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

by Karen Hancock

  In Destiny,

  Katahn ul Manus

  “Our stowaway and his dog there”-Kinlock gestured to the ship’s waist, where an auburn-haired youth stood watching them beside a grizzled blood- hound-“caught up with them just as they were leaving. The kid’s lucky he’s not with them now. Katahn gave him the letter.”

  She advanced to face the boy, who was all arms and legs, with the big floppy feet of adolescence. The top of his head just reached her shoulder, and his curly hair flew wildly save for that which someone had gathered at his nape and tarred into a tiny pigtail. Like the caning and forced labor, it was one more rite of initiation imposed upon all those who dared stow away.

  It hadn’t cowed him, though. In fact, the erectness of his carriage along with a certain fineness of feature and the direct way he met her eyes made her think he might have been a nobleman’s son. In fact, he looked familiar, now that she thought of it. And as she knew too well, noblemen’s sons could have as good reasons to run away as any other.

  She wondered why he had come back with the letter, though. And how he had managed to be in the right place and time to get it in the first place. The sense of familiarity washed over her again, more urgently now. She had seen him somewhere. Recently.

  At one of the parties she and Rennalf had attended in Springerlan?

  “You saw the man this Gamer took?” she asked.

  He nodded. “He was dressed funny, and his hair was short, the way they wear it around here, but I’m sure it was Prince Abramm.”

  It wasn’t at a party. The palace maybe? But he was too young to attend court, so …

  “Have we met before, boy?”

  The boy’s face went dead white, every freckle standing out in sharp relief. All his confidence evaporated. He swallowed. “I … don’t think so, my lady.”

  He could’ve been a page. Many young men of noble blood served in that capacity at the royal residence. Except she wasn’t likely to notice any particular page. They were like furniture-useful, always there, but you didn’t really look at them. So why would she—

  The page from Raynen’s apartments. That’s who he was. The one caught spying while she’d been there, who’d twisted free of the chamberlain and fled.

  Suspicion rose crazily within her, her passion reflected in the rising alarm on his face. She seized his arm, waving the letter before his nose. “Did you write this? Where is he? Where have you hidden him?”

  He flinched backward. “My lady, no? The Gamer took the prince. I swear it. And he gave-“

  “Who are you? Why are you on this ship? Why were you spying on the king that day? Tell me?”

  He grew even whiter, gray-blue eyes flicking to Captain Kinlock and Danarin, who had come up behind her. “I-“

  She shook his arm. “Did Saeral send you? Where have you hidden my brother?” She realized this accusation was absurd, realized she was out of control, but could not seem to stop herself.

  “Saeral?” the boy choked. “Never?”

  “Wait!” Kinlock interjected. “You were spying on the king?”

  The boy wilted. He looked at the deck, then said quietly, “I had to know what was going on. What he’d done with my brother.”

  “Your brother?” Carissa demanded.

  “Captain Meridon, my lady,” the boy said.

  Carissa gaped, seeing the resemblance now, plain as day.

  “I knew the man they executed wasn’t Trap,” he added hurriedly, that whatever was going on, the king was behind it. When you came in that day, my lady, I was dusting in the next room. It was hard not to hear you. Then he starting talking about Trap and I-“

  And you thought you’d conduct your own private rescue?” Empathy overrode Carissa’s anger.

  But the boy’s face hardened. “He’s a Terstan, and you were interested only in the prince. I thought, if I slipped along, I would cause no trouble and buy him free in Qarkeshan.”

  The words stung, and for a moment Carissa said nothing, embarrassed. Then, “So why the dog?”

  The boy shrugged. “He’s my brother’s, and he knows his master. More than that, he’s got a nose some say is magical. That’s how I came upon the Garners last night. Newbold followed Trap’s scent to the pier, and I found them. And it was Prince Abramm, my lady. I saw him before we left Sprin- gerlan-the night he came to the palace-so I know what he looks like.”

  He fell silent, remembering. Then his brow furrowed. “There was nothing I could do. After they left, I tried yelling out to you, but some men came around, so I had to hide and wait for dawn before I got someone to bring me out here.”

  “Have you read this?” She waved the letter.

  He shook his head. Then he drew a big breath and looked right at her, hands tightening at his sides. “Will you be going after them?”

  Going after them? She’d hardly accepted the reality of Katahn’s letter. Even now her mind was busily scurrying after alternative explanations, possibilities, scenarios-anything but admit and accept the awful truth that Abramm was on a Gamer’s galley, destined to die in a Gamer’s Tale-and all at her own hands.

  A torment of guilt broke over her, hatching inquisitors of selfrecrimination. If she’d never contracted with Katahn-no, if she’d never come to Qarkeshan in the first place. If she’d stayed on course for Thilos, done what her husband and her royal brother had wanted her to, then …

  Then what? Abramm would live out his life scribing for some wealthy Qarkeshanian? Better than dying in the Games, perhaps, but …

  Oh, what did it matter? The fact was, Abramm was in worse trouble than ever, and it was all her fault. More than that, she was the only one who could get him out of it.

  ” … don’t see how, I’m afraid,” the captain was saying.

  “Of course we’re going after them,” she broke in.

  Kinlock frowned at her. “But, milady-“

  “I’ve seen the maps. This southern sea is a maze of islands. You can’t go a day without running near one of them. We could restock and rewater at will. We might even be able to do some extra business on the side. And even if it takes a day or two to load, with her sail power, Windbird can easily-“

  “There is no wind, milady.”

  “-overhaul that galley….” She stopped. “No wind?”

  “Three leagues south of here, they say, it dies altogether. Sailing vessels are becalmed, and the crews die for lack of water. If they are not plundered by pirates first. Or the Esurhite navy.”

  She stared at him, frozen, fingers braced lightly on the slick surface of the gunwale beside her.

  He frowned. “I’m sorry, lass, but I won’t sail Windbird south of Qarkeshan. Dismiss me, if you will, but I’ll not take us all to our deaths.”

  Carissa felt as if her body had turned to hard, brittle clay, as if it would break and crumble into a thousand pieces if she so much as breathed. The frustration, the bitter disappointment, the terrible grief and guilt rose up to overwhelm her.

  Katahn had tricked her, had taken her money and her brother and fled, knowing there would be no wind. Knowing she could not follow.

  Eidon, he is your servant! How can you do this to him?

  Rage swelled up through the other emotions. Fists clenched, she whirled from the men and leaned against the gunwale, not breaking, but still brittle. She felt very much like hitting something. Like screaming and ranting and raging.

  But she said nothing, staring blindly at the mist-bound harbor, clutching her arms about her chest, gripping them as she gripped her self-control.

  Kinlock stepped up beside her, close but not touching.

  Plagues! How can there be no wind? “It’s not natural,” she protested.

  “No,” Kinlock agreed. “It’s a peculiarity of the region-the calm and the fog. It has been so for centuries. Some say ‘tis the Shadow of Moroq.”

  A launch bobbed out to the side of the nearest vessel. Beyond, another rowed toward shore. Seabirds circled in the mist above, their mournful cries providing count
erpoint to the thumpings and clanking of the three men scraping the deck behind them. Smoke from the cook fire tainted the salt air, tickling the nausea in her stomach.

  I will make far more than four thousand sovereigns on your brother in a single match….

  Her throat swelled, aching sharply. Tears scalded her eyes. She drew a deep, ragged breath. I will not cry. I will not.

  Kinlock touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry, milady.”

  “I know.” She swallowed, but it was as if a bone were caught in her throat.

  “It is up to Eidon now,” Kinlock murmured. And to Abramm himself. He is a Kalladorne, after all. And he has more steel in him than people think. I was not easy on him the summer he sailed with me. Pressure only makes him dig in harder, and Kalladornes are renowned for their skill at weapons. It may be that some hidden talent will surface.”

  “He won’t fight.” She dashed at the tears, blurring her vision. “He’s taken that stupid vow, and he’ll stand by it. As you said, pressure only makes him dig in harder.”

  She wished Kinlock would argue with her, but all he said was, “Perhaps he will escape.” A platitude, offered without conviction.

  Suddenly the horror of it closed on her. She turned from the railing and fled to her cabin, letting the tears come.

  As the first storm of grief abated, the door, left unlatched in her haste, bumped open. A whiff of doggy odor preceded a cold, wet nose pressed against her arm, snuffling. She looked up to find Newbold the hound regarding her with his droopy eyes. His long tail waved tentatively. She wiped her face, then scratched behind his ear. He stepped closer, upper lids closing so that the red lining of the lower lids was all that remained. He leaned against her hand and sighed.

  When she stopped he sighed again and settled by her bunk as if to sleep. She drew a kerchief from her belt and blew her nose, then noticed Cooper standing in the doorway, blocking the boy from entering and muttering angrily about the dog and audacity.

  “It’s okay, Coop,” she said. “Let him in.”

  The older man glared over his shoulder at her but gave way, and the boy approached, offering an uncertain bow. He couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen.

  “Sit down.” She gestured at the locker behind him. “What’s your name?”

  “Philip, my lady.”

  And are you marked with a golden shield like your brother?”

  His chin went up proudly. “I am, my lady.” To prove it, he pulled open the neck of his tunic and showed her.

  Struggling to hide her dismay and disgust, she wondered why she had asked. Because she’d hoped it wasn’t true? Because it made her angry that anyone would do such a thing to a child? Marking them with evil like that, sentencing them to the life of madness and deformity and ostracism?

  She blew her nose again and, deciding to ignore the shield, said, “Well, Philip, I’m afraid our quest has been in vain.”

  He leaned toward her, forearms braced on his knees, eyes bright. “There are other ways south, my lady. You could hire transport, mercenaries….”

  “You must think I’m richer than I am.”

  “I know you brought funds. I have some as well.”

  She sighed. “You have hope your brother will survive. Mine will be dead in a week.”

  “I don’t believe that, my lady. I don’t believe it is chance they are together. Eidon has a purpose in all of this.”

  “Eidon?” She barked a bitter laugh. “Only fools rely on Eidon, boy. Or babes too ignorant to know better?”

  His face fell, hurt showing plainly on the open features. She felt disgust at herself for allowing her own bitterness to dig at him. In an effort to make up, she changed the subject. “How do you know they are together?”

  “Because the man who wrote you that letter is the same man who bought Trap at auction five days ago. The story’s all over the docks-biggest price a slave’s ever brought, and since he’s described as a red-haired Kiriathan Terstan in obviously fine condition … well, it has to be Trap. And as long as he’s with the prince, he’ll look after him, my lady. You can count on it.”

  She smiled sadly. “Your brother is as much a slave as mine. He won’t have opportunity.”

  Philip lifted his chin, and an obstinate look came into his eyes. She thought he wanted to say more about Eidon and was glad when he did not.

  “What if your brother does live, my lady? Like the captain said, he is a Kalladorne. My father said he could’ve been good if he’d wanted to. That he was just a late bloomer on account of his illnesses.”

  “Your father.” Larrick Meridon. The royal sword master, one of the most respected trainers and swordsmen in the realm. Was he a Terstan, too? She shook her head. “He won’t fight.”

  “What if he does?”

  “He won’t. He’s made a vow.”

  “Vows can be broken.”

  Not by him.”

  Again she had the feeling he wanted to say something and kept it to himself for fear of her reaction. He regarded her a moment more, then stood. “Well, I’m not giving up.”

  “You can’t do it alone.”

  “I’m not alone. I have Newbold. And Eidon. He’s seen us this far; I believe he’ll provide a way.” He lifted his chin as if defying her to gainsay him.

  She grimaced. “This is not Kiriath, Philip. The ways here are treacherous. Within days you’d be captured as a slave and Newbold would be put into a stewpot. If you’re lucky. Besides, you don’t even know where they’ve been taken.”

  “They’ll go to Katahn’s estate on the island Ne’gal. He’ll train them there. After that, they’ll be taken to one of the great arenas for their first contest, and there’ll be no trouble learning where that is.”

  “What good is knowing where he is if we can’t get to him?”

  “I believe a way will open, my lady.”

  He did, too. Without a shadow of doubting. Well, he had a lot to learn about life, and it was certain this adventure he proposed would teach him many ugly truths.

  Still, something in his confidence drew her-like the promise of the sun glowing above the barren flats at Castle Balmark, gathering with infinitesimal slowness before it suddenly cast the ice-cloaked world in gold.

  If she went back to Kiriath … could she live with knowing she had left Abramm to die at the hands of that Esurhite snake because she lacked the courage to go on? Wouldn’t the guilt eat at her soul until it consumed her if she never made a try of putting things to right?

  And perhaps Abramm would abandon his vows and agree to fight. Why should he give his life for a god who obviously cared nothing about him?

  Buy passage? They could do that. Selling Windbird and all her stores would net them a hefty sum. They could easily continue their guise as Thilosian traders-might even make a profit at it. Cooper could certainly pass for Thilosian.

  But she couldn’t. And yet, what had Danarin said? “Many a black Brogai veil hides blond hair and blue eyes….”

  No! What am I thinking? I can’t go wandering around Esurh. It would be ten times as foolhardy as what I’ve already done.

  And Cooper would have a fit.

  C H A P T E R

  15

  As Abramm was taken aboard Katahn’s galley that first night, as he was chained to one of the thwarts below and a hot iron pressed into his left biceps, as the stench of his own burning flesh filled his nostrils and he almost passed out from the pain, he said nothing. Did not protest, did not curse, did not cry out.

  For even before that, when he had looked into Katahn’s face and listened to him crow, realizing that the worst of the worst was happening and no deliverance was coming, something had torn loose in him.

  Eidon was not in the Flames. Perhaps he was not anywhere at all, but certainly he had no hold on Eldrin’s life. The Flames were a fraud-his years of service to them a waste. Now he could no longer delude himself. Now he must face the unfaceable: that he was a slave, that he was to be put into the Games, and that his only way out would
be of his own devising.

  “Religion is the crutch by which the weak hobble through life,” his uncle had liked to say. “It is for men who cannot stand on their own two legs and face what they are dealt. Instead they hide and whine and hope for magical deliverance from life, from disasters usually brought on themselves by their own poor decisions.”

  Finally he saw the truth of his uncle’s accusation, for thus it had been with him-a crutch, a shield, a wall behind which he hid from life. An excuse for his failures and inadequacies.

  In one piercing, overwhelming flash of insight his whole perception of his life shifted, and he saw himself for a naive, cowardly boy, manipulated by his own fears and a pathetic need for the approval of a family that offered only scorn.

  The wall was gone now. Shredded. Blown away. No more hiding. No more excuses. No more dependence on some divine hand to direct his every move and keep him safe from the trials and heartaches of life. It was all gone. He felt oddly purified.

  And achingly, sickeningly empty.

  He was chained in the hold to the first starboard thwart, facing astern. His captors laughed among themselves and spoke mockingly to him, but he could not understand their words. It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. Their abuse was a small thing, swallowed up by the cold chasm within him.

  After they departed, he sat motionless in the whisper-filled darkness, his poisoned, branded left arm cradled to his stomach, shrieking its pain. His heart pounded slowly against his breastbone. His legs ached and trembled. Around him came soft sighs and creaks and rustlings. He sensed a man sitting beside him in the dark, heard the sough of his breathing, felt the warmth of his body.

  A galley ship.

  He turned the thought over in his mind, still half disbelieving it, while a bleak terror swelled beneath his consciousness. He had done his share of labor around the Watch but nothing like what faced him now. With his slender frame scrawnier than ever, how would he survive?

  I won’t, he thought dully. Gillard has won at last.