The Shadow Within (41 page)

She lifted her chin again, and the tendril of hair dropped against her cheek. “I will only withdraw at your direct command, sir. As for the gossips, I would never give them the pleasure of believing they had chased me off.”

“You don’t care at all what they think, do you?”

She tucked back the tendril. “I learned long ago that caring only makes you miserable. People don’t like it when you’re different. You can change to be like them, or fret about their criticism—or accept who you are and go your way.” She glanced up at him. “It seems to me you’ve done your share of that yourself.”

“Never so consciously. And
I
can’t leave them and go my way.”

“Which is why I am grateful I will never be a king.” She lifted her chin in that prim way of hers and faced forward again. “Or a queen, for that matter. It’s Eidon alone I serve, not people.”

“And yet often it is in serving people that we serve him.”

She frowned slightly, keeping her gaze fixed on the vast, gleaming hall before them. “Well, thankfully he’s already shown me how he wants me to serve him.”

“Ah yes.” Abramm returned to the bantering tone. “Running about sticking your nose into other people’s business.”

The frown returned more deeply now.

“Only a jest, my lady,” he said, grinning. “You can’t deny it—so, please, do not take offense.” He waved a hand at her. “Why are you holding your finger in that book?”

She looked down at it. “Oh. I wanted to show you this picture I found. It seems like it might be a match for that monster you found painted on the wall down in Graymeer’s.”

She laid the open volume in his hands. The bottom half of the left page displayed an engraving of a huge beast with powerful shoulders and tapering hindquarters. A spiky bristle of hair sprouted from head and shoulders, framing the doglike snout and wicked teeth. Its one visible eye had been starred with white lines as if to make it glow. Just looking at it raised the hackles on the back of Abramm’s neck.

“This is it,” he said, turning his attention to the text above and beside it. “What is it?”

“A morwhol. A few pages earlier there’s a story about some border lord who made it to slay a rival. After ravaging a good number of the rival’s kinfolk, the beast killed the rival himself, then was recaptured by its maker and caged. For years afterward he used the threat of its release to ensure his people’s obedience.”

“A man made it, you say?”

“Yes, sir. In the end, the thing escaped and turned on him—killed him and all his kin—then lived on in the area for some time after, a danger to all who strayed too near.”

“And I suppose it’s still up there to this day,” Abramm suggested wryly.

“No. It finally died, though the narrative doesn’t say how. In fact, the implication is it can’t be killed. At least not by natural means.”

He frowned at her, then flipped to the title page:
Tales of the Highland
Lords
.

“I haven’t read the whole book,” she said, “so there may be something more. And I don’t know how much of what’s in it to believe. Some of it’s pretty wild.”

He went back to the picture. Made to slay the rival in a blood feud, she’d said. Rhiad’s accusations of heresy had apparently failed, so if he was as committed to revenge as he claimed, why wouldn’t he try something else? And if the rumors were true about him having made the kraggin, why not one of these morwhols? The mad Mataian’s words still haunted him.
“Do you like
him? You will meet him soon. And what you took from me, he will take from
you.”
Abramm shuddered, realizing for the first time that Rhiad might be more dangerous than he’d thought; more dangerous even than Gillard.

Lady Madeleine was staring up at him with a bemused look, and he realized she had asked him something. “I beg your pardon, my lady?”

“I was just wondering where you got that ring?”

“This?” He lifted his right hand from the book. “It’s my signet.”

“No, the one on your left hand. Coiled around your index finger.”

He looked at it, puzzled, for he didn’t recall even seeing it before, much less putting it on. “I guess Haldon brought it out with the other clothes.”

“You guess? Do you have nothing to say about it, then? You just let them dress you like a doll?”

“Well, hardly like a doll.”

“I’ve never seen you wear it before.”

“Are you keeping catalog of my apparel now, too, Lady Madeleine?”

“No, but this is . . . your pardon, my lord, but it is singularly ugly.”

“It’s a family heirloom.”

She frowned up at him. “A moment ago you didn’t seem to know
what
it was.”

“Is this all you came about?” He closed the book and handed it over. “If so, you’d best get back to your business. Let me know if you learn any more about this morwhol creature.”

To her credit, Madeleine knew a dismissal when she heard one. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” She dropped a curtsey and he continued on alone.

But once she was gone, he looked at the ring again and admitted she was right: it
was
ugly. And how
did
he know it was a family heirloom when he could recall no family member ever having worn it? He felt he should probably examine that question but found he had no interest, and a moment later his thoughts ran off to other more compelling subjects.

Trap Meridon was waiting in the sitting room when he arrived, returned from what Haldon had said was an “urgent mission.” Now the first thing he did as they came together was to flick a hand, producing a drift of music and a tingle of Light as the cloak that would protect them from unfriendly ears settled around them. Abramm noted it and cocked an expectant brow. “What’s this about?”

“Remember how Kesrin told you the night you revealed yourself to him that one of the peers needed to know your secret? One who was probably being put off from you by the rhu’ema just as Kesrin was?”

“I’ve been wondering what came of that.”

“Kesrin only made contact with the man a couple of days ago. I guess they’d had a falling out. For the same reason, it turns out, that the man’s been so hostile toward you—someone put a ring staffid on him the very day you arrived. If that tells you anything about his importance in all of this.”

Abramm leaned his backside against the nearest divan and folded his arms. “So did Kesrin tell you this man’s name?”

“Yes, sir. In fact, I’ve just come from the man’s flat. He’s been sporesick for days, telling everyone it’s the grippe.” Half the court had fallen victim to the ailment in the last two weeks, and all blamed Abramm’s picnic—not because they’d been drenched on their way home, but because they believed it was part of the curse that had been loosed by his ill-advised intrusion into Graymeer’s. The epidemic seemed largely over now, though a few still—

“Khrell’s Fire!” Abramm cried, coming forward onto both feet as all the pieces fell together. “It’s Ethan Laramor, isn’t it?” The man was a border lord, sprung from a culture in which everyone hated Mataians and a large minority were Terstan; whose own lands were crossed by the Terstan underground on its way to the Kolki Pass in the Aranaak; who’d been irreconcilably hostile toward Abramm from the start and was said to be actively supporting Gillard; and who had been very sick now for almost a week.

Trap smiled grimly. “Very good, sir. He is absolutely flailing himself for his error—would’ve renounced his clan lordship and sent himself into exile had Kesrin and I not dissuaded him.” He paused, his eye catching on Abramm’s hands, the right slowly twisting the ring on his left.

Noting the direction of his gaze, Abramm stopped the movement and lowered his hands, feeling a mild irritation. He half expected his friend to comment, but Trap went on with his tale, relating how, in the attempt to make amends, Laramor had confirmed their own predictions of what Gillard had planned for tonight. The attack would come during the Autumn Suite, with two knife-throwers, only one of whom knew about the other. They’d be striking in close succession from different positions, since the chaos that would arise after even one attack would preclude any further attempts.

“Unless they want to get in close,” Abramm pointed out.

“Laramor said no. One of them has refused to go anywhere near you. Apparently he heard about the man who tried to kill you in your bedchamber last week and does not hold with Gillard’s contention that he failed because he was inept.”

Stunned by Abramm’s unexpected skill with a blade, the bedchamber assailant had been easily disarmed. Stunned in his turn by the golden shield glittering between the edges of his attacker’s leather jerkin, Abramm had let the man escape.

“The problem is,” Trap went on, “Laramor’s been out of touch with the plotters for days now. The plans could well have changed, especially with all this talk of Lady Madeleine’s new song—about you being the White Pretender and all.” He was frowning again, for he’d not been pleased with the timing of the song’s debut. Better, he said, to have waited until after the ball. “If the men Gillard’s got lined up were already uneasy because of the tales your bedchamber assailant told, they might quit altogether if faced with the prospect of going after the Pretender.”

Abramm rolled his eyes and went back to lean against the divan. “Nobody really believes I’m him, though, and you know it. They all think I paid her to write the thing, and I can’t imagine Gillard’s thugs turning down the kind of money he must be offering because of some crazy rumor.”

“Well,” Trap said, “it will certainly make our lives easier if you’re right.” His gaze caught again on Abramm’s ring, which Abramm was again stroking, and this time he stepped closer to get a better look at it.

Abramm dropped his hands and stepped back from him. “Yes, Madeleine has already informed me of how ugly it is.”

Meridon looked up at him, puzzlement moving toward suspicion. “Where did you get it, sir? I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.”

“It’s a family heirloom.”

“An heirloom.” Trap glanced up at him. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure!” Abramm snapped. “And why are you even asking me about it? My selection of accessories is hardly your concern.”

Meridon regarded him uneasily. “My lord, according to his description, Ethan Laramor wore an ugly ring very much like that one. He wore it for almost three weeks, in fact, without realizing what it was.”

A squall of horror blew through Abramm, quickly squelched by incredulity. “You think this is a
ring staffid
?” He held up his hand.

“Take it off and we’ll see.”

But Abramm was already turning away from him. “Ridiculous! I know a staffid when I see one. And I’m certainly not going to pick one up and put it on.”

“You might if it was delivered to you personally.”

“So now you’re saying I’m not only stupid and blind, I’m also a witless fool?”

“I said no such thing, my lord! Why are you taking such offense?”

“I’m not taking offense. Fire and Torment, man! It’s just an ugly heirloom.”

Trap met his ire stolidly, his face blank, his voice quietly calm. “If so, sir, then you should have no trouble taking it off.”

“My wrist always starts tingling whenever I’m near them, and it’s doing nothing of the kind. Besides, you of all people know how sick spore makes me.”

“Some spore is subtle, and some types of staffid have auras that are almost undetectable, especially to those not well skilled in the Light.”

“Now you’re saying I’m not well skilled in the Light?”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Abramm!” Trap exclaimed, patience finally worn through. “Just show me you can take the blasted thing off and we’ll be done with it.”

“How dare you speak to me like that!”

“I dare because I am responsible for your safety!” Trap wrestled his temper back under control, his voice softening. “I am your liegeman sworn, sir, and your friend. And this uncharacteristic temper of yours is only confirming my fears. All I’m asking you to do is take it off for a moment. After that, I’ll bear whatever punishment you deem just.”

Abramm glared at him, mollified but still feeling obstinate and violated. Yet he could not deny the reasonableness of Meridon’s request. Nor the peculiarity of his own fit of pique over it. “Oh, very well.” He yanked the ring off, slid it back on again, and then looked up defiantly. “Now can we go on?”

Trap’s gaze bored into his own. “You didn’t take it off, my lord. You didn’t even touch it.”

Abramm’s protest died in his throat as he realized Trap was right. So he tried again, forcing himself to take hold of it, and, very deliberately, pull it off his finger. Illusion told him he had. Feel told him it was still on his hand. And the moment he realized his eyes were deceiving him, the illusion vanished, and there was the ring—an opalescent gray-green spiral, coiled around the entire first joint of his left index finger.

He began to tug in desperation, panic arising in tandem with the compulsion to give up—and even now to hope it wasn’t what he feared.

“Let him do the work,” Trap murmured.

The admonition brought him up short.
Yes, you
are
trying to do it yourself.
. . .

Deliberately, Abramm drew a deep breath, confronting the panic and rejecting it as he turned his thoughts toward the One behind the Light. Immediately a sharp pain shot up his arm and he felt the prickle of hard insect legs against the soft skin on the sides of his finger. Then the thing gave way. Revolted, he tossed it onto the end table. As it landed, the Light tingled through him, leaping unbidden from his finger to strike the spawn in a tiny bolt of white. Struggling to right itself, the creature arched back at the blow, writhed in one last corkscrewing convulsion, and stilled.

Rubbing his now-tingling finger, Abramm stared at it, the chagrin of being wrong offset by the surprise of having struck the thing with Light—when he hadn’t even thought to do so. It seemed his practice had paid off, though he had no idea if he could guarantee the same results next time. And now the chagrin was renewed as he recalled his protest that he was not unskilled in the Light—a blatant self-delusion if ever there was one.