“So you’ve come back,” Borlain said, approaching to meet them, the others following him raggedly. He looked Abramm up and down. “I didn’t recognize you from the walls up there. Only Rolland.” He gave the blacksmith a nod, then returned his attention to Abramm. “You’re looking much better than when I saw you last, sir.”
Abramm released a long sigh as he realized what was probably behind the coolness of this reception. “I am better.”
“The spore is gone, then?”
“As much as any spore is gone. Yes.”
Borlain nodded, then glanced at the big-bellied, auburn-bearded man beside him, clad in a gray military sort of tunic. “This is the one I told you about, Aender. You can see he does bear strong resemblance to Abramm.”
Aender, whose blond brows were as bushy as his beard and wild hair, scowled at Abramm. “D’ ye know how many like ye have come through here these past months? Commoners claiming to be Abramm reborn, wantin’ t’ lead us out of our fortress on some woolbrained scheme of defeatin’ the Shadow lovers. It’ll take more than idle claims and a couple scars t’ convince us.”
Abramm nodded. “I understand that, and I’m not claiming Abramm’s crown—that is Eidon’s to bestow. You can call me Alaric, though no matter what you call me, I mean to head for Fannath Rill. Along with these men who’ve accompanied me, and as many of you as have the courage to go.”
Aender scowled at him, then glanced again at Borlain. “We have enough task just protecting our own place. We can’t go ridin’ off to look after others. Let them fight their own battles.” Behind him the other men muttered and nodded, scowling at Abramm as if he had insulted them with his suggestion.
“And when all of Chesedh falls,” Abramm asked, pitching his voice louder so that more of those who watched might hear him, “then what will you do? They will not let you sit up here in your hideaway. Once they’ve taken the rest, then they’ll turn their attention to rooting out pockets of rebels like you.”
“Let ’em try!” shouted a man from the back of the crowd. “They’ll not succeed.”
Abramm regarded them calmly, trying to gauge their mettle. Was it worth the attempt to persuade, or should he abandon them now?
Shouts echoed in the growing dusk, and a sudden stirring in the crowd to his right drew all eyes to where an old man in a shabby tunic struggled to get through the line of soldiers and spectators. Some of them were, in fact, holding him back. “He’s King Abramm, fer sure,” the man said. “I have t’ see him.”
“He’s jest another slave imposter, ye crazy ol’ man,” a woman shrilled at him.
“I have t’ give ’im his things back.”
The onlookers laughed. “A brass rod and some miscellaneous flotsam? Even if he was King Abramm, he wouldn’t want yer old junk. Now, get back to yer boat and stop trying to shame us all with yer craziness.”
Abramm glanced at Aender and Borlain. “Who is that?”
“Just an old, addled fisherman,” Aender explained. “He’s been goin’ on about that stuff for weeks.”
“How does he know who I am?”
Borlain, Abramm noted, had gone rigid, his eyes upon the old man as the others shoved him back behind them.
“Your Majesty, please!” The old fisherman’s voice rang off water and rock in the twilight.
“Wait!” Abramm cried. “I want to see what he has.”
Shortly the old man was before him—weathered face, gnarled hands, white hair tied in a queue. He limped forward as if his hips pained him and, after a moment of seeing that he really had been granted audience, settled awkwardly to his knees. “Yer Majesty.”
Men snickered around them. Abramm ignored them and focused on the old man. “You know me?”
“Ye are King Abramm, returned at last.” By his accent the man was Kiriathan, which probably accounted for both his poor reputation and his obvious poverty. “And Eidon has given me something for ye, sir.” He began to untie the thong about his bag. “I caught them in my nets last month. Right after that big storm. I knew the moment I saw them what they were.”
The old man reached into his bag, pulled out the Coronation Ring, and set it on the dock’s wooden planking. The translucent Orb of Tersius followed, then a very tarnished Scepter of Rule, and finally the plaited metal wreath of Avramm’s Crown—the latter’s appearance eliciting a hiss of astonishment from Rolland and the other men of Abramm’s party.
The fisherman looked around at them and, realizing that he was finally being taken seriously, rocked back on his heels with a smile.
“Light’s grace, sir!” Rolland choked at Abramm’s side. “You said they’d come to you, way back in Aggosim. And so they have.”
Abramm was overwhelmed, his chest so full of emotion he felt it might burst apart. But instead of taking the offered regalia, he bade the old man to stand, and then dropped to his own knee before him. “I cannot crown myself. That is for you to do.”
A susurrus of astonished and indignant muttering arose from the men of Elpis, who looked on without comprehension.
The fisherman blanched before him. “But, sir, I am only a common fisherman.”
“Do not think yourself unworthy because of that. Eidon himself has chosen you for this.”
And so the old man, with trembling hands, held out the scepter and laid it in Abramm’s arms. And when the orblight at its head flickered with a faint light, it provoked yet another rush of exclamation. Then the fisherman picked up the crown from where he’d laid it atop the bag on the ground and straightened, holding it with both hands. Abramm dropped his chin a little, listening to the grit of the man’s sandals on the wood and the rustle of his clothing. The fishy odor grew abruptly stronger, almost choking, but then he forgot about that as he sensed the tingle of the crown’s proximity. A moment later, the plaited circlet settled into place as if it were alive. The Light rolled through him with a warm, familiar sense of rightness.
The old man gasped and jerked back, and from the way his eyes widened as he looked upon it, Abramm guessed the crown was glowing. Already it was warming and softening against his brow, no longer a heavy, hard weight but almost unnoticeable.
And now their audience gasped likewise, swearing and shouting in their agitation. Some even drew swords, and it took several moments for the ruckus to die down.
Abramm stood then and looked at them calmly, though inside he wanted to shout for joy, more astonished than any of them. Borlain stood wide-eyed, mouth agape, and Rolland was actually weeping.
“As I said,” he told them, pitching his voice loudly enough for all to hear, “I am going to Fannath Rill. To meet the armies of the Black Moon and destroy them once and for all. Anyone who wishes to come with me is welcome.” He thought of Trinley and added, “So long as he obeys my command.” He glanced again at the fisherman. “That includes you, Master Fisherman. Ever thought you might want to be a king’s aide?”
FANNATH RILL
PART FOUR
CHAPTER
35
It was after midnight. Queen Madeleine stood alone on the railed roof deck of the royal apartments overlooking the city of her youth and wept, hating what this night must bring, knowing she had no other choice. The hulks of burned and half-sunken galleys lay out in the river, just south of the palace island—remnants of the first battle ever fought within the city’s walls. As had been the case for over five months now, a ceiling of mist obscured the stars and, in the east, reflected back the emerald glow of the etherworld corridor that had been erected there. The dark flapping forms of veren, as well as smaller dragons, showed briefly in the green-lit overcast, out where an army that numbered in the hundreds of thousands still gathered.
She wrapped her arms about herself and shivered, for though it was still late summer, the air was chilly. At least it was free of the stench of sewage and sickness and death. Only the faint scent of smoke wafted up here, drifting in from the plain where the Esurhites were busy burning the land to charcoal.
When th
e invasion had begun last spring, her countrymen had fled to the city of Fannath Rill, whose massive outer walls marked the first line of defense against attackers. Hundreds of people with their animals and belongings had crowded into its streets and parks and squares and halls—and it was worse now. Even the palace grounds and halls thronged with refugees. The waterpark had become a great encampment from which the thin threads of campfires arose every morning. Had Maddie not ordered siege preparations begun months before, they’d never have been able to support them all for as long as they had.
By now, though, most of the livestock had been slaughtered and eaten, and other food supplies were dwindling rapidly. Worse, the Esurhites had begun throwing their own dead soldiers into the river upstream of the city, fouling Fannath Rill’s only water source. Even after boiling their water, people got sick by the thousands. The existing graveyards were now filled to capacity, and being unable to access the land outside the walls, they were forced to burn the accumulating dead. Fannath Rill was hanging by a thread and couldn’t last much longer.
Their only hope lay in the fact that the Esurhites were struggling, as well. Men had to have a reason to stay away from their families and livelihoods for long periods of time, to put up with field conditions, boredom, tension, poor food, lack of good water. And the recent outbreak of disease in the camp, as evidenced by the bodies fouling the river, would only put more pressure on them. Every day that the Chesedhans held out in Fannath Rill was one more day the Esurhites had to hold their own resolve together.
For a while it had looked as if the Chesedhans might win. But then the Shadow lovers had erected one of their despicable corridors in the remains of a ruin east of the city, and now each night its green fires glared off the eastern cloud cover as new soldiers streamed to the battlefield—Esurhites, Andolens, Draesians, Sorites, and most recently, Kiriathans.
Many of her councilmen believed the corridor’s advent betrayed Belthre’gar’s desperation as much as it did his impatience and frustration. He’d promised his men victory and plunder, and every day that passed left less plunder and an increasingly meager victory. The more men he had, her counselors suggested, the quicker he could overwhelm the walls and bring it all to a close. And indeed the number of scaling ladders, battering rams, catapults, and wall-tapping crews had grown alarmingly in the last month, along with the number of troops, augmented by veren, Broho, and hundreds of crows, which harassed the city dwellers constantly.
Her military advisors believed he meant to launch a full-scale attack soon. And rather than simply wait, they had devised a plan. Their spies said, Belthre’gar considered Maddie to be his property and was furious she’d been snatched from him by the great sea wave. Even more enraging was her continued refusal to surrender to him. He’d become obsessed with her, they said, maniacally intent on capturing her and her children, so as to slay them in as hideous and public a manner as he could devise. Recent rumors claimed he’d even agreed to ally with Tiris ul Sadek, a startling concession for a man who never allied with anyone, least of all a “dog from the eastern deserts.”
Her advisors suggested that if she and her children could be delivered safely to Deveren Dol, those left behind might open the gates in surrender just as Belthre’gar’s assault began. Finding she had fled, he might well abandon the city entirely in his frustration at losing her and chase north in pursuit. Yes, many would die, but not all. And if she succeeded in drawing him up to Deveren Dol, she could be absolutely certain of outlasting him in a second siege. One of the oldest fortresses in all of Chesedh, Deveren Dol’s foundations and some of its towers dated back to Ophiran times. It was virtually impregnable, built upon a permanent water source that outsiders couldn’t foul. And it had been preparing for siege for months.
They were counting on the fact that Belthre’gar’s men would rebel and desert should she escape to Deveren Dol. To ensure that, and also to provide distraction while the queen and her party escaped, a group of men would simultaneously venture out to destroy the corridor. Success would not only stop the continued arrival of new soldiers and supplies, it would demoralize those already in Chesedh when they saw the access to their homelands cut off.
It was not a perfect plan by any means. Not one that had much chance of succeeding, nor one she liked at all, and she’d fought them on it fiercely. A queen should stay with her subjects to the end, she’d declared.
But she’d be with her subjects in Deveren Dol, her counselors had argued. And how much better to win the victory and force the invaders to give up even as they preserved not only the queen of Chesedh but also little Simon, rightful king of Kiriath. Such a victory would breathe new life and hope into all those who fought the Shadow.
And anyway, Trap had asked her—brutally—if she stayed and the city fell, could she sit behind her palace walls while Belthre’gar systematically killed every last person in the outer city trying to get her to surrender herself and her children? Better for them to flee and draw him away. . . .
Ultimately she’d agreed, and tonight she was to leave in utter secrecy, smuggled out of the city to the north along with her children, Carissa and Conal, and their combined retinue of retainers. Trap and a handful of men, meantime, would leave by a different route to destroy the corridor.
She walked slowly along the railing, eyes drifting across the sparkling kelistar lamps of her city—lit each night by her express order—intermingled with the red glow of innumerable refugee campfires. Anxiety simmered in her belly as the green on the eastern cloud flared brightly with another arrival of troops. So many threats, so many things to go wrong, so little potential for success . . .
Father Eidon, you are our only hope for victory. Please give those who remain behind the wisdom and resolve to stay this course we have devised. Recall to their minds—to all our minds—what we know of you, and do not let your enemies prevail against us. I know when it is darkest, that is the time for true faith . . . but, Father . . . Her thoughts stuttered and veered off to the one thing that had twisted at the core of her being for months now: Where is he? You promised. He promised. . . .
She felt her pent-up emotion start to heave and shift, and she turned sharply from that line of thought before it swept her away. Tonight she must keep her head about her, and her emotions firmly in check, though it seemed she had been doing that for so very, very long. . . .
“Ma’am?” Jeyanne’s voice intruded into her thoughts. “Duke Eltrap is here.”
“Thank you, Jeyanne.”
She stopped, hand on the rail, eyes on the green flicker, and prayed for Trap, as well. And then for what she was about to do in the next few moments. If this is not your will, Father Eidon . . . make it plain to me. But he will need something, and if Abramm is not here . . .
As always, the conviction of what she was to do remained. With a sigh, she descended the stair to her apartments and entered her study. Trap stood beside the fireplace, clad in the dark woolen tunic of a soldier in the army of the Black Moon. Sword and dagger both hung at his hips, and he carried a rucksack in one hand. His expression was one of puzzlement and curiosity that she should have brought him here so late, when she’d be seeing him down in the wine cellar only half an hour hence.
“You’re sure you want to go through with this, Trap?”
He frowned slightly. “You’ve heard all the arguments, ma’am. All the reasons it must be done. All the reasons why I’m the one who has to do it.” Having helped Abramm on three separate occasions, he was the only one who had even a scrap of experience in carrying out such a mission.
“I know all the reasons.” She stopped beside the desk, laid her hand on Elayne’s old scratched valise where it sat beside her pile of books, then lifted her head to meet his gaze directly. “I also know you may not succeed. And your wife, sir, is but days from delivering your firstborn. You would desert her at a time like this?”
“He is not my firstborn, ma’am,” Trap corrected her gently. “My firstborn is Conal.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean . . .” She brushed her hand across the handle of the valise. “I know you’ll love both equally. But the fact remains—”
“The fact remains, madam,” he insisted, “they won’t let me into the birthing chamber, so there’s nothing I could do but fret, anyway.”
“What if she delivers on the road?”
At that his freckles came into sharp relief, betraying his concern about that very misfortune. She watched him shake it off and go on. “Elayne will be there. You will be there. Marta, too. And better she deliver the child on the road out in the fresh air than in this cesspool of sickness and death. Whatever happens, I must leave it in Eidon’s hands. Which I would have to do, anyway.” Some of the color came back into his face now and his brown eyes twinkled. “Who knows? If all goes well I might reach Deveren Dol before you do.”
She stood there staring at him for some time before finally turning to the valise. “Very well, then.” She opened the latch and pulled out the stiff, wiry, white fabric of Abramm’s Robe of Light. “I want you to take this.”
His eyes widened, then moved from the glistening fabric in her fingers to her gaze. “Your Majesty, I can’t—”
“It saved Ian. You were Abramm’s best and closest friend. It might save you, as well . . . and even help you in the bargain.”
He was still shaking his head. “I can’t take it. It’s his, not mine. I’d be just like Leyton, and what he took didn’t help him.”
“Leyton stole the regalia for his own use. You are not stealing anything.” She paused. “Don’t you think Abramm would want you to take it?”
He considered her words with a frown that turned to an expression of open pain as he whispered, “Madam, what if the stories out of Elpis are true?”
Stories that said Abramm had come ashore there in an Esurhite galley, with Kiriathans at his side. That the vessel’s captain was an aged warrior of the Brogai caste. That barely had he arrived when an old fisherman came to him, having found the lost regalia in his nets—crown, orb, ring, and scepter— and that Abramm knelt before him. When the old man set the crown upon his head, it had blazed with light. . . .