The Shadow Within (25 page)

They fell silent as a group of courtiers passed them, then resumed their discussion as they turned into the King’s Court and started toward the broad convex staircase leading up to the Royal Apartments. “I have to at least mention it,” Simon said, frowning at his friend.

“Just don’t give him any more than he asks for,” Laramor said quietly. “And try to keep him from asking for more than you give him.”

“You know that sort of thing is not my style.”

“Precisely why I’m bringing it up,” Laramor said with a wry smile. They stopped at the base of the stairs, and the border lord’s expression went from amusement to concern. “Be careful in there, Simon. Gillard’s right, you know. Abramm
will
try to win you. He has to.”

Simon scowled at him. “Do you really believe I’m so addlebrained I won’t recognize flattery, manipulation, and double-talk when I hear it? And from Abramm, of all people, whom I’ve known since he was a babe?”

“Just see that you don’t forget what you know of him,” Ethan said grimly. “That his mentor was Saeral—as charming a snake as ever there was.”

He left Simon to climb the stair alone, and five minutes later the old duke was ushered into the royal sitting room where, as Ethan had predicted, Abramm already awaited him. The new king sat upon the blue-and-whitestriped divan near the fire, lost in thought, a glass of orange juice in one longfingered hand. As happened every time since Abramm had come before the Table that first night to claim his birthright, Simon found himself startled anew by the change in his nephew’s appearance. How much bigger he was than expected. How much more solid than he’d ever been as a boy. How confident and assured.

Clad in brown fine-wale corduroy breeches and vest over a full-sleeved ivory-colored blouse, Abramm’s dress was austere, a decided relief compared to the excesses of his courtiers. As usual he wore no jewelry save his signet ring. Even the hilt and scabbard of the rapier he still wore—an odd concession to fashion when he so disregarded it in other respects—lacked all ornamentation, looking more like a service piece than the decorated broomsticks that were the norm.

As Simon stopped between divan and chair, Abramm took notice of him and indicated he should sit. “You look travel worn, Uncle,” he said, leaning forward. “Would you like a drink? Something to eat?”

Simon allowed that he would, and both were swiftly provided. Once his guest’s comfort had been seen to, Abramm nodded to one of the servants, who led the others out without a word.

Simon could not complain about his listener’s attentiveness. The report was specific and comprehensive, yet Abramm never lost interest, never seemed lost, and did not hesitate to ask questions both intelligent and surprisingly relevant—not at all the sort that would be asked by a man who cared nothing for the military. Or who knew little about it. Nor did he allow any slighting of the border situation, questioning Simon closely when he tried to pass over it and ultimately extracting all the information Simon had to give before allowing him to move on. Which, despite Ethan’s warning, made Simon warm to him all the more.

Until he brought up Graymeer’s. Or, more specifically, the fact that Simon
hadn’t
brought it up. “When I would expect it to be at the top of the list of deficiencies that need addressing.”

It was like opening one’s wardrobe and finding a nest of staffid inside. Simon frowned, all his goodwill smothered by rising suspicion. “Sire, you grew up in Springerlan. You know what Graymeer’s is.”

Cloaked in mists and infested with shadowspawn, the old fortress sat atop a honeycomb of dark passages so convoluted they’d never been thoroughly investigated, much less mapped and secured. For almost a century now, that lacking had doomed to disaster every attempt to reclaim the site, the lives lost to it grown too great to count.

“I know what it is today,” Abramm said, picking up the glass of orange juice he’d set aside earlier and draining it. “But I also know it wasn’t always like this. And I know that as long as it stands in ruin, the bay’s west channel is an open lane for invaders to take the city. And yes, perhaps our navy can handle it, but why anchor a ship there defending the channel when a battery of cannon on the headland can do the job as well or better?”

His blue eyes met Simon’s boldly, as if he expected to be challenged. But Simon smiled, feeling the irony of the moment. “Surely you know by now I would be the last to argue with you on that, sir. I just don’t think spending more lives on Graymeer’s is the way to go. Better to build elsewhere. I’ve already researched an excellent site at the mouth of the river.”

“Which would let them get far too close to the city,” Abramm pointed out, fingering the now empty glass in his hands. “Besides, we don’t have time or funds to build anew. And it would be a foolish waste of both when all Graymeer’s really needs, I suspect, is a good cleaning.”

“A cleaning.” The words sent a chill up Simon’s back. “What do you mean to do, then? Set Brother Belmir and a pack of his Mataians to the problem? Or worse, Lord Prittleman?”

Abramm’s head jerked up, his expression startled and indignant. “No! Why would I?”

“Because the Mataio has been screaming about cleansing that place for years. Now here you are, determined to do the same. It doesn’t take much to add the figures. A worthy goal, I would say, for one who would be their Guardian-King.”

“I am
not
their Guardian-King!” Abramm said sharply. “When I renounced my vows, I renounced it all. I thought I had made that clear.” He was plainly irritated. But was it because of frustration at not being believed or because he feared his************ façade was being uncovered?

“Belmir claims your disbelief is temporary,” said Simon. “That soon you will be back in the fold. Father Bonafil speaks of a coronation in the Keep.”

“I’ll be dead before I’m crowned in the Keep!” Abramm said fiercely. “And I’ve told them the truth to their faces. If they refuse to believe me, it’s hardly my fault.”

His passion seemed genuine. But Ethan’s words would not go away.
“Remember his mentor was Saeral, as charming a snake as ever there was.”
“So you’re saying to me,” said Simon, “clearly and plainly, that you are not a Mataian and never will be again.”

“That is exactly what I am saying, Uncle.”

“Why?” Simon burst out. “After all these years of stubborn allegiance, why do you reject it now? And how can you expect me to believe it is permanent? It’s not like you hold another faith in its stead!”

He met Abramm’s glance defiantly, expecting the boy to shrink back and avert his eyes. Instead, he found himself caught in a gaze suddenly piercing and intent, as if his nephew sought to see his motives or was perhaps gauging some other aspect of his character. Simon had no idea what he might have seen, but finally Abramm did look away, apprehension flashing inexplicably across the hawkish features as he set the glass down on the table beside him. For a long time he sat in silence, one finger circling the glass’s rim, until finally he released a long breath and looked up. “Why, you ask?” His voice was grim. “Because I’ve seen it for the lie that it is. Since the day I discovered Saeral’s true plans for me and fled, nothing that happened to me should have happened. By Mataian reckoning, I should have been blessed for my service—not chained to a galley and forced to break my vows or die.”

“Chained to a galley?” Simon exclaimed, startled. “I thought you were a scribe.”

“I was both. Scribe first, galley slave second.” His lips twisted ironically as his hand left the juice glass and went to the opposite cuff. “Do you want to see the brand?”

No!
Simon thought.
I don’t!
And yet he said nothing as Abramm pushed the billowing sleeve upward to reveal a muscular arm slashed with white scars. On the swell of his bicep stood a red dragon rampant, somewhat distorted by the way the scar tissue had formed, but very clearly a dragon. Simon had already heard the stories that it was just like the dragon in Abramm’s coat of arms, but hearing stories was not the same as seeing the thing in the flesh. Not only was it close enough to the dragon on his coat of arms to raise the hairs on Simon’s nape, but it
was
a brand. The mark of a slave on the son of Simon’s brother, now king of Kiriath. It was such an affront, such a shock, he could hardly bear to look at it. And now other details pushed themselves forward—the white scars, the broadness of shoulders and chest, the heaviness of his hands, thickened from hard labor. Galley slave.
That’s how he’s come back so changed. That’s how he backed old Haldon
up against the bedpost. Branded, chained to an oar, forced to row or die. Plagues! The steel was there. How could we all have missed it?

Abramm looked away, jaw clenched, face touched with a hint of flush as he let the fabric fall back down his arm, covering the brand again. As he refastened his cuff he said, “I am no Mataian, Uncle, and I swear to you they will never rule this realm so long as I live. If my solemn word is not enough, I will swear it before Eidon himself, or upon any binding relic you wish.”

There was that intensity again, a passion of declaration that rang with undeniable conviction. Simon did not know what to say to it, so he said nothing. The silence stretched between them, filled with the thumps and voices of the servants in the adjoining chamber, muffled and indistinct behind closed doors.

“I still don’t think Graymeer’s is a good idea,” Simon burst out.

“I’ll know better in a couple of days.”

“My lord, that is another thing . . . you’re not really going up there with all your courtiers—”

“Of course not. They’ll only be there for the picnic. We’ll be setting up on the flat above Sander’s Cove. I’ll spend a bit of time with them while Captain Channon and his men secure the fortress—as much as they can— then I’ll go have a look. It’ll be midday, and we won’t stay long.”

“But to even order the men to go inside—”

“They’re all volunteers, Uncle.”

And that brought Simon to silence.
Volunteers? He’s gotten men to volunteer
to enter Graymeer’s?
Then,
Well, why not? They’re already signing up for the
army, why not this?

Abramm smiled a little. “I’ve been in places like Graymeer’s before, Uncle. They’re not uncommon in Esurh, so I do have some idea what I’m getting into.”

“And you encountered these places while you were rowing your galley ship?”

The smile widened. “I haven’t rowed a galley ship in years.”

That’s right. He’d come to Kinlock in Bre’el wearing Esurhite robes and carrying enough Esurhite gold to hire a trademaster and all her crew for his monster-hunting foray. Obviously much had transpired between his time on the galley and then. Much that so far he’d said little about.

Abramm’s voice intruded into his musing. “To get back to your report— I’d like an addendum detailing all that will be necessary for reopening Graymeer’s. Beyond that . . .”

He went on to authorize most of Simon’s recommendations, and then, just when Simon thought he was finished, Abramm shocked him again. “I have one more request of you, Uncle: a list of men you regard as trustworthy and level-headed. And any other advice you deem important.”

Simon gaped at him. “You ask
me
for a list of men you can trust? Knowing my ties to Gillard?”

Abramm leaned back on the divan, one elbow braced on the armrest. “Those ties are precisely why I am asking you.” He paused. “And speaking of Gillard, what do you know of the plots he is hatching against me?”

Simon flinched. “I know of no plots, sir.” A flare of red, a flash of fiery eyes stabbing into his own, a gleam of steel, a low, croaking voice . . .

“No plots?”

Only a strange, recurring, senseless dream. He straightened his shoulders and looked the king in the eye. “No, sir. In fact, I counseled him against taking such action.”

“Did you?” Abramm ran his fingers along the silk upholstery of the divan’s arm. “And was he involved in the ambush against me the evening of the reception?”

“He claimed he was not.”

Abramm studied him thoughtfully. “You believe otherwise?”

“By all the gods, Abramm! Must you be so direct?”

“I serve only one god. And yes, I must be direct if we are to understand each other.”

Simon looked away, hands clenched in his lap. He had not expected this level of audacity. Had not expected Abramm to face him eye to eye and challenge him like this. “Your Majesty, please. You must know the position you put me in with such a question.”

Abramm’s blue eyes stayed cool and flat. “These are hard times, Uncle. Few of us occupy positions we desire. I least of all.” He paused, then repeated, as if Simon were perfectly at ease before him. “So was he involved, then?”

“Sire . . . please!” Desperate to escape that piercing gaze, Simon leaped up and paced to the hearth.

“This is not some bizarre competition for your affections, Uncle. We are talking about the fate of our realm, the lives of our people, the duty that comes to us because of our heritage and our name. A duty that does not ask us what we like or prefer.”

Simon stared blindly at the dying fire. Those were words he’d uttered repeatedly over the years, though Gillard never really embraced them. That Abramm would use them now—as reproof, no less!—shook Simon deeply. And made him feel as wretched as he’d ever felt in his life, teetering on the knife edge of a decision he never dreamed he’d have to make.
Let me look into
it, Your Majesty,
he wanted to say. But other words presented themselves, words he was loath to voice, even as he did. “He claimed at first he was not. Later he admitted he was, but with no intent to harm, only to frighten. To get you to abdicate and return to your Mataian towers.”

Behind him, Abramm snorted softly. “I hope you know now, Uncle, that I will not do that.”

After a moment, Simon turned from the hearth. “Even if it means igniting a civil war?”

Abramm watched his own fingers caress the silken armrest. “I do not wish war, Uncle. It is the last thing Kiriath needs. But if he takes it that far”—his eyes came up to skewer Simon’s—“I will not back down.”