Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1) (17 page)

Anger hardened into resolve. Do nothing, indeed! Not on your life, Raynen
Kalladorne.

Clad only in iron manacles and the collar that chained him to his immediate neighbors, Eldrin stood resolutely on the dirty beach at Qarkeshan,
lined up with hundreds of fellow captives for the pre-auction inspection.
While the morning sun seared parts of his body never before exposed to its
light, well-dressed buyers of all nationalities strolled past him under fabric
shades borne by attendants.

There were Thilosians in their eye-clashing layers of brightly colored
clothing; sedate, white-robed Qarkeshanians; Andolens in their distinctive
beehive hats; long-faced Draesians; leather-clad Chesedhans; Sorites from
beyond the headwaters of the great Okaido River; and most numerous of all,
the sour-faced, mahogany-skinned Esurhites.

Gold-pierced and ritually scarred, the Esurhite lords wore their dark,
long-sleeved, hip-length tunics in defiance of the heat and studied the proffered humanity lined out before them with shrewd dark eyes.

Seeking new warriors for their insatiable games of combat, they hardly
spared Eldrin a glance. And rightly so-four weeks of seasickness, intense
emotional turmoil, and maggot-infested biscuits had reduced his already slender frame to skeletal proportions, rendering him unsuitable for their purposes. An odd thing to be thankful for, perhaps, but he was thankful, his
ravaged spirit clinging to this small indication that Eidon might not have
abandoned him after all.

It was a curious thing to stand completely naked before the cool dispassion of these lookers, to be pinched and prodded like a bullock, to have foul tasting fingers thrust into his mouth, his eyelids pulled back, his face swiveled
back and forth, his earlobes yanked. He had no idea what the earlobe yanking
was about, but it was not his place to ask, to say anything, in fact. Thankful
he was prodded less frequently than the other slaves, he could only stand and
let them touch whatever they wished.

He did so with unexpected detachment, as if it were happening to someone else, as if he were not participating but merely watching. And there was
much to watch. If not the myriad buyers, then the great Bay of Salama
behind them, teeming with the maritime traffic of scores of nations. From the
tall, three-masted sailing ships of the north to the narrow, sharp-prowed galleys of the windless south to the tiny coracles of the local oystermen, they
careened about the bay, a riot of flags and sails and flashing oars dancing
above the turquoise water.

Eldrin exercised his mind trying to identify them and was entertained by
the frequent near misses and occasional collisions, the arrival and departure
of various vessels, the setting and reefing of sails, and most fascinating of all,
the coordinated strokes of the galleys’ banks of oars rising and falling in perfect unison to propel their vessels across the water at startling speeds.

Just now he watched one such vessel, a lean dart of silver and black, flash
across the water, heedless of the craft it sent scuttling out of the way. Official
or not, the galleys had right-of-way by virtue of their superior speed and seaworthiness-only the tall sailing ships had the bulk to inspire them to caution.

The rhythmic pump of the oars slowed, and then, all at once, every sweep
lifted in perfect accord, held high in the air as the vessel’s momentum carried
it onward. Another flash and the oars dropped into the water. The craft
slowed dramatically, the off side of oars stood up again, and it eased neatly
against a slot along the pier jutting out from the quay to Eldrin’s left. It was
a competent piece of maneuvering, and he marveled that so many menslaves at that-could work in such flawless concert.

A group of Esurhite noblemen had been slowly making their way down
the line toward him while the galley docked, but he had expected them to
pass him by like all the others. Realizing one had stopped before him, he
startled from his musings in mild alarm. And when he saw the look of keeneyed interest in the man’s face, the alarm turned to fear.

The man was shorter by a head than Eldrin himself but lean and hard, with a powerful chest and shoulders and an aggressive thrust to his chin.
Black hair, liberally threaded with white, was pulled back tightly into a nape
knot, accentuating the pockmarked face and parrotlike nose. A crescentshaped scar gleaming on one cheekbone marked him a member of the aristocratic Brogai caste, and the line of gold honor rings glittering up the side of
his left ear bespoke a past steeped in violence.

Undoubtedly he was a Gamer.

Brows narrowed, he looked at Eldrin’s face intently, tapping his lips with
a broad, scar-webbed hand. One of his two companions joined him, a
younger version of himself with a mustache and only two rings in his ear. The
newcomer glanced at Eldrin, then turned astonished eyes upon his-
father?-muttering in their harsh southlander tongue, his tone clearly questioning.

The Esurhite lord replied, and a chill shot up Eldrin’s spine when he
heard the word Kalladorne sandwiched among syllables of gibberish. Frowning, the younger man offered an argument punctuated with a drag of sharp
knuckles across Eldrin’s prominent ribs. He then went on to grab Eldrin’s
hand, gesturing toward the smooth skin on its palm, and pointed finally to
the scribe’s callus on the middle finger. His father continued to tap his lips,
then made another suggestion. It only triggered another round of knuckle
dragging and pinching, the son’s derisive tone igniting a dull warmth of
resentment in Eldrin’s breast.

When he’d finished, the older man grabbed Eldrin’s chin, forcing his face
to one side, studying the profile, explaining further to his companion, and
again that Kalladorne, oddly accented but clear enough, leapt out among the
foreign words. His chin jerked back around, Eldrin found himself staring into
the man’s hard dark eyes. Memories of Saeral burst into his mind, riding a
gale of wild panic that drove him reflexively backward, wrenching free of the
man’s grip.

The two Esurhites stared at him in surprise. Then the elder’s low voice
spoke rapidly, and he smiled, his expression bright with interest.

Instantly Eldrin realized how his action had been taken-not as panic, but
as aggression and pride-the last impression he wanted to give to men who
might be considering his aptitude for fighting.

The man seemed on the verge of decision when the third member of his
group arrived-a slight, strong figure, dressed in the same loose tunic and breeches as the younger man of the group, only this one was … a woman.
Eldrin regarded her in surprise, not only because she wore a man’s clothing
and went with her face unveiled in a culture that punished such scandalous
behavior with death, but because her honey-colored features were startlingly
beautiful. High cheekbones, full lips, dark, long-lashed eyes with a hint of
almond shape.

The younger man spoke rapidly to her, and those lovely eyes flicked
Eldrin’s way, then narrowed as she snorted with obvious derision. Astonishingly it pierced him to the core, smiting him with the awareness that he wore
not a stitch. For the first time that morning he felt gut-clenching, throatclosing mortification. The sea breeze became suddenly cold, taunting his
nakedness, and he was beset with the compulsion to turn away, cover himself,
sink into the sand while the hot blood rushed into his face.

Meanwhile the old champion apparently related his suspicions about
Eldrin’s Kalladorne extraction, pointing to his blond hair, his brow and nose,
and maybe his eyes, blue as the sky in a land where most were earth brown.

The woman regarded him more thoughtfully now, a crease between her
slim brows. She, too, dragged a knuckle down his ribs, felt his skinny arms,
picked up a hand and ran cool fingers over the scribing callus. Her voice was
as riveting as her eyes, soft and fluid, the Tahg rolling melodically off her
tongue.

She dropped his hand, evidently offering her conclusion as the younger
man nodded approval. Her utter disdain galled again, mingling with Eldrin’s
still-choking embarrassment to trigger an eruption of the scalding selfcontempt he had come to know well in recent weeks. Why shouldn’t she
dismiss him? He was a weak, spineless, jelly of a man.

In the end the master was dissuaded, shrugging in sudden capitulation and
continuing down the line. Eldrin stared at his feet bitterly, nursing that old,
impotent desire to prove them all wrong-to be something besides the weak
nothing he had become.

He blinked and brought himself up. Are you mad? If they’d done anything
but dismiss you, you’d be sleeping in one of those galleys out there tonight.

He permitted himself a sigh of relief, and gradually his frantic heart
slowed. Deliberately ignoring the Esurhites lest he inspire second thoughts,
he watched a tall figure in yellow and green stride down the line toward him.
Jewels winked from the man’s fingers and nose, and gold chains piled his chest. A Thilosian in all his gaudy array, he walked rapidly, as if searching for
something specific he did not expect to find, trailed by a set of bored retainers.

He passed Eldrin with hardly a look, passed the Esurhites, now discussing
a much brawnier specimen some three men down. Eldrin returned his gaze
to the sea, and suddenly the Thilosian was back, stopping in front of him,
gesturing at the nearest of his retainers.

Another inspection got under way-hands first, the scribing callus
rubbed, the skin examined closely, then teeth, eyes, and the inevitable earlobe check.

“Haeka t’a dow,” the trader murmured.

Of all the languages here, Thilosian was the one Eldrin halfway understood. Turn him around. Seized by sudden inspiration, he obeyed the command before anyone could touch him, gratified by the murmur of surprise
drawn from the men now at his back.

“You speak the tongue of truth?” the Thilosian asked.

“Tyi,” Eldrin replied, turning to face him again-a risky move that fortunately went unpunished. He continued in the same tongue. “I can read and
write, too.”

“Indeed?” Cold black eyes regarded him from a narrow face that betrayed
not a hint of emotion. Then the man snorted and stalked away, not even
looking at the other slaves now.

Eldrin watched him till the trader was out of sight, a vague hope kindling
within him.

Then he noticed the Esurhite Gamer studying him again. As their eyes
met, a dagger of fear pierced Eldrin’s heart, and he looked away. Thankfully
the woman drew the man’s attention back to the object of their current consideration, and Eldrin was forgotten.

His thoughts returned to the Thilosian and the vague hope evolved into
possibility. Suppose the man purchased Eldrin as a scribe and brought him
back to Thilos? Eldrin’s aunt was queen there. If she were to learn of Eldrin’s
plight, she would certainly see him freed…. Then he could return to Kiriath
and deal with Saeral.

It made a tidy, logical sequence of events. A way of deliverance, perhaps.

Once he would have regarded the possibility with excitement, full of confidence it would be fulfilled because he knew Eidon, knew his word, knew himself to be worthy of his promises. Now he wondered if he knew anything
at all.

The last few weeks had seen him plunged into a crisis of faith unlike any
he’d ever known. As his body reclined in the darkness of the hold, a far more
powerful darkness had fought for the dominion of his soul. He’d been wild
with emotion at first, furious with his brothers and tortured by bitter selfcontempt for his own weakness. A weakness that seemed all encompassing.
He was a fool, an incompetent, and a coward all at once.

The worst of it was that for the first time in his life, he found no comfort
in his faith. His faith, like his life, had been shattered by betrayal. Now the
long-troubling doubts swept through him like a firestorm, and truths he
might once have easily put aside refused to be denied.

The High Father of all the Mataio, the so-called Hand and Voice of Eidon,
was indwelt by a minion of Moroq. He said praise and made sacrifices to the
very Flames that were supposed to drive his kind out of the land. What could
that mean, Eldrin had thought in those early days, but that the Mataio was
not of Eidon?

But if it was not Eidon’s, what was? The power of the Terstans? Power
free for the asking that destroyed the very flesh and minds of those who carried it? Impossible.

Or perhaps truth lay with some obscure faith from a faraway land. Or
was it that Eidon did not exist at all? That the attempts to know and serve
him were but the products of simple minds and cowardly hearts, as his uncle
had always claimed.

But Eldrin could not accept that, either, and for days-weeks-his
thoughts ran round and round, turning on each other, swallowing each other,
contradictions upon contradictions, all without conclusion. Finally, exhausted
and frustrated, he stopped thinking at all. And some time after that, he came
back to the shreds of his longest-held beliefs. That Eidon must exist-else,
where did all creation come from? That he must be good to balance the obvious evil in the world. That he must somehow be knowable-else, why would
men seek to know him?