Shadow Over Kiriath (43 page)
Finally seeing he was not going to answer her, she burst out, “Why are you doing this, Abramm? It’s like you’re trying to punish yourself. What man in his right mind would bind himself to a woman who’s publicly declared she despises him? It’s insane.”
“That may be, but it’s not really your concern, now, is it?” he said, looking her straight in the eye.
Her face tightened and her eyes flashed. As he lifted the oars, letting the boat’s momentum carry them on toward the dock, she uttered a cry of frustration. “You’re every bit as muleheaded as Father was! Well, fine, then. Destroy your life if you’re so set on it. But know that you’ll destroy Maddie’s in the process. And likely Briellen’s, too.”
He unwrapped the wrist strap and drew his left hand from its glove as she spoke, then drew both oars from their locks and laid them alongside the gunwale. As the boat bumped up against the dock, he turned to cast up the rope to the men waiting there, one of whom was Trap. As the rope was snugged to a piling, he released the cloaking spell and turned to help Carissa up the ladder, but she knocked away his hands and climbed it herself. He swung up after her without comment.
Trap clearly hoped to speak to him, too, but Abramm pushed past him as if he weren’t there, stopping a little farther on so the servant could lay his cloak about his shoulders. But then he strode away up the graveled path toward the palace before the others could catch up.
Later that afternoon, he went down to the wharf to watch Maddie leave. By then it was raining steadily, but he took no shelter, watching from a distance as she boarded the longboat that would bear her out to the merchantman he’d booked her passage on. He’d thought he couldn’t feel much worse than he had this morning when he’d asked her to go, but he did. As he stood watching her, it seemed as if something vital were being torn out of him, inch by inch, in a long, slow torture. He kept wanting to call out and stop her.
But every time he came close to faltering, he remembered the image of her lying dead in his arms in the pool of her own blood. That would be the price she’d pay for loving him. He’d done it to one woman. He wasn’t doing it to another.
Once aboard the longboat, she sat in the stern looking back over her shoulder, cowl cast back, hair darkened by the rain and plastered to her skull. She was weeping, though how he knew that he could not answer. Any tears would surely be carried away by the water sheeting down her face, and she was too far away for him to see her expression.
Even so, as the boat slid away from the dock, he felt as if she were staring right at him. It was almost as if she recognized him, though he knew that was not possible. He’d been careful to disguise himself in commoner’s clothing, wrapped in a cloak of dark wool, his face hidden beneath its cowl. For the same reason, he stood alone in the rain, his guards hidden from her sight. Because it wouldn’t help her to know he stood here. Wouldn’t help her at all to know how much he loved her and that he did this thing because of that love.
He stood there until the boat had reached the merchantman, watching as she and her maid and the two retainers she’d contracted to escort her were all borne up to the deck, along with their gear. Then, as the longboat headed back to shore, he saw the activity aboard the bigger ship increase as men climbed the masts to adjust the sails. He heard the call to weigh anchor, then the rhythmic clanking as it was drawn up. Finally the ship began to move. He imagined he saw a dark-robed figure standing at its stern staring back at him, though that was, of course, ridiculous.
But still he stood there, waiting in the rain, his cloak long since soaked through, the clothing beneath it drenched. Stood there until the vessel disappeared at last around the western headland and she was gone.
W
ARM AND DRY IN
his coach where it stood parked on the lowest landing of the Avenue of the Keep, Hazmul had watched the two of them from the time they’d come down to the dock until the
Starchaser
slid out of sight behind Graymeer’s Point.
Only then did the tall, dark-cloaked figure that had come to stand at the end of the pier turn and head back to his own coach, hidden behind the buildings on the main dock. His bodyguards, nearly as soaked as he, emerged from their hiding places and hurried along in his wake, revealing the truth of who he was to those who had eyes to see. Which, on this gray, rainy afternoon, were few indeed.
Smiling, Hazmul pulled down the wooden shade and blocked out the rainy tableau. Then he knocked on the wall beside him to signal his driver. As he pulled his lap blanket up around his shoulders, he heard the clunk of the brake being released, then the slap of the reins and the muted call to the team to “get up.” The coach lurched into motion.
Well, that was far easier than I thought it would be . . . though it really was too bad we couldn’t have caught them in the act. That would have been such fun
.
Their discovery was not essential in the bigger picture, however. Once Abramm found out how badly he’d been betrayed by the woman for whom he’d just given up everything, he’d be devastated. The treaty would be ruined beyond rescue, and the chance of him uniting with the woman he truly loved all but nonexistent. Indeed, if events progressed as Hazmul hoped, it would very soon
be
nonexistent, for she would be dead.
He smiled. Yes, it had been a decent bit of work. The next few days would be quite amusing. And the wedding . . . Well, he very much doubted there would be a wedding.
At long last Gillard had been allowed to venture out of his second-floor chamber to walk around the ancient stone-walled keep. With Prittleman— Brother Honarille—hovering at his side, he had carefully descended the winding stairway, crossed through a deserted great room and stepped into the Watch’s cloister garden.
Most of the brothers and acolytes were out of the keep itself, working the Watch’s larger summer garden situated down the hill. The extensive plot being the source of much of their food for the year, every hand was expected to contribute to the effort, leaving Gillard free to walk inside for a bit without worry of being seen.
Not that anyone would recognize me, if they did,
he thought bitterly.
The cloister garden was bounded on three sides by two stories of living and meditation cubicles beneath a sloping slate roof.Within its sheltered confines, the old elm and apple trees outpaced their wilder cousins, branches already budding with new growth. On the ground, the green tips of crocus and daffodil had already poked through the ancient mulch, bright accents against a gray tumble of rambling woody stems. He heard the distant cackle of the Watch’s chickens, smelled the pungent odor of the milk goats. Overhead, silhouetted among a network of skeletal branches against a clear blue sky, a mockingbird sang its rambling song.
With Honarille at his side, Gillard shuffled along the circular garden path. Its stone pavers, buckled by age and rising tree roots, were treacherous enough he was bitterly hesitant to chase Honarille off. Another fall could be disastrous.
His right hand was now bound to a board that held it flat. Fortunately, only the last two fingers and the corresponding long bones in his palm had broken, although in several places. The limb would not be totally crippled, but there would be a significant reduction of usage.
He tried not to think about that, for it made him feel like a bit of flotsam carried along by a mighty current that did not care whether it shattered him against the rocks, flung him off a cliff, or pulled him under to be drowned. Never had he felt so helpless—betrayed by his own flesh, which every day revealed some additional frailty.
Brother Honarille suspected all Gillard’s bones to be equally brittle, their substance drained away along with muscle and skin. “You’ll have to be careful. Something as simple as coming down wrong off a step could break your leg.”
Gillard wasn’t sure he believed that, but neither did he want to test it. Nor did he express any lament at this new revelation, knowing it would only elicit another declaration of Eidon’s restorative powers and renewed pressure for Gillard to take formal vows in his service.
Now, as they walked, Honarille chattered brightly, relating some of the ridiculous stories that had been coming up from Springerlan about Abramm. That at his coronation the regalia had manifested and driven away the mist around Graymeer’s to reveal an Esurhite invasion attempt. That there’d been healings . . . That the border lords’ revered Hasmal’uk stone had been turned to gold. Worst of all—and this one he knew was likely true—the Chesedhan princess Abramm was to marry had arrived and was said to be even more beautiful than her reputation claimed. Which, of course, had to be a result of her Chesedhan witchcraft. “They say she’s completely captivated the court,” Honarille told him. “He’s supposed to marry her in three days.”
Perhaps Honarille understood what that statement would do to him, but Gillard was entirely unprepared for the consuming rage. It was so unfair that he should be hiding up here, shrunken and fragile, while Abramm received the realm’s accolades and married the most beautiful woman in the land. For a moment Gillard wished he really believed Eidon did exist just so he could vent some of this fury at him.
It took him a while to calm down. As they looped back to the place they’d entered the garden, he saw a man dressed in Guardian gray seated on the stone bench beside the door to the Great Room. He was old, of medium height and stringy build, with a long, fat, frizzy gray braid and a receding hairline. Gillard supposed him to be communing with his god.
But as they approached, the man glanced up and stood to meet them. Only when they stopped and Honarille bowed his head and murmured a respectful “Master” did Gillard realize this was Master Amicus, head of the Watch. The man had visited him in his room a couple of times, and now he recognized the bold forehead and freckled, age-spotted face. Small blue eyes crouched between red rims, glistening with tears that arose not from sentiment but from some ailment that caused his eyes to water constantly.
Wonder why Eidon hasn’t healed
him, Gillard thought irreverently.
“Master Amicus,” Gillard said, giving him a nod.
“Welcome t’ Haverall’s Watch, Gillard.”
His greeting took Gillard aback. No “my prince” or “my lord.” Not even a “sir.” Just “Gillard.” He could hardly remember when he’d last been called by his given name unadorned. Even Uncle Simon had not presumed such an air of familiarity save when he was sorely disturbed.
If Amicus noticed Gillard’s surprise, he gave no indication of it, proceeding with the usual opening conversational gambits of asking about his health and how his quarters suited him. Eventually, though, he came round to his agenda.
“The king’s men’re coming. Prob’ly be here in the next day or two. Searchin’ every house an’ barn an’ sheepcote in the valley. Even the wells do na escape their eye.Word says they’re going through the keeps top to bottom, broom closet to pantry to privy chamber, na even respectin’ the sanctity of the prayer rooms.”
“Well, seeing as their master has cast your own High Father into prison, that’s hardly surprising,” Gillard remarked.
Amicus bowed his head. “Ye see our problem, then.”
“With keeping me here, I presume.”
“Aye.” He paused. “If ye was to take a place among us, however . . .”
Take a place among them? Am I not already among them. . . ? Oh
. “You mean as an acolyte,” he said aloud.
“Aye.”
Gillard flung an irritated glance at Honarille, then smiled at Amicus. “Not in a thousand years.”
“An acolyte is na vow bound, save t’ the eight years of service he’s promised. At the end of that time, ye’d be free t’ go yer way. . . . And in the meantime stay safely anonymous among us.”
“Even eight months would be too long for me.” Gillard looked again at Honarille. “I can’t believe you thought I’d even consider this.”
“They’ll be comin’ here,” said Amicus, “and they will find ye.”
“So I’ll ride out into the woods while they’re here.”
“Ye dare not risk ridin’, son.” The old man’s watery eyes dipped to Gillard’s board-bound hand. “And anyway, they’d just find ye easier that way. Surely ye’ve seen we haven’t much in the way o’ woods around here.”
“Hide me in your wine cellar, then, or . . . Wait, you don’t have one of those, do you?”
“Even if we did, it wouldna serve ye, son. They’re searchin’ ever’where.”
He paused. “The best solution is to lose yerself among us.”
The best solution for me? Or for you, Master Amicus?
It had just dawned on Gillard that Amicus wasn’t concerned simply with protecting him. In fact, that was undoubtedly the lesser of the Master’s interests. He feared what would befall him and his keep should Gillard be discovered here. As Gillard himself had just pointed out, if Abramm had the gall to imprison the highest man in their organization, he wasn’t likely to balk at punishing some lowly Guardian Master.
“I can’t imagine how I would fit in, Master Amicus,” Gillard said finally. “I’m hardly acolyte material.”
“P’rhaps not inwardly, but outwardly, ye’d fit in quite well.” Again he paused. “I’m na sure you’re aware just how greatly yer travails have altered yer appearance.”
Gillard grimaced, displeased by this reminder of a subject he preferred not to contemplate. “If I’m that changed, why bother at all? I’ll just lie in my bed and you can tell them I’ve got the grippe. Or the plague, if you like.”
“They’re lookin’ especially fer a man abed.”
“Well, then, I guess I’ll have to find help elsewhere, for I have no interest in taking vows of any kind. Save perhaps to have my kingdom back and get revenge upon the one who stole it from me.”
Amicus’s watery eyes fixed upon him shrewdly. “Not even if the one may enable ye t’ fulfill the other?”
Gillard frowned at him. “I don’t think you understand, Master. I don’t believe in your Flames, or your purpose. I don’t even believe in Eidon.”
