Silence followed, then a whine and snuffle, and the voice spoke again. “See? He didn’t get us after all. The master saved you.” Another whine. “I don’t know. Probably somewhere in the Highlands. But we will find him again, and by then you will be much stronger.”
He’s not one of Rennalf’s! she thought, a wondrous joy flooding her.
Outside the latch rattled again as both guards called more urgently. “M’ lord! Are ye all right?”
The voice beside her croaked an affirmative, then told them to open the door. There was a pause. The men explained they had no key. Her companion told them to hack it down. She thought they’d laugh, or question, but after only a few moments the ring of axes on wood echoed around her and shortly the door swung outward. An arc of ruddy torchlight swept into the room and over the man who had just come through the Dark Way—clearly not one of Rennalf’s. The left half of his face had been seared into an inhuman mask, the scalp above it puckered and hairless, attached to a right half that appeared completely normal.
The guards took one look at him and erupted into protest. “Here, sir! Who’re ye?! Where’s Lord Rennalf?”
The wretch barked at them to be silent and back away, and they obeyed with eerie docility. A prickle crept up Carissa’s spine as she realized he was using the power of Command. Not unexpected for a warlock. Which he must be, to have come through the malfunctioning corridor. But you have no business here, she thought at him. So hurry up and walk away. Rennalf’s guards would surely follow him as soon as they were able, leaving her free to slip away unnoticed. He stepped out of view into the hallway and she waited, listening intently, imagining him striding away, down the stair and into the Great Room. Soon the guards would follow. So focused was she on this scenario that she nearly cried aloud when the rasping voice sounded again, still outside the opening. “If you want to find him again, my pet, we must go.”
He pulled the door back farther, and for the first time Carissa saw the small doglike thing that must have come through the Shadow path with him. It stood in the midst of the room, staring at her like a spaniel on point. But it was no dog.
It reminded her of a small stoop-shouldered old man, its forequarters too large for its slender, almost withered hindquarters. A dark ruff bristled at its shoulders and head, framing front-set green eyes and a short snout filled with small, sharp teeth. A tab of hair tufted its lower jaw, and the dark bristle continued down its front legs, ending just above wide, long-toed . . . paws? The green eyes were fixed upon her, their stare kindling a new and nameless dread in her heart. This thing knew her somehow and meant her ill. The longer she lay locked in its gaze, the more certain she became of that, images of death and blood and unspeakable savagery leaking into her mind. Her own death. Elayne’s. Cooper’s. Her brother’s . . .
Fear rolled through her in waves, shortening her breath, speeding her pulse, tightening the muscles in her belly. Slowly she sat up, seeking to gain some advantage over it. And failing.
“What is it now?” came the rasping voice. The scarred man stepped into the doorway, bringing a torch from one of the hall sconces. The sudden brightness forced Carissa to look away even as the man hissed with surprise. “YOU!” he croaked.
She blinked up at him, shielding her eyes from his light, surprised in her turn and now alarmed. He knows me? How?Was I wrong about Rennalf sending him? Is he one of those waymakers they were talking about?
The man seemed to grimace—or maybe smile—and his rough voice tried to wheedle, “I’m hurt you don’t recognize me, Carissa. After all the time we spent in Esurh? All the times I saved you?”
She stared at him, bewildered, struggling to see past the scars and the scalp and the opposing half head of gray hair to something familiar. His words whirled through her mind like pieces of a carpenter’s puzzle that refused to go together. Esurh? Saved me? Was he some ship hand? Some minor servant I didn’t notice?
And then it hit her: “Danarin!” Or so was the name by which she’d known him all those months he’d used her to get himself close to Abramm. His real name, she’d learned at the last, was Rhiad, right-hand man to High Father Saeral, sent to kidnap her brother and bring him back to the Mataian leader for possession. The same Rhiad she’d shoved through that first etherworld corridor, come back to her now in the destruction of the second, like some sort of bizarre cursing.
He smiled at her. “You do remember. Good.” And then to the beast as it slowly sank into a crouch at his feet: “Here, now! None of that!”
The creature’s head swiveled from her up to Rhiad with a growling bleat. “No,” Rhiad said again, stepping past it to seize Carissa by the arm and haul her upright. “I have another use for her. One you’ll like much better. She’s very important to him, you know.”
The beast’s green eyes returned to Carissa, the tip of its long tail flicking back and forth. She shuddered, having no idea what Rhiad was talking about, and not wishing to. She just wanted to get away from him, wanted to push him off her and flee. But somehow she knew the little beast, small as it was, would not allow that. Even if she could escape Rhiad’s verbal powers of coercion. Thus when he pressed her forward with his hard, pinching grip, she went unresisting, out the door, past the startled but immobile guards and down the stair to the empty kitchen to pilfer the supplies left by Rennalf’s men. From there they went to the stable, where he made her saddle Heron and mount, then bound her hands with a leather cord, which he tied to a metal ring on the saddle’s hump. He took for himself Cooper’s horse, Arrow, who snorted and kicked and sidled away, until the strange little beast came round and caught the animal’s gaze with his green eyes. Then the horse stood still and trembling while Rhiad loaded him up, climbed aboard, and invited his pet to ride in his lap. It made the six-foot standing leap as if it were nothing. Finally, covering the beast with his cloak and taking up Heron’s knotted reins, Rhiad led them into the rainy afternoon and down to the main road. There he turned toward Aely and Old Woman’s Well and the junction to Springerlan, and there Carissa dropped the first of her rings.
CHAPTER
31
Upon his return to Springerlan, Abramm lingered in the stable, brushing Warbanner down as was his habit. The grooms had protested the first time he’d elected to do it, but by now had grown accustomed to his eccentricities and left him alone as he required. Today they left him alone even more than he required, having cleared the building shortly after he’d tied Banner outside his great, straw-filled box stall and begun to brush.
Now, except for Trap standing quietly on guard some distance off, he was alone, enwrapped in the comfortable silence of horses snorting and thumping and rustling in their straw. Outside, normal activity still bustled, but no riders entered this wing of the stable, and no groom or stableboy dared intrude upon its sanctity. Even when the last light of day faded and the lanterns were brought, they were hung surreptitiously only at the ends of the aisle. No one came in with one to light the middle.
Because they wished to honor his desire for privacy? Or because they were afraid of him? More likely the latter, for there was much to fear in the cloud of suspicion and heresy now boiling around Abramm.
He didn’t know why he was down here dragging his feet. Hadn’t he decided his course back at Graymeer’s? He would confess at last all of who he was and trust Eidon to deliver him from what seemed certain disaster. But the closer he’d gotten to Springerlan, the greater had grown the burden of his fear, and the more tenuous his resolve. True, it seemed his use of the Light to destroy the corridor had also killed all the spawn that lived in Graymeer’s and evaporated the mist to boot. But he’d already heard that the Mataio was claiming that for its own victory—the brotherhood had been conducting round-the-clock worship vigils since the ball last night—and Abramm had no proof of his work in it. And without the morwhol, no one had reason to believe he was not what all his enemies were saying: the cause of last night’s disaster at Graymeer’s and the deaths—already exaggerated fivefold fro
m the truth—wrought by the monster. He was a Terstan heretic in league with the Shadow, a madman who had the audacity to claim he had actually been the White Pretender, a purveyor of evil and destruction who must be removed.
You should not have come . . . you bring only bloodshed and death . . .
He suspected emissaries awaited him in the anteroom of the royal apartments even now, messengers sent from the Table or the Mataio to call him into their presence. Or if not that, Blackwell would be there, pressuring him about the patch, providing all his reasons for why Abramm should wear it, why it wouldn’t matter that much, why it would only be long enough to buy him the time he needed to corral Gillard and remove the threat of rebellion. . . .
It wasn’t fear of death that disturbed him, he’d discovered, it was the fear of going to back to what he’d been. Little Abramm. Ignored, discounted, reviled. Cast out. It was losing the regard of men he had long wished to impress—though the man he most coveted was lost now regardless of what he did. Simon already knew what he was and had made his choice. His disgust would only increase should Abramm lie before all the Table and try to pretend he was something Simon knew very well he was not.
It was one thing to know all that. Another to face the men themselves and see the disgust and disappointment in their faces. He had come so far so fast, he supposed he should have expected this. Indeed, it was worse for all the early successes. When he’d stood on Wanderer’s deck almost four weeks ago, contemplating his run for the Crown, he’d expected it to be impossible. He’d expected weeks, maybe months of waiting and preparing and political jockeying. He’d expected to fail and had been ready—he thought—to deal with that. Now, coming off so many successes, the prospect of failure was unbearably bitter.
And yet, was that not precisely what Tersius had done? Laid aside all his divine rights and privileges to endure the very things Abramm so feared—to be mistreated and ignored and despised? To go to that mount outside Xorofin and let the crowd impale him and the Shadow have him?
I’m not that strong, my Lord Eidon.
Not in your flesh, my son, but you know whatever I ask of you, I will give you the power to do. And to bear.
And is that what you wish me to bear, then, my Lord? To go back to being nothing and no one again? Scorned and ignored and helpless to do anything of consequence?
You will never be nothing or no one to me, my son. Nor helpless to do anything of consequence.
“Sire?”
The voice—not Trap’s—spoke at the same time as Warbanner’s head came up with a snort and he sidled away from the newcomer, the sleek plane of his side knocking Abramm back a step. He slid his hand down the stallion’s muscular shoulder, murmuring words of reassurance as he looked over his back at Byron Blackwell approaching him down the stable aisle, enwrapped by the corona of light cast from the lantern in his hand.
Banner gave another snort and toss of his head, but Abramm shoved him back to his original spot and bid him settle down. Keeping a respectable distance, Blackwell hung his lantern on a hook between two stalls, then turned to face the king.
“Sir, I’m sorry to intrude—”
“Then why have you?”
Blackwell stopped several strides away and gaped at him. “I . . . I wasn’t sure . . . well, I heard you’d returned from the headlands some time ago, and there are men waiting outside your chamber—”
“Now there’s an unexpected development,” Abramm said sourly, aware of his sarcastic tone, but not caring. He was king. And this day had not gone well. And he was not at all happy to see Blackwell here.
Blackwell bore it stoically, standing straight, hands at his sides. “Sir, the Mataio has officially accused you of being Terstan.”
“As we knew they would.”
“They’ve issued a proclamation and are demanding the Table denounce you. The Table’s been arguing about it all day.” He paused, and his hands came up to clasp each other in that annoying gesture he seemed to fall into when rattled. “The patch will need time to cure, sir, and there’s no telling when they’ll finally bring their demand to you.”
Abramm swept the brush across Banner’s back and down his flank. “I’m not using the patch, Byron.”
He glimpsed the count’s openmouthed stare out of the corner of his eye, just before he dropped out of sight as Abramm bent to brush the sweatclumped hairs on Warbanner’s hock. He ran a hand down the horse’s leg, checking for swellings and tender spots, but there weren’t any.
On the far side, Byron cleared his throat and tried again. “Sir, no one will be put off by a simple denial this time. And they are not going to let you refuse. . . .”
“They will receive neither denial nor refusal.” He stepped back and dropped the brush into the wall-bolted bin beside the open stall door. “I suggest you distance yourself from me right now. You might want to prepare a declaration of denunciation, as well. Or perhaps it would be better to simply leave town.” Unhooking the horse, Abramm led him into the stall, removed the lead, then stepped out again. The half door creaked as he shut it, then slammed the bolt home.
Byron was still standing there, hands clasped at his waist. “I would never denounce you, sir. I believe with all my heart you are just what Kiriath needs right now, and I know I am not alone in that.”
“Then perhaps you should get your fellows to come forth and make their views public.”
“Sir—”
“There comes a time when a man has to stand up for who he is and what he believes. I’ve had enough hiding.”
“Sir, they’ll arrest you for heresy. Bonafil’s already talking about the need for you to be cloistered in one of the Mataio’s far keeps so you may be delivered from the spell that has ensnared you. And once they take you, you know what’ll happen to the rest of us. If you care nothing for yourself—”
“Why do you think I told you to leave town?”
“Please, sir . . . I’m as eager to have you reveal the truth as anyone, but it needs to be done on your own terms, not theirs. And certainly not Gillard’s.”
And that one pierced to Abramm’s heart. Of all things, the worst was to have this matter forced upon him. To have to go before the Table like some misbehaving child and confess to something that not only wasn’t a crime, wasn’t heresy, but was the only true way to know who Eidon really was. The only true power that could protect the realm from all the dangers it faced.
“The idea of your being be dragged before those self-righteous sticks,” Blackwell went on, “and questioned like some common criminal is—well, the idea infuriates me.”
“As it does me. Which is precisely why I intend to go to them first.”
Blackwell flinched, and his eyes, fixed upon something down the aisle, darted back to Abramm’s. “Go to them, sir?”
Abramm glanced at Trap. “Captain, would you see that Erad is saddled?”
“Yes, sir.”
As Trap wheeled away, Abramm returned his attention to Blackwell, still staring at him in horror. That sense of crazy bravado welled up in him, reminding him of the night he’d told the Dorsaddi he would awaken their Heart, not even knowing at the time what that Heart was. He had not done it, but the heart had awakened all the same. And nothing had turned out as he had expected. Or feared.
Perhaps it would be thus again, although he didn’t think so. Indeed, he felt certain that disaster loomed ahead, and all he’d come back to accomplish would remain undone. He’d left Hur for naught. But if that was Eidon’s will for him, so be it.
He jerked up his chin and, holding Blackwell’s gaze with his own, pulled free the laces of his leather jerkin, folding under the front edges of his blouse’s slitted neckline to reveal the golden shield glittering on his chest.
Byron didn’t quite gasp, but his eyes grew wider still as they fixed upon it. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed against the white linen of his cravat as he swallowed. At Abramm’s back came the clump and clack of Erad being led from his stall farther down the aisle, the lead
’s slide-hook clinking as Trap snapped it to the tie ring.
Abramm glanced over his shoulder. He hadn’t really intended Trap to saddle the horse, but seeing as there were no grooms in the immediate vicinity, he realized there was no one else.
A sudden spate of footfalls, rustling, and low voices drew his attention back to the other end of the aisle behind Blackwell, where two cloaked figures had appeared out of the darkness to hurry toward them. One was very tall, the other very short—more boy-sized than man. Abramm’s hand dropped to his sword as Byron whipped around with a cry, and the duo stopped in their tracks halfway from the stable door to where Abramm stood.
Immediately they flung back their cowls, and a deep, familiar voice rumbled up the aisle. “My lord, it’s only us.”
“Haldon? Jared?” Blackwell cried almost indignantly as he stepped toward them. “What are you doing here?”
Haldon ignored him and continued on toward Abramm, bobbing his head in a half bow of greeting, his glance sticking briefly on Abramm’s now exposed shieldmark. “Gadrielites burst into your quarters, sir. Front and back doors simultaneously. We barely escaped through the panel in the bedchamber.”
“Panel in the bedchamber?” Blackwell demanded. “What panel?”
“So now they know of it?” Abramm asked, also ignoring Blackwell.
“Well, sir, we hope they think we went out the window and climbed down the trellis, but we can’t be sure. They’re all over the palace, but it doesn’t look as if they’ve followed us.”
“That you know of,” Blackwell said.
“What about the armsmen?” This from Trap, having left Erad to join them.
“There weren’t many, Lieutenant,” Haldon said to him. “Most had disappeared for some reason. And those that remained—well, I’m sorry to say they were part of it.” His gaze came back to Abramm. “Nor were they all Gadrielites. Some of them were Gillard’s men. I recognized Matheson’s voice for sure.”