Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1)

by Karen Hancock

  “No, Haldon. Thank you.”

  “The vase fell,” Carissa offered.

  Haldon noted it and beckoned for a page. As the lad ran for broom and pan, another servant stepped through the side door, holding an auburnhaired, freckle-faced boy by the ear. “Were you aware you were being spied upon, Majesty?”

  Raynen went rigid, his gaze fixed upon the youth. “Not you, Philip. Of all people, not you?”

  “Your Majesty, please?” the boy cried. He appeared to be in his early teens. “I … it wasn’t intentional and-“

  “Why were you spying on me? Who paid you?”

  “No one, Sire.”

  “I’m sure he meant nothing by it, Majesty,” the chamberlain said. “Give him a caning or a night with the dungeon rats, and he’ll learn better.”

  The boy paled, looked from one to the other of them, and then, for a moment, intently at Carissa. He had round gray-blue eyes, an upturned nose, and he looked familiar.

  Suddenly he kicked the shin of the man who held him, twisted free, and fled back into the other rooms. The servants gave chase, all manner of thuddings and shoutings erupting from the rear apartments.

  Raynen stood death-pale, eyes fixed upon the doorway through which the boy had fled. He drove a hand through his hair and began to pace, shaking his head. “Not Philip. I can’t believe it. But you never know. He is so powerful. He can have anyone. Anyone.”

  He looked up, his red eyes haunted. “Remember that, Riss. He watches us always, even here in my own chambers. Light’s grace? What am I to do? Spies on every hand, trusted men turned against me, my own family.”

  The chamberlain touched Carissa’s arm and leaned close. “Milady, I think it would be wise if you left. He will not notice-“

  Raynen cried out and hurled the poker at the balcony door. It bounced off the velvet drape and clanged to the floor. “Stop laughing. Stop laughing?” He put both hands to his ears and fell to his knees.

  Carissa glanced at the servant and nodded, then withdrew, using the man’s body to shield herself from the king’s view.

  Outside in the gallery she paused and leaned shakily against the doorjamb, her middle churning.

  Sarotis. It was true. He was finally going mad, and Abramm was on his way to Qarkeshan because of it.

  Her eyes fixed on the portrait of the blond-haired boy on the wall across from her. Memory flashed of Gillard smirking at it earlier. He had suggested this horrid plan, she was sure of it. The one to carry it out, the one who stood to benefit….

  Anger hardened into resolve. Do nothing, indeed! Not on your life, Raynen Kalladorne.

  C H A P T E R

  10

  Clad only in iron manacles and the collar that chained him to his immediate neighbors, Eldrin stood resolutely on the dirty beach at Qarkeshan, lined up with hundreds of fellow captives for the pre-auction inspection. While the morning sun seared parts of his body never before exposed to its light, well-dressed buyers of all nationalities strolled past him under fabric shades borne by attendants.

  There were Thilosians in their eye-clashing layers of brightly colored clothing; sedate, white-robed Qarkeshanians; Andolens in their distinctive beehive hats; long-faced Draesians; leather-clad Chesedhans; Sorites from beyond the headwaters of the great Okaido River; and most numerous of all, the sour-faced, mahogany-skinned Esurhites.

  Gold-pierced and ritually scarred, the Esurhite lords wore their dark, long-sleeved, hip-length tunics in defiance of the heat and studied the proffered humanity lined out before them with shrewd dark eyes.

  Seeking new warriors for their insatiable games of combat, they hardly spared Eldrin a glance. And rightly so-four weeks of seasickness, intense emotional turmoil, and maggot-infested biscuits had reduced his already slender frame to skeletal proportions, rendering him unsuitable for their purposes. An odd thing to be thankful for, perhaps, but he was thankful, his ravaged spirit clinging to this small indication that Eidon might not have abandoned him after all.

  It was a curious thing to stand completely naked before the cool dispassion of these lookers, to be pinched and prodded like a bullock, to have foul tasting fingers thrust into his mouth, his eyelids pulled back, his face swiveled back and forth, his earlobes yanked. He had no idea what the earlobe yanking was about, but it was not his place to ask, to say anything, in fact. Thankful he was prodded less frequently than the other slaves, he could only stand and let them touch whatever they wished.

  He did so with unexpected detachment, as if it were happening to someone else, as if he were not participating but merely watching. And there was much to watch. If not the myriad buyers, then the great Bay of Salama behind them, teeming with the maritime traffic of scores of nations. From the tall, three-masted sailing ships of the north to the narrow, sharp-prowed galleys of the windless south to the tiny coracles of the local oystermen, they careened about the bay, a riot of flags and sails and flashing oars dancing above the turquoise water.

  Eldrin exercised his mind trying to identify them and was entertained by the frequent near misses and occasional collisions, the arrival and departure of various vessels, the setting and reefing of sails, and most fascinating of all, the coordinated strokes of the galleys’ banks of oars rising and falling in perfect unison to propel their vessels across the water at startling speeds.

  Just now he watched one such vessel, a lean dart of silver and black, flash across the water, heedless of the craft it sent scuttling out of the way. Official or not, the galleys had right-of-way by virtue of their superior speed and seaworthiness-only the tall sailing ships had the bulk to inspire them to caution.

  The rhythmic pump of the oars slowed, and then, all at once, every sweep lifted in perfect accord, held high in the air as the vessel’s momentum carried it onward. Another flash and the oars dropped into the water. The craft slowed dramatically, the off side of oars stood up again, and it eased neatly against a slot along the pier jutting out from the quay to Eldrin’s left. It was a competent piece of maneuvering, and he marveled that so many menslaves at that-could work in such flawless concert.

  A group of Esurhite noblemen had been slowly making their way down the line toward him while the galley docked, but he had expected them to pass him by like all the others. Realizing one had stopped before him, he startled from his musings in mild alarm. And when he saw the look of keeneyed interest in the man’s face, the alarm turned to fear.

  The man was shorter by a head than Eldrin himself but lean and hard, with a powerful chest and shoulders and an aggressive thrust to his chin. Black hair, liberally threaded with white, was pulled back tightly into a nape knot, accentuating the pockmarked face and parrotlike nose. A crescentshaped scar gleaming on one cheekbone marked him a member of the aristocratic Brogai caste, and the line of gold honor rings glittering up the side of his left ear bespoke a past steeped in violence.

  Undoubtedly he was a Gamer.

  Brows narrowed, he looked at Eldrin’s face intently, tapping his lips with a broad, scar-webbed hand. One of his two companions joined him, a younger version of himself with a mustache and only two rings in his ear. The newcomer glanced at Eldrin, then turned astonished eyes upon his- father?-muttering in their harsh southlander tongue, his tone clearly questioning.

  The Esurhite lord replied, and a chill shot up Eldrin’s spine when he heard the word Kalladorne sandwiched among syllables of gibberish. Frowning, the younger man offered an argument punctuated with a drag of sharp knuckles across Eldrin’s prominent ribs. He then went on to grab Eldrin’s hand, gesturing toward the smooth skin on its palm, and pointed finally to the scribe’s callus on the middle finger. His father continued to tap his lips, then made another suggestion. It only triggered another round of knuckle dragging and pinching, the son’s derisive tone igniting a dull warmth of resentment in Eldrin’s breast.

  When he’d finished, the older man grabbed Eldrin’s chin, forcing his face to one side, studying the profile, explaining further to his companion, and again that K
alladorne, oddly accented but clear enough, leapt out among the foreign words. His chin jerked back around, Eldrin found himself staring into the man’s hard dark eyes. Memories of Saeral burst into his mind, riding a gale of wild panic that drove him reflexively backward, wrenching free of the man’s grip.

  The two Esurhites stared at him in surprise. Then the elder’s low voice spoke rapidly, and he smiled, his expression bright with interest.

  Instantly Eldrin realized how his action had been taken-not as panic, but as aggression and pride-the last impression he wanted to give to men who might be considering his aptitude for fighting.

  The man seemed on the verge of decision when the third member of his group arrived-a slight, strong figure, dressed in the same loose tunic and breeches as the younger man of the group, only this one was … a woman. Eldrin regarded her in surprise, not only because she wore a man’s clothing and went with her face unveiled in a culture that punished such scandalous behavior with death, but because her honey-colored features were startlingly beautiful. High cheekbones, full lips, dark, long-lashed eyes with a hint of almond shape.

  The younger man spoke rapidly to her, and those lovely eyes flicked Eldrin’s way, then narrowed as she snorted with obvious derision. Astonishingly it pierced him to the core, smiting him with the awareness that he wore not a stitch. For the first time that morning he felt gut-clenching, throatclosing mortification. The sea breeze became suddenly cold, taunting his nakedness, and he was beset with the compulsion to turn away, cover himself, sink into the sand while the hot blood rushed into his face.

  Meanwhile the old champion apparently related his suspicions about Eldrin’s Kalladorne extraction, pointing to his blond hair, his brow and nose, and maybe his eyes, blue as the sky in a land where most were earth brown.

  The woman regarded him more thoughtfully now, a crease between her slim brows. She, too, dragged a knuckle down his ribs, felt his skinny arms, picked up a hand and ran cool fingers over the scribing callus. Her voice was as riveting as her eyes, soft and fluid, the Tahg rolling melodically off her tongue.

  She dropped his hand, evidently offering her conclusion as the younger man nodded approval. Her utter disdain galled again, mingling with Eldrin’s still-choking embarrassment to trigger an eruption of the scalding selfcontempt he had come to know well in recent weeks. Why shouldn’t she dismiss him? He was a weak, spineless, jelly of a man.

  In the end the master was dissuaded, shrugging in sudden capitulation and continuing down the line. Eldrin stared at his feet bitterly, nursing that old, impotent desire to prove them all wrong-to be something besides the weak nothing he had become.

  He blinked and brought himself up. Are you mad? If they’d done anything but dismiss you, you’d be sleeping in one of those galleys out there tonight.

  He permitted himself a sigh of relief, and gradually his frantic heart slowed. Deliberately ignoring the Esurhites lest he inspire second thoughts, he watched a tall figure in yellow and green stride down the line toward him. Jewels winked from the man’s fingers and nose, and gold chains piled his chest. A Thilosian in all his gaudy array, he walked rapidly, as if searching for something specific he did not expect to find, trailed by a set of bored retainers.

  He passed Eldrin with hardly a look, passed the Esurhites, now discussing a much brawnier specimen some three men down. Eldrin returned his gaze to the sea, and suddenly the Thilosian was back, stopping in front of him, gesturing at the nearest of his retainers.

  Another inspection got under way-hands first, the scribing callus rubbed, the skin examined closely, then teeth, eyes, and the inevitable earlobe check.

  “Haeka t’a dow,” the trader murmured.

  Of all the languages here, Thilosian was the one Eldrin halfway understood. Turn him around. Seized by sudden inspiration, he obeyed the command before anyone could touch him, gratified by the murmur of surprise drawn from the men now at his back.

  “You speak the tongue of truth?” the Thilosian asked.

  “Tyi,” Eldrin replied, turning to face him again-a risky move that fortunately went unpunished. He continued in the same tongue. “I can read and write, too.”

  “Indeed?” Cold black eyes regarded him from a narrow face that betrayed not a hint of emotion. Then the man snorted and stalked away, not even looking at the other slaves now.

  Eldrin watched him till the trader was out of sight, a vague hope kindling within him.

  Then he noticed the Esurhite Gamer studying him again. As their eyes met, a dagger of fear pierced Eldrin’s heart, and he looked away. Thankfully the woman drew the man’s attention back to the object of their current consideration, and Eldrin was forgotten.

  His thoughts returned to the Thilosian and the vague hope evolved into possibility. Suppose the man purchased Eldrin as a scribe and brought him back to Thilos? Eldrin’s aunt was queen there. If she were to learn of Eldrin’s plight, she would certainly see him freed…. Then he could return to Kiriath and deal with Saeral.

  It made a tidy, logical sequence of events. A way of deliverance, perhaps.

  Once he would have regarded the possibility with excitement, full of confidence it would be fulfilled because he knew Eidon, knew his word, knew himself to be worthy of his promises. Now he wondered if he knew anything at all.

  The last few weeks had seen him plunged into a crisis of faith unlike any he’d ever known. As his body reclined in the darkness of the hold, a far more powerful darkness had fought for the dominion of his soul. He’d been wild with emotion at first, furious with his brothers and tortured by bitter selfcontempt for his own weakness. A weakness that seemed all encompassing. He was a fool, an incompetent, and a coward all at once.

  The worst of it was that for the first time in his life, he found no comfort in his faith. His faith, like his life, had been shattered by betrayal. Now the long-troubling doubts swept through him like a firestorm, and truths he might once have easily put aside refused to be denied.

  The High Father of all the Mataio, the so-called Hand and Voice of Eidon, was indwelt by a minion of Moroq. He said praise and made sacrifices to the very Flames that were supposed to drive his kind out of the land. What could that mean, Eldrin had thought in those early days, but that the Mataio was not of Eidon?

  But if it was not Eidon’s, what was? The power of the Terstans? Power free for the asking that destroyed the very flesh and minds of those who carried it? Impossible.

  Or perhaps truth lay with some obscure faith from a faraway land. Or was it that Eidon did not exist at all? That the attempts to know and serve him were but the products of simple minds and cowardly hearts, as his uncle had always claimed.

  But Eldrin could not accept that, either, and for days-weeks-his thoughts ran round and round, turning on each other, swallowing each other, contradictions upon contradictions, all without conclusion. Finally, exhausted and frustrated, he stopped thinking at all. And some time after that, he came back to the shreds of his longest-held beliefs. That Eidon must exist-else, where did all creation come from? That he must be good to balance the obvious evil in the world. That he must somehow be knowable-else, why would men seek to know him?

  From there it was a simple step back to the Codices of Life, so deeply ingrained after eight years’ study they often sprang unbidden to his brain. He considered all the men he had known, all the precepts he’d been given, and finally, almost in spite of himself, he came back to them, at least in part.

  Did Saeral’s evil condemn the whole Mataio and all the men in it? Eldrin was only a Novice Initiate. There was much he did not know. Perhaps there was an explanation that reconciled the presence of a rhu’ema in the heart of the Keep that was supposed to ward it. Eidon’s ways were many and mysterious, after all. No man could know them all.

  As for Eldrin’s present predicament, had he not been taught that suffering was good for the soul? That it served no purpose to question? That men must accept what they’ve been appointed, knowing that in the end Eidon would make all thi
ngs right?

  Perhaps it was illogical, perhaps it was foolish and even weak, but he had nothing else to hold to. And now he knew himself to be a very weak man. So he allowed himself to consider the scenario he had concocted, allowed himself the tenuous hope that events might yet unfold in his favor and his faith might yet be restored.

  The official inspection period lasted until midmorning, when the slaves were gathered together by their various owners and herded toward the auction area at one end of the beach. There, under the looming presence of the city’s dingy white walls, they were watered and portioned out into a series of stock pens. Rickety, palm-thatched shelters provided some shade, though not nearly enough for a group of people newly emerged from weeks of lightless existence.

  Everywhere he looked, Eldrin saw bright red skin. He would himself be blistered by the end of this day and was already feeling sick from the heat. He could not, however, bring himself to stand in the shade when there were others who would have to endure the sun in his stead, so he sat along the outer fence, head down between his hands, trying to not think about anything at all. It was cause for mild rejoicing when the auctioneer’s voice rang across the sand and stone and the business of buying and selling human flesh at last got under way.

  He was not selected for auction until midafternoon, by which time the clouds had thickened enough to temper the sun’s fire and even spat intermittent rain sprinkles. As he was prodded from the pen with the five other slaves to whom he was chained at the neck, he recognized Meridon, bearded and filthy, as one of another five moving down the aisle past them toward the auction block.

  They had not been together in the hold, apparently filling holes vacated by deceased cargo, so he had not seen the man except for a brief, watery glimpse earlier when they were disembarking from the three longboats that had ferried them ashore.

  Unlike Eldrin, Meridon still looked strong and fit, his gold shieldmark gleaming in the gray light. As he shuffled past, his eye snagged on Eldrin, recognition flickering through the dead expression on his face. His glance dropped to Eldrin’s chest, then away with a bitter twist of the lips. No more than that and he was past, obscured by the men in his wake and the traders who sidled past them in the opposite direction.