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

by Karen Hancock

  The strains of a popular waltz started up around them. At once the courtiers began to drink and prance and primp, apparently having been coached, or maybe just making it up, for no one Abramm had ever seen at court acted like this.

  The girl in yellow met them at the court’s “entrance.” Her tears had dried, and she avoided their eyes as she guided them up the stairs to the platform where Abramm was to sit on the throne. Another ran up the stair with empty silver goblets, wagged her finger at them, as if they were naughty boys, and hurried away.

  The stentorian Taleteller-Abramm could not imagine how he made his voice so loud-launched into his introduction. The Fall of the King of Kiriath, this act was called. With somebody or other as Beltha’adi and somebody else as Beltha’adi’s second-not that he would find anything to do today. The joke was received with a surge of laughter and applause.

  Abramm was then introduced as playing the role of the King of Kiriath, courtesy of Katahn ul Manus himself. `And in the role of His Majesty’s retainer we have the Heathen Shield Trap Meridon, formerly of the Kiriathan Royal Guard. Or so Lord ul Manus claims.”

  Wrathful, contemptuous screaming greeted this announcement. Pieces of rotten fruit splattered the outer edges of tile and sailed through the ghost wall that stood between Abramm and the audience on the court’s far side.

  The courtiers postured and bowed and fluttered, the men directed here and there by the women, tripping and reeling exaggeratedly as they slopped wine down the fronts of their doublets. The crowd laughed contemptuously.

  “Drunken and dissipated …” said the Taleteller as the men grabbed at the women and tore at their gowns. “Indecent and immoral…” The women welcomed the advances with embarrassing writhings. “They are unable to control their lusts, unable to make themselves worthy of any real god’s attention. Only the Dying God will have them. Serving such a god, they know not how to fight or die like men, nor will Eidon be able to defend them. They are fit only to be conquered and ruled by their betters?”

  The Taleteller’s voice rang stridently, igniting the crowd. The roaring, screaming voices filled the arena like a living thing that pulsed and quivered, tearing at ear and heart and belly.

  Light bloomed on the far side, illuminating a door in the arena’s wall, now trundling open to admit a troop of black-and-gray-garbed soldiers. Amidst them strode one clad and cloaked in gold, a black crescent moon standing atop the crown of his helmet. Impossibly, the crowd’s passion rose another notch, screaming Beltha’adi’s name.

  With a wail the courtiers scurried to a corner of the set, crowding together like frightened hens. As the newcomers reached the main court most of the soldiers stopped near the courtiers and only the substitute Beltha’adi and one other drew their swords. Advancing casually toward the foot of the stair atop which Abramm sat on his throne, they waved to the audience, exchanged jokes with their followers, and barely glanced at their opponents.

  Abramm stood up, feeling a strangely familiar rage.

  The crowd began to chant. “Yelaki! Yelaki! Dormod anahdi!”

  From Abramm’s side came the hissing rasp of Meridon’s blade as he drew it free of its scabbard. Abramm’s hand closed upon the hilt of his own sword, hesitated.

  I will touch no weapon of warfare.

  Violence feeds the Shadow.

  He swallowed. Could he really kill another man? And if he did, was he any better than his opponent?

  He watched the men laughing up at him, listened to the crowd calling for his blood, remembered the Dorsaddi just before him, heart blasted out of his chest. And knew the answers to both questions.

  Yes. And Yes.

  As he pulled his blades free, something changed within him-his pent-up frustration finally found release. Suddenly he was no longer helpless. Alloying with all he had endured and seen this day, his anger forged a fierce determination to deflate their self-righteous assumptions of superiority.

  He glanced at Trap, received a barely perceptible nod, and together they leaped down to meet the two who would challenge them, closing with them in a burst of aggressive parries. The two fell back, made awkward and desperate by surprise.

  Abramm’s opponent overparried one time too many. Before Abramm even realized what he had done, his own blade had slid under the southlander’s weapon and up through the man’s ribs. Blood blossomed on the golden tunic as Abramm pulled the blade free. He glimpsed a dark, surprised face as the Esurhite fell to his knees.

  Meridon’s man sagged to the marble floor an instant afterward, the battle over almost before it had begun.

  But even as Abramm drew a shaky breath, hardly daring to believe it was over, a flash of metal caught his eye and he turned, lifting his weapon instinctively, deflecting the blow of one of the soldiers who had spontaneously assumed the role of backups for the first two.

  Another was closing from the side, and he felt Meridon step around behind him back to back as they battled the four who had taken up arms at the fall of their comrades.

  Blood pounded in Abramm’s ears as he parried, lunged, and ran his opponent through the forearm, drawing a howl of pain as the man’s weapon clanged to the marble floor. The disarmed Esurhite flung himself at Abramm with bare hands, and Abramm’s dagger slipped between the side slits in his armor, just as he had practiced a thousand times. The soldier fell forward, and Abramm jumped back, jerking his weapon free and slamming into Meridon. He twisted left, blocked an incoming thrust with the dagger, and whipped his longblade around, slashing his opponent’s arm.

  A reddish haze had sprung up around him, blotting out all but the new antagonist in front of him, whom he saw with exquisite clarity-the hatefilled eyes, the clenched teeth, the rivulets of sweat streaming down the dark face. He could hear the Esurhite’s breathless muttered curses and could see that the man was caught in the grip of a self-righteous fury that did not allow him to acknowledge that he faced a superior opponent.

  Abramm was surprised at the man’s sluggishness, at the way he seemed to telegraph his every move and struggled to keep his blade in time with Abramm’s. It was a simple matter to parry his slow thrusts, to ignore his awkward feints and pay him for the failure with a stab to the leg, the arm, the waist. The man grew angrier by the moment, and before long he fell for a double feint that left him open to Abramm’s killing stroke, in and out in an instant. The wild eyes widened, then rolled back as he toppled to the floor.

  It was over. Six southlanders lay dead or wounded on the tile, surrounded by a rapidly dissipating haze. The distant roaring had stopped, replaced by the pitiful cries of the injured. Blood streaked and spattered the tile, and there was far more of it than he’d expected. He felt suddenly cold and weak, a great shudder staggering him.

  Then Trap was at his side, gripping his arm, pulling him up and around. When he tried to resist, tried to look back over his shoulder, his friend shook his arm. “You did what you had to do, my lord.”

  Abramm swallowed and stared at him, heartsick and bitter. “Is that how you deal with it? Just ignore it?”

  “Be thankful it’s not you lying on that floor. Because it easily could have been.”

  His brown eyes bored into Abramm’s, bearing the truth deep into his soul. Yes. It was supposed to have been his blood that stained the tiles.

  The haze was gone now, and finally he noticed the crowd. Its shocked silence filled the arena with palpable force. He realized then that the man in the golden tunic, the one with the black crescent moon helmet, lay among the dead. The portents in that event-coming on the heels of the Dorsaddi’s prophesying-struck even him, raising the hairs up the back of his neck.

  He stepped back, his gaze falling at last upon his courtiers. To a person, they gaped at him with wonder and outright worship in their eyes.

  He looked back at them, wiping the sweat from his upper lip on his sleeve, smearing red paint on the fabric. He was surprised to find himself panting.

  Suddenly, to his utter astonishment, each of the courtiers went do
wn on one knee. “Hail Eidon?” they cried. “Hail Abramm, King of Kiriath!”

  A rumble arose from the spectators as, in the Broho’s box across the ring, a man stood and stretched wide his arms. As the Kiriathan courtiers screamed and cowered, the king’s court disappeared, and Abramm found himself standing on packed sand.

  The man’s chest swelled as he drew breath, then opened his mouth in a bellow that flung forth a gout of violet fire. Abramm toppled backward as it slammed into his sword, sending it sailing through the air to land with Trap’s in a twisted, smoking heap on the sand some ten yards away.

  At Beltha’adi’s side, Katahn had leaped up, jabbering and gesticulating furiously. Already Zamath and the others were rushing in, interposing their bodies between their charges and the box and hurrying them out of the ring.

  Katahn met them in the corridor not long afterward, bursting with excitement. “Wonderful” he crowed. And that bit with the courtiers at the end? They’ll be falling all over themselves to get at you next time.”

  Shettai, who had trailed in his wake, looked at Abramm as if she’d never seen him before, while Abdeel and Dumah swirled out cloaks with which to enfold them. The chamber throbbed with excited babble as news of the Kiriathans’ victory spread….

  Until a familiar high-pitched voice cut through it all, producing an instant shocked silence.

  Katahn’s priest, Master Peig, stood in the aisle, shaven dome gleaming, dark eyes glaring, Regar at his elbow in silent support.

  “You must kill them both, Lord Katahn?” the man said again, his voice hard and condemning. It echoed away to silence, every eye in the packed chamber suddenly fixed upon the two men.

  Katahn laughed. “Do you have any idea how much money these men will make me in a single season?”

  “Greed brought down the Dorsaddi, Katahn.” Peig paused, narrowed his eyes. “I told you not to make a warrior of him. I told you this would happen. But you paid no heed, and so your task is harder. I tell you these two carry the mark of destruction. If you do not destroy them, Katahn ul Manus, you will lose everything. Everything.”

  The silence could not have been more absolute. Even Katahn seemed momentarily taken aback by the intensity of the holy man’s warning. For a long, horrible moment Abramm feared all his grasping after survival, all he had sacrificed and endured, would come to nothing after all.

  Then Katahn smiled. “How many of your prophecies have come true in the last year, Master Peig? Half of them? That’s probably too generous. A quarter, then? And if we consider the last handful of years, how many times, then?”

  The priest jerked up his chin. “They have all come true, sir; it is only the interpretation-“

  A prophecy is useless if not properly interpreted before its execution, sir. And considering your record, why should I believe that this time you’ve done it correctly?”

  Master Peig ignited in a flaming rage, loosing a volley of words Abramm had no hope of following. When Katahn clearly still resisted, his son Regar jumped in, but he, too, argued in vain. Finally Peig surrendered with a bitter epithet and strode away. A moment longer the son regarded the father, tightlipped, clearly distraught. Then he too took his leave.

  Katahn watched them go, smirking openly. He made some irreverent comments to his men, then gave orders concerning his slaves’ treatment and rewards and departed.

  Shettai lingered, her gaze once more on Abramm. Their eyes met for a long, fierce moment, as if she searched for something of vital importance, and he thought again of the slain Dorsaddi’s earlier prophecy to Beltha’adi. “Even now the Deliverer is coming to slay you.”

  She turned away finally, and it seemed to him there was something very like a secret smile upon her lips.

  WHITE

  PRETENDER

  PART THREE

  C H A P T E R

  20

  Scratching the staffid bites on the back of her hand, Carissa stepped from the tunnel onto the iron bridge spanning the inlet between New Xorofin and Old. It shivered under the weight and movement of the people thronging about her, the spaces between its iron gridwork allowing a dizzying view of the depth over which she trod. From this height, the dilapidated houseboats lining the inlet’s steep shores were reduced to small ragged boxes, and the fisherfolk who lived on them, mere dots in the distance.

  With an uneasy gulp, she lifted her gaze skyward, having to tug and push at her face-veil to align the eyeholes enough to see. Through the bridge’s ranks of iron girders, Old Xorofin’s dark, lichen-encrusted guardwalls loomed forbiddingly atop the opposing cliff, its ramparts bristling with guards barely glimpsed past the crenellations. Nervous guards. Suspicious guards. Guards ready to quash the slightest twitch of rebellion, should it come.

  More of them stood at the bridge’s end ahead of her, checking travel documents and baggage, their gray tunics stark against the dark maw of Old Xorofin’s entrance tunnel. The anxiety that had smoldered in her belly all afternoon twisted restlessly, and she drew a deep breath to settle it. There was no going back now.

  Bodies pressed her from all sides-Cooper in his Thilosian finery to her left, her Esurhite serving girl, Peri, smashed up against her right, Philip’s dog pressed against the back of one of her legs, and the youth himself constantly stepping on the heel of the other. Their Esurhite retainer, Eber, followed at Cooper’s flank, and all around them, close and hot and stinking of old sweat and stale onions, were strangers.

  Robed and hooded, hatted and turbaned, laden with the bags and bundles and slingsacks that marked them visitors, they laughed and jabbered, pontificated and proclaimed, excitement billowing around them. Apprehension fueled the milieu as much as anticipation, for the great spectacle slated to unfold in Old Xorofin’s famous amphitheater tomorrow afternoon would surely change all their lives. If the rumored uprising did occur, some might be dead or maimed or imprisoned. And Carissa …

  Carissa would be changed as well, though perhaps sooner than tomorrow. The anxiety twisted again, harder, almost taking her breath away. After two years of mishap, delay, and frustration she was about to get her first glimpse of the most famous champion in present day Esurh, the man they called the White Pretender. The man she hoped was her brother Abramm.

  She still hardly dared believe it would happen in light of all the mindnumbingly bad luck she’d endured. But surely nothing could go wrong now. They’d arrived in plenty of time. There would be no more sinking boats, no pirate attacks, no unexpected, superstitious detours. With only two small bags, they offered little reason to be stopped, and Old Xorofin’s great Val’Orda opened its public seating on a first-come, first-served basis, so tickets could not be sold out in advance. Finally, the route from the warriors’ compound to the amphitheater was well-known and access to it was unrestricted. If all else failed, she could see him there.

  Truly, she had no reason to fear another frustrating failure now.

  Unless …

  She glanced aside at Cooper, who was scowling at something up ahead. The brilliant oranges and greens of his Thilosian merchant disguise set off his swarthy skin, and the gray, spiked goatee and mustache of current Thilosian fashion gave him a sophisticated aura, enhanced by the gold gleaming at his neck and ear. It was undeniably true, as Philip had pointed out to her on the foredeck last night, that Cooper had taken to his part well. True, also, that he was in complete control of this expedition, despite his apparent deference to Carissa. For the first nine months he’d been the only one who’d known the language, and with women forbidden to speak to any man not their husband or blood relative, he alone made the contacts, cut the deals, and saw to the travel arrangements. It wouldn’t have taken much to-

  No! She faced forward again. That was a horrid accusation, and she would not indulge it. Cooper was an honorable man; he’d die for his honor. He’d die for her. She was a wretch to think for even a moment that he might betray her.

  Philip was just tired and frustrated-as were they all-and searching for a way to explain the
ir failures that did not discredit his god. Moreover, he’d clashed with Cooper from day one, so it wasn’t surprising he blamed the older man.

  Beside her that older man now grunted with displeasure. “They’re changing shifts, as I feared. The new fellows’ll likely be itching for a search.”

  “Well, we have nothing for them to search.”

  “So long as you keep your head down and your mouth closed, masim.” Masim-beloved. Their travel papers called her wife, a designation neither of them welcomed but which was clearly safest for her. A daughter was more likely to be seized for an officer’s pleasure than a wife. But a wife had less freedom.

  His dark eyes flicked to Peri, who was clutching Carissa’s arm, and his mouth tightened. The girl had been with her a year, hired to bolster the credibility of their disguise. Cooper had not wanted her to bring Peri today. “If they seize her,” he’d warned, “I’ll not resist them.” She’d accepted that because she knew if she’d relented and commanded Peri to stay, he’d have been at her to remain on the boat, too, while he went alone to seek out the truth. She’d agreed to a similar arrangement in Vorta months ago. She wasn’t doing it again.

  The line moved erratically, and sure enough, the four new guards soon found someone to harass, while everyone else had to watch and wait. Like their counterparts in other areas of Esurhite bureaucracy, they delighted in these small flauntings of power, twitting all the world while they carried out their petty little procedures.

  Carissa dropped back onto her aching heels, scratching the staffid bites again and thinking how much she hated this place, how tired she was of being ordered around, of being at everyone’s mercy, of being afraid all the time. Afraid of being discovered, afraid her friends would suffer for her decisions, and most of all, afraid it would be for nothing.

  She hugged her arms and refused to go down that road again. She was here. She would see it through.