Shadow Over Kiriath (30 page)
She immediately launched into a running stream of all that had befallen her since the moment she’d left Salmanca, words tumbling over one another as she unloaded all her adventures and trials and worries upon her always attentive big brother. When she’d finally run down and they parted, Leyton turned stern eyes upon Maddie. “What’s this I hear about you being seen in the king’s apartments this morning?”
“We’ve already resolved that, Leyton,” Briellen said. “She was after some books. Now . . . you’re sure about the silver?”
“Absolutely.”
Briellen nodded and turned to Maddie. “That means you can wear the burgundy, then.”
Maddie scowled at her. “Why would I want to wear your dress?”
“Because, knowing you, I’m sure none of yours would be acceptable for a formal presentation.”
Maddie’s mouth fell open. “Wait a minute, Bree. I’m not—”
“Yes you are, and don’t argue with me. Don’t pretend to be surprised, either. You have to have realized that with all my ladies still on the road, I have no other attendants.”
“But . . .” Maddie could hardly breathe. “I can’t . . .”
“Nonsense. This dress is the height of fashion. Even you will look lovely in it.”
“Not that that matters,” said Leyton, “since no one will be looking at you anyway.”
“He’s right,” Briellen assured her with a smile. “You’ll be hardly more than a dress.”
“Then grab one of your maids and put her in it. I have other things to do besides be a dress.”
Briellen rolled her eyes. “A maid as my attendant? The first time I’m presented to my bridegroom? Don’t be absurd.”
“Though it might not be a bad idea,” Leyton muttered, “given Maddie’s record.”
Briellen ignored him, looking at the gown, then at Maddie. “It is going to have to be taken out. You seem to have put on a bit of weight since I saw you last.” Briellen turned to her maids. “Nelisa, start ripping out the bodice seams. You can fit her while I have my bath.” She turned to Maddie. “That way you can tell me all about Abramm. I want every little detail so as to make the best possible impression.” She smiled sweetly.
Maddie stared at her in shock, words of utter and absolute refusal poised on her tongue. She must’ve been wrong in her earlier conclusion that Briellen had guessed her true feelings. Not even Briellen could be this cruel.
Oh, please, Father . . . don’t make me do this. . . .
But despite her plea, no deliverance came. Knowing that if she made too much of a fuss she would only resurrect Bree’s suspicions and get her all out of sorts, she acquiesced, resolving to bear it as best she could. Eidon would get her through this.
And so he did. But it was hard. Hard to endure the subtle put-downs Briellen shot at her all afternoon, hard to endure the tedium of being fitted and dressed and fussed over all the while feeling like the proverbial sow’s ear that could never become a silk purse. Seeing Briellen’s beauty so closely beside her own plainness made her more painfully self-conscious than she’d felt in years.
Her siblings were right when they had insisted no one would notice her. When finally they stepped out of the Ivory Apartments to make the progression to the throne room, she was so completely lost in the corona of Briellen’s radiance she doubted the few people who looked at her even recognized her.
The courtiers were awestruck by Briellen’s glittering presence, her grace, her beauty, her gracious way with them. No cool ice princess, she stopped to speak to people along the way, received their adoring comments with thanksgiving and flashed her winning smile repeatedly, leaving behind a swath of star-struck aristocrats.
As always, the men could hardly keep their jaws off the floor, their eyes darting from her plunging décolletage to the sweet innocence of her perfect features and luminous blue eyes. And though in some foolish and irrational part of Maddie’s mind she had clung to the belief that Abramm would be different, he wasn’t. Sitting there on his throne in all his glory, he stared at her glaze-eyed like all the rest. In fact, he was probably worse.
She recalled little of the remainder of the ceremony, and dinner passed in an increasingly painful blur. Being Second Daughter she had to sit directly right of Briellen and the king, close enough she could hear their conversation. Could hear her sister utter the very comments and questions Maddie herself had fed her that very afternoon, which often provoked his laughter and almost always a gratifying response. She reflected on what an odd thing it was to keep her gaze deliberately averted from the man yet have all her attention riveted upon him just the same. He fairly glowed with Light and power at the edge of her field of vision, the essence of him filling all her soul, her awareness of his presence so acute she could hardly bear it.
Briellen, of course, ignored her, as did Abramm. Which left only Count Blackwell, seated on Maddie’s right, to distract her. And he was almost worse than no distraction at all. He kept looking at her with a bright, invasive intensity and asking if she was all right—for she didn’t look well—until she wanted to scream at him to shut up, that she wasn’t all right and there was a good chance she might never be all right again. When he wasn’t pestering her about her health, he drooled over Briellen, marveling at her beauty and her charm and remarking repeatedly at what a wonderful queen she would make. His conversation couldn’t have been more distressing if he’d deliberately tried to make it so. When he began to speculate as to how soon an heir might come along, she had to turn away and concentrate on eating her dessert, beseeching Eidon to draw his attention away from her.
Terstmeet was somewhat better, for it gave her something else to think about and to her relief wasn’t a diatribe on jealousy and self-pity, though she thought perhaps she needed one. Even better, Briellen nodded off midway through the message, which wasn’t something Maddie should rejoice about but did anyway—for she knew Abramm would not be impressed by it. Then she confessed her judgmental attitude and reminded herself that it would make no difference whether he was impressed or not, he would still marry her. Besides, the poor girl had had a very long day, at the end of a long and difficult journey, in addition to having a very short attention span and no experience with the Kiriathan Terstans’ way of worshipping.
After the message, people lingered around the new couple, commenting on how good they looked together. They were a study in opposites, all his strength and sternness of feature setting off Briellen’s soft, girlish radiance. Or perhaps it was Briellen’s insubstantiality that made him resonate with such masculine strength and power. Whatever it was, even Maddie had to admit they made a stunning couple.
But she didn’t have to dwell on it. Nor did she have to stay and listen any longer; she had fulfilled her duty. But she did have to speak to Abramm about the library and thought it better she do so here, in plain sight, rather than risk another firestorm of gossipy exaggerations.
It took some doing, but eventually she got him alone, Briellen momentarily cornered by a pack of drooling male courtiers—not something she appeared to mind at all.
“You were right,” Abramm said, watching his fiancée with a relieved smile, “she is charming. And I’m astonished at how well everyone’s responded to her.”
Having had enough of such talk to last a lifetime, Maddie went straight to her business. “What of the library?” she asked quietly.
“It’s under guard, as I promised.” He turned his gaze back to her, his expression mild and detached. “We’ll be having a general reception in the morning from nine until noon. You should be able to get some work done then.”
She frowned. “I don’t think I should go back there. Gossip’s already spread that I was seen entering and exiting your apartments this morning in a servant’s smock.”
His brows drew down but his eyes twinkled. “I don’t know why you thought that would work in the first place.”
“Well, it was the first thing Briellen confronted me with, so I don’t think working out of your apartments will be a good thing.”
“No . . . probably not. I’ll have the books sent to you. The ones you stacked on the table. I’ll send Philip Meridon with them as a guard. For you and for them. We can set up a study room with a lock, as well, if you’d like. Beyond that, I suppose we’ll just have to trust Eidon to keep them safe.”
“Yes. I suppose so.” The conversation was over, but she couldn’t seem to say the words to steer it in that direction, couldn’t seem to find her tongue at all now as she stared up at him, helpless to stop herself. He stood there meeting her gaze, possibly uncertain what to say next, though she couldn’t tell. Indeed, for the first time in months she found his expression impossible to read. Abruptly he stepped back with a nod, murmuring the words of disengagement, and she watched him walk away, aware now of the glances that flicked her way and the people whispering to one another around her.
Desperately she took command of herself—though far too late—and headed for the door.
————
Shortly after his initial interview with Darak Prittleman, Gillard had fallen asleep again. The next time he awoke he rested higher on his pillows than before, wore a clean shirt, and found his hair tied back into a queue. He also found, to his dismay, that the long beard that had sprouted from his jaw over these last six months had been shaven away, despite his having turned down Prittleman’s offer to do so.
Prittleman himself sat at his bedside, a small smile on his face as he watched Gillard stroke his barren chin. A tray bearing a bowl of steaming porridge and cup of tea rested on the bedside table by his knee. Seeing Gillard was awake, he asked him how he felt. “Better” was all he could say. Neither said anything about the beard, Gillard preferring to think Prittleman had gotten some other Guardian to do it rather than consider the prospect of his clumsy hands coming anywhere near his face or throat with a razor.
As before, Prittleman fed him messily and told him again what had befallen him, assuring him that plans were being put in place to rectify the injustices done.
“Has he released the High Father yet?” Gillard asked when he seemed to have run down.
Prittleman said he had not, and gained a second wind as he rattled on about some other Guardian having gone to plead his case, only to be arrested for his impertinence. “They’re going to have to choose a new Father,” Prittleman said gravely. “Abramm won’t let Master Bonafil talk to anyone. My guess is he’s already dead.”
As the days passed, Gillard slept less, ate more, and soon was able to feed and shave himself. Unfortunately, even though he could complete such simple tasks without mishap, they always drained him of energy, so that he fell back onto his bed weak and exhausted, where he would sleep for hours. Thus, it was more than a week before he felt strong enough to stand, though Prittleman warned it was too soon and stood by to catch him, frowning grimly.
Indeed, just swinging his legs over the side of the bed made him so woozy he had to sit for several moments, eyes closed, before the world settled. Then, ever so slowly, with Prittleman holding his arm, he eased onto his feet. His legs wobbled like noodles as a pins-and-needles prickling shot up and down them. Gradually, though, the muscles recalled what they were to do and his stance grew firmer.
He looked up at Prittleman with a smile. “There! That wasn’t so bad.”
Prittleman smiled back now, his expression looking pained as always. “Wonderful, sir! Wonderful!”
But despite his words, something suddenly seemed very wrong, though Gillard could not figure out what it was.
“Shall I help you back into your bed now, sir?” Prittleman suggested after a moment.
“I want to walk to the window.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?”
“Either help me, Prittleman, or get out of my way.”
Grim-faced and reluctant, Prittleman helped him shuffle across the scarlet rug to the narrow window, on whose ledge he propped himself, breathless but triumphant. Gazing at the newly greened hills outside, he sighed. “What I wouldn’t give to take a ride just now!”
“Oh, my lord!” Prittleman exclaimed in alarm. “Even if you were fully well, that would be impossible. The king’s men are searching everywhere for you.”
Gillard scowled up at him, only to be hit again with that disconcerting jolt of
wrongness
. Again he sought to understand the cause . . . and finally it hit him: he was looking
up
at Prittleman. They stood toe-to-toe and he was looking up at the man, when previously he’d been the taller by nearly a head. More than that, Prittleman seemed broader across the chest, thicker of bone and muscle than Gillard had remembered him. How was it possible a man his age could have grown so much? Or was it. . . ?
Gillard looked down at his hands—narrow, skeletal, revoltingly feminine. He examined the rest of his body and found an echoing shrinkage—not just of height but of bones and muscle, too.
“Pox and plagues!” he choked in horror. “How is this possible?”
“Abramm did it, as I’ve told you,” Prittleman said. “With his evil Terstan power.”
Gillard stared at his hands and feet, at his thin, bony legs.
No. This cannot be
.
Suddenly, all his strength left him, and his legs, wobbling wildly, gave way as a great purple-and-black cloud billowed up around him. He was vaguely aware of Prittleman catching him and carrying him back to bed, and then a dry, nasal whisper: “Remember, my prince—as Eidon has delivered you, he can also restore you. You have only to ask. . . .”
More than two weeks had passed since Briellen’s arrival. With his wedding a mere twelve days away, Abramm stood alone on the balcony of his apartments, savoring the fresh sea scent and quiet solitude of the early, fogbound morning. Sparrows chirped in the gnarled oak nearby, its barren branches glimmering with the bright green buds of new growth. Occasionally one of last season’s few remaining dead leaves came loose, fluttering down to the black-and-white terrace below, where a servant was attempting to sweep the tiles clean.
Beyond the terrace a row of cedars spired against the mist-blurred backdrop of the city and its river, a broad silver ribbon running down to the bay. Barges and small craft already cluttered its surface, the common folk having begun their day hours ago. Most of the bay lay cloaked in fog, the tall-masted ships riding at anchor barely visible through the veil, which muted even the bells and shouts down at the docks.
