Shadow Over Kiriath

  “Just so long as it’s not an army yet.”

  “You might want to go up there before too long, sir.”

  Abramm frowned, surprised by the degree of aversion he felt to that notion. To have to leave his boys again—and Maddie!—so soon after he’d arrived . . . The thought just about killed him. “Maybe in a couple months,” he said. “I know Simon’s taken account of the corridors’ existence—we discussed it at length before I left for Elpis. And he’s got Ethan with him, who’s gotten as good at destroying the things as I am. I’ll give them the chance to put their plans into action before I go running up there.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “But you’d better let Trap know. It’s on his holding, after all.”

  “I’ll see it’s done, sir.”

  They walked in silence for a few steps, slowing as they reached the mouth of the corridor leading to the princes’ nursery. There Abramm stopped and turned to his secretary. “Tell me the rumor.”

  “What?”

  “This rumor regarding Carissa you thought I should know about.”

  Light flashed off Blackwell’s spectacles. He seemed startled and, for a moment, strangely pleased. “Well, sir, they’re saying she’s lying in.”

  Abramm blinked. “Lying in? You mean . . . like with child?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  And now Abramm snorted. Why does the gossip always go in that direction? I should have guessed. “Ridiculous! She’s probably just put on a bit of weight. And you know how she keeps having those paranoid, melancholic spells.”

  “Yes, sir. My thoughts, as well. I just thought you should know the gossip so you wouldn’t be too surprised when you heard it. As you’re bound to sooner or later.”

  “Who do they say is the father?”

  Byron hesitated, looked down at the folio in his hand. “They’re saying it’s the Duke of Northille, sir.”

  “Trap?!” Abramm laughed outright. “Now I know the tale’s untrue. If there’s one man I can trust, it’s Trap.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I’m going now to spend a few minutes with the boys. Summon the members of my privy council to meet at eight this morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Abramm left him then, still chuckling at the absurdity of the idea that Carissa could possibly be pregnant and Trap be the father. . . .

  But then, you didn’t suspect Arik Foxton, either.

  This is different. I know Trap. I didn’t know Foxton. At least they’re not saying it’s Oswain Nott, though in some ways that would be even more impossible to believe.

  He definitely had to pay his sister a visit as soon as possible. She probably had no idea what her reclusiveness was breeding.

  After sending a messenger to summon Trap, he spent a happy half hour with his sons in their nursery—though he was a little dismayed by Ian’s continued clinginess—and was just leaving for the stable when a servant came to tell him that Duke Eltrap was not at his residence and no one knew where he was.

  “Some say he’s been staying at the Princess Carissa’s home, though, sir. Would you like me to try there?”

  Abramm scowled. “No. I’ll go myself. And put an end to all this. Have Warbanner brought up to the front entrance.”

  Carissa’s house—fenced in iron and brick with a grand circular drive to the front door—stood on a large parcel of wooded land at the upper end of the Middlerise section. The servants saw Abramm coming, and by the time he’d dismounted, the door was already open. As he stepped into the spacious foyer beyond, and the doorman took his cloak and gloves, Trap strode in from the kitchen, dressed in breeches, blouse, and sleeveless jerkin, an apple in his hand. He stopped at the sight of Abramm, his face white beneath its freckles and the trim red beard. For a moment they stood there, staring at one another.

  Then Abramm said, “What are you doing here, Trap?”

  The Duke of Northille swallowed the bite of apple he had been chewing, handed the half-eaten fruit to one of the servants, and strode forward, indicating Abramm should precede him into the drawing room.

  “Have you already eaten, sir? Would you like some tea?”

  “I ate with my boys, and I would like some answers right about now.”

  “Of course.” Trap shut the drawing-room doors, having excluded all the servants save Cooper, then turned to Abramm with a grim look. “Rennalf’s come back,” he said without preamble. “More than once. She asked me to stay the nights here after you left in case he visits again.”

  Abramm glanced at Felmen Cooper, tall and gray near the door. Cooper nodded.

  “Well, I doubt he will,” Abramm said. “He’s busy leading raids up at Archer’s Vale just now. Or at least he was four days ago.”

  Trap gave a start of surprise. “Archer’s Vale?”

  “A rider came in early this morning. I sent someone to your place with the news and to summon you to a council meeting, but . . . you weren’t there. No wonder the gossip’s been what it has.”

  Trap grimaced and looked at the floor, pallor turned to the flush of embarrassment. “I’m sorry, sir. I should have told you about this when you first returned.”

  “I presume he’s using the corridor again?”

  “Yes, but not out of Graymeer’s, so far as we can tell. We’ve searched for three months without success. I suspect it’s somewhere closer, probably in the city.”

  “Well, at least he didn’t get her.”

  But if he expected Trap’s expression to soften a bit in agreement, he was disappointed. If anything, the stern look hardened. “Actually, he did get her.” He paused, then added in a voice that was no longer steady, “He raped her, Abramm. At least three times, over a period of several years. She doesn’t like to speak of it. Even that much was a chore to drag out of her. I didn’t find out about any of this until right before you left for Elpis.”

  His words pummeled Abramm with an almost physical force, shocking him beyond the ability to think, and still they kept coming.

  “She made me promise not to tell you. And what could you do? You were all set to leave, the passes would be locked up for months. . . .” He shook his head. “Though believe me I thought many times of trying to find a way up there so I could kill him myself.”

  Abramm’s shock gave way to guilt and dismay for all the evil things he’d thought about her. Who wouldn’t have been melancholy after such a visitation? He had no doubt she’d told no one because she’d have been too ashamed. Ah, Eidon, how could I have failed her so badly? Too caught up in his own pleasures, reveling in his happy little family while his own sister was being raped by the monster who had once been her husband!

  His anger was just beginning to rise when the drawing-room door opened and Carissa stepped in. She wore a dark blue gown of fluid silk whose full skirt draped revealingly over the substantial swelling of her belly. Abramm stared at the bulge numbly, suddenly unable to breathe. Finally he tore his eyes from it and fixed them on her face, where her misery and fear tore at his heart and stoked the anger into a dark, hot current of rage.

  “Rennalf did this?” he asked her impassively, surprised at the even tenor of his voice.

  She looked at Trap, horrified apparently that he’d already revealed who the father was, though why this should disturb her, Abramm could not guess. Surely she wasn’t happy to be carrying the child of the man she’d begged to be divorced from. A man who’d beaten and scorned her when she was his lawful wife, then sought to drag her back to his fortress as if she were a breeding mare when she’d finally fled him. Who, in the end, had resorted to rape to get his way. While she was living in Springerlan, under her brother’s care. . . .

  He pressed the anger and dismay down deep, knowing he could not afford to indulge either. He must remain clearheaded so he could figure his next move.

  Carissa had not answered him, still staring fearfully at Trap, and for one awful moment Abramm’s anguish nearly spiraled into the unthinkable. “They will all betray you. . . .
” But not Trap. Not this way.

  “Is the child Rennalf’s?” Abramm asked again, and this time the edge in his voice moved her to speak.

  “Yes. But he only did this to provoke you, Abramm. He wants you to go up there and take your vengeance face-to-face.”

  “Well, he’s certainly going to get what he wants. Though I would call it something other than vengeance.”

  “It’s a trap, Abramm. He is angry about the stone, and about you granting me my freedom from him. . . . He’s planned this for years.”

  “Then I suppose we’ll see how good of a planner he is.”

  He started past her, then stopped and touched a hand to her face. “It’ll be all right.”

  “Abramm, please don’t do this.”

  “I have to. And this is not your fault. He promised me he would repay me for taking you back from him. I just didn’t think he would be this . . . cruel.”

  The tears that had flooded her eyes now broke at the corners and trailed down her cheeks.

  “Go to the palace,” he said. “I want you to stay with Maddie.”

  “Oh, Abramm, I’ve pushed her away. She won’t—”

  “She’ll understand. And she knows about this.” He touched the hard, round surface of her belly. “More than that, she is strong in the Light. She can help you in ways you won’t begin to guess. And there are others there, as well. Bring Elayne and Cooper with you, and be up there by dusk tonight.”

  And when she drew breath to protest, he cut her off, laying his fingers again on her swollen womb. “I don’t know why Eidon has allowed this to befall you, but I do know he is just and wise and has good reason, even if we cannot see it now. I also know that whatever else may be claimed, this child is yours. That makes him a Kalladorne. And he will be raised as such.”

  He glanced back at Trap. “You have your horse here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then get mounted and meet me out in front. We have work to do.”

  CHAPTER

  36

  Gillard sat in the morning sun on one of the stone benches lining the porch of the Offices of the Holy Keep. The sun felt good upon his head and shoulders, for the breeze that stirred his long, blond hair was chill. His right hand, bound and splinted once again, throbbed only occasionally now. Enough to remind him it was broken and that he would have to live another six weeks with this splint.

  He’d arrived in Springerlan four days ago, coming down for the consecration ceremonies as an aide to Master Amicus. Left here to wait while the man met with High Father Bonafil somewhere inside, he sat alone, the Keep’s new gray-stoned buildings looming around the quiet yard before him. Beyond them the city rose in a tumble of tile and slate and wood to the white walls that marked the palace grounds atop the Keharnen Cliffs. The main gate, though shrunken with distance, was just discernible above the new Keep Library’s peaked tile roof, its white pennants fluttering above the entry posts.

  Anger and bitter disappointment curdled in Gillard’s gut. Even now, three days later, he could hardly believe how badly his encounter with Abramm had gone. All he’d done these last five years—all the switchings and rebukings he’d endured, all the nonsense he’d been forced to learn and parrot back, all those long, deep-night hours he’d spent in the Watch’s barn working with Matheson to regain his strength and fighting skills—it was all a waste. His hand had been broken in the first move.

  It was not at all what he’d expected.

  Nausea swirled again in his belly as the horrid memories returned yet again.

  When he’d first entered the royal bedchamber, he’d spent some time staring at his older brother as he slept, surprised at how big he was and how much he favored their father now—except for the scars, of course. Gillard had taken great pleasure in the way they raked down the left side of Abramm’s face, two raised, white lines of scar tissue that could neither be hidden nor ignored. He’d smiled, understanding now why the First Daughter had found him too repellent to marry and enjoying thoughts of the pain her rejection must have caused. . . .

  Then Gillard had looked at the woman who had married him, and that had been his undoing. He thought in retrospect that his failure could be laid entirely at her feet, for if not for her, he would have kept his focus. She lay on her side, facing her husband, and somehow the contented look on her face combined with the easy, proprietary way her arm was draped across his chest filled Gillard with instant and utter fury. From then on he had been too angry and too eager to have his revenge to think clearly.

  Originally he’d planned to confront his brother and force him to engage in a rematch of their last exchange of sword strikes. Once Gillard had proven himself the superior swordsman, he had intended to bind the defeated king— who surely would have been shaking with fear and begging him for mercy by then—and deliver him over to the Mataian leadership who had their own scores to settle with him.

  He hadn’t expected to find the queen in bed with him, since she had her own chambers, and he could not imagine a woman wanting to spend any more time with Abramm than her duty required. But there she’d been, and even now he was hard-pressed to answer why the sight of her had awakened such a fury in him. A fury that stimulated all sorts of heretofore unconsidered permutations to his plan.

  He’d decided to bind her first, lest she hinder him in his match with Abramm. Later, if needed, he could also use her to maintain his control of the situation. So he’d gone to the other side of the bed, moving slowly, controlling even his breathing so he’d make no sound.

  And somehow had wakened them anyway. He’d been stunned by how fast Abramm reacted, erupting out of the bedclothes like some kind of horror to leap over the entire span of the mattress, knocking Gillard’s knife away as he’d landed. That one blow had broken Gillard’s hand, and as the pain had rushed through him, hot and shocking, he’d staggered back, overwhelmed again by how big Abramm really was and how ferocious he looked, especially with those scars.

  In that moment he had no doubt Abramm would have killed him had he gotten his hands on him. This was the man who’d stood his ground in the arenas of their enemies and survived, the man who’d faced Beltha’adi and survived. Had taken down the kraggin and the morwhol and . . . Gillard himself, when he’d been big and strong and healthy.

  Any ideas Gillard had of facing him vanished as he turned and fled through the still-open panel. For a time he’d run wildly through the black passageways with no idea where he was going. Eventually, though, he’d regained his wits and his self-control and made his way back to the meditation cubicle in the Keep, where he’d been observing an all-night vigil.

  It was absolutely intolerable. The memory still made his chest seize and his gut squirm. He’d felt like a little rat scrambling around to get away—to get away from Abramm! And that would never do. Never.

  But what can I do? There is no hope for me, that’s what they’ve all said. I’ve become a scrawny little runt with porcelain bones, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  Unless . . . there really was something to Prittleman’s claims that Eidon’s Flames could heal him.

  He scowled. You’re getting desperate, man. Prittleman’s not healed, is he?

  “Brother Makepeace?” Gillard turned at the unfamiliar voice. A young, stubble-headed acolyte stood on the porch beside him. “Master Amicus wants you. If you’ll come with me?”

  Puzzled and mildly alarmed, Gillard followed the acolyte into the gleaming main hall and all the way to its end, where lay the High Father’s new offices. There the boy pulled open the door, and Gillard stepped into the spacious but dimly lit room beyond. Having recently come in from outside, it took his eyes a few moments to adjust. Light filtered through a partially curtained, mullioned window at the room’s far end, illuminating the platform and desk just beneath it, as well as a cluster of chairs closer to the door, where sat Father Bonafil, Amicus, Brother Eudace, and two others Gillard did not recognize.

  All of them regarded him with a sharpness th
at increased his alarm, making him think that somehow they had gotten wind of his doings in the palace the other night. But how could they? He knew that both Abramm and his Chesedhan wife had seen him, but only for an instant, and he was sure they hadn’t recognized him.

  High Father Bonafil was the first to speak. “You’ve broken your hand, brother.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Amicus says you took a spill in the hall a couple of nights ago.”

  The hairs on the back of Gillard’s neck stood up. The man hadn’t actually asked him a question, so he really needn’t say anything. In fact, according to the rules, he shouldn’t have said anything in response to the first statement. But he did not like the direction in which this conversation was heading, and now he stood there, his heart hammering against his breastbone as he stared at the floor, hands at his sides.

  “Was it a spill? Or did you hit it on something?”

  That was a question. He had to answer. “It was hit, sir.”

  A moment of silence followed, and at the edges of his field of vision Gillard saw the men exchange glances. Then Bonafil said, “I’m glad to see you refrain from lying to me, at least.”

  Gillard’s eyes darted up, not so much in protest as in surprise.

  Bonafil smiled. “We know all about your secret meeting with Abramm.”

  Pox and plagues! He felt the blood rush into his face, shame and embarrassment shaking him like a dog with a doll in its teeth.

  Bonafil evidently mistook the reaction for fear. “You think we wouldn’t guess? He’s the king, Makepeace. Called the alarm at once, set his guards searching the palace and the city. They came here right off, of course, because he still doesn’t trust us, and their description of the intruder fit you to a T, right down to the suspicion that you’d been incapacitated by a single blow. And then, of course, your hand turned up broken the very next morning.”