Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1) (6 page)

Finally, at the age of thirteen, grieving over the unexpected death of his
mother and faced with the prospect of entering Barracks to begin the military
training traditional for a Kalladorne prince, Abramm defied tradition by
renouncing his titles and entering the Guardian Novitiate instead. His family
erupted in a storm of outrage, but he would not be swayed.

He could still recall the feel of the razor sliding over his skull in the initiation ritual on that first day, stripping away his blond locks in a visible sign of
all he had given up: his clothing, his pleasures, his noble titles-all that had
made up his former life. Delighted to exchange Prince Abramm for Eldrin,
he’d felt a fierce, hot joy in his chest, and never had he been so certain he had
made the right choice.

During the next eight years, secluded in Haverall’s Watch, he labored
diligently to conform to Eidon’s standards, careful to observe every commandment, accepting the injustices and harsh disciplines with equanimity,
knowing the pride of royal blood required extra effort to deflate. Sometimes
he even inflicted the disciplines upon himself, for only he knew how flawed
he really was, and he wanted desperately to be found acceptable, to find at
last that which would satisfy the thirst that had driven him since he was
three.

Until a week ago he had been confident he would find it.

Then the doubts began.

Not everyone is suited to this life.

There is no shame in changing one’s mind.

One cannot help the blood one is born with, but one must recognize reality
when one sees it.

The thoughts spawned a fear that he would always be unworthy, no matter how hard he worked. Yet the desire to know Eidon remained, and had
not his teachers assured him such desires were planted by Eidon himself, the
call upon those who would be his servants?

Perhaps his dream had been only a warning that he hadn’t worked hard
enough to purge himself of the extra measure of Kalladorne pride.

A tenuous hope brightened. At dawn, when his penance period ended,
he would go before the Flames to fast and pray and meditate until the final
veil of corruption was stripped from his soul, and he would not leave until it
was done.

The final hour passed with agonizing slowness, but at last the morning
bells rang and he was free. Pulling his ragged Initiate’s mantle from its hook,
he headed straight for the Great Sanctum.

Not having seen the place in the eight years of serving his novitiate, he
was unprepared for its jaw-dropping size, the massive bowl seeming wider,
deeper, and more magnificent than he recalled. Concentric descending levels
encircled a central tiered dais of white marble. In the midst of this lay the
Well of Flames, crimson tongues licking upward in the darkness.

Formed when Eidon’s son, Tersius, had given himself over to death and
transformation outside Xorofin almost a thousand years ago, the Flames
required no oil, no wood, no fuel at all save the sacrifices and purity of the
Guardians sworn to keep them. Though they could not cook a meal nor
warm a weary traveler, they remained Kiriath’s most valuable asset, guarding
her borders against the evil that continually sought egress.

Since Moroq and his rhu’ema could not function in the presence of
Eidon’s Light, it was the Adversary’s intent to wrap the world in arcane
shadow. For centuries a permanent fog had covered the southern deserts, and
even now his servants-men in the form of the great Esurhite armies of the
Black Moon-were slowly spreading it into the lands east of the Sea of Sharss
and northward toward Kiriath. Without her Guardians to keep the Flames
alive, Kiriath would be swallowed up like the others, no matter how great her
army or her king.

Removing his sandals at the door, Eldrin descended into the silence. The
aura of the Flames’ ancient power rippled across his flesh with an eerie sense
of awareness, as if the eye of Eidon himself watched him as he approached.

At the lowest level he knelt behind the guardrail of the white marble
moat and gazed into the living, leaping fingers of flame, five strides away and
towering above him. Scarlet, russet, and crimson danced around deeper tones
of purple and royal blue, a never-ending metamorphosis of shape and line and
color that snared the eye and drew the mind into their depths. “The depths,” said the Second Word, “of Eidon himself.”

“Your Light is my refuge,” Eldrin murmured. “Your Words are my sustenance. Your Name is my joy….”

“Eldrin?”

The voice startled him, then pierced his heart in a flood of memories. He
leapt up to face the man who had come up beside him-and faltered in
uncertainty. Dressed in the standard linen robe and mantle of any mid-level,
rank-and-file Guardian, the man wore no ornamentation save the softly glowing amulet at his throat. Nothing indicated exalted rank; the usual wrist cords
were missing altogether. His cowl hung in limp folds around his shoulders,
baring a head of silver hair and a wrinkled, pleasant face.

“It is you?” the man cried, smiling broadly. Again the voice struck chords
of memory, and the smile finally confirmed them.

“Master Saeral?” Eldrin breathed, delighted, wonderstruck, and wary all
at once. Though Saeral had been Eldrin’s mentor and teacher eight years ago,
he was now High Father, while Eldrin held the lowest of Mataian ranks. He
had no right even to look directly at this man, much less speak to him.

Uncertain how to conduct himself, Eldrin settled on averting his eyes and
stepping back. He would have gone to his knees again, but Saeral stopped
him.

“Leave off with that, dear boy. There’s no one here but us. And I want to
have a look at you.”

Eldrin lifted his face as the man seized his arms and realized with surprise
that another reason he had not recognized his old friend besides the premature aging-was because Saeral seemed to have shrunk. Formerly, Eldrin
had looked up to him; now he looked down, head and shoulders taller.

Saeral was surprised, too. “Such height you’ve gained! Though come to
think of it, you were all legs when last I saw you.” His gray eyes shone; his
hands squeezed Eldrin’s shoulders affectionately. “You have done well, my
son. Belmir can’t say enough good things about you.” He paused, eyeing
Eldrin shrewdly. “I trust you have not taken yesterday’s events to heart. You
were the victim, not the cause, you know.”

Eldrin did not know what to say.

Saeral smiled. “I’ve heard all about it, including Captain Meridon’s
clumsy attempts at proselytizing. Surely you haven’t let that Terstan get to
you? Not after all those years of enduring your brother.”

“No, sir, of course not.”

“Then why are you down here on your knees before you’ve even broken
your fast? Was not your penance to end at dawn?”

Something about this man had always broken through Eldrin’s natural
reserve, so that now, as on countless occasions before, he found himself blurting out his troubles, telling about the vision and his concern about his
worthiness and the fact that he had not yet felt Eidon’s touch during meditations. To his dismay, an expression of alarm flickered across Saeral’s face at
this last, but it vanished so swiftly that a moment later Eldrin was unsure
he’d seen it at all. He concluded with his supposition that the vision had been
a warning of his need to work harder at purging the pride of his blood.

And that’s why I’ve come,” Eldrin finished. “I mean to fast and pray and
meditate until I find him. Or they have to carry me away.”

Again Saeral looked surprised; then he smiled. “Your devotion has always
been a wonder to me, lad, and Eidon has noticed. He will come.” He
squeezed Eldrin’s shoulders again, then released him and stepped back. “You
have pleased me more than you can know. I look forward to the day when
you join us in union with the Flames.”

A thrill of anticipation danced up Eldrin’s back. He nodded, and Saeral
answered with a nod of his own.

“His Light be with you, Eldrin.”

`And with you, Father.”

In three strides the man had passed through a curtained doorway set
under the second tier-one of four leading into the vesting rooms and private
chambers of the high-ranking Guardians who led the rituals of service.

Buoyed by Saeral’s confidence and more determined than ever to attain
his goal, Eldrin settled to his knees again, bowed his head, and murmured,
“Eidon, Almighty One, lay my doubts to rest. You know I long for you.
Please. Touch me with your goodness. Let me know you have accepted me.”

He looked into the Flames and let them swallow him up as he began the
liturgy, the familiar words tumbling out in a soft, mesmerizing rhythm.

A bell tolled in the distance, then stopped. People moved around him,
rustling at the edges of his awareness, driving him ever more deeply into the
Flame and the passion of his desire. Like the bell, the people went away, too.
Occasionally pain shot up from his knees and hunger gnawed at his stomach.
His throat ached; his voice grew hoarse. He put the sensations down, sacrific ing his discomfort and weakness to his need. His body trembled, swayed. He
held it up with force of will, weeping, pleading, beseeching with all the
power of his soul.

And then it happened.

The scent of roasting grain tickled his nose as a cold pressure enfolded his
body, an eerie sense of otherness crackling with energy. Gooseflesh prickled
the back of his neck, and he squirmed, feeling suddenly, horribly like a fly in
a spider’s web, about to be cocooned in silk. Coldness seeped into his skin.
He gritted his teeth as the ethereal embrace tightened. Rising fear and revulsion banged his heart against his chest, rapid-fire beats that powered the
blood into throat and temples. His breath quickened; his hands clenched the
railing.

Then he flinched, crying out as a cold tongue of inhuman awareness slid
into his soul, and terrified aversion erupted like molten rock.

The tendril withdrew as swiftly as it had entered and the cold pressure on
his skin vanished with it, leaving him sick and shuddering. Head swimming,
he sagged forward, bracing his brow against the rail as he gasped back his
breath and fought the rising gorge in his throat.

Gradually his pulse slowed and the nausea in his gut subsided. He sat
back on his heels, the Flames leaping before him, and slowly understood: the
god in the Flame had touched him. At long last, his years of labor and yearning had borne fruit. He should feel euphoric and triumphant. Instead, it was
as if the invading tendril had taken all his emotion, leaving only flat, shocked
emptiness.

Eidon has finally touched you, Eldrin told himself as he went looking for
Belmir. That’s all that matters. He’s touched you. The feelings of revulsion and
fear were clearly another manifestation of his deep-seated unworthinesswhich explained why he had not been touched sooner. All-knowing Eidon
would have realized he couldn’t have handled it, might even have been
driven from the Brotherhood by the shock of it coming before he was ready.

Now he understood what even a month ago he might not have: it wasn’t
so much revulsion he’d felt but the keen awareness of the gulf, the incompatibility between himself and a being ineffably not human. Naturally his pride
would find such power threatening. Next time would be better.

He found Belmir emerging from a meeting with the other Initiate disci-
plers on the second floor of the library. Seeing Eldrin, the older man guessed
immediately what had happened.

“You found him,” he said, drawing Eldrin aside as the other Guardians
flowed around them and down the hall to the stairway.

Eldrin nodded, smiling.

The older man clapped his shoulder affectionately. “I never doubted you
would. Just as I don’t doubt you’ll make a fine Guardian.” He pushed his
spectacles up his nose and glanced down the hall. “We’ve decided to postpone the Initiation. The boys trapped on the barge have only just arrived.
We’re hoping three days will get everyone settled down. The Procession will
have to be redone, but the Festival of Arms will have begun by then, so the
crowds shouldn’t be as large.”

“Will I be able to participate this time?”

Belmir smiled up at him. A touchy subject. But most are agreed that the
best way to deal with this nonsense about your taking the throne is to ignore
it.,,

“I should sign a letter of abdication,” Eldrin mused. “Take myself back out
of the line of succession.”

‘A good idea, though I’m not sure even that would satisfy. It will take
years of nothing happening before people believe it. And I imagine some
won’t until you’re in your grave.” He sighed in exasperation. “Well, I have an
audience with the High Father. I will bring him your good news. The other
Initiates are at choir practice in the Chapel of St. Elspeth. You can join them
there.”

“Yes, Master.”

But before Eldrin reached the chapel, a stubble-headed, first-year acolyte
accosted him, waving the large introduction card of a nobleman.