The Shadow Within (52 page)

You should not have come . . . you bring only bloodshed and death . . .

He suspected emissaries awaited him in the anteroom of the royal apartments even now, messengers sent from the Table or the Mataio to call him into their presence. Or if not that, Blackwell would be there, pressuring him about the patch, providing all his reasons for why Abramm should wear it, why it wouldn’t matter that much, why it would only be long enough to buy him the time he needed to corral Gillard and remove the threat of rebellion. . . .

It wasn’t fear of death that disturbed him, he’d discovered, it was the fear of going to back to what he’d been. Little Abramm. Ignored, discounted, reviled. Cast out. It was losing the regard of men he had long wished to impress—though the man he most coveted was lost now regardless of what he did. Simon already knew what he was and had made his choice. His disgust would only increase should Abramm lie before all the Table and try to pretend he was something Simon knew very well he was not.

It was one thing to know all that. Another to face the men themselves and see the disgust and disappointment in their faces. He had come so far so fast, he supposed he should have expected this. Indeed, it was worse for all the early successes. When he’d stood on
Wanderer
’s deck almost four weeks ago, contemplating his run for the Crown, he’d expected it to be impossible. He’d expected weeks, maybe months of waiting and preparing and political jockeying. He’d expected to fail and had been ready—he thought—to deal with that. Now, coming off so many successes, the prospect of failure was unbearably bitter.

And yet, was that not precisely what Tersius had done? Laid aside all his divine rights and privileges to endure the very things Abramm so feared—to be mistreated and ignored and despised? To go to that mount outside Xorofin and let the crowd impale him and the Shadow have him?

I’m not that strong, my Lord Eidon.

Not in your flesh, my son, but you know whatever I ask of you, I will give
you the power to do. And to bear.

And is that what you wish me to bear, then, my Lord? To go back to being
nothing and no one again? Scorned and ignored and helpless to do anything of
consequence?

You will never be nothing or no one to me, my son. Nor helpless to do anything
of consequence
.

“Sire?”

The voice—not Trap’s—spoke at the same time as Warbanner’s head came up with a snort and he sidled away from the newcomer, the sleek plane of his side knocking Abramm back a step. He slid his hand down the stallion’s muscular shoulder, murmuring words of reassurance as he looked over his back at Byron Blackwell approaching him down the stable aisle, enwrapped by the corona of light cast from the lantern in his hand.

Banner gave another snort and toss of his head, but Abramm shoved him back to his original spot and bid him settle down. Keeping a respectable distance, Blackwell hung his lantern on a hook between two stalls, then turned to face the king.

“Sir, I’m sorry to intrude—”

“Then why have you?”

Blackwell stopped several strides away and gaped at him. “I . . . I wasn’t sure . . . well, I heard you’d returned from the headlands some time ago, and there are men waiting outside your chamber—”

“Now
there’s
an unexpected development,” Abramm said sourly, aware of his sarcastic tone, but not caring. He was king. And this day had not gone well. And he was not at all happy to see Blackwell here.

Blackwell bore it stoically, standing straight, hands at his sides. “Sir, the Mataio has officially accused you of being Terstan.”

“As we knew they would.”

“They’ve issued a proclamation and are demanding the Table denounce you. The Table’s been arguing about it all day.” He paused, and his hands came up to clasp each other in that annoying gesture he seemed to fall into when rattled. “The patch will need time to cure, sir, and there’s no telling when they’ll finally bring their demand to you.”

Abramm swept the brush across Banner’s back and down his flank. “I’m not using the patch, Byron.”

He glimpsed the count’s openmouthed stare out of the corner of his eye, just before he dropped out of sight as Abramm bent to brush the sweatclumped hairs on Warbanner’s hock. He ran a hand down the horse’s leg, checking for swellings and tender spots, but there weren’t any.

On the far side, Byron cleared his throat and tried again. “Sir, no one will be put off by a simple denial this time. And they are not going to let you refuse. . . .”

“They will receive neither denial nor refusal.” He stepped back and dropped the brush into the wall-bolted bin beside the open stall door. “I suggest you distance yourself from me right now. You might want to prepare a declaration of denunciation, as well. Or perhaps it would be better to simply leave town.” Unhooking the horse, Abramm led him into the stall, removed the lead, then stepped out again. The half door creaked as he shut it, then slammed the bolt home.

Byron was still standing there, hands clasped at his waist. “I would never denounce you, sir. I believe with all my heart you are just what Kiriath needs right now, and I know I am not alone in that.”

“Then perhaps you should get your fellows to come forth and make their views public.”

“Sir—”

“There comes a time when a man has to stand up for who he is and what he believes. I’ve had enough hiding.”

“Sir, they’ll arrest you for heresy. Bonafil’s already talking about the need for you to be cloistered in one of the Mataio’s far keeps so you may be delivered from the spell that has ensnared you. And once they take you, you know what’ll happen to the rest of us. If you care nothing for yourself—”

“Why do you think I told you to leave town?”

“Please, sir . . . I’m as eager to have you reveal the truth as anyone, but it needs to be done on your own terms, not theirs. And certainly not Gillard’s.”

And that one pierced to Abramm’s heart. Of all things, the worst was to have this matter forced upon him. To have to go before the Table like some misbehaving child and confess to something that not only wasn’t a crime, wasn’t heresy, but was the only true way to know who Eidon really was. The only true power that could protect the realm from all the dangers it faced.

“The idea of your being be dragged before those self-righteous sticks,” Blackwell went on, “and questioned like some common criminal is—well, the idea infuriates me.”

“As it does me. Which is precisely why I intend to go to them first.”

Blackwell flinched, and his eyes, fixed upon something down the aisle, darted back to Abramm’s. “Go to them, sir?”

Abramm glanced at Trap. “Captain, would you see that Erad is saddled?”

“Yes, sir.”

As Trap wheeled away, Abramm returned his attention to Blackwell, still staring at him in horror. That sense of crazy bravado welled up in him, reminding him of the night he’d told the Dorsaddi he would awaken their Heart, not even knowing at the time what that Heart was. He had not done it, but the heart had awakened all the same. And nothing had turned out as he had expected. Or feared.

Perhaps it would be thus again, although he didn’t think so. Indeed, he felt certain that disaster loomed ahead, and all he’d come back to accomplish would remain undone. He’d left Hur for naught. But if that was Eidon’s will for him, so be it.

He jerked up his chin and, holding Blackwell’s gaze with his own, pulled free the laces of his leather jerkin, folding under the front edges of his blouse’s slitted neckline to reveal the golden shield glittering on his chest.

Byron didn’t quite gasp, but his eyes grew wider still as they fixed upon it. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed against the white linen of his cravat as he swallowed. At Abramm’s back came the clump and clack of Erad being led from his stall farther down the aisle, the lead’s slide-hook clinking as Trap snapped it to the tie ring.

Abramm glanced over his shoulder. He hadn’t really intended Trap to saddle the horse, but seeing as there were no grooms in the immediate vicinity, he realized there was no one else.

A sudden spate of footfalls, rustling, and low voices drew his attention back to the other end of the aisle behind Blackwell, where two cloaked figures had appeared out of the darkness to hurry toward them. One was very tall, the other very short—more boy-sized than man. Abramm’s hand dropped to his sword as Byron whipped around with a cry, and the duo stopped in their tracks halfway from the stable door to where Abramm stood.

Immediately they flung back their cowls, and a deep, familiar voice rumbled up the aisle. “My lord, it’s only us.”

“Haldon? Jared?” Blackwell cried almost indignantly as he stepped toward them. “What are you doing here?”

Haldon ignored him and continued on toward Abramm, bobbing his head in a half bow of greeting, his glance sticking briefly on Abramm’s now exposed shieldmark. “Gadrielites burst into your quarters, sir. Front and back doors simultaneously. We barely escaped through the panel in the bedchamber.”

“Panel in the bedchamber?” Blackwell demanded. “What panel?”

“So now they know of it?” Abramm asked, also ignoring Blackwell.

“Well, sir, we hope they think we went out the window and climbed down the trellis, but we can’t be sure. They’re all over the palace, but it doesn’t look as if they’ve followed us.”

“That you know of,” Blackwell said.

“What about the armsmen?” This from Trap, having left Erad to join them.

“There weren’t many, Lieutenant,” Haldon said to him. “Most had disappeared for some reason. And those that remained—well, I’m sorry to say they were part of it.” His gaze came back to Abramm. “Nor were they all Gadrielites. Some of them were Gillard’s men. I recognized Matheson’s voice for sure.”

“So Gillard has joined forces with the Mataio.” Given his brother’s hatred for him, and the desperation he must be feeling right now after his failed attempt at assassination, it was his only option.

“Joined forces and taken over the palace it sounds like!” Blackwell said, turning to Abramm. “You’ve got to get out of here, sir.”

Haldon glanced at the lantern burning brightly from its hook on the post and moved to turn down its flame. “The grooms have been ordered to report when you arrive, sir,” he explained. “So far they haven’t obeyed, but sooner or later they’re going to have to say something. For now this stable is counted as unoccupied, and it’s kept people away. No one’s really sure where you are.”

“What about Captain Channon?”

“I don’t know, sir. He came by and warned us to be ready to move, then left.”

Abramm turned to Trap. “They’ll have the roads north blocked for sure.”

“There is a way out through the King’s Preserve.”

“Which Gillard knows well. He’ll have the docks covered, too.”

“We could try Southdock. I know plenty of places to hide there.”

“No, Southdock’s going to have more than enough troubles shortly.” Abramm exhaled sharply and paused as he thought. Then, “We’ll cross the river, but not by any of the bridges. We’ll have to use a barge. And we’ll need someone on the bridge to distract the guards. Blackwell, do you think you could handle that?”

They all turned to Blackwell, who was staring hard down the stable aisle in the direction from which Haldon and the others had come, though he didn’t appear to be looking so much as listening. His eyes were blank, almost glazed with the intensity of his concentration.

“Blackwell?”

The man didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Blackwell?” Abramm stepped toward him. “Are you ill?”

The man started violently, as if all the life came rushing back into him at once. He looked around, dazed. “Sir?”

“What’s the matter with you? Did you see something?”

“See?” He frowned, and then understanding dawned. “Oh. No. I thought I heard hooves or voices or something.”

Abramm glanced at Trap who was already making for the end of the stable. He disappeared into the gloom, reappeared not long after and waved an all-clear. Abramm turned back to Blackwell and explained about the barge and Bunman Bridge.

“A barge, sir?” Blackwell said weakly.

“You have an aversion to barges?”

“To the water, sir. I can’t swim. I nearly drowned as a boy.”

Abramm cocked a brow at him. “Well, that makes you an even better choice for the role of distracter, since you’ll be on the bridge. You’ll have to disguise yourself. Perhaps an old woman with a cart. A heavily laden cart.”

“Yes,” Trap said, rejoining them. “They’ll have to search all the crates. . . .”

“But how will I know when you wish me to move?”

“Let us take care of that.”

“And what about after, sir?”

“Why, hopefully you’ll be free to go your way, find a place upriver to stay the night, and see what your options are in the morning.”

“So you’re fleeing the realm altogether?”

“I’ll let you know. If you’re interested.”

“I told you, sir, I am convinced it is you Eidon wants on the throne of Kiriath. And I will do whatever you ask of me to see that you regain it.”

He stood there, hands working before him, eyes flicking from one to the other of them all standing around him. Then his gaze came back to Abramm, and abruptly he sank to one knee and bowed his head.

“Abramm Kalladorne, King of Kiriath, I give you my everlasting fealty, here before these witnesses. You are my king and ever will be. Whatever you ask, I will do, whatever I have, it is yours, whenever you call, I will come, so long as there is life in my flesh to do so.”

It raised the hairs up the back of Abramm’s neck every time he found himself looking down at the top of a man’s bowed head and hearing those sacred binding words pledged to himself. It never seemed right, for what was he but a man like them? Perhaps much less of a man than some who had given him their liege. But once given, it could not be spurned, could not be disputed or protested. To do anything but accept made little of it and the man who gave it.

And so he swallowed down the squirming discomfort and touched his right hand to Blackwell’s head as protocol demanded, his signet ring sparkling even in the dimmed light of the lantern. He said the age-old words of response with solemn dignity. “I receive this precious gift with gratitude and swear upon my name and my blood and my god that I will never abuse nor take lightly that which has been offered.”