Meridon led him through the parting crowd to the outer salon where yet more courtiers awaited, watching avidly. Beyond this a guarded door opened into the second salon, larger by half than the first, with a gleaming black-andwhite tiled floor and a high arching ceiling decorated with gold leaf. Chandeliers hung along its daunting length, and padded benches lined the periphery, interspersed with man-high porcelain lamps. On the expanse of silk-covered walls hung massive framed canvases depicting great moments in Kiriathan history.
This room was not as crowded as the outer salon, but there were still a good number of courtiers, mostly men now, many of them wearing the long curled wigs that were just becoming fashionable when Eldrin had entered the novitiate. These were complemented by a new species of gaudily laced and beribboned doublet, and short, puffy breeches ending at mid-thigh. A number of the men carried wide-brimmed, feathered hats, and a few had even decorated their faces with the painted-on stars and hearts that eight years ago had been the sole province of the ladies.
They stood in clusters about the gigantic room and, like the others before them, had fallen silent upon Eldrin’s entrance, heads craning and every eye turned his way.
Meridon’s booted footsteps echoed loudly around them as they proceeded across the gleaming floor, the soft slaps of Eldrin’s and Rhiad’s sandals and even the whisper of their robes audible in the ringing silence. He risked brief glances at the men he passed, knowing they were high lords of the land, some of the richest and most powerful nobles in Kiriath-or at the least, their sons and relatives-but he recognized very few. As a prince he had had few friends, and as fifth-born, had not been required to keep a presence at court. His older brothers were expected to mingle with the men they might one day rule, but the possibility was so remote for a fifth-born, the precaution was never taken.
Now it was no longer remote at all.
For a moment he could hardly breathe, touched as never before by the reality of how close he stood to the throne. His father and brothers were dead. Dead! Men in the prime of their lives-healthy, vigorous, active men. All gone in the space of six years-and not even in wartime.
Uneasiness rattled through him, calling up a most disconcerting memory of that cold tendril lashing into his mind. He shut it off, shoving both thoughts aside, aghast at the treachery of his own mind. Of all things to think about-now, neither would help him through the coming interview.
They were almost to the great doors at the far side of the room when one of those ten-foot-high panels flew open and a big man with short white-blond hair burst through, the door barely caught in time by the startled doorman. Seeing Eldrin and his escort, the man stopped short, and Eldrin recognized his younger brother instantly.
Gillard approached slowly, staring. Heavy-lidded ice-blue eyes gleamed beneath white-blond brows. Though at nineteen Gillard was a year and a half the younger, he loomed over Eldrin-as he had from earliest memory. A good half-head taller, he had a massive upper body that was accentuated by a formfitting, conservatively adorned, forest green doublet. Like Meridon, he wore both rapier and dirk at his belt, sheathed in golden scabbards.
He stopped in front of Eldrin and whistled low, shaking his head. “I’d heard you’d arrived. Everybody’s saying it’s now clear that Mother really had twin girls. I see what they mean.”
It felt as if bands of iron had tightened around Eldrin’s head and chest. He swallowed on a dust-dry mouth.
Gillard stepped back, cocking his head, then reached out to flick the lock of hair that dangled over Eldrin’s arm. “Plagues, little brother! Look at this hair! Half the ladies here must be dying of envy!” He began to walk a circle around Eldrin, smirking and chuckling. Around them the courtiers watched, no one moving, no one making a sound. The blood rose hotly to Eldrin’s face.
Gillard came back to the front, hooked a big thumb into his belt, and shook his head again. “It’s a good thing Uncle Simon’s not here. He’d die of apoplexy. The rumors will be bad enough.”
“Your brother,” Rhiad declared loudly at Eldrin’s side, “has given his life to the service of Eidon and the deliverance of this land from the evil.”
Eldrin’s face flamed the more. He wished Rhiad would stay out of this. With Gillard it was always better to keep silent and let the insults roll. Argument only made things worse.
Gillard snorted. “Everyone knows the real reason he joined your little holy club, Master Rhiad-to get out of Barracks. He knew he couldn’t survive it, so he ran. As for delivering the land-plagues? He can’t even deliver himself from insult. Can you, little brother? Couldn’t even show your face here without your holy friend to hold you up.”
“Have a care, Your Highness,” Rhiad murmured, “you tread near blasphemy.”
“Blasphemy? Don’t make me laugh.”
Meridon, who stood a step ahead and to the side of Eldrin, now managed to draw his eye. “My lord?” he said quietly. “The king awaits.”
`Ah yes, the king.” Gillard drew back, chuckling again. “I’d suggest you listen to him, little brother. Because, Mataio or not, if you make any claim to the throne and-“
“Prince Gillard,” Rhiad interjected, “are you threatening us?”
“Merely stating fact.” Gillard’s pale eyes narrowed, and he shifted his gaze to the Haverallan. “So long as I live you’ll never get your filthy Mataian fingers on the Crown. Count on it.” With a mocking nod, he shoved past Eldrin and stalked away.
As the smacking of his footsteps faded, Eldrin swayed with a wave of light-headedness. Suddenly his stomach hurt and his knees quivered violently. Deliberately he drew a deep breath, then unclenched his shaking hands, aghast at the sudden desire to heave one of the porcelain lamps against the wall and see it smash into a thousand pieces. It was an old, familiar feeling, the frustration of an injustice that was never righted, no matter how hard he wished it, no matter how hard he fought it. Gillard always won. He had forgotten how impotent it made him feel-and how furious. Probably because he hadn’t felt this way in … well, eight years.
He closed his eyes, seeking control. His light is my refuge. His name is my joy….
“Your highness?” Meridon murmured, drawing his attention again. They continued on.
It was only when they reached the great door to the royal audience chamber that Meridon informed them Eldrin alone would attend the king.
Rhiad protested vigorously. “You wish to get him alone so you can fill his head with lies and confuse him. I will not allow it!”
“Unfortunately, it’s not your choice to make, sir,” Meridon said.
“Perhaps not, but it is his choice.” Rhiad looked at Eldrin expectantly. Meridon’s gaze followed.
Eldrin became abruptly conscious of the guards and servants and courtiers, a good dozen or more in immediate earshot, Gillard’s words still rankling in his mind. “Couldn’t even show your face here without your holy friend to hold you up.”
“Your Highness?” Meridon prompted.
“Stop calling me Your Highness?” Eldrin snapped, immediately regretting his loss of composure. He drew another calming breath and glanced at Rhiad. “It’s all right. I told you, I’ve been through this before. They aren’t going to change my mind.”
Rhiad’s face was closed, blank, and though his words were quiet, they were infused with a persuasive power that bordered on command. “Brother, I do not think this wise. It is not the same as before, and I must question why the king is so intent upon getting you alone. It can only be to neutralize any influence I, as your counselor and mentor, might have upon you. I insist that you allow me to accompany you.”
His dark eyes bored into Eldrin’s. A faint, odd scent touched Eldrin’s nostrils, and for a moment he felt as if his will had been gathered up and hurled along in a current of intent not his own. He opened his mouth to speak the request and closed it in sudden irritation.
Here he was, being the very puppet everyone was accusing him of being. He broke eye contact and said very deliberately, “I’
ll be fine, Brother. But thank you for your concern.”
With that he turned and followed Meridon into the king’s audience chamber. It became immediately clear that most of the courtiers in the salon from which Eldrin had just come must have been recently evicted from this one, for it was nearly empty. Half the size of the room Eldrin had just crossed, it was similarly lit-with chandeliers and pedestaled lamps-but devoid of benches on which people might sit. There could be no sitting in the presence of the king, who alone sat on a golden throne atop a curved, three-staired dais. Only his personal servants and bodyguards attended him. All others had been dismissed.
Meridon stepped immediately aside as he entered, leaving Eldrin to cross the floor between door and dais on his own. Kneeling and uttering the traditional “Your Majesty” felt immensely strange in front of Raynen. As he bowed his head, he kept seeing the boy version of the man, charging into a flock of hens out back by the kitchens, swinging his wooden sword and hollering at the top of his lungs.
Then Eldrin’s amusement turned to horror as he was beset by the throatclenching, stomach-churning vision of having to do this to Gillard someday.
“You may rise,” Raynen said. “Thank you for not making a scene.”
“It won’t matter, you know,” Eldrin said, the king’s words allowing him now to look up.
Raynen smiled slightly. “We’ll see.”
Eldrin had always thought Raynen the best looking of his kin. Tall and fit, he cut an elegant figure in a closely fitted doublet of black satin, its row of black buttons glittering down the front. Like their father, he wore his blond hair short beneath the golden circlet of his office. His face was rounder than Eldrin’s, but they shared the same stern Kalladorne brow line, and the short honey-colored beard that edged Raynen’s jaw was the same hue Eldrin’s would be if he let it grow.
Now the king dismissed his servants and stood, motioning for Eldrin to stand as well. “Walk with me, Abramm, and we will talk.”
An unexpected request, but Eldrin could only acquiesce. Raynen led him through the door at the chamber’s rear, waiting in the gleaming corridor beyond for Eldrin to come abreast before starting on again. Meridon followed a few steps behind them, the remaining four bodyguards trailing respectfully out of earshot.
At first, though, there was nothing to hear. Eldrin continued to be discomfited by the unreality of the circumstances. Raynen had been a rowdy, carefree boy, active and impulsive, an excellent horseman with a ready laugh and a soft spot for animals of all kinds. He’d been something of a protector to Eldrin in their youth, if he happened to notice Gillard’s abuses.
“I understand there is some question of your suitability as Guardian material,” Raynen said abruptly.
Eldrin blinked, disarmed by the unexpected direction of Raynen’s discourse. He frowned. “Well, of course I am the first Kalladorne to-“
“I mean more specifically. I mean that after eight years you are the only Initiate who has not yet felt the touch of Eidon in your meditations.”
Eldrin stopped in his tracks and stared at him, stunned speechless. Shock turned to indignation. “Where did you hear that??”
Raynen shrugged. “I am king. I hear a lot of things. If I didn’t, I’d be dead.” He glanced back at Meridon. “So it’s true, then? You have not been touched?”
Meridon, who had stopped a stride behind them, was regarding Eldrin as intently as Raynen.
Eldrin lifted his chin. `Actually, he touched me this morning.”
Ah.” Raynen nodded. As soon as Saeral found out, no doubt. I’ll bet that was a shock for him. He must’ve taken immediate measures.”
Eldrin felt the blood drain from his face as he recalled the flash of dismay on Saeral’s face, the assurance Eldrin would soon feel the touch he sought, the timely fulfillment of that assurance….
And how did it go for you, hmm?” Raynen pressed. “Did it make you uncomfortable? Did you fight it?”
Eldrin drew back a pace. “I don’t believe that’s any of your business?” he cried. “King or not!”
,,You did fight it!” Raynen crowed. He glanced smugly at his captain, then continued down the hallway, striding so rapidly that Eldrin had to hurry to catch up. He was writhing with shame and dismay, all the disappointment that first touch had left in him-disappointment he’d largely buried-now rising to the fore. And here were all the doubts come back again, stronger than ever and haunting him at the worst possible time. If there was ever a moment he wished to appear strong and committed, it was now, facing his family. And already he had bungled it.
But how could Ray have known? Had it happened before? To another Kalladorne? He wanted desperately to ask, yet asking would reveal the very mental confusion he was determined not to show.
They climbed a back stairway, then strode down a narrow, paneled hallway into a silent chamber, empty but for its benches. War implements decorated the walls. Ancient and modern both, all had at one time or other been wielded by one of Eldrin’s ancestors: Alaric’s broadsword, Eberline’s longbow, Ravelin’s halberd, maces, dirks, crossbows-even his own father’s rapier.
The door at its far end led into a paneled, low-ceilinged chamber, its fireplace empty, several pedestaled candle lamps providing illumination. Their reflections glowed in the tall night-darkened windows stretching along one wall. A wooden table gleamed in front of them, chairs lined along it like soldiers at attention. His father’s war room.
Stepping into this place was like stepping back in time. Suddenly Eldrin was a boy again, called to face his sire for yet another dressing down. Meren had spoken to him only in this room, as if he were embarrassed to acknowledge paternity anywhere else. So powerful were the recollections that for a moment Eldrin fully expected to see the big man standing behind the highbacked velvet chair at the far end of the table. But there was no one now, his father dead, gone. The realization sparked an unexpected sense of frustration and loss.
“Please,” Raynen said, waving at the chairs before the empty hearth. “Sit down.”
“I prefer to stand.”
“Suit yourself” The king moved to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. As the liquid chuckled into the glass, Eldrin realized that, except for Meridon, who had followed them into the room, they were alone. The other bodyguards had remained in the hall outside.
Glass clinked as Raynen replaced the stopper, then turned to face him, leaning back against the wooden cabinet.
“Carissa told you what I propose to offer you?”
A stipend and a Thilosian fishing vessel, but I-“
“It’s not a fishing boat, it’s a merchantman. A fine one. The stipend’s five hundred thousand sovereigns. That should be more than enough to see you through years of travel in high style. If you invest along the way, you’ll end up a very rich man.”
“The idea of living solely for the maintenance of my own pleasure does not appeal to me, brother. Even assuming there will be places to go and things to invest in five years hence.”
“You refer to Beltha’adi, I think, and his notions of world domination.”
“He has to be stopped.”
“Indeed, he does.” Raynen sipped his brandy, eyeing Eldrin thoughtfully. “But he will not be if you refuse my offer.”
“I will not seek your crown, Ray. I have no desire to be king.”
“It’s not you I’m worried about.”
“Oh, come, you can’t honestly believe Saeral will try to kill you.”
“Kill me or, failing that, find another way to get me out of the way. I can think of several points he could work.”
Abramm lifted his chin, weighing his words. “Like the fact you are a Terstan?”
The barest flicker of an eyelid revealed Raynen’s discomfort.
As for Eldrin, it took a moment for the lack of denial to register. Then his eyes flicked to the black fabric over his brother’s heart where the mark of heresy lay. A slow revulsion swelled in his chest, pushing against his heart and throat as he took a smal
l step back.
Raynen set the snifter down. “It is unfortunate they told you. I am sure it will prejudice you against anything I might tell you-which naturally was their intent. Even so, it must be said. This may be your last chance to hear the truth.
“You Mataians claim to believe there is a great spiritual battle going on around us. A battle of cosmic proportion waged between the forces of good and evil, which we ourselves cannot see. Eidon versus Moroq, light against the dark. In that we share a common ground.”
“But only in that.”
“Not quite. We share a reverence for the Words of Revelation. And a mutual regard for Eidon.”
Eldrin frowned. “You have been deceived by evil.”
“How do you know that, Abramm? You say the mark I wear is the touch of Moroq, but how do you know you are not the one who has been deceived?”
“It goes against all that is-“
“Neither Word says anything about Holy Flames. Nor of a brotherhood, nor of making oneself worthy by the performance of any deed. They speak only of Light-Eidon’s own Light, bought by the death of his Son and freely bestowed upon any who desire it. It lives, not in the heart of some stone building, but in the hearts and flesh of the men who accept it.”
Eldrin scowled at him, vibrating with outrage, a breath away from bursting into a furious refutation of such evil and heretical claims. A free gift? Eidon was pure righteousness? So unbelievably perfect, so far above mankind, no person could even look upon his face and live. To suggest he would offer his precious Light to anyone who asked for it was preposterous, a violation of all that he was, a disregard for his perfect purity, and the perfect purity of his Light. How could his Light possibly reside in the flesh of those who were still weighed down with the power and the cares of the flesh?
But Eldrin held his tongue, knowing there was no point in arguing theology with this … this Terstan. And that was whom he was dealing with. Not his brother, not the king, but a man ensnared by evil.
Raynen glanced at Meridon, who frowned and shook his head slightly. The king’s eyes came back to Eldrin speculatively, and they held their gaze for a long moment as Eldrin braced for another onslaught. Instead, his brother deflated with a sigh and pushed off the sideboard to pace the table’s length. At the far end he turned, and when he spoke he had returned to his original tack. “The point is, you’re being used, and it’s time you woke up to the fact, time you saw just how badly this all could end.”
Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1) Page 6
