Shadow Over Kiriath

  Not long after that, Abramm retired to a side room to try to get some sleep, though it turned out to be an exercise in futility. Without anything else to occupy his mind, it was free to dwell upon the things to come tomorrow— and upon the question of whether what he was doing was right or not. When he’d first seen the forces they faced and contemplated the logistics of trying to get everyone safely away, he’d despaired. Outnumbered, in a city full of people who could not be trusted, with a face as recognizable as his was, he didn’t see how he could carry it off.

  He believed it was Eidon who had first nudged him in the direction he was now headed. Everything that had happened in the last few days seemed to have been leading him to this inevitable end. How could he have not gone to face Rennalf? And if in hindsight he acknowleged it had not been good to leave with so many Mataians in the city . . . he’d had no reason at the time to think they would do what they did.

  No. He was where he was supposed to be. And he knew why.

  Those who bore the shield did so because Tersius had been willing to suffer in their place on that hill outside Xorofin. They remained in this world to be made like him, to live as he lived and, if they were ever ready, to suffer as he suffered. “As men did to him, so they will do to you. . . .” Kesrin had said in that last lesson. “Do not be surprised. Be ready.”

  No man would ever suffer to the degree that Tersius had, but the same Light that had sustained him through the worst nightmare a man could ever know would sustain Abramm in whatever he would be called to endure.

  It was an honor to be entrusted with such a call.

  He knew what the rhu’ema—who had brought all this about—would ask of him. And he spent the last hours of that night praying he would have the clarity of mind and strength of will to refuse them.

  ————

  The next day’s drizzle did not keep the crowds from coming out to pack the Mall of Government around the steps of the High Court Chamber in hopes of seeing the queen, the princess, and the Duke of Northille led out in irons after their trial.

  Abramm had deliberately placed himself in the third rank back from the front line of the crowd, his position lined up with the face of the stairway Maddie would descend so that, if she happened to look up, she would see him. He hoped that would happen but doubted it would, for the crowd was hostile, and she had surely seen enough hate-filled faces to last a lifetime. His height would make him more noticeable, but that was a double-edged sword, and he knew it. This was probably the riskiest and the most foolish part of his plan. But knowing how things were likely to end, and how much this moment would mean to him in the hours to come, he had to take the risk.

  Besides, the plan had plenty of places for error and discovery, so he’d long ago committed it all to Eidon’s hand, knowing that if it was going to work, Eidon would have to see that it did.

  A black-sided coach with two narrow-barred side windows stood near the foot of the stair, its back door open to receive its passengers. If the three were condemned to die—as expected—it would straightaway bring them down to the square, where the headsman’s ax could do its job. The Mataians had intended to bring them down in an open cart, for all to see and mock, but Abramm had made sure that all such carts turned up broken or misplaced. The only ones available were closed coaches. Even if his enemies were to guess it was no accident, he did not think it would matter.

  Time dragged as the crowd grew steadily, packing in around him. He stood hunched over and periodically fell into coughing fits that served to maintain a well of space around him. The University clock tolled the half hour, then the hour, then the half again, at which point he had expected the trial to be over. By now he was growing chilled, for the dampness had permeated his cloak and his clothing all the way to his skin.

  Finally the double doors opened. A line of armsmen marched out, followed by a cadre of dignitaries and then the prisoners. Trap led the way, hands and feet enchained, Carissa after him, not chained but walking awkwardly, her pregnant belly bigger than ever. Last of all came Madeleine. He lifted his head and looked at her, feeling like a man dying of thirst.

  Her hair was braided in the long single plait, but frizzy and mussed, her clothing torn, dirtied, and wrinkled as if she’d been living in it for the last five days. Her face was gray and dead looking, her expression one of such hopeless grief he could hardly bear to look—and could not bear to look away. He thought he would be right in his prediction that she’d never look up, but in the end she did, just as she came up behind Carissa, who was waiting to climb into the coach.

  When she met his gaze directly, he knew she had probably recognized him the moment she’d come out the door, refraining thereafter from looking at him so as not to draw attention. And perhaps for other reasons, as well.

  Now those wonderful eyes, gray as the clouds and glittering with tears, fixed upon his for a long moment of deep and inarticulate communion. Then she looked away, and he dropped his head, hiding his face in the cowl again. He should leave now, or at least start pulling back, but he didn’t. He heard the wooden door shut, heard the key grate in the lock, then looked up one last time. As the coach pulled away, he glimpsed a pale face in the shadows at the narrow barred window, caught the shine of the tears that had spilled down her cheeks, and wondered if in that strange way of hers she’d guessed what he meant to do, when no one else yet had.

  Finally the coach turned, and he could see her no longer. It was like a door closing—all the emotion that had welled up in him suddenly shut off. He blinked away the moisture brimming in his eyes, swallowed hard, and stepped back between the people around him who were already surging after the departing coach. He spotted Tarker to his left, heading for an alleyway at the mall’s edge. Abramm followed, careful not to hurry, keeping his attention on the coach.

  Uniformed guards stood at the alley’s entrance, but their focus was into it, not on the doings in the mall. Tarker passed them in a clot of onlookers hurrying down to the next level for another look. Abramm hunched himself over a bit more and followed, carried along by his own clot of citizens. Once past the guards, the two men came together and ducked into another alley, then made their way up a narrow stair, along a balcony, and across several rooftops, their route shared with many others eagerly searching for a place to watch the coach pass by.

  Descending to street level again, they threaded the labyrinth of the Guildman’s Sector and finally emerged from an underground tunnel into a house that butted against the back of an inn along the third switchback. The house’s attic gave egress to its roof, from which they stepped through one of the inn’s third-floor windows left open for them earlier. From there they made their way down to the street and took up the position Abramm had chosen for his own point of attack. The only people with them were those who had exited the surrounding homes and businesses right after the guards had gone through clearing the crowd to make room for the coach and its attending horsemen. Last night the guards had conducted a sweep of the area, searching every structure and questioning closely everyone they found within.

  Abramm had feared they might conduct a second such sweep this morning, but they had not, most likely because they lacked the manpower to do so. At this moment the portion of his own troops who’d remained outside the city were seeking to penetrate its defenses. Whether his enemies realized it was a diversion or not, men would be needed to stop it. It had been his hope that that, along with the need for securing the High Court Chamber, the Mall, Execution Square, and all the blocks of street in between, would tax the Gadrielites’ resources and allow for a few third-floor windows to be left open here and there.

  Now he scanned the flat faces of the buildings across the narrow street, each butting up against the other, some of them actually sharing walls. People hung out of every window and doorway, eager for a view of the infamous prisoners soon to pass by. He noted with satisfaction the lack of a breeze and the continuing drizzle. A wind could disrupt the flight of the arrows, and the drizzle had
turned the street’s cobbles slick, which would cause the driver to slow and thus give Abramm’s bowman plenty of time to aim.

  Across the way he saw his men moving into place, cowled and cloaked as he was, their weapons carried close to their legs to conceal them. They made no eye contact with him, as he had instructed, but all had seen him.

  He stood at the mouth of the alleyway down which they would escape, ironically only a few strides from the trio of Gadrielite soldiers who guarded it. Soldiers who seemed more interested in the coming of the prisoners than in watching their surroundings for sign of enemy infiltration. He smiled slightly. Such are the flaws by which battles are so often won or lost . . . people who think their part is irrelevant, yet they can make all the difference.

  He coughed and hunched himself farther. The soldiers glanced at him and edged away.

  Finally he heard the first echoing clatter of the approaching cavalcade. Movement and sound rippled along the ranks of bystanders, some of whom leaned into the street to see up the road where the first helmeted horsemen came into view round the tight switchback.

  They trotted past two by two, eight of them altogether, breastplates gleaming and gray Gadrielite cloaks spread across their horses’ rumps. Riding close to the side of the road, they forced the onlookers back as the coach finally appeared: a black box on black wheels, led by a team of two black horses. Two helmed and armored men sat on the driving bench—one holding the reins, the other a sword and shield. Four more sat atop the coach itself, all with shields and swords. And of the six, two were not what they seemed.

  The coach rumbled by, but Abramm kept his eyes off the railed window, moving his right hand to his sword hilt, belted high up under his left arm. He fingered off the loop of leather that had so far held it lengthwise against his leg and hidden beneath his long cloak. Closing his fingers about the leather-wrapped hilt grip, he tugged the harness gently down to make his draw easier.

  The second of the four pair of horsemen trailing the coach passed by him as the vehicle slowed for the turn. With the clatter of the horses’ hooves and the rumble of the coach’s wheels bouncing and echoing off the hard stone, he never heard the twang of the bows as the arrows were released, never even saw the driver hit. His attention was fixed on the Gadrielites beside him as they stiffened and stepped toward the coach. Straightening from his slouch, Abramm flung back the edge of his cloak, his rapier flashing in the gray daylight. As shouts rang out down the street, he lunged, sliding his blade past the armhole edge of the nearest man’s breastplate into his heart and pulling it free to parry the strike of the Gadrielite’s companion. Meanwhile Tarker took out the third.

  As the escort horsemen drew together behind the halted coach to face their attackers, its back door opened and a dozen more soldiers poured into the street. Exactly as Abramm had hoped. They pelted toward him, and he stepped to meet them, snaring an incoming rapier with his cloak and lunging to score another hit. By then his cowl had fallen all the way back, his hair and face revealed. The bystanders recognized him first, gasping and pointing in their surprise. Once he’d also drawn the attention of the bulk of the Gadrielites, he turned to give them a clear look at his face and was amused to see their eyes widen and their steps falter. Also as he had hoped. In their moment of inaction he called the retreat and raced for the alley, his men running both before and after him in a hedge of protection.

  The escape route had been well planned, and he’d already given instructions detailing at what point each group was to peel off on alternate paths. It was designed to look like attempts to confuse the pursuers—his own men believed that was what they were doing—but really it was only to see them safely out of the way. Most of the pursuers ignored the men he sent off to “trick” them, however, so Abramm led the Gadrielites—their number growing with each new street they crossed—on a line directly away from the route the coach should now be taking.

  Having gained a bit of a lead and now a good ways from the original point of attack, Abramm led his handful of remaining supporters out the back of a tumbledown stable into a small yard and stopped. A two-story stone building loomed uphill to the left, with smaller structures, also stone, ahead and to the right. Except for a narrow rail-less stone stairway running up the inner side of that tall building, and the small garden area tucked between it and the smaller building ahead, there was no way out.

  “Split up,” Abramm commanded. “Half of you take the stairs, the other half the garden. Seth, Alex, you know the routes. We’ll be taking that tunnel there.” He gestured to the age-warped cellar door that lay in the dirt to his left.

  The men hesitated, frowning at one another. Finally Tarker said, “But, sir, weren’t you—”

  “Now!” Abramm ordered sharply.

  And they went. All save Simon, Whitethorne, and Philip, who turned back from the parting men to regard him suspiciously.

  “What are you waiting for?” he demanded of them. “I told you to go.”

  Simon was frowning fiercely now. “What are you up to, sir? This was not in your plan.”

  “It was always in my plan. I simply didn’t tell you. Now get out of here before they come.”

  “There are at least forty of them,” his uncle erupted. “You may be good with that blade, but you can’t hold off forty all by yourself.”

  “I don’t intend to.” He met his uncle’s gaze grimly. “I’m sure their orders are to take me alive.”

  “To take you alive?” Simon gaped at him, understanding at once what he intended. “There is no need for that, sir. Even if you couldn’t get away—”

  “I can’t, Uncle. And neither can the rest of you if I stay with you. They have the city too well guarded. I saw that right from the start.” He paused, hearing noises from the stable now as the first of their pursuers entered it, then said quietly, “It’s me they want.”

  “Do you have any idea what they’ll do to you as their prisoner?”

  He met his uncle’s gaze evenly. “This is about far more than you know, Simon. The time for fighting with blades is past. My life is in Eidon’s hands now, to take or not as he sees fit. But I have no desire for you to go down with me.” He paused as more voices sounded from within the stable. “My sons are out there somewhere. And my wife. And I believe the people of this land will one day want deliverance from this choice they have made. There is much work for you to do, Uncle.”

  “There is work for you to do, sir!” Never had he seen his uncle, the gruff, stoic rock of the family, look so distressed. “I will not leave you, Abramm.”

  “Not even if I command it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Very well.” And Abramm swung at him hard, smashing the butt end of his swordhilt into the side of his uncle’s head. The old man dropped like a stone. Abramm glanced at Whitethorne and Philip. “I trust the two of you can handle him by yourself?”

  Whitethorne frowned at him. “Are you sure this is what you want?We—”

  “Go. Now.”

  Philip bent to sling the duke’s senseless body over his shoulders, and the two of them hurried into the green darkness of the narrow garden, even as the Gadrielites shoved open the wide stable door and poured into the yard. Seeing Abramm standing there alone, they stopped just outside the gate, panting and red-faced from their run, eyes narrow with wariness. A few glanced up at the roofs and bare walls surrounding them, but most kept their gazes fixed on Abramm as more of their fellows poured through the door and gathered alongside them.

  Then they just stared at him, seeming reluctant to move. He stared back, marveling that even when they so outnumbered him—and Simon hadn’t been far off on his estimate—they feared him.

  Finally he sighed and took the lead, stooping to lay his blade on the ground. Then he backed a step away from it and raised his arms, palms open, fixing his mind on Tersius and praying for the courage to endure what would follow.

  CHAPTER

  39

  The soldiers closed around him tentatively at firs
t and then, gaining courage, seized him and tore off his cloak, jerkin, and boots. After searching him to be sure he carried no other weapons, they shackled his wrists and ankles and brought him into the stable. There he was shoved and pulled up into the wagon, receiving a steady stream of punches, elbow jabs, and rough jerks, as if each man wanted to be sure he got in his blows while he had the chance. In the bed of the wagon, he was chained round the waist to the driver’s bench, forced to stand while the others climbed in around him. They packed together, kneeling with their faces turned out, as if they feared his supporters might return.

  They did not know that his men were all on their way out of the city now, each group on its separate course, each with strict orders to stay away from all citizens and a clear understanding of what would happen to them should they be found out. He’d also warned them specifically to be wary of reports that he himself had been captured, telling them it would very likely be used by their enemies as a trap.

  By the time any of them learned what had really happened, it would be far too late for them to do anything.

  The news spread quickly through the immediate area that he had been captured, and a stunned crowd gathered along the route as the wagon bore him up to the High Court Chamber, where the heresy trials were ongoing. Most would wait weeks to face this tribunal, but the king was granted a special hearing. No doubt they wished to conclude the affair as swiftly as possible, to reduce the chance of him being rescued. Which was just as well, for he, too, wanted it over with quickly.

  He was led in through an audience composed of men with familiar faces, men who’d eaten at his banquets, who’d received his largesse, who he’d thought supported him. They stared at him coldly now, their true colors revealed.

  The Mataian High Council sat in the raised box at the room’s fore: High Father Bonafil in the center flanked by his subordinates, among whom were Abramm’s old discipler, Master Belmir, and Bonafil’s rising star apprentice, the newly promoted Master Eudace. Darak Prittleman stood in a new and more elaborate Gadrielite uniform to the right of the box, serving as the high court’s bailiff. And seated in the king’s box to the left of front was Gillard, who, to Abramm’s utter astonishment, appeared to have taken Mataian vows. And not just as a novice but as a full Guardian, for he wore the robes of that rank and his white-blond hair was long and caught up into the single braid of the confirmed brother. More than that, he wore the ruby amulet at his throat.