“Devious?” Abramm smiled. “I spent the last four years with the Dorsaddi, Uncle. And before that was trained by the nephew of the great Beltha’adi himself.”
“Esurhite,” Simon said, scowling. “I should’ve guessed. And I’m not sure I hold with conducting battle on the sly. It walks the line of dishonor.”
Abramm became grimly serious. “The best way to win a war, Uncle, is not to have to fight it at all. And I am not above using whatever means of subterfuge I can devise to accomplish that.” He paused, frowning. “If we can strip Gillard’s supporters from him, we won’t have to kill them. And as I’ve said before, one of my highest priorities is to get this done without destroying the meager army we do have.”
“The Gadrielites will not back off, sir.”
“No. But their number is few, and I believe many of those who march against us do so more from compulsion than compunction.” He paused again. “I’ve done this before and it works rather well.”
The men stared back at him, processing the exchange and the startling new concepts he was bringing them.
Then Kesrin said into the ensuing silence, “At Jarnek. You did this at Jarnek before you faced Beltha’adi and his army.”
And now Abramm grinned again. “Aye, and we rattled those men enough they wouldn’t stand and fight when things went bad.”
“When you defeated their leader in that trial by combat, you mean,” Kesrin said. “Who wouldn’t after something like that?”
Abramm shrugged, fingering the pewter goblet before him. “Well, perhaps we can arrange something like that again.”
And at those words, all the men at the table froze, their eyes fixed upon him. He’d just virtually admitted the stories were true, that he really had been the White Pretender, really had slain Betha’adi in personal combat, and—
Simon’s thoughts slammed into the second, greater shock hidden in the meaning of Abramm’s cryptic words. “Perhaps we can arrange something like that again.”
Nor was Simon the only one to make the connection.
“What do you mean, ‘arrange something’?” Callums asked, recovering first. “You can’t mean to challenge your brother one on one for the Crown.”
The men chuckled uneasily, but Abramm, Simon noted with a chill of foreboding, remained stone serious. “It wouldn’t be the first time a succession was decided thus in our history,” he said quietly.
And that squelched all remaining levity. Men sat stiffly, exchanging startled, disbelieving glances, until Foxton finally said, “You would kill your own brother, Sire?”
“He’s tried to kill me twice with his own hand, and three times has sent assassins.” Abramm rotated his goblet with a series of tiny turns, then pushed it away with a sigh. “But no. I’d like to think if it came to that I would show him mercy. If life imprisonment can be considered a mercy.” His gaze moved down the table now, catching and holding each man’s eye in turn until he had confronted them all. “So what do you think, gentlemen?Will the soldiers abide such a contest? Will the lords? Will you?”
It was a perfect plan, Simon realized. Fair, economical, dramatic. And it would save the men Kiriath would need for future conflicts. But it would also mean one, if not both, of Simon’s nephews could die. Silence closed around them, into which intruded the sounds from the kitchen, and the fire’s crackle and the moaning of the wind against the keep walls. Outside, a horse whinnied, and there came the distant shouts of men working in the yard.
Finally, Laramor said firmly, “I will abide it.”
“And I,” echoed Foxton.
They went down the table, one after the other, the tally unanimous until it came to Simon himself, who could not seem to find his tongue as he grappled with the ramifications of Abramm’s idea. The king’s blue eyes fixed upon him flatly, as they had that day in the audience chamber. “You knew it had to come to this,” Abramm said softly. “One way or the other.”
Simon met his gaze for a long, silent moment, sick at heart, wishing he didn’t have to choose, and knowing he already had. At length, he nodded, too. “I will abide it, sir.”
Afterward, when the meeting had broken up and the others had left, Abramm turned to his uncle, whom he’d asked to stay behind. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
“You don’t have to thank me, sir.”
“Oh, but I do. I am under no delusions as to why most of these men have come, Uncle. It is because of you.”
They may have come because of me, Simon thought. But they’ll stay because of you. You are truly winning your crown the old-fashioned way—through the hearts of your people.
“There is something else I would ask of you, Uncle. It would be a mighty blow struck in this battle of demoralization. But I will not force you.”
“Whatever you ask, I will do.”
“No. Do this only if you want to and it seems right to you.” He paused and went back to fingering his goblet, as if he found his request difficult to utter. Then, “I would like you to be the bearer of my challenge to Gillard when he arrives.”
Simon stared at him, his stomach seeming to drop all the way to his toes.
Abramm frowned slightly, forcing himself to meet the other man’s gaze. “I know it will not be pleasant for you. On a number of counts. But it will make a powerful statement and might weaken Gillard’s resolve, as well.”
That it will do, my boy. He’ll be devastated. Enraged. His ability to command rationally severely hampered. Simon felt his eyes narrow as he regarded his king. And that’s precisely why you’re suggesting it, isn’t it? Quite the strategist, indeed. A lump of emotion suddenly lodged in his throat, born of sorrow and loss and an unexpected sense of admiration so keen it hurt.
“It’ll be a few days before he arrives,” Abramm went on. “Think about it and let me know when you decide. As I said, you’ll suffer no penalty should you prefer not to do this. No one will even know I’ve asked.”
But Simon shook his head. “I don’t need to think about it, sir,” he said. “It will be an honor to serve as your herald.”
CHAPTER
35
It had been almost two weeks since Carissa had been kidnapped by Rhiad. Yammer—as Carissa had named his beast—had increased dramatically in size, independence, and attitude. Grown to half the height of a horse, it no longer rode in Rhiad’s lap. Its shoulders had swelled to massive proportions, muscles bulging beneath the bristly ruff, while its streamlined hindquarters had become a bundle of cablelike sinew that could propel it prodigious distances in a single bound. Able to outdistance a horse in moments and filled with restless energy, it couldn’t abide their slow pace and was soon striking out on its own.
They traveled exclusively by night now, rising at dusk and settling into a cave or den or abandoned hut at dawn. Each evening as they saddled the horses, the creature would disappear into the gathering gloom, and rarely would they see it until it found them again just as the sky began to lighten. That it always returned testified of the bond that still existed between it and its master. Though they argued constantly now, they wouldn’t leave each other for long. When rain had forced Yammer to huddle shivering in an abandoned bear den for several days, Rhiad stayed by it, though the creature could have easily caught up with him had he gone on. Likewise, though the beast could as easily strike out after Abramm on its own, it returned to Rhiad at the end of every night, the two of them passing the day pressed back to back, snoring in eerie unison.
Though its legs and face often bore the bloody evidence of its nightly killing sprees, Yammer no longer piled dead rodents and hares outside their camp. Instead, it brought them in alive to torture. Immobilizing them with gaze alone, it would slowly drag a claw through some portion of their anatomy. As the screams began, it would shudder and swell, whining with excitement, the tip of its tail twitching faster and faster. When its victim finally died, it would collapse beside the corpse with a great sigh, lie there a moment with something like a grin on its ugly face, then roll over and begin
scratching its back.
Even if Carissa hadn’t known what it was for—and as the days had passed, Rhiad had been increasingly specific about that—she would have hated it. It was ugly, smelly, and cruel. And always it watched her on the sly, as if waiting for its chance to do to her what it so enjoyed doing to smaller prey. She feared that chance would come soon, for Rhiad struggled increasingly to control it, and that only when it was with them.
Coming down the mountain into the more populous areas of the Goodsprings Valley, he had warned it specifically not to hurt the “hairless ones,” though the “woolly ones” were fair game. The beast had no sooner taken its leave of them that night than it had killed three children near Aely, the first real town they’d encountered since leaving Breeton. Naturally it did not tell its master what it had done, and given their reclusive traveling habits, they heard nothing of that tragedy, nor the ones which followed it, for over a week. Meanwhile panic and terror spread throughout the valley, raising up mobs of monster hunters in every town. Not until one such group accosted them outside Old Woman’s Well—an encounter from which they barely escaped—did they learn what had been happening.
That day, settled away in yet another cave, Rhiad had confronted his “pet,” raging like the madman he was. “You were made to kill Abramm and his kin!” he’d shrieked. “Not every living thing you happen upon! Keep this up and you’ll have the whole land in an uproar. Abramm will be warned and flee before we can ever get to him!” The beast had barely tolerated his outburst, growling and baring its teeth throughout, until finally it had faced him directly. For a few moments Carissa feared it would attack him. But tempers waned after that, and before long they were back to back, as usual, snoring away in unison.
Carissa had not been nearly as surprised as Rhiad by the revelation of Yammer’s doings, but the news only increased the weight of her despair. Though shock and the rapidity of events had driven all thought of escape from her mind during their contact with the monster hunters, in retrospect she’d realized that even had she eluded Rhiad, she would’ve had to contend with Yammer—who would have killed her and anyone who helped her. Escape could only be accomplished in open sunlight or rain. She’d have to slip away while her enemies slept, an option more tenable now that there were people around to help, but one she was increasingly reluctant to consider, knowing others could be killed because of her, and quite possibly for nothing.
Thus it was that almost two weeks after she’d been kidnapped, she remained in her captor’s clutches as they headed south toward Brackleford and the only bridge that crossed the River Snowsong. Though Rhiad would have preferred to cross by means of the less-traveled fordings upriver, his beast—which he called a morwhol—hated running water as much as it did rain, and refused to wade through even the shallowest stream. Which was odd, since it seemed not to mind the mud, and she’d seen it standing to its knees in stagnant puddles along the road. But moving water it could not abide. It wouldn’t ride on a ferry, and even bridges were suspect. Crossing the span over the Ruk Ynnis, it could hardly even make itself step onto the planks, then fairly flew across the structure when it did, yowling all the way.
Assuming they weren’t held up by rain again, Rhiad hoped to reach Brackleford an hour or so before dawn, when bridge traffic should be nonexistent. One advantage of the widespread panic was that, except for the patrols of monster hunters, no one traveled at night anymore, rarely emerging from the safety of their homes. Which was a good thing given the increasing population levels. They’d passed a sleeping farmhouse only moments ago and were now approaching a Mataian keep perched atop a nearby hill, the pyramid of thick glass panes that crowned its central dome glowing red from the Holy Flames within. Skirting the base of its hill, they spied a group of robed men with torches gathered in its open gateway. More monster hunters, Carissa judged. Probably returning after a night of fruitless searching and feeling lucky to be alive.
Hidden in the shadows along the road, she and Rhiad passed without being noticed, then started down a long, hilly incline toward Brackleford, the bright twinkle of its lights peeking now and then through breaks in the distant foliage. Soon they’d be across the bridge, nothing between them and Springerlan but time. Beneath her cloak she fingered the Terstan orb wistfully, wishing she had the courage to see if it could protect her from the morwhol as it had from the corridor.
“Eidon will make us a way,” Professor Laud had said. “I am alive, am I not?”
And so am I, she thought bitterly. But unlike you, Professor, I am not free. And it doesn’t look likely that I will be anytime soon. She’d dropped the last of her trail-making booty days ago, and with it all hope anyone was following. Probably just as well, since they’d only be killed should they try to help. The only one who could help her now was Eidon. And, as always, he apparently had more important things to occupy his time.
It came as a bitter realization that, after all her fervent claims of never wanting to see Abramm again, she was about to get her wish. That they would die with so much unfinished business between them. She wanted to tell him it was never him she’d hated, wanted to explain as she wanted an explanation, wanted to understand as she wanted to be understood. Now she would get none of it.
The keep well behind them now, they were riding through dark, close walls of forest when a horrible screeching rent the night, driving a chill deep into her heart. Rhiad wrenched Arrow to a stop and sat up rod-straight in the saddle. Another scream tore at their ears, coming from somewhere east of the road down toward the river where it turned west through Brackleford. Was it a mountain cat? A dying pig? No! she realized. It’s Yammer!
Simultaneously Rhiad reined Arrow off the road and urged him toward the sound, dragging Heron after him. They careened over hill and dale, skidding, slipping, leaping fallen tree trunks and small rock shelves, until, thankfully, the terrain flattened into a thickly grown forest. The scream came again, nearer now, men’s shouts echoing after it. Rhiad cantered arrow, Heron following at a rapid, bone-jarring trot, and at last they burst into a cleared area on the bank of the dark, flat expanse of the Snowsong. A half circle of pigtailed, pike-wielding Mataians in dirty white robes had backed the morwhol against the river’s edge. At the midst of their curved line, two together bore a shallow bronze brazier of the scarlet Holy Flames and with this sought to intimidate their catch. It snarled and hissed at them, constantly shifting position in its attempt to face them all. Nearby lay the bloodied remains of several sheep amidst a ruined corral—bait for the trap now sprung.
Rhiad stopped Arrow just behind the men with the brazier and vaulted to the ground, yelling for the Mataians to stop. They ignored him, their attention on the beast.
“It is mine!” Rhiad cried, breaking through the line into their circle and turning to face them. “You will not harm it.”
A Mataian with gray-streaked hair and numerous rank cords on his wrist finally looked at him, then frowned as if in consternation and exclaimed, “Master Rhiad?”
“Yes.”
“The man with half a face!” someone cried.
“What are you doing here?” the first man demanded.
“Protecting Eidon’s property, Brother—?”
“Laesl,” said the man. “And this property has slain whole herds of sheep, as well as horses, cows, chickens, and people, too. Three at Aely, two at Lankster, and at Old Woman’s Well, six of the town’s most valiant men gone out to stop it. It is not Eidon’s, brother, but a thing of evil.”
“NO!” Rhiad cried, stepping toward the Mataian. “It is the judgment of Eidon upon the heretic who has stolen Kiriath’s throne and upon all who support him.”
A few more of the Mataians looked at him now, but only Brother Laesl spoke: “Abramm, you mean?”
“He is the son of darkness, who wears the shield of evil on his chest even as he pretends to be our Guardian-King!”
“But no longer, brother. He’s been found out, doesn’t even bother to hide his shield anymore. This bea
st is his creation, sent to intimidate us and slay Prince Gillard, who has driven him to the Valley of the Seven Peaks.”
Rhiad stiffened. “Abramm is at Seven Peaks?”
“Yes,” Laesl said. “Simon Kalladorne is with him and maybe a third of the royal army. As for Eidon’s judgment, that’s already playing out: they don’t have a chance of survival against Prince Gillard.”
Carissa reeled from this sudden onslaught of unexpected information. Abramm is at Seven Peaks? That’s only a day away! And Simon is with him? If the morwhol truly was made to kill Abramm and all whom he held dear, as Rhiad claimed, Simon was at much at risk as Carissa, for Abramm had worshipped the man all his life. And with Gillard there, as well, the entire Kalladorne bloodline could be wiped out in two days’ time!
Heron had come up beside Arrow, and now Carissa’s eyes fell upon the mare’s rein tied to the metal loop on the back of Arrow’s saddle. She saw at once it was too tight to undo with her tied hands, but then she noted the knife Rhiad kept in the scabbard on his saddle, forgotten in his haste to save his pet. As she had been forgotten. He was turned half away from her now, his attention—and the morwhol’s—fixed upon the man he argued with.
It’s now or never, Riss! Heart pounding, she nudged Heron up against Arrow. Glancing again at Rhiad, she leaned to the side and closed two fingers on the knife’s hilt. The men’s voices rose. The morwhol yowled. Gingerly she drew the blade out far enough to get her palm around the hilt, then pulled it free and slid it quickly under the reins where they were tied to the ring. But with Heron up against Arrow’s side now, the reins were slack and she had no free hand to pull them taut enough to use the knife effectively. All she could do was press them against the ring and saw.
On the riverbank, Rhiad’s rising fury was only increasing his Mataian brothers’ determination to kill the beast. She wasn’t sure who moved first, but suddenly Rhiad was knocking the pike aside and pushing the man back. The other Mataians exclaimed in outrage, and then all their shouts were obliterated by the morwhol’s mighty roar. Quicker than sight, it crashed into the two men holding the brazier of flames, sending both flying as it pounced upon the fallen brazier and sucked the scarlet flame into its throat. The green eyes glowed briefly red; the nostrils exhaled scarlet vapors as the beast expanded like a bellows. All around, holy men stood transfixed, horrified witnesses of what could not be happening—this monster of shadow should have run from the flames, not consumed them and found strength in them!