Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1) (63 page)

The light faded. Abramm still sat in the cistern, the red-and-ochre walls
curving around him, Carissa breathing deeply at his side. He stared at his
empty palm, then hesitantly fingered back the flaps on the neck slit of his
tunic.

Glinting in the flesh over his heart lay a small golden shield.

He touched a tentative finger to the mark; it felt smooth and hard, slightly
tender to the touch. As he rubbed it, Eidon’s Light rippled through himbright, clean, crystal tones that warmed his soul and recalled to mind that
wonderful presence.

Eidon.

No question. No doubts, no cold queasiness. This was what he had sought
for all his life.

Suddenly he saw the purpose in all that had happened to him. Not only
in his having been delivered from Saeral’s plans for possessing him-twicebut all the rest of it: the pain, the grief, the humiliation, and seeming desertions. It had taken no less to shake him loose of his pride, to clear away all
the false notions to which he had clung so he could at last see the truth. It
was all-and this was the supreme irony-an answer to prayer.

Eidon, please! I want only to know you.

And so you shall.

He stroked the mark again, wonder welling up within him. Had there
been an altar at which he could worship, he would have flung himself before
it in gratitude. But the altar, it seemed, lay in his soul now, a core of light and
life he sensed would demand far more of him than the mere bending of the
knee.

An answer to prayer, and much more.

Memories ran through his mind, incidents along every step of this journey
he’d made-from the Holy Keep in Springerlan, to the galley ships of Katahn, to the Val’Orda, to this broken cistern deep in the Land of Shadow. He saw,
as never before, the hand that had guided his path, protected and preserved
him to this moment-not merely so he might know the Almighty, but so he
might serve him as well.

He released a long, slow breath as conviction took hold of him.

The White Pretender was Eidon’s creation, not Abramm’s-a beacon of
light and hope held out to a people who walked in darkness, inspiring those
who longed for freedom and truth, reproaching those who exalted Khrell.
From his first day in the Games, the Pretender had ridden the winds of destiny, slaying with ease the man who played the part of invincible Supreme
Commander in symbolic affirmation of the dire prophecy that had been
shrilled out before the match began.

Coincidence?

Even at the time he had sensed it was not. And though his defiance of
Beltha’adi’s claims of divine mandate had sprung more from anger and the
pleasure he took in baiting the man than from any loyalty to Eidon, Eidon
had used it, fulfilling purposes Abramm hadn’t begun to understand.

Beltha’adi understood, though. Trap might be the Dorsaddi Deliverer, but
the Pretender was the wasp that stung the emperor to madness, the person
around whom the conflict turned. That was why he had to be slain, publicly
if possible, and why Beltha’adi had asked for him rather than the Deliverer.
If he learned the man he was to face today was not the one he wanted, it
would be a great victory. The Pretender would be called a coward, proving
by his flight the truth of Beltha’adi’s claims of invincibility.

Chilled, he sat forward. I have to go back.

Immediately he was beset with memories of all the Terstans he’d seen die
in the ring-broken, humiliated, tortured-and of Trap’s assertion to Mephid
only this morning that a man did not come to Eidon’s power full able to use
it. Even if Abramm took the star today, he’d said, he would in no way be
prepared to face Beltha’adi’s magic.

Yet the conviction remained. I must go back and face him.

But if he did, he would surely die.

The conviction only grew stronger.

But what of Carissa? He couldn’t leave her here. She’d have to go with
him.

The thought stopped. What was he thinking? Neither of them was going anywhere. My Lord, if you truly do want me to go back, you’re going to have to
get me out of this cistern first.

The answer came immediately, so startling, so unbelievably easy that he
shouted with excitement and bounded to his feet. Disturbed by his sudden
movement, Carissa stirred and moaned, but he had eyes only for the wall in
front of him.

“What’s happening?” Carissa’s voice came low and gravelly behind him.
“What’s wrong?”

“I can see the slit,” he cried, moving toward it. More precisely he saw
where the wall shimmered and wobbled, betraying the illusion’s presence.
When he put a hand on it, it felt as solid as ever on first brush. Pressing
harder, though, his fingers sank into it.

“You can?” His words had taken time to penetrate his sister’s sleep-fog,
but now excitement flooded her voice as she leaped up beside him. “Is it
fading, then?”

She touched the wall, then turned to him, flushed and eager. Her eyes fell
at once on the shieldmark, gleaming between the edges of his tunic. They
fixed there, round and wide as the eager flush drained off into whiteness.
“Holy Haverall!” she whispered. “What have you done?” Her eyes climbed
to meet his own. “What have you done, Abramm?”

“What I should have done a long time ago.”

She staggered back from him, then collapsed onto the sand before he
could catch her, staring again at the mark on his chest and shaking her head.
Tears glittered in her eyes. “How could you? How could you have done this?”

He crouched before her and seized her hands, but she jerked them away.
“Riss, you don’t understand. It’s not at all as we’ve been taught. It really is
the mark of Eidon.”

She just kept staring at it, shaking her head as the tears rolled down her
cheeks. “You’ve ruined everything.”

“No, I haven’t. This isn’t like what it was with the Mataio. This is truth.
It’s what I’ve looked for all my life.”

She didn’t seem to be listening, or if she was, she didn’t believe him.
Words, he realized, were not going to reach her. Maybe actions would.

He stood and turned back to the wall. Trap had pulled him through two
similar illusions outside Xorofin. Could he pull Carissa through this one now?
He was new to this power. What if he lacked the strength or wit or whatever it took to get her through with him? What if he pulled her right into the
stone? For that matter, what if he lacked the strength to get through all by
himself, let alone with her?

He had to believe that wouldn’t happen. But perhaps he ought to test it
first.

He pushed his fingers into the rock again, drew them out, took a deep
breath, and plunged forward. As before, it was just like walking through a
screen of cold lard.

The slit stood empty and silent on the other side. As he suspected, the
illusion worked both ways. Cooper wouldn’t have known they were trapped
or what had happened. But it looked like he’d gone back for help in any case.
Abramm’s sword, which Rhiad had earlier pitched away, gleamed in the
shadow along the wall, and he stooped to pick it up. Then, with one more
glance around, he pushed back into the cistern.

He expected Carissa to be suitably impressed by his seemingly miraculous
feat and hopefully a little more receptive to the change in him. But she sat
with knees drawn up, arms folded upon them, forehead braced on arms. She
didn’t appear to know he’d even left. Her shoulders heaved and her breath
sobbed, and suddenly it annoyed him.

“Oh, stop,” he snapped, sliding the blade back into its scabbard. “It’s not
as if I’ve died.”

“It is as far as I’m concerned,” she said to her lap.

“You know nothing about it. And everything you think you know is
wrong.”

Her head snapped up, her gaze glaring into his. “I saw the sarotis in Ray’s
eyes, Abramm. I saw his madness.”

He grimaced, then said firmly, “The sarotis is not inevitable. Meridon’s
worn the shield nearly all his life, and there’s no sarotis in his eyes. Nor is he
mad.”

“He’s facing Beltha’adi in single combat.”

“But not because he’s mad. Now, come on. Let’s get out of here.” He held
out a hand.

She stared at him, clearly confused.

“I told you,” he said. “I can see the opening.”

Her eyes flicked to the wall, which he knew had not changed in the
slightest for her. They came back to him, her brow narrowing. When still she did not move he huffed his irritation and stepped toward her, hauling her to
her feet.

“I’ll pull you through,” he said. “It’ll feel strange for a moment, like you
can’t do it, but just bear with it and you’ll be all right.”

Before she had time to protest, he tightened his grip on her and strode
through the illusion.

As they stepped into the slit, she uttered a small, tight “Oh” and nothing
more. He let her go, and she turned to stare back at what to her would appear
to be a solid wall. The look of astonished wonder on her face at least partially
offset her earlier reproach, though he doubted it would change her attitude
much. It hadn’t changed his.

When they emerged from the slit where the cliff had forced them to leave
the stairway, he nodded sourly. “I didn’t think there was a cliff there.”

She frowned at it. “That was an illusion, too?”

“He had to have some way to get us into that cistern.” Abramm started
up the stairs. A moment later he heard her follow.

“Isn’t this the way we came?”

“Yes.”

“But-shouldn’t we be going the other way, then?”

“Cooper wouldn’t have been able to see past the cliff,” Abramm said.
“He’d have gone back for help, and it’s too late to beat the rains anyway.”

She didn’t argue with him anymore. It was work to climb the long, doglegged flight of stairs, and neither of them had breath to waste on conversation. Likely they wouldn’t have spoken anyway.

They had reached the top and were crossing over the rocky shoulder that
separated one canyon from the next when a rushing roar rolled across the
canyon-scored tablelands. The mists, so close earlier, seemed to have receded
here, preparatory to the advent of the rains. Congealing into dark clouds that
boiled low overhead, they flickered and rumbled with threat, and for a
moment Abramm was sure that the threat was about to be realized.

But the horizon showed no sign of a downpour, and the blast of wind he
was expecting never came. Instead the roar faded away to silence.

“What was that?” Carissa asked, coming up beside him.

He stared into the distance, and the urgency that had been gnawing at
him increased twofold.

“I think it was a crowd,” he said and set off in long, hurried strides. A high, thin squeal, faint in the distance, confirmed his suspicions. That would
be the opening fanfare signaling the arrival of the contest’s participants. There
would be the usual ritual, Beltha’adi strutting around the ring, offering his
obeisance to Khrell, boasting of his imminent success. He would be followed
by the arrival of the Pretender, and shortly after that the fight would begin.
In all probability, it would not last long.

He wanted to run full speed down the stairs angling before him, but
Carissa would not be able to keep up with him, and he couldn’t abandon her
out here.

Eidon, you know I am willing. Surely you won’t allow me to get there too late.

“Abramm, slow down? What is the matter with you?” Carissa’s annoyance
whined in her voice, grating at him further.

He started to answer when again he heard that odd squealing sound.
Maybe it wasn’t horns after all. That had sounded more like the bay of a
hound and was coming from somewhere down in the canyon below. What
would a hound be doing here? Had Beltha’adi conjured some new monstrous
spawn to set loose in the canyons?

“I think that was Newbold,” Carissa said behind him.

“Newbold?”

“Captain Meridon’s hound. If Cooper did somehow reach Jarnek, it
would make sense to send searchers out with the dog.”

And then he saw them, scrambling around the sheer wall of a dam down
below: the dog, brown against red, the youth following behind on the leash,
Cooper behind him, and three Dorsaddi.

With a rush of wonder, Abramm hurried down to meet them.

As he closed the gap he saw that the boy was in a rage, his freckled face
dark and clouded and, incongruously, streaked with tears. He did not notice
Abramm and Carissa until he was almost upon them. Then, seeing them
coming down, he let go Newbold’s leash and stood where he was, panting up
at them. And suddenly Abramm understood. Cooper must have come back
with his story, and Trap, fearing he would die at Beltha’adi’s hand, had
ordered the boy to go out with the dog to find them. Philip would hate it,
but it was the kind of thing Abramm could imagine Trap doing. It was the
kind of thing he could imagine himself doing.

Carissa rushed around both him and Philip to fling herself sobbing into
old Cooper’s arms. About that time Philip saw the mark on Abramm’s chest. He frowned, uncertain, as he climbed the last few steps between them, but
once he saw it clearly, saw it was indeed what he thought it was, his eyes
widened, and like Carissa he stood and stared.