Shadow Over Kiriath (11 page)

“I’m thinking it would be profitable to play on Lady Madeleine’s feelings for him. She’ll try to ignore them, of course, but we won’t let that happen. In fact . . . if we can tease his to the fore, as well . . . why, that would be perfect.”

“Perfect, sir? I thought she was a danger to us. That she made him too strong.”

“That was before the coronation. Now she is merely her sister’s rival for his attentions. . . . If she can win him, and we can provoke him to act upon his feelings . . .”

“Oh yes. I see, sir. It’s brilliant!”
Vesprit’s sudden flush of awe was so profoundly stimulating, Hazmul had to struggle for a few moments to keep his host’s aura placid. At length he gave a brief nod, as if Vesprit’s reverence made no difference.
“You may go then, Underwarhast.”

As Vesprit shifted phase and flew off, Hazmul turned to the other Bright One who had come in during their conversation and waited quietly in the sidelines.
“Now, about the king’s brother . . .”

CHAPTER

6

At dusk, just after the banquet ended, everyone went out on the terrace and balconies to view the fireworks shot off over the bay. Then Abramm started the coronation ball by dancing a solo round with Lady Madeleine, again serving as stand-in for his absent bride-to-be. She was as stiff and cool as she’d been at dinner, hardly looking at him, hardly talking, hardly even touching him. As soon as her duty was done, she made herself part of the crowd and, throughout the remainder of the evening, managed to elude him every time he tried to seek her out—though occasionally he did catch her looking at him from across the room. Eventually she disappeared altogether, and though he feared at first that she’d retired for the night, on further consideration, he decided she had more likely escaped to the royal gardens, lit up tonight in concert with the ball.

Hoping to catch her there, he set out on a stroll with Trap Meridon, ostensibly to discuss the day—the ball had been afire with talk of all that had happened in connection with his coronation—and his plan to visit Graymeer’s tomorrow. They hadn’t gone far before Channon quietly reported that Maddie was in the tea garden, giving direction to Abramm’s strolling.

As they came out on the uppermost terrace of the multileveled tea garden, an armsman stepped from the concealing shadows and directed Abramm’s eye to the cloaked figure standing below them at one of the garden’s mid-level overlooks. Lights glimmered in the surrounding foliage and lit the overlook’s railing. Below her, nestled at the garden’s midst, stood the teahouse, aglow with its garland of kelistars. With a sudden squall of nerves, Abramm ended his conversation with Trap and went on alone, hearing his friend’s voice, low and indignant behind him: “What the plague, Captain! You’re encouraging them?”

Out of earshot before he heard Channon’s reply, Abramm grimaced with annoyance. Where had Trap gotten the idea there was a
them
to encourage? All Abramm wanted to do was talk to her without that insufferable Leyton listening in, and without all the court getting the wrong idea.

Wrapped and hooded in her cloak, Madeleine stood at the rail of the overlook, staring over an array of terraces lit with swirls of tiny orblights. She must have heard the grit of his feet on the gravel, for she turned toward him while he was still some yards off. Seeing him, her eyes widened and her body stiffened.

“Ah, Lady Madeleine,” he said, drawing up before her. “I hoped I might find you out here.”

“Your majesty.” She dropped him a curtsey.

“I trust I’m not intruding.”

“Of course not.” But it was obvious from her tone and manner that he was. She straightened, her eyes darting up to his and down again so quickly he wondered anew if his scars, stark and shocking now on his newly cleanshaven face, were putting her off.

An awkward silence ensued, and after a moment she turned back to the rail. Distant strains of music warbled, overlain by the crackling of his men’s booted feet on the ground cover as they ranged out around him, their protective net unusually close tonight on account of this morning’s attack.

Finally Abramm murmured, “Shaving the beard was
your
idea, you know.”

Her chin came primly up, only the front lines of her profile visible beyond her cloak’s hood. “And a good idea, too,” she said, still facing the garden. “You looked very handsome today.”

He snorted. “Please, my lady. You needn’t lie to me. I know what I look like.”

She continued to stare at the garden for a moment, then sighed and watched her gloved hand stroke the marble balustrade before her. “No, sir, I don’t think you do.”

“I’ve seen my face, Maddie. This morning, when I bid them to uncover the mirror.”

“You didn’t see your face. All you saw were the scars.”

He gave a bitter chuckle. “It’s hardly possible to see anything else.”

Now, finally, she turned toward him, staring up at him from out of the cowl’s shadows. He watched her eyes, wide and dark, rove across his face, touching the scars only briefly before meeting his gaze. Her expression softened and she shook her head. “Oh no, Abramm, it’s very possible not to see them at all.” And for a moment she reminded him of Shettai standing on that Xorofin balcony, staring up at him with a tearstained face. Except that Madeleine wasn’t crying.

He frowned. “Well, then, why have you been so standoffish today? Why do you act like it hurts to look at me?”

Her breath caught and the softening vanished as she turned back to the garden. “You just signed a treaty agreeing to marry my sister. What do you want me to do? Throw myself at you like Lady Leona does?”

“Of course not!” He laid a gloved hand on the balustrade, leaning so he could see her face around the edge of the concealing cowl. “I just want you to be normal again.”

“Well, I can’t be normal. Not with everything that’s happened.”

“You mean the ceremony?”

She was silent for a long time. “My troubles are hardly your concern, sir. Just believe me when I say it’s been a . . . a very hard day.” And with this last, her voice trembled and she turned her face away from him, hiding behind that wretched cowl.

He frowned at her, more befuddled than ever. Before he could pursue the matter, however, she pushed off the rail and stepped away from him. “I’m getting cold. Do you mind if we walk a bit?”

“Of course not.”
It must be Leyton haranguing her about all those rumors
. She’d not cared about them before, but with her brother’s coming and Abramm’s signing of the treaty, the courtiers’ antipathy toward her had intensified. With half his nobles still outraged at his “inexplicably rash” decision, she was the natural focus for their anger. And Leyton’s fixation with the regalia hadn’t helped.

They strolled along the winding path through sculpted topiaries, the thin strains of violin wafting through the darkness around them. The early spring night was cold, the air heavy with the scent of damp leaves. Terstan orblights sat along the path and rested in various holders along the way, while overhead the trees stretched their bud-swollen branches against a brittle, star-filled sky.

“Was there something you wished to speak to me about?” she asked finally, her voice resuming its normal pitch and stability.

Was there anything else he wanted to talk about besides her inexplicable behavior toward him today? Ah, yes . . . the manifestation. “I was wondering if you saw any of what I saw while the Light was on me this morning. The galleys moored at Graymeer’s. More of them coming out of fog-bound islands. The northland in shadow. . . . A great army beneath our combined banners. . . .”

An arched footbridge rose up before them to span a chuckling streamlet, their footsteps echoing hollowly as they crossed it. She said she remembered nothing but the Light, blazing out of him, then added, “You really saw the galleys at Graymeer’s?”

He nodded. “At the same time they were actually there, I think. I saw a great red dragon, too, flying overhead.”

“A red dragon?” she breathed, her surprise evident. Of course she’d made the connection at once: he wore a red dragon on his arm.

“I have no idea whether it’s real or symbolic. Maybe both. It seemed to mock me.”

They walked on for a bit before she said, “I saw nothing like that.”

He frowned. “So what did you see?”

She shrugged.

“Well, you must’ve seen something. What made you faint?”

“How did you know I fainted?” she burst out, stepping around to face him and bringing them both to a halt. “Did Leyton—”

“Simon told me.”

“Oh.” She looked at her feet, the cloak’s cowl dropping forward to hide her face. “Well . . . it wasn’t a real faint,” she said to the ground.

Abramm felt his brows fly up. “You were
pretending
to faint? You? My lady, I must say—”

“Not pretending!” Her head came up sharply and she glowered at him. “I was just . . . unsteady on my feet.” With that she turned away and started down the path again.

He hurried after her, asking as he came abreast, “Why? What did you see?”

“Blackwell passed out entirely, though. Had to be carried from the hall and was taken to his rooms.”

“I know.”

“Had another one of his fits, they said.”

“Yes, I know that, too.”

“It’s a pity what happened to him that day at Seven Peaks.”

“Aye. It is.” He frowned at her. “But I don’t want to talk about Blackwell right now, my lady. I want to know what made you ‘unsteady on your feet.”’

Again the tension thickened between them. She wrapped her arms about herself beneath her cloak and walked on without speaking. Then, “You don’t want to know, Abramm. It means nothing. And it would only—” She stopped. Swallowed. “It would only make things worse.”

“What things? How?”

At that point she reached the last straw of patience, whipping round on him and snapping out, “Didn’t you learn your lesson with Trap last night?! Some things it’s just better not to know.”

“Why are you angry with me, my lady?” he protested helplessly, feeling as if they were playing a game of snap the whip and he was on the end of the whip. “What have I done?”

“Nothing! I’m not angry with
you
.” And now she had her back to him again. “I’m angry with myself.”

This conversation was growing more opaque by the minute, and every way he tried to make it clearer only made things worse. He lifted a hand to touch her arm, thought better of it, and pulled back. “Maddie, what’s wrong?” he said finally. “I don’t understand.”

“No . . . You don’t.” And she started on again.

“Well, then—”

“Abramm, please! Just grant me my privacy on this and don’t ask any more.”

And so he did as she bade him, and they walked down the serpentine paths, crossing streamlets and planted glens until at last they came to the bottom of the garden, where a clipped green surrounded the narrow, whitemarble, octagonal building that was the teahouse. Tall, glass-paned doors and windows stood in every wall, and kelistars rimmed the eaves of its cupola. A warm red glow inside betrayed the central brazier of coals set into an empty water basin to provide warmth for chilled garden walkers like themselves.

They climbed the three stairs up into the house, where garlands of tiny orblights hung from the high ceiling, casting a pale light over the interior. Narrow stuccoed walls decorated with leafy scrollwork interspersed the glass, and beneath the central brazier, the marble floor was tiled in a starburst pattern. Dried camellia blossoms strewed the entranceway, unrolling into staffid the moment the couple stepped onto the floor proper. Abramm killed one with a burst of Light as from the corner of his eye he saw a second skitter toward his companion—who impaled it with her own tendril of Light.

Maddie proceeded to the brazier while Abramm circled the room, glancing out the tall windows. His habit of continually taking stock of his surroundings had been beaten into him years ago in Katahn’s training compound, and he retained it here, despite the dark figures of his armsmen now positioning themselves in the foliage at the green’s edge.

Save for the staffid, the interior offered no obvious threat. It was dark enough that courtier spies could not see clearly what went on between them—yet not so dark they could imagine things that weren’t happening. Not that that had ever stopped them.

Killing two more staffid before he’d completed his round, Abramm finally stopped at the brazier beside Lady Madeleine, who had stuck her gloved hands between the front edges of her cloak to warm them over the coals. Appreciating the warmth on his face, he held out his own hands and took the opportunity to study her profile. Even lit by the warm glow of the coals, her skin looked pale beneath the scattering of freckles, and shadows cupped her eyes. She was tired and hurting, and he had no idea how to fix her.

Suddenly it dawned on him that her problems today, whatever they were, hadn’t originated with Leyton, though Abramm had no doubt he’d been used. Maddie was a servant of Eidon, just as Abramm was. A valuable supporter, one he trusted and relied upon more than he wanted to admit. For his unseen enemies to succeed in their attack on him, they had to neutralize Madeleine just as they had Trap.

“The rhu’ema were after you this morning, weren’t they?” he asked quietly. “Trying to make sure you couldn’t help me during the ceremony.”

For a moment she ceased to move. Then she drew her hands back inside her cloak and sighed. “They were.” She turned slightly toward him, her cloak brushing his own as she looked at him over her shoulder. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to you this morning. I was just . . .” She trailed off awkwardly, eyes dropping blindly to his chest.

He smiled at her. “Too busy seeing to my horse?”

“No!” Her eyes darted up again, flashing indignantly. “If you think I had time to go out to the stable—”

“I’m teasing, my lady. Truth be told, learningWarbanner was ready to ride in the midst of the crisis this morning was welcome news indeed. He pulled me out of my black mood.” He shook his head. “Your foresight continually amazes me.”

She shrugged and turned her attention to the coals. “I was really just trying to get away from Leyton.”