Philip had stared at him, stricken, and Carissa saw the truth of Cooper’s words written in his face.
“Your brother may be alive, boy,” Cooper went on, more gently, “but hers is dead. Let her accept the truth in peace and get on with her grieving.”
To his credit, Philip had backed off, looking chagrined and ashamed. There had been no more talk after that.
But long after the others had settled and the silence of deep night fell over them, Carissa had lain awake on her pallet, facing the wall and weeping in bitter acknowledgment of the truth. In time sleep did claim her, if only briefly, and she awoke feeling groggy and apathetic.
Breakfast had brought news that the bodies of the Pretender and Infidel now hung impaled inside the east gate, proof they had not escaped. Even so the rumors still flew-crazy stories about bodies made of mist and two men slaying a veren last evening on the cliffs of the Icthan Inlet. Many swore the two had used the same white fire as had defeated the Broho yesterday and that Beltha’adi was secretly combing the countryside in search of them and that that was why Xorofin’s gates had been opened this morning.
Philip had lapped the stories up with such avidity it seemed to take all his willpower not to hop up and down and shout, “See? I told you?”
After the meal Cooper had gone to see about getting passage on a ship, only to find the harbor quarantined on account of an outbreak of plague. With the threat of plague adding to his concerns for Carissa’s safety, he decided they would go overland to the port city of Ybal, some sixty leagues north by well-traveled, well-policed road. They’d walk as far as nearby Vedel and buy better transport there. The important thing now was to get out of Xorofin.
Carissa had listened to his plans and explanations without comment, content to let him make the decisions. All she wanted was to escape this horrid land. How that was accomplished mattered little.
Thus they had come to stand this morning in the line of travelers seeking exit at the east gate, filing along beneath the bodies of Beltha’adi’s latest vanquished nemeses.
She now found herself staring at the golden shield on the imposter infidel’s chest. Not Meridon, perhaps, but some poor sap. Eidon certainly hadn’t delivered him.
The pain in her throat sharpened, and she dashed away sudden tears as the line shuffled forward again. Beside her Philip sighed resignedly and turned from the display.
She felt a fluttering of pity for him, knowing he loved his brother as much as she loved her own. It had to be hard for him to give up. “It really is better this way, Phil,” she said softly. “Think how he would feel, knowing you were here looking for him.”
A wry smile twisted his lips. “He’d be furious.”
And it would be awful if you got yourself captured when he’s just found his freedom.”
“Aye.” He made a disgusted face. “I’ve been a fool, I think. This is Eidon’s fight, not mine. Wherever he is, Eidon will hold him.”
Eidon. The name stirred new threads of bitterness. How many lives had Eidon ruined now? “I’ve been a fool, too,” she murmured. “This whole trip has been such a waste.”
A waste?” His head came round, his blue eyes wide. “My lady, we’ve just witnessed the birth of a legend! The escape of the White Pretender and his Infidel from the great Val’Orda. It will spread across the land. It will be passed down through the ages. And we saw it. With our own eyes.” He grinned up at the corpses. “I’ll remember that fight for the rest of my life? It will be something to tell our children? Our grandchildren?”
The words only stabbed new pain into her heart, and suddenly she wanted to cry all over again.
At long last they reached the guardhouse and Cooper was handing over their traveling papers yet again. The guard looked them over cursorily, then gestured at Carissa and Peri.
`And these?”
“My wife and her servant.”
The guard flicked a hand. “Lift their veils.”
Cooper stared at him, his expression of outrage probably not much feigned. “Is this really necessary, sir?”
“No one passes that we have not personally laid eyes upon.”
“I am Liakan Ingsolis,” Cooper fumed. “Merchant of fine textiles and rare treasures. I am not a rebel, and I resent being treated like one. You may rest assured your commanding officer will hear of this. From his commanding officer.”
“Nevertheless, I have my orders.”
Cooper looked around as if hoping deliverance might somehow swoop out of the crowd. Yet the crowd itself held them in, cutting off escape. Resignedly he gestured to Peri, who quickly unveiled herself. With a grunt the man turned to Carissa. This time Cooper did the unveiling, lifting the cloth just enough to reveal her face, then quickly dropping it back into place.
It did not work. Frowning, the guard pushed him aside and lifted the veil himself, flipping it over her head to reveal her pale face and blond hair to all. A murmur of surprise arose around them.
“She’s Kiriathan?” he declared delightedly. He leered at her, then at Cooper. “Kiriathans are quite in demand at the moment.”
Cooper stood rigidly, white faced. “She is my wife, sir.”
“Yes, and how much did you pay for her?” The guard laughed, then stroked her cheek with a rough finger. A spilling handful, I’d say. She’s a beauty.”
Sudden fear cut through the veil of indifference that had held her since last night. Cooper stood poised at the edge of violence, Eber looming behind him as Philip pressed against her shoulder protectively, Newbold panting at his side.
“Come, pretty one,” the guard said, gripping her arm. “The commander, I think, will like you.”
A voice rose sharply from the crowd behind them. “Master Ingsolis? Liakan Ingsolis?”
They all turned as a tall, dark-bearded young man hurried up the line toward them. Though he wore the drab shadow-gray of the Army of the Black Moon, he was no soldier. He was, in fact, their former Thilosian first mate, Danarin.
“I was afraid I’d miss you,” he said, bowing to Cooper. “Captain Hoag released me so I could escort you. Here are the papers.” He handed them to the guard, then looked at Carissa. “Why is she unveiled? This is disgraceful!” Quickly he pulled the fabric back over her head and turned to the guard. “What is the meaning of this?”
“We were told to search everyone, sir.”
“Rabble and commoners, yes. This is Liakan Ingsolis. Do you imagine he would be involved with rebel scum?”
The man paled. “I … I did not know, sir. He has no baggage, and I have never heard of Liakan Ingsolis. No offense, sir,” he added to Cooper. “I am only a poor soldier.”
“Very poor,” Danarin snapped. “His baggage went through yesterday. His coachman was supposed to return for him last night, but of course no one could enter the city.”
“Of course,” the soldier said, his dark skin growing darker with embarrassment. He would not look at Danarin. “Uh … and where is your mount, sir?”
“In the stable. I will be riding in the coach with Master Ingsolis, you dolt.”
“Of course, sir.” The soldier folded both sets of papers together and passed them to Danarin. “Have a safe journey.”
They hurried through the tunnel gate and down the dusty road outside. “What a story?” Cooper muttered as they strode past the other travelers, most of whom were busy repacking their things. “I’m astonished he believed it.”
“Oh, they’ll believe quite a bit if you wear the right uniform,” Danarin said, smiling. “I can’t believe you still have that old dog with you.”
“Where did you get that uniform?” Carissa asked.
“Borrowed it, of course.”
“Of course.”
“The part about the coach was true, though,” Danarin said. “Well, it’s not a coach, it’s a cart, but you’re welcome to travel with us. Which way are you headed?”
“Ybal,” Cooper supplied.
“On foot??”
“We’ll buy transport
in Vedel.”
Danarin was shaking his head. “Vedel’s been hit with the plague, too, didn’t you hear? I suspect that’s where the outbreak in Xorofin came from.”
“I heard it started in the Sorite sector.”
“In any case, Vedel is closed. The only way north is to go around through Jarnek.”
“But Jarnek’s inland!”
“Yes. The old gateway to the SaHal. And unless you want to go overland without a road, it’s the only remaining option. Assuming the plague hasn’t spread there, too.”
“I don’t relish the thought of walking all the way to Jarnek,” Cooper said.
“Well, you’re welcome to come with me,” Danarin said.
Absolutely not!” Carissa cried, pushing around Cooper to confront the Thilosian. “You have dealt us enough blows. I’ll not fall for your trickery again.”
“Blows? Trickery? My lady? Why do you charge me with this injustice? Have I not just saved your life?”
“For that I am grateful, but do not think it will cause me to forget how you deceived us at Vorta.”
Danarin looked completely flummoxed. “Deceived you? How, my lady?”
“Telling us the Pretender would perform at six when he was really performing at four.”
He glanced at Cooper. “My lady, if I did, I do not recall it. It is possible I misspoke, I suppose. Things were confusing that morning. As I recall there was that dispute with the merchant of silks and brocades.”
“He was trying to rob us,” Cooper added. “Remember?”
She did not remember, because it had been Cooper who’d done the talking and in a language she had not understood. “I remember you arguing with a man. That’s all.”
“Perhaps I misheard Master Danarin in the confusion,” Cooper added. “I was still not proficient in the Tahg.”
“It was simply a misunderstanding, my lady,” Danarin said. `And even had I done it apurpose, what good would it have done? Surely you could see them at the next contest.”
She frowned, feeling confused. He was right, of course. A deliberate attempt at deception would have been pointless. And he had just saved her life. Moreover, if he had at least a cart and a traveling party, he was in better shape than she was, so why bother with her at all? Especially since the whole question of his being after Abramm had become moot.
His attractiveness made it difficult to hang tightly to her distrust. She was so relieved to have been delivered from the Esurhites, and he looked so … distressed.
She drew a breath. “Well, perhaps it was just a misunderstanding. I was very disappointed that day.”
`And you have never trusted me.” His dark eyes twinkled, and a corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Have you?”
“I trust very few,” she said, lifting her chin.
“Will you come with us, then? It will be safer-the roads will be full of soldiers. This Dorsaddi thing is just beginning, I fear … and away from their chain of command, well, some of these men are not always as controlled as one would like.”
She frowned at him, wanting to trust him, to like him unreservedly. “Very well. We will go. And thank you for your generosity.”
C H A P T E R
28
It’s my fault, Abramm thought miserably. It’s all my fault.
He sat with his back against the wall, clutching a talon-pierced, halfdrained water bag. His companions-one dead, one alive-lay on the rockand bone-strewn floor in front of him. The pale shimmer of the healing power now enwrapping the live one-Trap-enabled him to see them both. And to see clearly the solid rock walls that imprisoned them.
He had crawled reluctantly from the unconsciousness that had followed the vomiting to find his contact with the Terstan’s healing session had again reaped unexpected benefits. His nausea was gone and the scar on his arm quiescent. And if his head still ached, it was from being slammed against the cliff. His other pains-shoulder, hands, and ribs-could also be attributed to plain physical abuse, though even they seemed lessened.
He had spent some time clearing away the rocks and bones to make a space where he could lay out Shettai’s body properly. Carefully, stoically, he had positioned it on her cloak, straightening her limbs and arranging her glorious hair so that it covered most of the signs of the wound that had killed her, though he left her new Terstan shield in view. Then he sat looking at her, unable to tuck the robe over her as he’d intended.
If only the Terstan’s power had washed away his guilt and grief along with the other wounds.
She was dead. Dead at his own hands as surely as if he had held the implement that killed her. If only he’d been quicker on that ledge. Quicker to see what she’d intended, quicker to bring the net to bear so she wouldn’t have felt compelled to protect him. Fire and Torment! What was she thinking? She had no sword, no chance at all!
If only he hadn’t allowed her to come, hadn’t given in to his desires to have her with him, hadn’t deluded himself with the notion that all would work out well because all had worked out well so far. He’d known what kind of odds they faced. Whatever was he thinking not to assume they’d be attacked by veren precisely where they were attacked?
If only he hadn’t given in when she’d confessed her love for him. If he’d kept his wits about him then, realizing to let it go any further would only hurt them both, she’d still be alive. Never knowing he’d shared her love, she’d surely have stayed with Katahn, safe in Xorofin …
The accusations burned in his breast, adding layer upon layer of condemnation. He had sinned-against Eidon, against the Holy Words, against even the tenets of honor held by the true heroes of Kiriath. It was part of the hero’s duty to protect the weaker sex, to honor their chastity and virtue, to acknowledge the rights of the men who were or would one day be their husbands. Yet he had spurned that, had lain with a woman not his wife, the beloved slave of his master, in fact. He had compromised her virtue and destroyed his own, all for the sake of satisfying his own lusts. And he dared to think himself a hero?
A sharp, new nausea rolled up in him, and he groaned, clutching the water bag to his chest as the misery intensified. I should have died on that ledge, not her! He deserved it, after all. Sin upon sin upon sin … Yes, he deserved it.
And from the look of things, he would be making due payment before much longer. They would most likely die of dehydration, since he had only found the one water bag between them, the others lost along with their food in the battle with the veren. They’d die, trapped like rats in a ship’s wall, no deliverance accomplished, no awakening of the Dorsaddi’s Heart. Just a quiet, ignominious end, attended and marked by no one. She died for nothing.
He groaned again, and at his feet, Trap stirred.
Abramm swallowed the sharp, hard lump lodged in his throat and wiped the tears streaking his face. Grimly he wrestled his emotions back under control.
Meridon sat up with a groan. A kelistar flared to life, and as always, Abramm was unprepared for the way it captivated him. The light so clear and clean and beautiful, the sense of a thousand voices raised in joyful song, the warmth that reached down into his soul, spawning memories of sundrenched afternoons in fields of golden, shimmering grass. For a moment it even overruled the grim specters of grief and guilt and despair that haunted his mind.
But only for a moment. Aware of the Terstan blinking blearily at him, Abramm tore his gaze from it, and the comfort vanished like a candle flame in a gale.
Trap frowned at the chamber around them. “Where are we?” His voice was hoarse, but as before, there was no sign of ichor, no sign of injury beyond the cuts and scrapes engendered by their encounter with the cliff face-and the contest in the arena before that.
Abramm handed him the water bag and, as Trap drank deeply, recounted the fight on the ledge. But when he came to Shettai’s death he could not go on, overcome by a fresh wave of grief. It did not seem possible she was gone. Yet there she lay, unnaturally still and stiff, cradled in the cloak and rocks that would be her burial
cairn.
His tale forgotten, he leaned forward to adjust the fall of her hair away from her face and, after a long moment of stroking the dark locks, leaned back again.
Trap was staring at the golden shield on her chest.
“She touched the talisman right before she died,” Abramm explained.
Meridon’s eyes climbed to meet his own. “She is truly free, then.”
Abramm swallowed hard and turned aside, blinking back more tears, fighting to control himself, and hideously embarrassed by his failure. He could not speak at all, and long moments went by until finally he dropped his head into his hands and gave up.
“I am sorry, my lord,” Trap said quietly.
Still with his head in his hands, Abramm let the grief roll through him. “I was the one who was supposed to die,” he croaked. “Not her.”
“Only Eidon can decide such things. And she is with him now,” Trap went on. “Beyond the veil of tears and shadow, happier than we can imagine.”
“She is with me-” the ghost-man had said.
But that was a hallucination. Had to be. No man could see Eidon and live. The Words said so. It was all just wishful thinking brought on by shock and the gathering storm of his reaction to the veren poison. It must be.
Mustn’t it?
He grew abruptly aware of the Terstan talisman’s warmth upon his breastbone. Simultaneously the spore in his arm writhed and a sudden inexplicable fear broke over him. He backed away from the disturbing notions that were presenting themselves.
Hallucination. Nothing more.
“If you could see her now,” Trap said softly, “you would rejoice.”
There was no doubt in his voice, only a rock-solid conviction that Abramm found himself envying. Even at his most devoted as a Novice Initiate, he did not think he’d ever believed as strongly as Trap seemed to. Now, though he believed almost nothing, the other’s words brought comfort. Maybe they were true. If they were … it was a wonderful thought.
Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1) Page 32
