Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1) (8 page)

“You wanted him to be the father you never had,” she persisted. “So you
believed him, refusing to see what he was doing to you, refusing to take the
responsibility for changing things yourself”

“You’re speaking blasphemies. And I had a father.”

“Not one who loved and praised you.”

He stood up, forcing himself to breathe deeply. His name will be my
peace…. “You’d better go.”

She stood to face him, eyes flashing. “You know, of course, that Saeral
was on a pilgrimage not one league from where Father and Aarol were murdered? And Elian didn’t die of the consumption-he was poisoned. Just like
Stefan didn’t fall down the King’s Court stair. Now there’s only Raynen
between you and the throne.”

Eldrin stared at her, reeling. He felt as though he were in another of his
horrible nightmares. How could she be saying these things? His own sister?

She laid a hand on his bare arm. “Saeral will kill him, Abramm. Just like
he killed the others. Then he’ll put you on the throne and the war will start.
Gillard will lay claim, and the Shar lords will support him. The Nunn will
favor you. They’ll call it a holy war. The realm will be torn apart, thousands
will die, and in the end, Beltha’adi will get the spoils.” She paused, studying
him, her eyes bright with passion. “You always wanted to be a hero. Well,
here’s your chance. Because you are the only one who can stop this.”

He was drowning in the flood of her words, choking upon the whirling
mingle of truth and lies, struggling to get his mind around it all, struggling
even to breathe. Apparently she took his silence for acquiescence and
plunged on, her lowered voice throbbing with excitement.

“Raynen’s prepared to offer you a sizable stipend and a vessel of your
own. It’s the one I’ll be taking to Thilos, in fact. No one has to know you’re
with me; no one should know, in fact. Once we’re there, the boat’s yours, and
you will be free to do whatever you want. Travel, see the world, visit all those
scholarly places your heart once yearned for …” She smiled. “Have a real
life.”

He stared at her. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the
thundering of his own heart and the rustling of the birds in the tree.

Finally she frowned, pressed her lips together, then stepped back, the
emotion bleeding out of her. “He’ll send for you this evening. Think about
what I’ve said. Please. For all of us.”

She ducked under the blossomed branch and hurried down the path, the
rustling of her skirt and the crunch of her footsteps quickly swallowed by the
birds’ chirping chorus.

It was several minutes before he moved. Releasing a long, ragged breath,
he sagged back onto the bench. Belmir had warned him his resolve would be
increasingly tested the closer he got to the final decision. But this had taken
him completely by surprise.

Sunset’s florid light filtered through the horizontal slits high in the coach’s
sidewalls, glinting off the hair, nose, and chin of Eldrin’s Haverallan companion. Rhiad sat in silence on the bench across from him, Guardian amulet
gleaming on his throat like a scarlet eye.

Raynen’s summons had arrived an hour ago, and Rhiad himself had
brought it to Eldrin, informing him that he would serve as Eldrin’s escort.
Relieved as he was not to have to face his brothers alone, Eldrin found the
Haverallan’s presence unnerving. Neither of them had spoken since they had
boarded the coach at the Keep gates, Rhiad apparently deep in meditation.

Eldrin knew he should be following the man’s lead, but his mind was
hopping around like a sparrow in a tree, too distracted by memories and worries to stay focused.

He had run through the encounter with Carissa at least a hundred times
since she’d left him, arguing with her in his mind, knowing now the things
he should have said when shock had held him silent. And yet, every time he
reached the suggestion that his brothers’ deaths had not been accidental, his
thoughts snagged. He reminded himself that there was no proof, that it was
all coincidental and no thinking person could believe otherwise-until the
next time he cycled back to the suggestion, and his thoughts snagged again,
and he wondered with exasperation what was wrong with him.

The coach rolled to a stop, and he heard the muted voices of their driver
and the palace gate guards. Across from him Rhiad started out of his trance and reached up to adjust the interior lamp, dangling between them from the
coach’s ceiling.

Warm light bloomed across the spartan interior, and as the coach rolled
forward again Rhiad fixed his entire attention upon Eldrin. `Are you ready
for this?”

Eldrin shrugged. “I’ve been through it before. Many times.”

“Things are different now.” The coach leaned slightly as it rounded the
circular drive that would take them to the front door.

“I’ve already made my decision,” Eldrin said. “There’s nothing they can
say that will change it.”

A smile quirked Rhiad’s lips. “Just keep your wits about you, Brother, and
you’ll do fine.”

The coach slowed, then rocked to a stop in a chorus of creaks. The door
opened and a blue-liveried footman stepped back as Eldrin descended into a
forgotten world.

The palace soared around him, ablaze with light, its east and west wings
enfolding him like the jaws of a trap. Spires and cupolas jabbed the darkening
sky, and rows and rows of golden windows gleamed down at him. As with
the Great Sanctum, he had forgotten the size of the place, the intimidation
of its grandeur.

A marble stairway ascended before him, ranks of blue-tabarded House
Guard forming a gauntlet through which he must pass to reach the doors at
the top. Standing at attention, not one of them looked at him; nevertheless
the old aversion to public appearances uncoiled in his middle. For a moment
he wanted to climb back into the coach.

Two men in green detached themselves from the guards’ blue ranks. As
one hurried away up the stair the other approached, and Eldrin recognized
Captain Meridon immediately, decked out in the dress uniform of the King’s
Guard: a badge of crossed white arrows emblazoned on an emerald tabard
belted over white blouse and breeches. With his wide-brimmed, whiteplumed hat and short emerald cloak, he looked quite dapper. One golden
chain of rank looped across his chest. He still wore the rapier and the ramheaded dirk.

Eldrin met his gaze uneasily, confirming what he had earlier observedthere was no trace of the sarotis in those cold, dark eyes. Meridon must be
newly ensnared.

They exchanged an awkward greeting as Rhiad came up beside them.
Meridon flicked him a glance, followed by a nod that was barely civil, then
escorted them up the stair. Inside, courtiers packed the lamplit atrium, a glittering crowd of curling wigs and satin doublets, lace cravats and jeweled rings,
beribboned walking sticks and sweeping bell-shaped gowns. The air was thick
with the mingle of unwashed bodies and strong perfume, and the hall echoed
with excited chatter-chatter that silenced instantly when Eldrin entered and
all eyes turned toward him.

Meridon led him through the parting crowd to the outer salon where yet
more courtiers awaited, watching avidly. Beyond this a guarded door opened
into the second salon, larger by half than the first, with a gleaming black-andwhite tiled floor and a high arching ceiling decorated with gold leaf.
Chandeliers hung along its daunting length, and padded benches lined the
periphery, interspersed with man-high porcelain lamps. On the expanse of
silk-covered walls hung massive framed canvases depicting great moments in
Kiriathan history.

This room was not as crowded as the outer salon, but there were still a
good number of courtiers, mostly men now, many of them wearing the long
curled wigs that were just becoming fashionable when Eldrin had entered the
novitiate. These were complemented by a new species of gaudily laced and
beribboned doublet, and short, puffy breeches ending at mid-thigh. A number of the men carried wide-brimmed, feathered hats, and a few had even
decorated their faces with the painted-on stars and hearts that eight years ago
had been the sole province of the ladies.

They stood in clusters about the gigantic room and, like the others before
them, had fallen silent upon Eldrin’s entrance, heads craning and every eye
turned his way.

Meridon’s booted footsteps echoed loudly around them as they proceeded across the gleaming floor, the soft slaps of Eldrin’s and Rhiad’s sandals
and even the whisper of their robes audible in the ringing silence. He risked
brief glances at the men he passed, knowing they were high lords of the land,
some of the richest and most powerful nobles in Kiriath-or at the least, their
sons and relatives-but he recognized very few. As a prince he had had few
friends, and as fifth-born, had not been required to keep a presence at court.
His older brothers were expected to mingle with the men they might one day rule, but the possibility was so remote for a fifth-born, the precaution was
never taken.

Now it was no longer remote at all.

For a moment he could hardly breathe, touched as never before by the
reality of how close he stood to the throne. His father and brothers were
dead. Dead! Men in the prime of their lives-healthy, vigorous, active men.
All gone in the space of six years-and not even in wartime.

Uneasiness rattled through him, calling up a most disconcerting memory
of that cold tendril lashing into his mind. He shut it off, shoving both
thoughts aside, aghast at the treachery of his own mind. Of all things to think
about-now, neither would help him through the coming interview.

They were almost to the great doors at the far side of the room when one
of those ten-foot-high panels flew open and a big man with short white-blond
hair burst through, the door barely caught in time by the startled doorman.
Seeing Eldrin and his escort, the man stopped short, and Eldrin recognized
his younger brother instantly.

Gillard approached slowly, staring. Heavy-lidded ice-blue eyes gleamed
beneath white-blond brows. Though at nineteen Gillard was a year and a half
the younger, he loomed over Eldrin-as he had from earliest memory. A good
half-head taller, he had a massive upper body that was accentuated by a formfitting, conservatively adorned, forest green doublet. Like Meridon, he wore
both rapier and dirk at his belt, sheathed in golden scabbards.

He stopped in front of Eldrin and whistled low, shaking his head. “I’d
heard you’d arrived. Everybody’s saying it’s now clear that Mother really had
twin girls. I see what they mean.”

It felt as if bands of iron had tightened around Eldrin’s head and chest.
He swallowed on a dust-dry mouth.

Gillard stepped back, cocking his head, then reached out to flick the lock
of hair that dangled over Eldrin’s arm. “Plagues, little brother! Look at this
hair! Half the ladies here must be dying of envy!” He began to walk a circle
around Eldrin, smirking and chuckling. Around them the courtiers watched,
no one moving, no one making a sound. The blood rose hotly to Eldrin’s face.

Gillard came back to the front, hooked a big thumb into his belt, and
shook his head again. “It’s a good thing Uncle Simon’s not here. He’d die of
apoplexy. The rumors will be bad enough.”

“Your brother,” Rhiad declared loudly at Eldrin’s side, “has given his life to the service of Eidon and the deliverance of this land from the evil.”

Eldrin’s face flamed the more. He wished Rhiad would stay out of this.
With Gillard it was always better to keep silent and let the insults roll. Argument only made things worse.

Gillard snorted. “Everyone knows the real reason he joined your little
holy club, Master Rhiad-to get out of Barracks. He knew he couldn’t survive
it, so he ran. As for delivering the land-plagues? He can’t even deliver himself from insult. Can you, little brother? Couldn’t even show your face here
without your holy friend to hold you up.”

“Have a care, Your Highness,” Rhiad murmured, “you tread near blasphemy.”

“Blasphemy? Don’t make me laugh.”

Meridon, who stood a step ahead and to the side of Eldrin, now managed
to draw his eye. “My lord?” he said quietly. “The king awaits.”

`Ah yes, the king.” Gillard drew back, chuckling again. “I’d suggest you
listen to him, little brother. Because, Mataio or not, if you make any claim to
the throne and-“

“Prince Gillard,” Rhiad interjected, “are you threatening us?”

“Merely stating fact.” Gillard’s pale eyes narrowed, and he shifted his gaze
to the Haverallan. “So long as I live you’ll never get your filthy Mataian fingers on the Crown. Count on it.” With a mocking nod, he shoved past Eldrin
and stalked away.

As the smacking of his footsteps faded, Eldrin swayed with a wave of
light-headedness. Suddenly his stomach hurt and his knees quivered violently.
Deliberately he drew a deep breath, then unclenched his shaking hands,
aghast at the sudden desire to heave one of the porcelain lamps against the
wall and see it smash into a thousand pieces. It was an old, familiar feeling,
the frustration of an injustice that was never righted, no matter how hard he
wished it, no matter how hard he fought it. Gillard always won. He had forgotten how impotent it made him feel-and how furious. Probably because
he hadn’t felt this way in … well, eight years.