Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1) (59 page)

She swallowed another surge of bile and turned back to the door just as
Abramm himself stepped through it, tight lipped and pale. It took only a
glance for her to realize he was furious.

Danarin scrambled to his feet. “Your Highness,” he murmured, bowing
and quickly slipping from the tent.

Abramm let him go without comment, scowling at her as if he were only
now remembering she was here and adding that inconvenience to the burden
of his troubles. Her eyes flicked to the slit neckline of his tunic, and the sight
of the bare, unmarked skin beneath it almost forced a moan of relief from
her.

He looked down too, but at the bundle he carried in his hands-white
satin, a froth of lace, a gleaming curl of white hair. Her relief bled away.

His scowl deepened and he stepped to the inner veil, casting the bundle
onto the pallet beyond. “You shouldn’t have come.” He turned to face her,
brows knit in a dark thundercloud.

“If I could’ve sailed out of Xorofin, believe me, I would’ve.”

“I mean you should never have come at all. Everything you’ve done only
makes things worse.”

The accusation stung the more because she knew-horribly, unforgivably-that it was true. But what else could she have done? Guilt spawned
frustration, and frustration, anger. “Well, I’m sorry, brother? Forgive me for
the unconscionable folly of caring what happens to you?”

He stared at her stonily. “It’s not a matter of caring. It’s thinking you can
do things you have no business doing.” He turned away from her, paced a
step to the veil, and turned back again. “What possible difference did you
think you could make? Did you think to buy me back? Steal me away? A
woman alone, with a boy and two retainers?”

“I had to try something.”

“No, you didn’t! Sometimes it’s better just to accept there are things you
cannot do. You should’ve left me to Eidon or the fates or whatever you want
to call it and gone on with your life.”

She snorted. “I had no life, Abramm.”

“Of course you did! You had your husband-“

“I was a pariah in Balmark!” The words were out before she could stop
them, but once started the rush of anguished truth was impossible to stop.
“Relegated to serving as nanny,” she shrilled, “to the bastard son of a husband
who didn’t care if I lived or died. What did I have to lose?”

He stared at her, his mouth half open, his brow furrowed. Pain flared
across his face and was absorbed. He closed his mouth. “You left him?”

“Let’s just say I was lost at sea.” She turned her gaze aside, watching one
of the sentries move among the ranks of sleeping men outside the tent.

He took to studying his hands and after a moment said, “Well, you can’t
stay here. I’m going to send you back to Hur. At least there-“

“No? I’ve not spent two years searching only to be parted from you now.”

“Carissa, you can’t-“

“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do. It’s one thing out there-it’s
another in here.”

“You have no idea what’s going on here.”

“Oh yes, I think I do.” She hesitated, knowing she was about to tread on
uncertain ground, then said quietly, “Let Meridon do it.”

He went completely stiff, and though he did not look at her, she knew he
understood exactly what she meant. More, she sensed this was not the first
time the prospect had been put to him.

“He’s the Deliverer,” she whispered. “He should be the one to fight their
battles. And in the costume who would know?”

“I … it’s not that simple.”

“Of course it is. You don’t really believe they need you specifically, do
you? They just need someone to wear the costume.”

“But I have a chance of beating him.” He was looking at her now. “If I
left … it would be like running out on them.”

“No. You would be … you would be saving me and returning home to
help your own people. And Meridon is no slouch in the arena. Surely he has
as much chance of defeating him as you.”

When he did not speak, she pressed her point. Abramm, think-think
what you could do if you went home.”

“Home? I’ve been exiled, Riss?”

“Eldrin has been exiled, not Abramm.”

“But Raynen-“

“Hated what he did. It was eating him up. He only sent you away because
of the hold Saeral had over you. And because Gillard pressured him, I think.”
She paused. “You were weak then, as well. But you are not now.”

She had his attention, those startling blue eyes fixed upon her, the look
on his face betraying the fact that he saw the possibilities. Encouraged, she
leaned toward him and began to present her case in earnest.

“He says he’ll clear the south plateau of his men so our people can
watch,” Shemm said, nodding at the slope of rock before them. He lay on his
belly at Abramm’s side, the two of them cradled between sandstone hummocks, in broad daylight and in plain view of Beltha’adi’s sentries posted less
than a stone’s throw away. The amphitheater lay below them, its carved stone
benches ascending halfway up the far red wall, stopping at the point where
the naturally sloping face grew vertical. This early in the afternoon, it stood
empty. Later, that would not be the case.

The wall itself curved around in a bowl shape, facing southwest, making
it the ideal location for the amphitheater. From their present position the two
men could look down both sides of that wall, for the wadi turned sharply
away from them at that point, curving back and around to the great temple,
its carved-out columns and entryway facade flat in the misty light.

Abramm could not look at it without smiling. To have successfully baited
the dragon in his den, not once but twice, made his heart warm with satisfaction. Even better had been the exploit with the veren last night. The chaos
and dismay that spectacle had created made it well worth the trouble of hauling the body from Hur, and the scorch marks still stained the white pan of
the amphitheater’s floor. Even their ploy to get the soldiers to invade
Fah’lon’s villa had worked-though after that, nothing had turned out quite
as planned. Fah’lon’s noble guests, the bait for the trap, had escaped, leaving
no one for the soldiers to arrest. And the gambit had brought Carissa back
into Abramm’s life, which had changed everything.

Grimacing, he returned his thoughts to the issue at hand. “He’ll have men
hidden in the temple,” he said. “Ready to go. And in all the passages under
the amphitheater. Probably in the treasury, as well.”

The king turned his head slightly, dark eyes glittering at him from under
the edge of his headcloth. “So we will do likewise on this side, eh?”

“So much as we are able.” Abramm frowned at the opposite plateau
where the dark figures of patrolling soldiers stood out against the pale sandstone and churning mist. The flanking force Shemm had sent out-at
Abramm’s suggestion-should be just about in place by now. It was a gamble
sending them out, for it reduced the numbers they had to hold the plateau
and launch any sort of offensive toward the Esurhites. But as long as they had
their rear lines covered-Shemm had men guarding all the potential channels
and passages by which Beltha’adi might seek to flank them-Abramm felt
they had an adequate position.

“We’ll be stretched pretty thin, though,” he said.

“Very thin,” Shemm agreed. “Japheth informed me this morning that,
with the arrival of that latest Hundred your informant told us about, he will
outnumber us two to one.”

The informant was Katahn ul Manus, though only Abramm and Trap
knew that. Claiming outrage over losing his valuable slaves, Katahn had
joined Beltha’adi in Jarnek in a bid to retrieve them. In reality, he was playing
a very dangerous game of deceit-one that had recalled to Abramm on more
than one occasion the dire prophecy cast back in Vorta by Katahn’s old priest,
Master Peig. The one about losing everything.

“Maybe even three to one,” Shemm added.

“Good,” Abramm said. “You’ll have more targets to shoot at.”

The dark face came around to him again, flashing a grin. “You think like
a Dorsaddi, my friend, not a northerner.”

“You do not know many northerners, Great One.”

Their eyes met, and the grins faded as Abramm’s words evidently
spawned the same thought in both of them. Abramm turned his attention
back to the amphitheater. “If the Deliverer wins,” he said, “it won’t matter
how many they have. Our man says most of them are already demoralized.”

“Thanks largely to you, Pretender.”

During the two weeks since they’d left Hur, Abramm had come to know
the Dorsaddi king well. They’d hit it off at once, united by the common expe rience of being royalty, of having strikingly similar personalities, and, on
Abramm’s part, by the knowledge that this man was Shettai’s brotherthough they had never spoken of her.

Mostly they spoke of Jarnek and what they planned to do there upon
arrival. In that, Abramm had displayed an affinity for strategy and tactics that
had surprised him-if no one else. Shemm had sent out a call to arms to the
other active Dorsaddi city of Deir, and while they waited for those forces to
arrive, Abramm had counseled-and waged-a war of wit, harassing and
bedeviling the enemy in his own camp in hopes of shaking morale.

It had worked. The men are unnerved, Katahn said in his last communication. They know you are out there and their hearts are melting for fear of you.
Now is the perfect time for the WP to come forward. If Beltha’adi even looks as if
he might lose, they’ll run if you launch a significant attack.

Abramm hoped Katahn was right.

“I think we’ve seen enough,” the king said. He eased back from the edge,
careful to keep below the hummocks. A moment later Abramm followed.
They withdrew to where Trap and Japheth waited, ready with a handful of
others to spring up and shoot should the Esurhite sentries discover the royal
spies in their midst. The group of them descended back into the narrow channel through which they’d emerged, where the sentries also wore Esurhite
gray, though they were not Esurhite.

A growl of thunder rumbled in the distance.

“You’re sure you will not stay?” the king asked as they walked down a
narrow flight of roughly carved stairs. “You know how greatly I have valued
your counsel. And your sword.”

Abramm drew a deep breath. He wanted to stay. That was just it. He
wanted to stay and to go with equal passion. When he had given the costume
back to Shemm this morning, it had surprised him how much he wanted to
wear it one more time, how strongly he coveted this fight. It was the White
Pretender Beltha’adi was challenging, after all. And Abramm was the White
Pretender, not Trap. Abramm carried the royal blood of Kiriath-he should
be the one to represent his House.

Besides, if Beltha’adi was finally going to fight as himself, should not the
Pretender do likewise?

And yet, even before Carissa had arrived, the others had been seeking to
dissuade him. He was no match for the Broho of Brohos, they said, not unless he chose to take the star. Of course they would say that. They all wore the
shieldmark and wanted everyone else to wear it, too. Mephid, in particular,
had pressed him so fiercely he seemed on the verge of putting the talisman in
Abramm’s hand and forcing his fingers around it himself. They had nearly
come to blows over it before Trap intervened.

“You cannot make a man take the star,” he’d scolded.

“But the prophecy said three kings will slay the dragon’s head,” Mephid
had countered. “He must take it.”

Trap cocked a brow. “I thought you said the Deliverer was the one to kill
him.”

All four are apparently involved.”

“Mmm. Or else you’ve misinterpreted.”

Mephid had scowled at him but had not argued.

“In any case, if he refuses it … well, this was known to Sheleft’Ai since
the beginning and taken into account. He must not be the one your prophecy
speaks of”

In point of fact, despite Mephid’s attempt to drag in the prophecy of the
kings, there was considerable evidence that Trap himself was the one. He was,
after all, the Lord Deliverer. Indeed, there would have been no question of
his going had Beltha’adi not specifically demanded that it be the Pretender
who faced him.

And the Pretender had been more than willing to take up the challenge.

Until Carissa had shown up.

Now Abramm drew a deep breath and turned to face the king. “It has
been my privilege to serve you, Great One, but I believe I have done all I can
do here. You’ve made it clear enough that I am not your choice of champion,
and truly you have no real need of my sword in the coming battle should it
go as we hope-even if it doesn’t, my hand would not be the one to turn the
tide.”

And you do not wish your sister to be caught up in any of it. I understand
that, friend. As I understand the call of or’dai.”

Or’dai. Blood right. Vengeance. Justice. He had not given it a thought
until Carissa had brought it up, made him see, suddenly and startlingly, that
he could do it. That it was his right. That he could actually return to Kiriath
and repay Gillard for his deeds. Face-to-face, sword to sword. The moment he had acknowledged it as a possible reality, the desire for it had boiled up,
hot and driving, in his soul.