Shadow Over Kiriath (63 page)
He glanced back at Trap. “You have your horse here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then get mounted and meet me out in front. We have work to do.”
Gillard sat in the morning sun on one of the stone benches lining the porch of the Offices of the Holy Keep. The sun felt good upon his head and shoulders, for the breeze that stirred his long, blond hair was chill. His right hand, bound and splinted once again, throbbed only occasionally now. Enough to remind him it was broken and that he would have to live another six weeks with this splint.
He’d arrived in Springerlan four days ago, coming down for the consecration ceremonies as an aide to Master Amicus. Left here to wait while the man met with High Father Bonafil somewhere inside, he sat alone, the Keep’s new gray-stoned buildings looming around the quiet yard before him. Beyond them the city rose in a tumble of tile and slate and wood to the white walls that marked the palace grounds atop the Keharnen Cliffs. The main gate, though shrunken with distance, was just discernible above the new Keep Library’s peaked tile roof, its white pennants fluttering above the entry posts.
Anger and bitter disappointment curdled in Gillard’s gut. Even now, three days later, he could hardly believe how badly his encounter with Abramm had gone. All he’d done these last five years—all the switchings and rebukings he’d endured, all the nonsense he’d been forced to learn and parrot back, all those long, deep-night hours he’d spent in the Watch’s barn working with Matheson to regain his strength and fighting skills—it was all a waste. His hand had been broken in the first move.
It was not at all what he’d expected.
Nausea swirled again in his belly as the horrid memories returned yet again.
When he’d first entered the royal bedchamber, he’d spent some time staring at his older brother as he slept, surprised at how big he was and how much he favored their father now—except for the scars, of course. Gillard had taken great pleasure in the way they raked down the left side of Abramm’s face, two raised, white lines of scar tissue that could neither be hidden nor ignored. He’d smiled, understanding now why the First Daughter had found him too repellent to marry and enjoying thoughts of the pain her rejection must have caused. . . .
Then Gillard had looked at the woman who
had
married him, and that had been his undoing. He thought in retrospect that his failure could be laid entirely at her feet, for if not for her, he would have kept his focus. She lay on her side, facing her husband, and somehow the contented look on her face combined with the easy, proprietary way her arm was draped across his chest filled Gillard with instant and utter fury. From then on he had been too angry and too eager to have his revenge to think clearly.
Originally he’d planned to confront his brother and force him to engage in a rematch of their last exchange of sword strikes. Once Gillard had proven himself the superior swordsman, he had intended to bind the defeated king— who surely would have been shaking with fear and begging him for mercy by then—and deliver him over to the Mataian leadership who had their own scores to settle with him.
He hadn’t expected to find the queen in bed with him, since she had her own chambers, and he could not imagine a woman wanting to spend any more time with Abramm than her duty required. But there she’d been, and even now he was hard-pressed to answer why the sight of her had awakened such a fury in him. A fury that stimulated all sorts of heretofore unconsidered permutations to his plan.
He’d decided to bind her first, lest she hinder him in his match with Abramm. Later, if needed, he could also use her to maintain his control of the situation. So he’d gone to the other side of the bed, moving slowly, controlling even his breathing so he’d make no sound.
And somehow had wakened them anyway. He’d been stunned by how fast Abramm reacted, erupting out of the bedclothes like some kind of horror to leap over the entire span of the mattress, knocking Gillard’s knife away as he’d landed. That one blow had broken Gillard’s hand, and as the pain had rushed through him, hot and shocking, he’d staggered back, overwhelmed again by how big Abramm really was and how ferocious he looked, especially with those scars.
In that moment he had no doubt Abramm would have killed him had he gotten his hands on him. This was the man who’d stood his ground in the arenas of their enemies and survived, the man who’d faced Beltha’adi and survived. Had taken down the kraggin and the morwhol and . . . Gillard himself, when he’d been big and strong and healthy.
Any ideas Gillard had of facing him vanished as he turned and fled through the still-open panel. For a time he’d run wildly through the black passageways with no idea where he was going. Eventually, though, he’d regained his wits and his self-control and made his way back to the meditation cubicle in the Keep, where he’d been observing an all-night vigil.
It was absolutely intolerable. The memory still made his chest seize and his gut squirm. He’d felt like a little rat scrambling around to get away—to get away from
Abramm
! And that would never do. Never.
But what can I do? There is no hope for me, that’s what they’ve all said. I’ve become a scrawny little runt with porcelain bones, and there’s nothing I can do about it
.
Unless . . . there really was something to Prittleman’s claims that Eidon’s Flames could heal him.
He scowled.
You’re getting desperate, man. Prittleman’s not healed, is he?
“Brother Makepeace?” Gillard turned at the unfamiliar voice. A young, stubble-headed acolyte stood on the porch beside him. “Master Amicus wants you. If you’ll come with me?”
Puzzled and mildly alarmed, Gillard followed the acolyte into the gleaming main hall and all the way to its end, where lay the High Father’s new offices. There the boy pulled open the door, and Gillard stepped into the spacious but dimly lit room beyond. Having recently come in from outside, it took his eyes a few moments to adjust. Light filtered through a partially curtained, mullioned window at the room’s far end, illuminating the platform and desk just beneath it, as well as a cluster of chairs closer to the door, where sat Father Bonafil, Amicus, Brother Eudace, and two others Gillard did not recognize.
All of them regarded him with a sharpness that increased his alarm, making him think that somehow they had gotten wind of his doings in the palace the other night. But how could they? He knew that both Abramm and his Chesedhan wife had seen him, but only for an instant, and he was sure they hadn’t recognized him.
High Father Bonafil was the first to speak. “You’ve broken your hand, brother.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Amicus says you took a spill in the hall a couple of nights ago.”
The hairs on the back of Gillard’s neck stood up. The man hadn’t actually asked him a question, so he really needn’t say anything. In fact, according to the rules, he shouldn’t have said anything in response to the first statement. But he did not like the direction in which this conversation was heading, and now he stood there, his heart hammering against his breastbone as he stared at the floor, hands at his sides.
“Was it a spill? Or did you hit it on something?”
That was a question. He had to answer. “It was hit, sir.”
A moment of silence followed, and at the edges of his field of vision Gillard saw the men exchange glances. Then Bonafil said, “I’m glad to see you refrain from lying to me, at least.”
Gillard’s eyes darted up, not so much in protest as in surprise.
Bonafil smiled. “We know all about your secret meeting with Abramm.”
Pox and plagues!
He felt the blood rush into his face, shame and embarrassment shaking him like a dog with a doll in its teeth.
Bonafil evidently mistook the reaction for fear. “You think we wouldn’t guess? He’s the king, Makepeace. Called the alarm at once, set his guards searching the palace and the city. They came here right off, of course, because he still doesn’t trust us, and their description of the intruder fit you to a T, right down to the suspicion that you’d been incapacitated by a single blow. And then, of course, your hand turned up broken the very next morning.”
He fell silent. Gillard stared at him, his uneasiness rising. The moments crawled by and finally, when Bonafil still did not speak, Gillard burst out, “I
told
Amicus from the beginning I believed none of this. He persuaded me to take the vows merely to protect himself and his Watch.”
“Is that what you think this is about?” Bonafil snorted and shook his head. “Your plan was idiotic, young man. To go after
him
with a sword? In your condition? After all these years, do you still refuse to acknowledge who your brother is?”
Gillard studied the carpet, shamed anew and fuming now. “I heard he was injured. That he had lost his skills. That he could not even stand against the Crown Prince of Chesedh.”
“And you, of course, could.” The tone was withering.
Gillard squirmed inwardly, his fury and frustration swelling almost past the point of containment. This wasn’t fair. None of it. And for this pompous, self-righteous fool to be reprimanding him was almost more than he could bear. He wanted to yell and hit things, but his hand throbbed a painful warning and he wrestled down his ire.
“You had your chance, man,” Bonafil said sternly, “on the front steps of the Temple of the Dragons in Tuk-Rhaal. When you lost there, you lost everything, and you’ll never get any of it back through your own efforts. The sooner you face that, the better.”
“I will never face that!” Gillard declared. “My day is far from over.”
“You think so?” He gestured to Amicus. “Break his other hand, brother.”
Immediately Amicus stepped toward Gillard, smiling so pleasantly one might have thought he offered aid and comfort. The amulet at his throat flickered with scarlet light. “Give me yer hand, Makepeace.”
Gillard was too stunned to even react, his mind struggling to get itself around Bonafil’s last words.
“Break his hand”? Is that really what he said?
Then to Gillard’s astonishment, his left hand come up and placed itself in Amicus’s open palm. In horror he watched the man’s fingers curl around it, felt the grip tighten and the bones begin to snap. The pain came afterward, sharp and nauseating, and he screamed, trying vainly to jerk his hand free. Amicus continued to grind away until Gillard was on his knees, weeping, begging him to stop.
Finally the holy man released him and stepped back, leaving Gillard hunched over his ruined limb, gasping and sobbing and cursing them all to Torments and back. Eventually he came to the end of his words and fell silent, huddling before them and shuddering with pain.
Only then did Bonafil speak again. “Amicus did not suggest you take holy vows simply to protect his Watch. We want exactly what you want . . . to remove Abramm and put one of our own in his place.”
“I would be king at your pleasure, you mean,” Gillard grated.
“I would never use so crude a way of phrasing it.”
“Elegant or crude, that’s what it would be.” He looked at them, the room spinning and sparkling around him. “I want no part of it.”
Bonafil lifted a brow. “Are you sure?”
“I will be no man’s puppet.”
At that the five men chuckled and once more exchanged amused glances, and as irritating as that was, it also sent a worm of uncertainty crawling through Gillard’s belly.
A moment later Bonafil regained his sober mien. “If you take your final vows now, Makepeace, you can become the true Guardian-King of Kiriath.”
“I don’t want to be a Guardian-King,” Gillard spat. “And anyway, don’t I have three years of my novitiate to serve before I can take final vows?”
“The eight-year span is only an advised time. If a man wishes to test the Flames early he will be allowed to do so.” He paused. “Because of the difficult times we face, I would give you a special dispensation to do that. A dispensation from Eidon that would not even be the lie you think it would. For in truth, Eidon
does
want you to be king of this land.”
Final vows, special dispensations . . . I don’t like it. If I’m going to be king, I want to be king . . . not beholden to these self-righteous bloodsuckers. . . .
The only problem was, without them he did not see any way he was going to be king at all. And right now his hand was hurting so badly he could hardly think.
“I regret that you don’t have much time to make your decision, but the fact is, we are preparing to bring your brother down even now. You can participate in that or be cast aside and a new ruler put upon the throne.”
Gillard snorted. “What new ruler? I am the last of the Kalladorne line. No one is going to accept Carissa as ruler in her present mental state.”
“Haven’t ye been payin’ attention, Brother?” Amicus reproved. “Do ye na recall that I told ye Abramm has two sons?”
Gillard stared at him, stunned anew.
No. I do not recall. And surely I would have. I might have gone to the nursery before I went to the royal bedchamber. . . .
Two
sons?
“His firstborn, Simon,” Bonafil said, “is an impressionable, uncorrupted lad of four.” He smiled. “Once removed from the evil influence of his parents and provided with solid teaching in the true ways of Eidon, he will be a willing and able servant on Eidon’s behalf.”
“If he’s only four it’s going to take you some time to groom him. You’ll have to instate a regency.”
“Of course.”
“And you have someone who could handle that?”
“Someone on the inside. Someone with a great deal of governing experience, who has worked closely with the king, and who has a heartfelt—if undeclared—reason to oppose him. Someone working even now to bring our plans to fruition.”
Gillard stared at them. Pain-induced sweat sheathed his brow, and his hand was a fiery torment, even as the rest of his body had grown chilled and shaky.
I don’t want to be their Guardian-King!
“Everything is now in place. Abramm will leave for Sterlen tonight, all in a fury to gain his vengeance upon Rennalf. . . . Within five hours of his confirmed departure, we will strike. I ask you again, Gillard Kalladorne. Do you want to be part of this, or don’t you?”
