The Shadow Within (37 page)

“Ethan,” he said warily as Laramor fell in beside him. “I didn’t expect to see you here this morning. They said you’d gone down to the city.”

“I did.” Laramor’s dress confirmed it: black, broad-brimmed hat, suede leather doublet, white cravat, and brown leather riding gloves, which he was in the process of stripping off. His riding cloak he had already removed and folded over one arm. He looked pale and hollow-eyed, as if he’d been up all night.

“You heard about the killing?” he asked, tucking the gloves into his belt and shifting his cloak to his hand.

“Prittleman’s man, Skurlek?” Simon made a face. “How could I not? Father Bonafil’s already issued a statement demanding Abramm apprehend the murderer at once, and Abramm, to his credit, is dragging his feet.”

“Only because he hasn’t gotten out of bed yet,” Laramor said.

Simon looked at his friend in surprise. “The master of the dawn? Still not up at this hour? Are you sure?” Since the day he’d arrived Abramm had consistently risen at first light to spend an hour exercising Warbanner or rowing circuits of the Lake of the Moon.

“I guess he had a late night,” said Laramor.

“I heard he turned in early. Closed his doors around seven, in fact.”

They entered the forested ravine adjacent the hall, a path of finely crushed gravel winding ahead of them through stately elms and oaks just starting to turn color. Ferns, already brown and curled from the first frost, bordered the path, while birds chirped overhead, their songs underlaid by the constant chuckle of the stream at the vale’s midst.

“All I know,” said Laramor, “is that he still wasn’t receiving visitors when I went through on my way here. And it’s already after eleven. Maybe he was attacked by an assassin sneaking into his bedroom again,” he added dryly, “and is making up for his lost sleep.”

Simon snorted a laugh. “I’m sure we’d have heard by now if that were so. More likely he’s just sick. Quite a few have been down with the grippe lately.”

“True,” Ethan allowed. He ran a finger under the edge of his cravat, as if it were too tight. “I’ve been feeling poorly myself of late.”

As they started over the first of two stone bridges spanning the stream he half laughed, half snorted. “Wouldn’t that be something if Abramm contracted lung fever and died? Eidon just takes him out and all our problems are solved.”

Or multiplied,
Simon thought sourly, and this time he did not chuckle along. Instead he returned to their earlier subject. “So what did you learn about this murderer? They’re saying he was some half-Esurhite Terstan just off one of the boats.”

“Aye. And quite a hand with the blade, I guess.” Laramor paused. “But it wasn’t murder, Simon. Skurlek attacked
him
. In front of at least thirty witnesses. Though, of course, his being Terstan and Skurlek being one of Prittleman’s, there won’t be many willing to testify.”

“He’s probably long out of the city by now.”

“I
hope
he’s heading back to Esurh. He’s done us a service, and I’d hate to see him have to pay for it.”

Simon knew Skurlek more by reputation than personal encounter. In addition to linking him heavily to the officially illegal Gadrielite persecutions, rumor attached other crimes to his name—extortion, rape, even murder.

“He was a hooligan in fancy pants,” Laramor declared with some degree of heat, “just looking for an excuse to bully people. He probably wasn’t even Mataian, though you’ll never get Pritt to admit it. He’s like to blow a lung with the fit he was throwing outside the king’s chambers just now.”

“He was doing that three hours ago when I left to come here!”

“Well, now he has a score of other petitioners to watch his antics. Haldon just kept repeating, oh so patiently, that the king was not yet receiving visitors. I wanted to laugh, but the crow scowled at me so evilly, I couldn’t.”

They left the shaded hollow for the bright expanse of the East Terrace, a long, almost barren formal garden separating the forested glen and the palace itself. The lay of the land was such that the wide Keharnen Plateau took a sudden rise just before sheering off in the steep escarpment that formed the eastern boundary of the Kalladorne river valley. Built along the edge of that escarpment, the palace stair-stepped down from that higher point toward this more level prospect, where Queen Katerin had built her East Terrace seventy-five years ago.

Bounded on the south by a stone balustrade lining seaside cliffs and on the north by a stand of mature oaks and elms blazing gold against the hot blue sky, the terrace was a long, graded rectangle, marked out in a network of graveled promenades interspersed with well-groomed plantings. Ribbons of purple flowers swirled with low hedges and close-clipped lawns in embroidery-inspired motifs, and a grand walkway accented by three round, placid pools bisected the terrace’s length.

At this hour the midday sun glared off the gravel with hot, eye-searing intensity and the terrace lay nearly deserted. The two men strode along the sea-cliff balustrade in silence, each engrossed in his own thoughts. Having avoided Laramor all this time with the assurance he would talk to the man when opportunity arose, Simon now faced the reality that he’d said nothing because he feared to widen the gulf that had already opened between them. Ethan had declared himself firmly in Gillard’s camp. He had already warned Simon that Abramm would seek to win him, almost as if he believed it would be accomplished by supernatural means. With his Borderer upbringing and beliefs, that was entirely possible. Which meant anything Simon said by way of defense on Abramm’s behalf would probably be discounted.

The Borderers were a proud and stubborn lot, fiercely loyal to their chosen causes and intolerant of those who chose differently. In matters of religion and politics; schisms, rivalries, and feuds abounded, and though to an outsider their differences might seem so slight as to be irrelevant, Borderers took them very seriously. A large minority of them were Terstan, whole clans in fact, descended in a long unbroken heritage from the days of Avramm the First. The majority worshipped the gods of hill and field and wood, an even older tradition in the mountains along the Ruk Pul. Superstition and black magic were pervasive, and a clan chief might as likely be a powerful warlock— able to summon the dark spirits they called ells—as the leader of a local assembly of Terstans. Since many believed both sprang from the same source, it was hard to understand why they fought. But easy to understand why they all hated the Mataio.

The Holy Brethren had repeatedly sought to “convert” the border clans, then castigated them for refusing. Never having had a Mataian king, however, the Brethren lacked real power to do more than castigate. Lay believers had occasionally marshaled armed groups like Prittleman’s Gadrielites to try to cleanse the borderlands, but it never worked. That didn’t mean they had given up, though. In fact, with the kraggin and the recent influx of spawn, more and more calls had sounded for physical action to be taken against those the Mataio deemed impure.

So Simon could understand the threat Ethan saw in Abramm. He just didn’t think the threat was being realized.

As they reached the terrace’s midpoint, Laramor slowed to a stop, turning toward the balustrade to stare over the bay, now deep blue in the midday light. Vessels of every shape and size cluttered its surface, though most of the bigger ships had already sailed out with the brisk land breeze of the morning, a breeze that had by now died away to the stifling stillness of midday.

Simon stopped at Laramor’s side, leaning his bottom against the sunbaked balustrade—his hip was already starting to ache from the morning’s exertions— and turning his gaze across the terrace. Sweat trickled down his sides beneath his underblouse, and all at once his doublet became so constricting he could not bear it another moment. Yes, it was improper to go about in one’s underclothes, even scandalous out here on the terrace, but he was too old to care about such things anymore, and there was no one to see him anyway. Only those tiny figures on the farthest walkway heading for the stair up to the palace. He began to undo the row of front buttons.

Beside him, Ethan finally spoke. “He’s won you, hasn’t he?” he asked quietly.

Simon’s stomach clenched with nausea and irrational shame. “It isn’t what you think, Ethan.”

“Isn’t it? You’ve been avoiding us ever since the day you had your meeting. Me, Harrady, Gillard—all of us. Almost as if you can’t bear to look us in the eye.”

That wasn’t far from the truth.

“Word is you’ve agreed to become his advisor.”

That took Simon aback. “Who told you that?”

“Does it matter?”

Simon continued with his buttons. “I’m Grand Marshall of the Royal Army. Of course I’m going to advise him in some capacity.”
You’re sounding
defensive, old man. You did what you had to do. And now, somehow you have to
convince him to do it, too
.

“You were supposed to resign,” Ethan said. “And I’ve heard something about a list of reliable men you’re compiling.”

Simon unfastened the last button and shrugged out of his doublet.

Beside him Ethan stood stiffly. “Gillard is hurt that you are not with him on this, you know.”

Just exposing his sweat-soaked undergarment to the open air brought instant relief and for a moment Simon reveled in that. Then Ethan’s words registered and he looked sharply at his friend. “Is that a
threat
?”

“A reality.” Laramor had propped both elbows on the balustrade and stared out to sea as he absently twisted the coil ring on his forefinger. “He feels like you’ve betrayed him, and . . . I feel like that myself.”

“And I think the true betrayal lies in encouraging him to oppose the rightful king.”
Might as well just lay it out there
. “He’s risking his life, his reputation, and the peace and freedom of this land for little gain. Perhaps no gain at all.”

Ethan rounded on him angrily. “How can you say that, Simon! Knowing what Abramm is.”

“What I know of Abramm,” Simon said with deliberate calm, “is that the crown is his by right, and he appears well suited to wear it. Far more so than I ever would have guessed or even hoped.”

Ethan gaped at him. “Gillard’s right. You
do
admire him!”

The words sparked a strange burst of memory—fiery eyes in a ruined face, a flashing knife, a white-blond curl, and those same condemning words hurled at him.
“And you!
You
admire him!”

Then it was gone, like a dream image popping into the mind and popping out again the moment one tried to seize it.

But although those words had elicited shocked denial from him the first time—
How do I know that? How do I know it was even real?
—now he acknowledged their truth. He draped his doublet over the balustrade beside him and said, “Why shouldn’t I? He’s turned all of us on our ears, outperforming by a hundredfold every expectation we had.”

“It’s only been two weeks, Simon. Anyone can perform well for two weeks.”

“I don’t believe it’s a façade. The boy’s survived slavery among the Esurhites! Light and Fire, Ethan! Shouldn’t we
expect
him to have been changed by that?”

“He certainly
has
been changed. I just don’t think it was slavery that did it.”

And with that Simon’s patience gave out. “Why are you so insistent he’s involved in some mysterious Mataian conspiracy? It’s like you made up your mind beforehand and won’t even consider the facts.”

“Facts are subject to interpretation.”

Simon sputtered an oath. “He’s done nothing but stall them, deny them, and reject them. He’s declared freely and frequently that he’s not only renounced his vows but his beliefs in the Flames altogether.”

“I do not trust a man who gives up one set of beliefs and has nothing with which to replace them.”

“So what are you saying? He has to be
Terstan
before you would support him?”

An odd startled expression passed across Ethan’s weathered features. Then he frowned. “Not at all. In fact, if he made such a claim I would be more suspicious than ever. Just because a man wears a shield doesn’t mean he serves the power behind it. And there are paper shields, pigskin shields, some even made out of gold foil.”

“Why would anyone
pretend
to be Terstan?”

“The Gadrielites do it all the time in order to penetrate Tersts and betray their members.” Ethan pulled off his hat and fanned his face. Sweat trickled down the side of his check, turning his strawy hair dark along temple and neck, and staining the upper edge of his cravat. “In Abramm’s case, it would be the perfect way to convince people he really wasn’t in league with Bonafil and powers of the Flames.”

“So the boy has no chance with you at all,” said Simon. “No matter what he says or does, in your eyes he’s guilty and there’s no amending it. And all this without you ever having spoken to him directly.”

“I already know what he is, and if I spoke with him, he would only deceive me—as he has apparently deceived you.” He glanced at Simon, then replaced his hat. “There is much here you do not understand.”

“So enlighten me!”

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

Simon rolled his eyes. “Plagues, Ethan! I’ve never seen you so pigheaded before!”

Ethan stared grimly across the bay and said nothing.

Simon felt at his wit’s end. It was as if his old friend had turned into someone else. “What if you’re wrong?” he asked finally. “What if Abramm has come in good faith and is
not
in league with the Mataio at all? Do you truly believe there’s no possibility
you
could’ve been deceived? Or merely have misperceived events as they unfolded? Are you that infallible in your judgments?”

Laramor kept his gaze fixed stubbornly upon the bay, his jaw set, his fingers once more twisting the coiled ring on his left hand.

“Light and Fire, man!” Simon exploded, goaded past all thoughts of diplomacy. “You’re engaging in treason! That’s an execution-worthy crime. At least talk to him face-to-face, one on one if you can. At least give him a chance to prove himself to you.”

Finally his friend moved, scowling fiercely down at his hands, the silver ring gleaming in the sunlight as it twisted round and round beneath his fingers. “I’ve tried,” he said finally. “He refuses to see me.”