would do this.

  Should I break it off and trust you to provide the protection the Chesedhans would have provided? Or continue to go forward on this path I’ve so foolishly chosen, stick with my word, and trust you to make it into gold? As he had said to Trap earlier, he could learn to love Briellen. Perhaps, in time, she could even learn to love him. And far better that than the lonely, loveless life he had envisioned. If that is your will for me, I will abide it and count it a miracle in itself. But . . . He hesitated, the desire welling up in him. But no, he couldn’t ask for that.

  Why not, my son? Do you think I don’t know what you want?

  The quiet words settled into his soul, bringing with them the sudden sharp awareness that he was not lying here nattering away unheard in his own head. He felt the heat of embarrassment sweep into his face. It is too audacious to ask, Lord Eidon.

  Too audacious? Are you not my child and heir? What would be too audacious for you to ask of me?

  Again the Shadow within him sought to reassert its guilt-hold on him. He cast it aside, marveling that he could have been blind to it for so long. As the Light rippled through him, he smiled at the canopy overhead.

  If you know what I want, Lord Eidon, and you’ve promised to bless me, why do I need to ask?

  Because I want you to. Because I’ve commanded you to.

  Abramm’s smile broadened. Very well, then, I will ask: Deliver me from this dreadful betrothal and bring Maddie back to me.

  He felt his sovereign’s laughter deep in his heart. Is that all, my boy?

  And make her my wife, sir. You know how much I love her. . . .

  Ah . . . that will be difficult.

  You are jesting with me, Father! I know that nothing is too difficult for you. You’ve made me king, have you not?

  Indeed I have, my son. . . . The laughter rolled over him again, then faded. There are some things I cannot do, though: I will not violate her freedom to choose.

  Abramm’s heart fell, the levity subsiding into stillness. I know that, Lord.

  So if it turns out you cannot have this request of yours?

  Then I will abide it with thanksgiving, knowing that whatever you do have for me, it will be what is best.

  The best, indeed, my son. I have promised it. But you must rest in that, perhaps for longer than you might wish.

  I will rest.

  And so he did, falling into a dream wherein he floated on a sea of peace and security, filled with the delicious anti
cipation of something miraculous about to happen. He was awakened by an annoying pull at his shoulder and Captain Channon’s rough brogue intruding into his paradise. “Sire?”

  Even half asleep Abramm discerned the tension in the man’s voice, and it catapulted him to full wakefulness. “What is it, Captain?”

  “It’s Princess Briellen, sir.”

  Abramm pushed himself up onto his elbows, alarm coursing through him. Here he’d worried about Maddie’s safety but given no thought to Briellen. Who, he knew with a fair degree of certainty, was already the focus of Belthre’gar’s attentions. He didn’t much think he would like a solution to his marriage dilemma that involved her being stolen away by the Esurhites. Or, worse . . . “Is she hurt?”

  “No, sir. She’s . . .” Channon looked incredibly uncomfortable, standing there as rigidly as Abramm had ever seen him, his eyes fixed upon the gilt wallpaper past Abramm’s head. “She’s been caught, sir.”

  “Caught?” Abramm sat up fully, noting that Haldon had come into the room and gone immediately to open the wardrobe.

  Channon looked as if he might pop with the pressure of the grim tidings he bore, words he obviously did not want to utter. In the end they burst out of him like water through a dam: “In bed, sir. With her lover.”

  Abramm blinked at him. “Her lover?”

  “Aye, sir. Count Blackwell says ye must come and witness it.”

  “Come and witness it?”

  “For the trial, sir. He’s called Prince Leyton, as well. The law says any man caught in adultery with the queen must be—”

  “I know what the law says, Captain.” The man executed. The woman cast upon the mercy of the judges. Briellen might not technically be queen yet, but as Abramm’s betrothed, the law applied to her as much as—perhaps more than—any wedded queen. It was imperative there be no doubt cast upon the legitimacy of any heirs that might come along after the wedding.

  “He says they’ll need good and substantial witnesses,” Channon went on. “He says ye need t’ come, especially, sir. Being her betrothed.”

  Abramm stared at him grimly. Bad enough Briellen had been caught in this horrid indiscretion, but that he should have to come and witness it? It appalled him. And yet, that, too, was part of the law. The couple caught in such an act would be held in their bed together until the man they had betrayed could be summoned.

  Perhaps I am having another nightmare.

  Haldon had pulled a blouse from the wardrobe and now stood near the foot of the bed, waiting for Abramm to rise and don it, and Abramm had no choice but to do so.

  What happened after that could only be described as surreal. The nightmarish quality of the proceedings never let up, even though it soon became apparent this was no nightmare. At least not the sort you could wake up from and laugh about as meaningless.

  Once dressed, Abramm followed Channon through the palace back routes to the far-east wing, up a narrow stair, down a long hallway and into a small sitting chamber, where three armsmen stood guard. Light poured through the open doorway of an adjoining chamber from which the sound of voices carried. At the arrival of their king, all three armsmen came to attention. Their sudden movement caught the notice of the man standing in the lighted doorway, who pushed himself away from the doorjamb with a quiet warning to those within. “He’s here.”

  Teeth clenched with revulsion, Abramm stepped past the armsmen into a shabby bedchamber filled with people, the single lamp on a dressing table in the near corner casting all into a macabre chiaroscuro. The light’s low angle threw weird shadows into the corners of the room while describing in unfamiliar highlight the faces of those standing along its perimeter: servants, armsmen, high-court officials, and noblemen. Simon was there, as were Whitethorne, Darnley, Mason Crull, several judges, and Byron Blackwell, looking as if he had eaten something awful. Prince Leyton had apparently arrived shortly before Abramm, for he now stood halfway between the doorway and the foot of the bed, the latter positioned in the middle of the room, headboard against the opposite wall. Leyton’s bulk blocked Abramm’s sight of the disgraced lovers until announcement of the king’s arrival penetrated the Chesedhan’s shock and he stepped aside.

  The couple lay beneath a rumpled landscape of sheet, coverlet, and discarded clothing, the lamp’s angled light casting long shadows away from the bright crests of the fabric’s folds. They had pulled themselves up onto the pillows so they could face their accusers half sitting rather than flat on their backs, clutching the sheet to their chests.

  After a first quick embarrassed glance that took in the whole scene, Abramm’s eyes fixed on the man’s face and recognition sent him reeling. “Foxton?!”

  His Minister of Finance looked completely wretched. He was pale as death and his hands shook where they clenched the sheet. His handsome face was drawn into a wrinkle of misery, and he was quite unable to meet Abramm’s gaze, though the king kept his eyes upon the man for some time, willing him to look up. Willing him to offer some excuse, some explanation for this betrayal. He had expected to find a younger man in Briellen’s bed. Not someone as seasoned and experienced as Foxton. Not someone who was already married, and certainly not someone who was his friend and a member of his own cabinet.

  Briellen, on the other hand, had reverted to her harridan persona the moment Abramm walked into the room, shifting more upright against the pillows to better express her ire. She met his gaze boldly, making no effort to hide her antipathy. “At least now,” she spat, “I will not have to endure your crippled hands pawing my flesh!”

  “Eidon’s mercy, Bree!” Leyton murmured beside him.

  Abramm heard him with only a small part of his brain, staring at the woman he was supposed to marry in two days, the shock of what he saw in her eyes reverberating through him with even greater force than what his recognition of Foxton had generated. For with the lamplight shining straight into her face, he could clearly see the thin line of white curd that cupped the base of her blue irises. Sarotis!

  He’d thought he’d glimpsed it the day she’d arrived when she’d lifted her eyes to his there in the throne room. Being almost immediately distracted by her strong and obvious revulsion to his scars, he’d never been quite sure. When he’d found no sign of it in his subsequent dealings with her, he’d concluded it a trick of the light.

  “I thought about waiting until after we were married,” she said to him now, spite sharpening her voice. “But in the end I couldn’t bear the thought of you being my first. Especially knowing you’d already shared your favors with my sister.”

  “Hagin’s beard, Briellen,” Leyton exclaimed. “Don’t dig it any deeper.”

  Flashing another glance at Foxton, Abramm turned and headed for the door, a tremor running through his arms and legs. His heart was beating about as fast as it could beat.

  Behind him Whitethorne exclaimed, “Fire and torment, Arik! What were you thinking!”

  But Foxton didn’t answer.

  Abramm stepped into the dimly lit hallway outside, struggling to breathe against the nausea welling within him. Already a gauntlet of spectators lined the hallway, servants and courtiers who had somehow gotten wind of the scandal and come out to see for themselves, most of them still in their nightclothes. They shrank back against the wall, watching him fearfully as he passed. He knew his face must be dead white, which meant the scars would be bright red. Not a pretty picture. But none of this was.

  How many, he wondered, would be laughing at him before daybreak?

  And why did it have to be Foxton?

  CHAPTER

  27

  Though Starchaser had lain becalmed in a heavy mist the night after Maddie sighted the mysterious cloud in their wake, nothing untoward had come of it. No dark-tunicked Esurhites had swarmed over the gunwales in the wee hours, no arcane fireballs had materialized, and though the mist did not break until midmorning the next day, it did break and they continued on their way.

  The cloud had reappeared in its place on their tail n
ot long afterward, however, and continued to follow them over the next two days. Every now and then someone thought he’d seen something in it, but the sightings were never long enough or clear enough to be anything more than “something.” Rocks, unusually thick clots of mist, the occasional bit of flotsam, or even seabirds rising off the water’s surface could all account for the claims. Besides that, other similar clouds continually formed and unformed at all points of the compass around them.

  If the mysterious cloud did hide Esurhite galleys, Windemere asked, why had they hung back for so long? As frail and unreliable as the wind had been, they could easily have captured Starchaser. Maddie might have argued that they hadn’t done so because they weren’t interested in taking a sailing vessel they’d have no use for in a windless realm. She might have suggested other possibilities, as well, but it all took too much effort. And the closer they got to their destination, the less she cared about any of it.

  In fact, the morning of the third day after the sighting, the day they expected to reach Avramm’s Landing, she awoke beneath a mantle of such debilitating depression that for a while she couldn’t move. It pressed upon her like a physical weight. She didn’t want to get out of bed, didn’t want to eat, and didn’t care if they ever reached port. Just getting up and going on deck seemed a monumental effort, and when she considered the tedious, frustrating prospect of finding and booking passage to the west, it overwhelmed her. She wondered what in the world was wrong with her. Had some evil force come in the night and sucked away all of her vitality?

  Then she remembered this was the day Abramm was to be married in Springerlan, and she rolled over, clutching the folds of her blanket against her chest as she buried her face in the rough cabin pillow. It was midmorning before she finally forced herself to get up and dress. As she sat for Liza to braid her hair, she stared blindly at the mist-veiled tableau outside the stern cabin’s window where the mystery cloud still hovered, closer now than ever. Part of her brain informed her this was a concern, but she watched it numbly, even so. Through the ceiling hatch, she heard the captain and his first mate discussing it, as well, and after a moment Captain Windemere called for the maximum amount of sail to be set.