A cry drew his attention to Blackwell, unhorsed in the chaos and caught in a bramble bush, one arm trapped beneath him, a ring of blue eyes shining in the darkness around him. Abramm urged Banner forward, but the horse refused, snorting and swerving away. With an oath Abramm leaped off him, reaching the count just as the spawn attacked. Slashing and thrusting with his rapier in one hand and a stout branch in the other, he drove them off, Eidon’s Light flowing effortlessly out of him.
Then it was over. He stood, weapons raised, breathing heavily, waiting to be sure they were gone, before turning to Blackwell, still caught in the thicket and staring at Abramm with wide, startled eyes. Dead feyna littered the ground and dangled in the brambles around him. Well, I guess he knows the truth about my shield now, Abramm reflected wryly.
A distant crashing brought him around with the sinking realization that Warbanner had fled. He turned a full circuit, intense irritation washing over him. He knew better than to drop the reins of so young a horse under such conditions. What was he thinking? Nothing. Nothing but how to stop the feyna.
Banner wouldn’t stop until he was back at the barn, and afterward, when Abramm came riding in on someone else’s horse, all the grooms could smirk and smile I-told-you-so’s. Well, it’s only what you deserve for being so stupid. Grimacing, he tossed the branch aside, sheathed the rapier, and turned to pull Blackwell from the brambles.
“Are you hurt, sir?” he asked as the man straightened on his own two feet and brushed his clothing.
“A bit bruised, but I’ll do.” Blackwell had recovered his poise, meeting Abramm’s eyes evenly and thanking him for his assistance. “My own sword was caught under me. If you hadn’t acted so quickly—” He shuddered.
Abramm returned his gaze unflinchingly, wondering irrationally if by some incredible happenstance he hadn’t noticed the Light. Before he could broach the subject, however, they were interrupted by the crash of horses trampling the underbrush accompanied by low, harsh cries. Abramm stepped forward, instinctively positioning himself between Blackwell and the direction of the sounds, his hand once more on his rapier as he wondered whether it would be best to stand and fight or seek cover before they were discovered.
Then Channon burst into view, his relief at finding Abramm palpable. “Eidon lives!” he murmured, swinging down off his horse. “Are you all right, Sire?”
“We’re fine,” Abramm said, irritated all over again by Banner’s loss. At least Blackwell had lost his mount, as well, though since he had fallen off, it wasn’t much consolation. “Did you catch any of them?”
“No, sir. They only loosed the one volley before they fled.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“One man was grazed, nothing serious.” His eyes had gone to the feyna carcasses lying about them, and a new grimness came into his face. “You must get back to the palace, sir.”
“Yes, but I’m afraid I’ve lost Warbanner.”
“You can ride my horse.” Channon handed his mount over to Abramm, who swung easily into the saddle, then offered Blackwell a hand up behind him.
As they headed back to the road, the count said quietly in Abramm’s ear, “I’m afraid I have to retract my earlier advice.”
Abramm glanced over his shoulder. “Oh?”
“I have recently come to believe that your going bare-chested about the palace would not be a good idea after all.”
Abramm turned to see him better and found Blackwell’s expression as benign and unconcerned as his tone had been. For a moment they shared the glance, then simultaneously broke into laughter.
CHAPTER
11
Not long after Abramm had left on his ride, Simon Kalladorne settled on the audience benches of the fencing practice room at Laine Harrady’s estate, watching Gillard chase his fencing partner around the floor as if the man were Abramm himself. The crown prince fought in breeches, hose and fencing slippers, his white-blond hair queued at his nape and his muscular chest gleaming with sweat. The afternoon sun slanted through the west windows in a golden haze, marking the polished wood floor into hard-edged sections of dark and yellow gold, and flashing off the sprays of sweat that occasionally erupted from the combatants. The swords met in a constant but irregular clinking, underlain by the thud and slide of the men’s feet and the grunting rasp of their breathing.
For all the effort and fury, though, it was no contest at all. Gillard was merely working out his problems.
It had been a difficult day. The former prince-regent had gotten fallingdown drunk last night and said unfortunate things. He’d slept it off at Harrady’s while servants moved his belongings out of the royal residence and into the same wing Simon himself occupied. As crown prince, Gillard could have had suites nearer the king but had loudly declared to the messenger last night that he would not live cheek by jowl with a coward and thief. He had risen late this morning, so badly hung over he had elected to stay at Harrady’s, refusing to talk to anyone, not even his merry men. In fact, Simon had not been invited to observe this match, nor had Gillard yet acknowledged his presence.
Simon had spent the day interviewing the men who’d been aboard Wanderer, those on the dock when Abramm had come ashore, and even Brother Belmir at the Holy Keep. What he learned had left him more unsettled than ever.
Wanderer’s Captain Kinlock affirmed that Abramm was very much involved in the slaying of the kraggin, adding that, when they had first arrived on the scene and his own men had hesitated, it was Abramm who’d taken the lead. “Shamed the others into going,” Kinlock said. “Though from the fire in his eye, I swear he’d have done it alone if he had to.” Of the handful of men who’d actually seen Abramm spear the monster, Simon had only spoken with Shale Channon. It was an awkward and uncommunicative meeting for mentor and former student both, but Channon had solemnly sworn that Abramm had not only speared the beast, he had indeed ridden the spear into the deep.
Simon remained unconvinced. He knew how the distorting lens of panic could lengthen time and exaggerate mundane actions. Likely Abramm had stabbed the kraggin, was pulled off balance by its reaction, and simply fell from the overturned boat Channon said they’d been standing on. With the waves and the flotsam and the gathering gloom, it was easy to understand why the rescue boat might have taken some time to find him.
Still, even without the embellishment of the heroic spear ride, the tale was sobering, and Simon had to give the boy credit for his courage. And face it, old man, for getting the job done. The monster’s dead, and they lost only two of their original crew. And you can’t say he’s done badly since then, either.
That speech he’d delivered to the combined Tables this morning had been a shocker. Never in Simon’s wildest dreams would he have expected to hear such words from “Little Abramm,” nor the compelling force of conviction with which they’d been uttered. Simon himself had been warning of the Esurhite threat for years with little result, waved off by men caught up in the pleasantries of court life, who laughed at the idea of “those barbarians” defeating Kiriathan forces. Suddenly they weren’t laughing anymore. “Womanish comfort-seekers without the backbone to fight”? Abramm had certainly chosen the best words to startle and provoke.
And his plan of preparation? Except for the part about a Chesedhan alliance, Simon had been clamoring for those things for years. Though Raynen had sympathized, he was constantly distracted by his personal problems and his fear of losing the throne, and Gillard had been caught up like his peers in the innumerable amusements of his court. Now suddenly they had a king on the throne who, by word and manner at least, seemed not only able but seri- ously committed to addressing the problem. Even in meeting privately with him, Simon had been impressed, for Abramm was direct, firm, and very clear about what he wanted and when he wanted it: a comprehensive report— “with numbers as solid as you can make them”—on the state of Kiriath’s military defenses to be presented to him verbally and with full documentation in one week.
Admiral Hamilton had been overw
helmed, unable to contain his approval, slavering and wagging like a dog. And though Simon had held on to his professional demeanor for the meeting, even he had left the royal audience chamber reeling. Could their new king be sincere? Or was it all an act?
Whatever it was, it was working. And with the burning of the kraggin and the celebration surrounding it tonight, including a reception at the palace for which hundreds of invitations had gone out—presumably the last of its kind for some time—Abramm’s popularity would only increase.
Simon frowned, his gaze drawn back to the gasping, flailing figures circling the floor below him, their swords jabbing and flicking about each other. He didn’t want to like Abramm. Didn’t want to approve him. It made him feel like a traitor. And yet, after the way the boy had handled the Table last night and the way he was conducting himself today, Simon couldn’t deny that glimmers of both had crept into his heart.
On the other hand, he thought, there’s still the matter of his Mataian loyalties. You mustn’t forget that. It had been Guardians he’d been so quick and brave to rescue. And if he had shown an unexpected mercy to the Southdock Terstans who had rioted over his ascension last night, he’d hardly been lenient with them, either, sending all ten of them to his dungeons for a week. Moreover, Master Belmir had expressed not the slightest concern that Abramm’s professed loss of faith was permanent and predicted Abramm would soon be back in the fold. When Simon asked how he was so sure, he’d smiled and said, “Because he is the Guardian-King, my friend. And Eidon has shown us that, beyond all shadow of doubt.”
The words had chilled him. Not because he believed Eidon had shown them anything—that was just one of the ploys religious fanatics used when they wanted to win their point—but because it testified of the fact that the Mataio was still very much a part of this picture. And frankly, knowing how Abramm had always been a sucker for that religious nonsense, he would not be surprised if the boy did revert to his old ways.
One of the swords abruptly took flight, arcing through the air to clatter on the floor under the window. The two fencers stood face-to-face, gasping, only Gillard still armed. His opponent regarded him with obvious pleading, and at length the prince relented, allowing the man to limp wearily to the sidelines. As servants scurried out to provide towels and take away the swords, Simon stood. Stepping carefully down the tiered benches, he joined Gillard on the floor, where, for the first time since Simon had arrived, his nephew looked at him.
“We need to talk, Gillard.”
The white-blond brows flew up. “What? No ‘how are you?’ No ‘and what did you do today, my nephew?”’
“I can see you are not well, and I know what you did today,” Simon snapped. “You should have come to the Table.”
“Why? So I could lose my lunch watching all my courtiers fawn over him?” Gillard swiped the towel once more across his chest, then tossed it aside and strode for the dressing chamber just off the practice floor.
“It was an open affront,” said Simon, limping after him.
“I was ill. Besides, Harrady told me about his speech and that nonsense about us being conquered by the Esurhites.” Inside the dressing chamber he kicked off the fencing slippers, then bent to peel off hose and breeches. “As if a horde of savages in rowboats could defeat our navy!” He shook his head, muttering, “I cannot believe they voted to accept his claim!”
Leaving breeches and hose strewn across the tiled floor for the servants to gather, Gillard made for the waiting bath. He eased himself into the steaming water until he was submerged to his chin, then closed his eyes and sighed with satisfaction.
Simon leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest, frown tightening his forehead. “And yet they did accept it,” he said quietly. “Whether we like it or not. And unless Abramm drops dead, or begins to show signs of madness, or really is a Terstan, I don’t see much chance of anyone forcing him to abdicate. You can’t go on openly insulting him.”
Gillard opened one eye and tilted his head back to look up at Simon. “You don’t really think he’d call me on it, do you?”
“If he has any backbone at all, he’ll have to.”
“Well, we both know he doesn’t.”
Simon felt his frown deepen. “Last night’s Table might indicate otherwise.”
Gillard snorted and sagged back into the water. “Last night’s Table just proves my point. You saw the look on his face when I confronted him. Did you ever think a man could turn that pale and still be alive? Abramm is as afraid of me as he ever was. I doubt it will be long before he abdicates of his own choice.”
Simon was not at all sure he agreed with Gillard’s assessment. Yes, Abramm had gone rigidly pale for a few moments, but nothing in his manner or voice had suggested fear. If Simon had to put a name on it, he’d say it was closer to fury. And something almost dangerous. That Gillard hadn’t seen it was disturbing. As for Abramm’s abdicating freely, Simon thought there was very little chance of that.
“So how was your meeting with him, Uncle? The private one after the Table. I understand you and Hamilton have been asked to report on the state of our defense.”
“So you know about that already, do you?”
“I know about everything that goes on in my kingdom. For example, I know that you’re frowning at me right now because you don’t think I should call it my kingdom, even though it is. I know that for some reason you agreed to do his report instead of resigning. And I know that he actually questioned those Terstan rioters personally, which I find quite intriguing.” Water trickled as he scratched his nose. “I also know he’s riding in my preserve right now, with only six men and astride that young stallion Brentworth has been training.”
“Warbanner? The one you’ve had your eye on?”
Gillard huffed. “The fool will set us back months with his feeble hands and weak will. That colt is headstrong enough as it is. He’s probably already flung him into a ditch somewhere and run back to the barn.” He snorted. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and the fall will break his neck.”
Abramm’s neck, of course, not Warbanner’s. Simon regarded his nephew with another twinge of uneasiness, though if he’d been pressed, he could not have said precisely what troubled him. Something in the young man’s tone, perhaps. Or even the hope itself, which yesterday Simon would’ve shared with far less ambivalence than he did today. Things were growing more complicated by the moment, and not least his own feelings and convictions.
Gillard’s voice interrupted his contemplation. “Is that all you wanted to talk to me about, Uncle? To be wary of insulting my pigeon of a brother?”
“You will be at the reception tonight, won’t you?”
“You think I’d miss the biggest carnival to come to court in the last year? Prittleman will be pontificating, Darnley will be in high form, lamenting the loss of his parties, and I hear our resident Chesedhan, that tiresome busybody Lady Madeleine, has composed a special song for the occasion. Which admittedly might not be as hilarious as it will be maudlin, but I hope for the best. And, of course, our new king will have to tell us all about his adventures in nauseating and intricate detail. I hope I can keep a straight face. Do you suppose he’ll actually claim that business with the spear to be true?”
“I don’t know, Highness,” said Simon. So far as he knew Abramm was saying nothing about any of it, letting others spread the tale. Even when asked point-blank, folk said, he dodged the question and changed the subject.
One of Gillard’s men hurried into the bathroom, sketching an apologetic bow to Simon before bending to whisper into Gillard’s ear. Without opening his eyes, Gillard nodded, and Simon heard him whisper, “Keep me informed.”
The man left, and a few moments later a smug smile bloomed across Gillard’s clean-shaven face. Simon was on the verge of asking him what had caught his fancy when Gillard said, again without opening his eyes or moving his head, “I’d like a bit of time to myself before dinner, Uncle. You may go now. I’ll see you over Harrady’s ro
ast boar.”
__________
Harrady’s dinner party was held in the long dining room on the south side of his manor, one wall lined with windows overlooking the city and the twilight-purpled expanse of the bay beyond it. As the guests took their seats, the sky was turning to pale salmon streaked with clouds set afire by the golden orb now sinking beyond the western headland. To the south, far out in the harbor, the lights of Kildar Fortress on the eastern headland twinkled against the dark haze of the open sea, while the point of the western ridge remained dark, as always. Closer to hand, preparations were under way at the dock for the burning of the kraggin, the corpse being transferred from the crane of the harbor boat to that of an old whaler.
Harrady had invited the border lord Ethan Laramor and his wife, Lord Arik Foxton and his wife, Gillard, Ives, Moorcock (Matheson had had unexpected personal business to attend to), several young ladies to go with them, and Simon. As the city lights came up, the guests ate their way through a pastry-wrapped boar with its accompanying stuffed quail, boiled leeks and onions, a plum compote, fine white bread with butter and quince jelly, and a traditional apple pie. Afterward, the ladies retired to Harrady’s drawing room, leaving the men to pursue more serious discussion.
Lord Foxton was nearly as enthusiastic about their new king as Admiral Hamilton and made the mistake of expressing it. For this lapse of judgment he earned a sarcastic putdown from Gillard and Harrady’s disdainful disagreement.