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

by Karen Hancock

  Katahn only raised an ironic brow. “Dorsaddi greed and a woman scorned? True. But it was Khrell who showed him how to stir that up. And Sheleft’Ai who let it happen-either because he abandoned them or was too weak to help them.” He sipped his tea, regarding Abramm over the cup’s silver lip. “Much the same as it was for you, I think.”

  It was as if a current leapt from his eyes to Abramm’s, rushing through his body, prickling all his skin. His heart suddenly pounded, his stomach twisting with forgotten pain.

  “Eidon. Is that not the god you Kiriathans serve?” Katahn continued.

  “Some do, yes,” Abramm said.

  “The Dying God, he’s called?”

  “We call him Almighty. Lord of Light. Creator of the world.”

  `Ah. Like Sheleft’Ai. Perhaps he was exhausted, then, from all of his work.”

  Abramm scowled at him. He had not thought of Eidon for months, and the reawakening of the memory was painful in the extreme.

  “Strange, though. There can’t be two creators. So one of you must be wrong. Unless both of you are.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Abramm said tonelessly, finally managing to drag his gaze from his captor’s and apply it to the cup in his hands.

  “He marched all the way to Hur,” Katahn said after a moment. “Sent more than five hundred thousand of the blasphemers to the Dark Abode and took many more for slaves.”

  Belatedly Abramm realized he was talking of Beltha’adi again, recounting now the infamous March of Death-retribution for the centuries of abuse the Esurhites and their ancestors had suffered at Dorsaddi hands and also for their long years of prosperity and supremacy. Having breeched SaHallan defenses, Beltha’adi had shown no mercy. The Dorsaddi paid with their lifeblood, their families, and their lands. Those not killed were taken as slaves, and Hur was fouled beyond redemption.

  “They were not weaklings, the Dorsaddi,” Katahn went on, “for all their blasphemous ways. Many have refused to bend to servitude, choosing suicide over slavery. There are few left.” He glanced at the woman. “Shettai, you see, is quite rare. A true princess of the line of Hur. Sister, in fact, to their current king. If you can call a man king who rules so little and so provisionally.”

  “But the March of Death was over two hundred years ago!” Abramm protested. “Surely she is-“

  “The SaHal is too vast and convoluted for even Beltha’adi to have gotten all of them the first time around. Even today survivors remain among the rocks-little bands nursing delusions of rebellion. Our Supreme Commander conducts periodic forays to round them up. I was on one such foray when I found her, as tough and courageous a warrior as any of them and only fourteen. That was ten years ago, and she hasn’t changed a whit.”

  He traced the edge of her chin, drawing Abramm’s attention back to her incredible beauty. She looked at her master askance, not as one subservient but as one only pretending to serve. On the beach, Abramm remembered, she had not even pretended much.

  “Perhaps it was her youth that persuaded her not to take her own life,” Katahn mused. “Or my charm.” He chuckled, letting his finger drop along the slender neck and drift to the edge of her robe. With a grimace she knocked the hand aside, delivering what sounded like a rebuke. Katahn answered her sharply, and for some moments they engaged in a verbal duel, their meanings hidden in the Tahg but an inexplicable respect for one another evident in their manner.

  Katahn burst into laughter, and Shettai cocked her head at him saucily so that Abramm gulped again, shaken anew by the power of his attraction to her. He was close enough to smell her spicy scent, to reach out, if he dared, and touch her. The thought made his flesh grow warm and his heart pound. For the first time in his life he found himself longing to bury his hands in a woman’s hair, to stroke her skin, caress her curves….

  He realized suddenly that Katahn had spoken to him and struggled to put these unfamiliar-and dangerous-desires back into the place from which they’d sprung. “Your pardon, sir?”

  The man’s dark eyes laughed at him. But he only said, “I was merely remarking on the fact that many believe it was the fall of Hur that unleashed the power of Khrell. That soon all the world will be under his dominion.”

  Abramm shrugged, feigning indifference, though he was glad for the change in subject. “I know too little about your Khrell to comment.” Shettai, he noted to himself, was more interested in the potted fern at his side than she would ever be in him.

  “Come, come, my prince,” Katahn persisted. “Surely you have an opinion. Your sister said you’ve taken religious vows.”

  “Vows to a god who, as you have just pointed out, abandoned me.” Perhaps he was not so happy with this subject change as he had thought. “They are nothing to me now, sir. Thus I have nothing to say.”

  “You have abandoned him as he has abandoned you, eh? But still you must believe something. When you die in that arena a few months from now, where will you go? To the Dark Abode? To the Eternal Plain? To that dreadfully boring Garden of Light you northerners anticipate? I’ve never understood the draw of that one…. But then, your Tormenting Fires hold even less appeal, so perhaps it’s all relative. But how will it be decided where you go? I know you have opinions, my prince. Tell me what they are. Tell me what you think.”

  He leaned forward eagerly, like a glutton might approach a favorite dessert. Abramm frowned in distaste, sensing in the man the sort of person who merely enjoyed the intellectual exercise of debate but believed nothing himself. A man who had never known the ecstasy in devotion and surrender nor the agony of betrayal and disillusion.

  “I think I am a slave,” Abramm said finally. And that my life resides wholly and completely in that sword you’ve given me. If I learn to use it well, if I learn to win with it, I won’t die in that arena.” He was suddenly angrywith himself for the weaknesses that had brought him here, with Katahn for his intrusive, cold-blooded interest in it all, with the entire hopeless, wretched situation that, despite his determination to survive, would likely see him dead, and then … But no, he did not want to think about that, which made him angrier than ever. So now he glared at the man, defying him to probe further.

  Katahn’s expression had gone curiously blank. Finally he smiled, a slow, knowing smirk. “There is fire in you, my prince. And steel, I think, even though you’ve descended from a race of pigeons. I begin to see how you survived the galley ship. And why your handlers have been so surprised….”

  His handlers were surprised? That was news. As far as Abramm could tell, he was little more than a dog to them, worthy only of beating, taunting, and torturing. His thoughts drawn back to his arm, he realized its throbbing had worsened and would likely worsen more before it improved. He hoped he could complete the rest of his training routine today without mishap.

  With a sigh Katahn shook off his reverie. “I confess you have disappointed me, my prince, for I was looking forward to a lively debate…. But perhaps you can indulge me my other passion.” He drained his cup and set it on the table, then drew his legs beneath him and sat upright. “You do play uurka, don’t you?”

  Abramm blinked and lifted his gaze. “Not since I was twelve. It was forbidden in the Mataio.”

  Ah yes, the religious vows. But why forbidden?”

  Shettai began to remove the tea service.

  “It’s a game of warfare, sir,” Abramm said, keeping his eyes away from her. “Capturing territory, sacrificing men … strategy, tactics. Not at all suitable for those who would pursue peace.”

  “Peace.” Katahn made a face. “Were you any good?”

  “I held my own. I was only a child, though.”

  “Mmm. It seems I will face yet another disappointment. I was so hoping, as royalty, you might give me a fair challenge. Few of your subjects seem to know how to play properly.”

  The table cleared, Shettai brought out the uurka game board, the carved white and black pieces stored in its deep central pit. As she attached the supports to each of the four corners, Ab
ramm remarked that it was a fine set.

  “I gave up two fine fighters for it. It better be.”

  Thankfully Shettai withdrew to a respectful distance as Katahn arranged the game pieces. “I spent some years in your land,” he explained, “so I know your people and customs well. Most of it I disdain, of course, but the game caught me. It is obviously a corruption of our jackal and crow, but I like the elegance and trickery you have introduced into it.”

  “It is an old, old game.”

  “Esurhite to be sure.” He set the last game piece into place and looked up. `Are you ready?”

  “Whenever you wish.”

  “You may go first, then.”

  They fell silent, concentrating on the board between them. It soon became apparent to Abramm that his opponent played like no one he had faced before-not ineptly nor stupidly, but with the flavor of a very different mind. His plays were unexpected, at times foolishly daring, yet effective. In the end, however, several moves before it became obvious, Abramm realized he had won.

  Which forced him into an all-too-familiar dilemma. Should he go ahead and play it out honestly or make a faulty move? The price for defeating Gillard when they had played as boys had been a pummeling. But if his brother caught him deliberately throwing the game, the abuse only worsened. To be pacified, Gillard had to think he had won fairly. And Katahn, in many ways, reminded him of Gillard.

  If Abramm won now, would the man fly into a rage? He could not help but think of Zamath’s ear medallion, the brace of fingers collected by some of the other guards. He tugged at the whiskers beneath his lower lip, considering. What was to be gained in his winning? Only the solace of his own pride, perhaps. But-blast it all?-he didn’t want to lose to this cunning weasel. And since Katahn would surely demand a rematch, Abramm could always lose to him then.

  Thus he played the match out to win, struggling to conceal his satisfaction-until it struck him that he had forgotten the range of attack Katahn’s archer commanded from its current position. True, Katahn had done everything to disguise it, had executed a laudable campaign of deception, in fact, but his skill was no excuse. Abramm should have seen it.

  He watched Katahn take the field and end the game, feeling annoyed now that the initial shock had worn off. The Esurhite sat back, grinning. “Excellent!” he exclaimed. “You have the makings of a formidable opponent. In fact, had you not fallen victim to overconfidence, you would have won today. Let that be a lesson for you in the-“

  He was cut off by an outcry at one of the doorways below, and they turned to see a shaven-headed man in scarlet robes stalking across the lower level toward them. His ancient, weathered face was a storm cloud of concern, and a young man in Brogai black-Katahn’s son-followed in his wake, mirroring his agitation.

  The bald man-Abramm guessed he was a priest from the filigreed medallion he wore on his chest-stopped beside the low table, eyes widening at the sight of Abramm. Then he whirled to face Katahn, fell to his knees, and burst into a torrent of agitated Tahg.

  That Abramm was the subject of this outburst was evident from the way the stranger repeatedly gestured at him. Unfortunately, he understood only a few of the man’s words. Words like “kill him,” and “Khrell,” and “lose all.”

  When he had finished, Katahn continued to regard him with a mask of imperturbability, but Shettai released a soft, scornful laugh.

  The priest made an emphatic gesture, glaring first at her, then at Abramm. He launched into another diatribe, but Katahn lifted a hand, silencing him. Summoning one of the guards, he arched his brows at Abramm and said, “We will play again, my prince.”

  There was nothing for Abramm to do but follow his guard from the room, the priest’s renewed efforts at persuasion pursuing them onto the balcony- “Meraka nae do!”

  Kill him now

  C H A P T E R

  17

  Abramm returned to his routine, fearing every moment might be his last. So far as he knew, he’d never seen that priest before, could not imagine what he’d done to provoke him. Had the man received some sort of vision? Was he even a priest, or something else entirely? And how much influence did he have over Katahn? Clearly some, or he could not have marched into the Brogai’s private chambers unannounced and unimpeded. But Katahn had not seemed intimidated, and Shettai had laughed outright.

  At length he forced himself to put it all aside, resigned to yet another infuriating aspect of being a slave-that of having to live in ignorance while others decided one’s fate.

  In any case, he had more immediate concerns facing him. His arm, as expected, grew worse through the remainder of the afternoon, and by his last match he could hardly grip the dagger with which he parried his opponent’s blows. He prevailed, but his win was not clean, the deciding stroke powered by desperation not skill.

  By the time he was returned to his cell, all he wanted was to collapse and be left in his misery. Unfortunately, during the day someone had brought in an additional straw-filled sleeping pallet, the sight of which made him groan with dismay.

  He’d been through three cellmates already, not knowing what became of them, and not caring. They were always surly, always bigger than him, always perversely determined to make his life miserable until he finally stood up to them and put an end to it. He’d realized after the last one that he’d save himself a lot of grief if he put them in their place at the start, but that was the last thing he wanted to do now.

  The new man had not arrived yet, so perhaps someone had miscounted and the sack would not be used after all. But when the dinner detail shoved two portions of pork-lentil stew and bread under the railed door he knew there was no mistake.

  The sight and oniony smell of food made his gorge rise, so he merely drank the water and settled back against the wall, eyes closed, willing himself to sleep. A key grating in the lock jerked him from a half doze, and he sat forward to meet the new man-someone shorter than Abramm for once, though well muscled, with curly red hair and beard, and a golden shield glinting on his bare chest. Abramm’s jaw dropped. “Meridon?”

  As the door clanged shut, the Terstan looked even more astonished than Abramm. Then he grinned sheepishly and dropped onto his pallet. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” he said. “I was all set to fight for my dinner.”

  Abramm shoved the tray toward him with a foot. “You can have all of it as far as I’m concerned.”

  Meridon glanced at the two full bowls and hunks of bread, then regarded Abramm more closely. `Are you ill?”

  “They put the griiswurm on me today. It always makes me sick. Go ahead.” He gestured at the food.

  Clearly uncomfortable, Meridon pulled the tray toward him. “I thought you won all day,” he said. “Word is you gave old Brugal his first taste of the wurm.”

  “I did. But you know how the heathen like to play.” He frowned as he caught another whiff of the familiar but out-of-place scent Meridon had brought in with him. Incense, maybe? But what… ? And then he understood. “You’ve been with Katahn.”

  “I have indeed.” Meridon spooned stew into his mouth. `All afternoon, in fact, no thanks to you. He fancies himself quite the religious scholar.”

  Abramm dropped his head back against the wall and smiled at the ceiling. “So he got his debate after all. And did you make a Terstan of him?”

  Trap snorted. `All he wanted was the debate. He was quite disappointed with your failure to cooperate, I might add.”

  “So he said.” Abramm shifted into the corner, his throbbing arm cradled in the bend between hip and thigh. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore his discomfort. And then a startling thought made him stiffen and look around. “Was the priest still there when you arrived?”

  He wasn’t, nor, after Abramm related the incident, could Meridon make any more sense of it than Abramm had.

  “You needn’t worry, though,” he added. “Katahn has no plans to eliminate you. In fact, he told me he’s thinking of working us together-as the Kiriathan Prince and his Faithfu
l Retainer. Supposed to contribute a `highly desirable dramatic element’ to our performance.”

  “Really.” Abramm stared at the ceiling again, watching a tuft of cobweb wave slowly back and forth with the vagaries of the air currents. He sighed. “Well, I must say I’d welcome you covering my back, Captain.”

  As I would you, my lord.”

  It took a moment for those words to sink in. Another to acknowledge their quiet sincerity.

  Meridon met his surprised glance with a sober smile. “You have progressed beyond all …” He gestured helplessly. “Well, I can hardly believe it. In fact, I didn’t believe it until I saw you fight yesterday.” He shook his head, and … was that … approval in his eyes? “No question you’ve got the Kalladorne moves, my lord. My father was right about you.”

  Abramm found himself abruptly flummoxed. In the first place he could hardly believe the man was serious. And in the second, he had no idea how to respond to it, no idea what to do with this sudden warm pleasure flooding through him, save that he ought to conceal it. Just in case he really was reading the man wrongly.

  Meridon, busy emptying the second bowl now, had pursued a different line of thought. “Saeral came into your life when you were what?” he asked. “Eleven? Twelve?”

  “Ten.”

  “About three years before you’d have entered Barracks, then. Years in which you might have been expected to bloom.”

  “Gillard started defeating me in the sword rooms long before Saeral came along.”

  “Still, Saeral clearly exploited the situation.”

  Abramm went back to watching his cobweb, not much liking the direction in which the conversation was going.

  “I wonder if he worked both sides,” Meridon went on. “Encouraging you to pacifism and helplessness while one of his minions urged Gillard toward increasing belligerence. You must’ve been dreading the prospect of entering Barracks with him.”

  `And rightly so. He would’ve killed me.”