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

by Karen Hancock

  “We’ll take them out the east door,” one said. “Crowd’s moving fastest there, and it’s fairly quiet.”

  “What about the lioness?”

  “Still free-roaming somewhere in the north sector.”

  “Where’s Tola?”

  “Here, sir.” A tall blond man raised his hand. With his pale skin, aquiline features, and the three gold rings in his ear, he bore a fair resemblance to Abramm.

  Hanoch glanced round at the rest of them. “You all know what to do?”

  Murmured assent echoed off the stone.

  A moment, Hanoch,” came a familiar female voice from the rear of the group.

  Pressing through the gathering, she stopped before Abramm and threw back her hood.

  “Shettai?” Abramm cried.

  “What are you doing here?” Hanoch demanded.

  Shettai ignored him, her eyes on Abramm, looking up at him wonderingly. There was something uncomfortably close to worship in her expression. She touched his cheek. “You are alive,” she whispered. “There were rumors, but I saw your bodies in the arena….”

  And then she was in his arms, embracing him fiercely. He reeled with the feel of her, everything else momentarily lost in the wonder of rediscovering what he thought he’d never have again.

  “We have no time for this,” Hanoch said sharply. “Why are you here, Shettai?”

  She drew back, tears shining on her face, and stepped out of Abramm’s embrace to face the Underground leader. “I will go with them.”

  Stillness overtook the gathering.

  Hanoch’s dark brows beetled. `Are you sure?”

  “They will need a guide.”

  “Yes, but you-“

  “I have not forgotten the way.” She smiled wistfully. `And I have been with Katahn too long. It is time for me to face my past.”

  Hanoch looked at her long and hard, then nodded. “They could have no better guide than you, my lady. Let us go.”

  The corridor outside the east gate was clogged with people waiting to get out, forced by the guards to bare their heads and faces as they exited by twos. The guards looked tired and bored, eager to get the crowd on its way and not looking very closely.

  Nevertheless, when Abramm stepped up and pulled off his headcloth, his heart pounded a frantic rhythm. The guard glanced at him, passed him on—

  Then called him back, looking intently into his eyes.

  Balanced on the edge of the puzzlement in the man’s expression, Abramm debated whether he should make a run for it or hope the guard would pass it off. But before either man’s uncertainty crystallized into decision, someone shoved him hard from behind, knocking him into the guard and running past them both.

  “The Kiriathan?” the other guard yelled, pointing at the runner. “He’s getting away?”

  Abramm was shoved frantically aside as the two chased the fugitive down, wrestled him to the pavement, and ripped off his robe. Abramm glimpsed blond hair and the flash of honor rings as the crowd, left unrestrained, surged forward on its own, blocking his view. Not knowing how to redon the veil and headcloth, he didn’t. Struggling to stay with Shettai and Trap, he let the crowd carry him out into the plaza. A series of covert connections followed-a narrow alley, a trapdoor in a cobbler’s shop, and a cramped, bone-crunching ride across town in the false bottom of a cartending an hour later in a cellar near the city’s north wall, where they would wait until dusk to use the bolthole.

  During that time, the city had grown increasingly quiescent under tightening martial law. A curfew was imposed, the city gates were barred, and a systematic search of houses begun, ostensibly for rebel agitators, though their hosts assured them they would be gone long before any soldiers showed up at their cellar.

  Now Abramm sat with his back braced against an earthen wall, knees drawn up, eyes closed, trying to ignore his many aches and pains, of which the feyna scar had become paramount-a hot, writhing presence in his arm. He caught himself fingering the Terstan stone again and made himself stop, dropping his hand to his lap. In the hours since his escape from the arena he had developed a fascination for touching it, obsessed with its oily-slick surface and faint vibration. Memory of the power that had come out of it, that had saved his life and delivered him from the Broho, still unnerved him. He’d been weak-kneed-even nauseated-with relief to find no Terstan shield burned into his flesh when it was over. Even now he wanted to fling the thing away, lest he end up marked yet. But the potential of being Commanded remained too great. He must wait until they escaped Xorofin. Then it was coming off. No question.

  The door at the top of the stair creaked open, and Shettai descended with a round loaf and a wedge of white cheese. Settling beside him, she divvied up the bread.

  “The woman said we can drink from the barrel there,” she said.

  “When do we leave?” Trap pulled out his dagger to carve slices from the cheese.

  “Soon.” Shettai handed Abramm a piece of dense, dark bread. “We’ll need time to make it across the blast area before it’s full dark. They say there was a rockfall last spring that may cause trouble, too, but once we’re past that, the rest is easy.”

  “Except for the veren.” Trap balanced a slice of cheese on his blade tip and handed it to her.

  `And a countryside crawling with soldiers,” Abramm added. “To say nothing of Beltha’adi’s infamous intelligence system, assuming the rumors about that are true.”

  It was said the Supreme Commander commanded the forces of nature, that he used the birds for ears and eyes and had conjured corridors through the etherworld to transfer agents, even whole squadrons, across great distances of land or sea in moments.

  “They’re true,” Shettai said grimly. “But we have learned to compensate. And once we reach the SaHal-“

  “The SaHal?” Abramm broke in, alarmed. “We’re not going to Ybal?” As the northern and easternmost of Esurh’s archipelagic port cities, Ybal stood closest to the Thilosian-held island of Tortusa, offering by far the likeliest prospect of finding a vessel to take them north.

  “Ybal?” She looked at him as if he had suggested they go for a stroll in the plaza. “You are the Deliverer. You must go to Hur and reawaken the Heart.”

  “Reawaken the … What are you talking about? What heart?”

  “The Heart of the ancient Wall of Fire, set in place centuries ago by Sheleft’Ai to protect us. Beltha’adi extinguished it when he invaded. The prophecy says you will raise it again and the Dorsaddi will regain their stronghold, from which they’ll drive the Evil One out of Esurh.”

  Abramm glanced at Trap, uneasy but intrigued. Though he had no idea how this heart might be awakened, the notion carried undeniable strategic appeal. An impenetrable Dorsaddi stronghold in the heart of Beltha’adi’s empire would surely disrupt his plans of conquest and thus ultimately benefit Kiriath. Still, as far as he knew, the Wall of Fire was legend, and he was absolutely certain he was not the one to awaken it.

  Then, recalling what Katahn had told him last night, he shook his head. “It’s already too late. Beltha’adi’s pulled two full Hundreds off the Andolen front. They’re probably invading the SaHal as we speak.”

  Shettai smiled. “Shemm will learn what has happened here soon enough. He’ll hold them off until we get there.”

  “Shemm?” Abramm asked.

  “My brother.”

  Trap’s brows flew up. “Your brother is a Dorsaddi commander?”

  She smiled slightly. “My brother is the Dorsaddi king. And has been almost as long as I’ve been a slave.” Her eyes dropped to the talisman on Abramm’s chest. “Knowing that Sheleft’Ai has not abandoned us will give new strength to my people. They will fight as they have not fought in decades.” Her smile grew positively wicked. And the SaHal is not so easy a place to invade.”

  He shifted uncomfortably. This Deliverer thing was growing less appealing by the moment. The thought of people giving their lives in a delaying action just so he could arrive and fail to do what t
hey were all relying on him to do was not a happy prospect.

  Trap spoke up. “If that is the prophecy, then surely Beltha’adi will expect us to go there. How can we-“

  “There are many ways into the SaHal,” Shettai said. “He does not know all of them.”

  `And that’s where you come in,” Abramm said.

  She nodded. “That and the fact that my kinsmen tend to kill outsiders first and ask questions after. Particularly when they are being invaded.”

  “Even knowing the Deliverer is coming?” Trap asked.

  “They would trust Sheleft’Ai to see him through safely.”

  “Great,” Abramm muttered.

  Shettai shrugged. “But I will be with you, and I will know the signs to make.” She smiled at him. “You see, Sheleft’Ai has provided a way for you.”

  He exchanged a dubious glance with Trap. For a moment no one spoke. Then the Terstan stood and took their cups to the wine barrel. As the trickle of falling liquid filled the chamber, Abramm asked how she’d escaped Katahn.

  She brushed breadcrumbs from her lap, then folded her legs tailor style. “When you blew the arena doors open, everything went crazy. Katahn turned away, caught up by what was happening. Chaos swirled around us, and suddenly I saw myself free to walk away.”

  “Surely you’ve had such opportunities before,” Trap said, returning with the cups and passing them round.

  “Opportunity, yes, but little desire.” She drank, then held the cup with both hands in her lap. “I’ve been defiled in my people’s eyes. By our code, I should have killed myself long ago. I lacked sufficient courage, I suppose.”

  “Or maybe you have too much,” Trap said.

  She looked at him dead on, unwavering for a long moment, then shook her head. “You are a northerner. What is honor to you?”

  A little more sensible than Dorsaddi honor, it would seem. If we’d followed your code, your Deliverer would be dead now.”

  “He is not a woman,” she said bluntly.

  Trap blushed as red as Abramm had ever seen him.

  “My people will have branded me unclean,” she went on. “Forgotten. There is every chance they will kill me themselves once they realize who I am.”

  “Kill you?” Abramm cried. “Well, then, you’re not going.”

  She smiled at him, clearly unimpressed by his edict. “I hope that by bringing them the Deliverer I might atone sufficiently to remain alive.”

  Abramm was already shaking his head. Absolutely not. It’s too great a risk. What if they don’t agree?” And what will they do when I fail to light their stupid Heart? “You’re not going.”

  “I won’t lose you again, Pretender,” she said softly. “Where you go, I go.” For a moment all the fire of her love blazed in those wonderful eyes, and his protests died as emotion filled his throat and chest. What did I ever do to deserve her? he wondered, and then he had to back away, lest such thoughts lead him into an abyss of sentiment that would undo him.

  Her gaze dropped to the orb on his chest. “You are the Deliverer, you know,” she said staring at it. “You must not doubt that any longer.”

  Her words were an exceedingly effective check to his galloping emotion. He frowned, wishing again that she wouldn’t keep going back to that subject and that she wouldn’t look so … fanatical when she did. Most of all he wished she’d stop staring at the talisman that way, for it reminded him entirely too much of Whazel.

  He got up to refill his cup from the wine barrel, breaking the spell. Thankfully after that she spoke no more of prophecy and was content to sit beside him, close under his arm, head on his chest. As Trap stretched out for another of his naps, Abramm lost himself in the wonder of being alive and having her to hold in his arms. Though he tried to keep it back, his mind insisted on traveling into all manner of delightful futures, every one of which involved her at his side, slave no longer, but wedded wife, the mother of his children, the light and power of his life. With her beside him, he felt there was nothing he could not do.

  Their contact arrived some time later, handing out bags of food and water, a coil of roughly twisted rope, a sling and pouch of stones for Shettai, and the two pairs of swords and small fishnets Abramm and Trap had requested for themselves.

  “There’s been a patrol nosing around the bolthole opening,” the man told them as they divvied up his offerings. “So I’m afraid you’re leaving a little later than we’d hoped.”

  “Where is the opening, anyway?” Trap asked, settling the rope so it looped over his shoulder and across his chest.

  “Not far.” The man handed Abramm a shuttered lantern as the latter finished tying one of the nets around his waist, then crossed the cellar to a stout wooden door, heavily barred. “You’ll turn left outside and go to the end of the alley. There’s an old, stone guard shack, long abandoned. The passage is inside. Not too far in you’ll find what appears to be a cave-in, but if you keep to the right you’ll see a passage through it. From there it’s straight to the old cart path.” He unbarred the door and pulled it open. “Sheleft’Ai be with you, my friends.”

  C H A P T E R

  26

  They found the bolthole and the passage through the cave-in without incident, crawled on hands and knees through the cramped opening, and emerged easily on the other side. From there the ancient tunnel sloped down to a narrow crack framing the dim, gray light of the outside world. Shettai slipped through first, Trap squeezing after her. Putting out the lantern and setting it aside, Abramm sidled through the gap to join them on a ledge cut into the side of the gorge that separated North Xorofin from Old Xorofin. Sheer rock walls plunged inches from his feet to the narrow cove below, where houseboats floated on black glass, their multicolored fish-bladder lanterns spangling the gathering gloom. On the far side, the northern city’s crenellated walls disappeared into mist, and to the left loomed the dark bulk of the iron bridge spanning the gap between the cliffs. Disgruntled travelers packed its length, frustrated by the unexpected closing of the old city.

  “This way,” Shettai said, scampering goatlike down the slender spur that led to the wider cart path below.

  At Trap’s gesture, Abramm went next, reflecting grimly that calling this thing a cart path was a grave misnomer. As he walked, his right shoulder brushed rough rock even as the left hem of his robe swung over the edge of the abyss, filled with cool, salt-scented updraft. He fixed his eyes on Shettai and the time-eroded track ahead of her and tried not to think of all those eyes on the bridge behind him, nor the fact that somewhere in the mists above veren glided on the updrafts, searching for their scent. It was said veren could detect their quarry more than a league away.

  The trail snaked around uneven walls, and they rounded a bend to find the false tunnel Hanoch had warned about, gaping in a fold of stone across from them. Other openings peppered the wall above it, and Abramm realized they must be tombs. Just beyond the tunnel a huge yellow slash in the rock eradicated all sign of the trail. That would be where the pegs were.

  Before they faced that, though, they had to negotiate the newer rockfall, where a slab had peeled away from the cliff face below the trail, reducing the path to a scant two feet in width for a distance of about ten strides. At the far end it narrowed to less than a forearm, but that was only for a few strides before the path widened again.

  Abramm eyed the narrow part reluctantly. If the veren came while one of them was stuck on that, it would be disastrous.

  Shettai faced the cliff and shuffled sideways along the ledge, careful but moving quickly, her grace and balance never more in evidence. As she reached the narrowest part and slowed, Abramm faced the wall himself and edged out along the constricted section, feeling for handholds. His nose brushed the stone, the smell of iron strong and biting. At his back, air filled his robes, the fabric tugging gently at his shoulders as it lifted.

  Shettai reached the far end and turned back to watch.

  Abramm was fifteen feet from her when the ledge dropped away ben
eath him, leaving him to cling with fingers and the balls of his feet. Briefly he imagined plummeting into the depth behind him, floating like a bird for a few glorious moments, then crashing upon the rocks like a rag doll. His stomach knotted, and sweat dribbled down his side. Banishing such thoughts, he forced himself to concentrate on feeling for grooves and handholds in the gritty stone, on moving no matter what. Behind him, Trap’s scabbarded blade scraped against the stone, marking his progress.

  Shettai had just reached the point where the ledge finally widened again when a hair-raising screech reverberated up the canyon.

  “Torments?” Trap hissed behind him. “That didn’t take long?”

  Shettai looked up past Abramm, and her face went white. He clenched his teeth and breathed deeply, slowly, blotting out everything save the need to move and feel for holds.

  Air whooshed around him, and he sensed the creature’s bulk, heard a hissing throb of wingbeats. Then it was gone.

  “It’s circling back,” Shettai hissed. “Hurry?”

  Abramm planted his left foot on the wide ledge and lurched up beside her. A heartbeat to gain his balance, and he swung round, the sword hissing from its sheath as his free hand untied the net from his waist.

  Here it came, bursting out of the mist, bigger than he was by twice and heading straight for them. He shook out the net, feeling as if he were armed with a broomstraw and cheesecloth. Maybe the Terstan talisman would help him again.

  The dark wings flared wide to brake, ebony talons reaching for his face. Then, just as he moved to snap up the net, Shettai flung herself unexpectedly in front of him, straight into the creature’s grasp. With a bellow of horror, he shoved her aside, stabbing blindly into a thick, scaly leg. His sword point punched through tough skin into tougher cartilage as an odd cold sizzle rushed down his arm. White light blazed at his chest and the veren launched itself off the wall with a scream, ripping the sword from Abramm’s hand.

  A dark wing slammed into him, hurling him against the cliff wall in a flash of re-ignited agony. He bounced off the stone and went down gasping, trying to throw himself forward as he scrambled for a hold-and found it. He came to a painful stop with one hand jammed into a vertical crack along the ledge’s outer edge, the other closed around a sharp, rocky upthrust. One leg was hitched up over the ledge, while the other dangled over awesome space.