Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1) (12 page)

Finally he stood back, relief making him want to laugh aloud. Meridon
was wrong? It was a trick!

He was about to leave when it occurred to him he had not checked the
wardrobe. Hadn’t Meridon said something about a secret panel? Renewed
uneasiness fluttered in his middle. For a moment he tried to talk himself out
of it-he’d been here too long already. Soon the men who would lead the
evening worship service would be arriving to prepare. He ought to go before
he was discovered.

But he was here now, and it would make all he had done so far a waste if
he did not make absolutely sure. Grimly he set the candle on the bench and
opened the wardrobe.

The panel behind the ranks of robes had no handle, but it slid aside easily
under his touch, revealing a narrow stone stairway curving down into the
darkness. Sick with dread, he went back for the candle, then pressed through
the robes. The candlelight flickered over walls and steps hewn from solid
rock-yet with a veneer as smooth and slick as ice. Dark, tentacled masses
clung to the ceiling a little way down, but he did not lift the candle to inspect
them. A cold draft, heavy with animal odor, pressed against his face, lifting
his hair from his cheeks. His stomach twisted. Hot wax dripped onto his
hand.

The last thing he wanted to do was go down that stairway.

Reaching back, he pulled the wardrobe doors shut, then, with a breath of
resolve, started forward. Three steps later a wild, unthinking panic gripped
him, paralyzing his limbs, pushing back at him with physical force. The candle guttered and the flame shrank to a mere glow at the wick’s end.

Go back. Go back. Go back.

The stench of evil was undeniable.

He swallowed hard, fought to wrest his trembling legs under control, and
by sheer force of will pressed onward.

The terror eased as he descended. The stair spiraled down, the footing slick and treacherous, the walls so close they often brushed his shoulders.
Before long he found himself fighting another fear as he grew ever more
aware of the tons of rock over his head. Grimly he kept on until the stairway
emptied into a small, low-ceilinged landing. Two doorways led off left and
right. He chose right and soon came to a short stair ascending to a curtained
opening.

Warily he pushed aside the curtain. A blast of icy air roiled out at him,
fogging his breath and setting the candle flame flickering.

He ventured over the threshold, the light held out before him. Across
from him stood a low couch, carved of black tegwood and cushioned with
black velvet. A small silver casket rested on a tegwood table at one end, lid
pushed back. Its black satin heart lay empty, but the jewel-inlaid runes on the
side of the box raised the hairs on the back of his neck. They were not
Mataian devices, nor Kiriathan. They most reminded him of ancient symbols
of evil associated with the dark rituals practiced by the barbarians of the
north.

Shivering with the intense cold, he turned slowly, playing his light over
the niche carved into the glasslike stone to the right. A portrait hung there,
hidden in the shadow. He stepped closer, lifting the candle-and nearly
dropped it when he recognized the face staring out at him from the gilded
frame. It was his own, though very much younger, back before he’d entered
the Mataio.

And it was unfinished. He remembered this portrait-how he’d hated sitting for it, and how, adding insult to injury, the picture had disappeared just
before completion. He had suspected Gillard, the prank being typical of
those his brother used to play on him. Another portrait had been made, of
course-another six months of having to sit-and that one had not disappeared. Eventually the incident was forgotten.

He stared at it now, hardly able to believe his eyes, struggling to accept
the implications its presence here carried. Surely Saeral had not stolen it.
Perhaps he had found it, had …

His gaze fell to the silver tray on the ledge beneath it. Three rings rested
within a curl of golden hair-one sapphire, one ruby, one a pure gold band.
His rings-given up along with his hair when he had entered the Mataio.

What were they doing here?

What was this room?

Or rather, whose?

But he knew the answer to that question, and it was a knowledge he did
not want.

“Saeral has been using you from the day he met you….”

Eldrin turned abruptly from the niche, letting his feeble light play over
the opposite wall. More of the arcane runes had been inscribed into the glassy
surface, reflecting the candlelight in a dance of fractured golden lines. He did
not know what it was, but he knew that it was evil.

His stomach clenched, and he nearly vomited. Unable to bear the icy,
stifling atmosphere another moment, he whirled and pushed through the
heavy curtain. His sandals slapped against the cold obsidian floor as he hurried back to the landing and the way out. By then he was in a full-scale panic,
gasping out low, tremulous moans, his heart galloping against his ribs. He did
not think of the possibility of running into someone, did not think of anything
at all save the need of escape, of breaking free from this stifling, frigid world.

He scrambled up the narrow, twisting stairway, slipping on the treacherous treads and dropping the candle in his haste. It rolled back down the stair,
but he did not stop to retrieve it, climbing the stair with hands and feet in
frantic ascent. His robe kept tripping him, and he hit his head on the low
ceiling more than once. The walls brushed his shoulders, closing about him
like the gullet of some hideous monster.

By the time he stumbled back into the wardrobe, his breath came in great
tearing rasps and his legs would hardly support him. He stumbled out into
the shadowed room, which, after the tarry blackness of the stair, seemed
light. His leg caught on a robe and jerked it free of its hook and out onto the
floor. Pausing, he struggled to fight back from the mindless state of his panicked flight. With trembling hands he closed the back panel, hung up the
robe, and secured the wardrobe’s front doors. Then he turned—

And froze in his tracks, surprise driving the breath out of him. Rhiad
stood in the doorway, watching him calmly.

Eldrin’s first impulse was to turn and scramble back through the wardrobe, but that would only lead him to that horrid room again-or worse.
Besides, Rhiad had the advantage of knowing his way around down there,
while Eldrin did not.

“The High Father requires your presence in his chambers,” Rhiad said
softly. “I will take you there.” He stepped back into the hall, gesturing for
Eldrin to precede him.

Shaking inwardly, his knees so weak he could barely move, Eldrin walked
from the room. Rhiad stepped immediately to his side, closing a hand on his
arm to steer him down the corridor and into the Sanctum. The great bowl
stood empty now, most Mataians at their evening meal. Wordlessly, Rhiad
propelled him up the long stair, across the outer foyer, and up a second set of
stairs to the High Father’s chambers.

Waved through by the secretary, they stepped into a spacious chamber,
paneled with oak along one side, lined with narrow, mullioned windows along
the other. A wide receiving area preceded a raised dais at the room’s far end,
where stood a massive desk and chair. Saeral stood with two aides in the
receiving area beside the dark, well-swept fireplace, watching as an Initiate
Brother lit the last of the several candelabra in the room.

As Eldrin and Rhiad entered, Saeral turned, his gaze falling upon Eldrin.
Sorrow lengthened his handsome face, and Eldrin cringed automatically,
beset with a sense of guilty remorse in spite of everything. Rhiad stopped him
in front of the High Father, but no one spoke until the Initiate Brother and the two aides had left, the door latching quietly behind them.

Even then for a long moment Saeral merely looked at him, the familiar,
beloved face as gentle as ever, carrying that indefinable cast of saintliness. As
the gray eyes looked into his own, he could feel the compassion, the goodness
and light in this man. Suddenly it was impossible to believe he could have
anything to do with that awful room below.

Saeral sighed. “Eldrin, Eldrin, Eldrin. What am Ito do with you?”

Eldrin had no answer for that.

Saeral turned and walked to the candelabra beside the fireplace, straightening one of the candles that listed in its holder. “You know the vesting rooms
are off limits. Now you will not be able to participate in the Initiation ceremony. And I was so looking forward to seeing you finally confirmed.”

He turned back, shaking his head. “Still, I cannot lay all the blame at your
feet. You are but a boy, and only an Initiate at that. I should have known
better than to let you go to the palace.” He caught Eldrin’s gaze again. “I want
you to know that I did not kill your father. Or your brothers. You know me,
Eldrin. You know I did not do it.”

Eldrin believed him completely. It was impossible, unthinkable not to.
Yes, he knew this man, trusted him, loved him. He could never-neverhave committed such an atrocity.

“Nor,” Saeral said, breaking eye contact and settling into the chair at his
side, “do I have any intention of putting you on the throne. The idea is ludicrous. You must believe that.”

“I do, Master.” And suddenly, overcome with shame, he could not look at
the man a moment longer. What had he been thinking? How could he have
doubted? He stared at the carpet, swallowing at the sudden tightness in his
throat.

“You have some idea now, I think,” Saeral said, “just how powerful-and
dangerous-our enemy can be.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Knowing is not enough, though. You still lack the power to stand against
them. You will lack it until the Flames live in your heart. And now …” He
sighed again. “Well, we do not know how long it will be before that can
happen. You must do a penance. It will have to be severe.”

Eldrin said nothing, his chest tight and hot. He had served many a penance, but this would be beyond anything he had yet suffered. He hoped
he could survive it.

But Saeral did not pronounce the punishment just yet. Instead he gestured for Eldrin to sit, not in the adjoining chair but on the carpet at his feet.

Eldrin did so eagerly, desperate to show his repentance and remorse.

“Now, my son,” the Father said, “tell me about it. What did they send you
to find down there?”

Burning with shame, Eldrin studied his clasped fingers. A … a room,” he
said in small, choked voice. A room that would prove…” He swallowed
past the constriction in his throat. “Prove you were what they said you were.”

And did you find this room? This proof?” Saeral’s voice was mild,
unaccusing.

Eldrin thought of that dark, awful cubicle, with its portrait and the curl
of blond hair, and the evil runes on the wall, and in an instant his good feelings vanished, snuffed out like a candle flame. Suddenly his newly gained
knowledge rushed back into his awareness, blotting out any notion of Saeral’s
innocence, assuring him he was in grave danger. He felt the coldness even
here, a thick, stifling sense of presence, not unlike the thing that had touched
him in the Sanctum, pretending to be Eidon, but not. Fear bloomed in his
breast.

“Eldrin? Look at me now?”

The command lifted his head and brought his gaze into line with Saeral’s
before the words had time to register. He was vaguely aware of the amulet
on Saeral’s throat blazing scarlet, but then the sense of warm comfort and
safety returned to him, melting away all fear.

And what did you see in that room?” Saeral asked him.

“I saw…” He frowned remembering it all still, but as through a curtain
of gauze. “I saw a dark cell … with a portrait of myself … my signet rings
and evil markings on the wall. And an open casket.”

Saeral nodded, tapping his lip with a finger. “Very inventive of him. He’s
good, I’ll give him that.” He fell silent, and after giving Eldrin time to mull
those words said, “None of it was real, of course. You saw only what Meridon
wanted you to see. He must have cast a spell over you while you were at the
palace that blossomed when you had found the room.”

“Yes, of course.” That surely explained it. Though he could not at all
remember when Meridon might have done such a thing.

“You’re sure he gave you nothing?”

That question again? But Eldrin considered carefully before finally shaking his head. “Nothing, Master.”

Saeral hmphed, then stood. “Well, you’d better see what it was you really
found. Come along, lad.”

Together they descended back into the Sanctum, passing through the
vesting chambers to a simple door opening onto a perfectly normal stairway
lined with walls of mortared stone. At the bottom lay the now familiar intersection, but this time the short stair led to a curtained meditation cell. Like
all the rest, its walls were simple stone and mortar with a single niche of holy
flame. It stood empty save for an old straw pallet. No dark casket, no portrait,
no curl of hair.