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

by Karen Hancock

  “We’ll be stretched pretty thin, though,” he said.

  “Very thin,” Shemm agreed. “Japheth informed me this morning that, with the arrival of that latest Hundred your informant told us about, he will outnumber us two to one.”

  The informant was Katahn ul Manus, though only Abramm and Trap knew that. Claiming outrage over losing his valuable slaves, Katahn had joined Beltha’adi in Jarnek in a bid to retrieve them. In reality, he was playing a very dangerous game of deceit-one that had recalled to Abramm on more than one occasion the dire prophecy cast back in Vorta by Katahn’s old priest, Master Peig. The one about losing everything.

  “Maybe even three to one,” Shemm added.

  “Good,” Abramm said. “You’ll have more targets to shoot at.”

  The dark face came around to him again, flashing a grin. “You think like a Dorsaddi, my friend, not a northerner.”

  “You do not know many northerners, Great One.”

  Their eyes met, and the grins faded as Abramm’s words evidently spawned the same thought in both of them. Abramm turned his attention back to the amphitheater. “If the Deliverer wins,” he said, “it won’t matter how many they have. Our man says most of them are already demoralized.”

  “Thanks largely to you, Pretender.”

  During the two weeks since they’d left Hur, Abramm had come to know the Dorsaddi king well. They’d hit it off at once, united by the common expe rience of being royalty, of having strikingly similar personalities, and, on Abramm’s part, by the knowledge that this man was Shettai’s brotherthough they had never spoken of her.

  Mostly they spoke of Jarnek and what they planned to do there upon arrival. In that, Abramm had displayed an affinity for strategy and tactics that had surprised him-if no one else. Shemm had sent out a call to arms to the other active Dorsaddi city of Deir, and while they waited for those forces to arrive, Abramm had counseled-and waged-a war of wit, harassing and bedeviling the enemy in his own camp in hopes of shaking morale.

  It had worked. The men are unnerved, Katahn said in his last communication. They know you are out there and their hearts are melting for fear of you. Now is the perfect time for the WP to come forward. If Beltha’adi even looks as if he might lose, they’ll run if you launch a significant attack.

  Abramm hoped Katahn was right.

  “I think we’ve seen enough,” the king said. He eased back from the edge, careful to keep below the hummocks. A moment later Abramm followed. They withdrew to where Trap and Japheth waited, ready with a handful of others to spring up and shoot should the Esurhite sentries discover the royal spies in their midst. The group of them descended back into the narrow channel through which they’d emerged, where the sentries also wore Esurhite gray, though they were not Esurhite.

  A growl of thunder rumbled in the distance.

  “You’re sure you will not stay?” the king asked as they walked down a narrow flight of roughly carved stairs. “You know how greatly I have valued your counsel. And your sword.”

  Abramm drew a deep breath. He wanted to stay. That was just it. He wanted to stay and to go with equal passion. When he had given the costume back to Shemm this morning, it had surprised him how much he wanted to wear it one more time, how strongly he coveted this fight. It was the White Pretender Beltha’adi was challenging, after all. And Abramm was the White Pretender, not Trap. Abramm carried the royal blood of Kiriath-he should be the one to represent his House.

  Besides, if Beltha’adi was finally going to fight as himself, should not the Pretender do likewise?

  And yet, even before Carissa had arrived, the others had been seeking to dissuade him. He was no match for the Broho of Brohos, they said, not unless he chose to take the star. Of course they would say that. They all wore the shieldmark and wanted everyone else to wear it, too. Mephid, in particular, had pressed him so fiercely he seemed on the verge of putting the talisman in Abramm’s hand and forcing his fingers around it himself. They had nearly come to blows over it before Trap intervened.

  “You cannot make a man take the star,” he’d scolded.

  “But the prophecy said three kings will slay the dragon’s head,” Mephid had countered. “He must take it.”

  Trap cocked a brow. “I thought you said the Deliverer was the one to kill him.”

  All four are apparently involved.”

  “Mmm. Or else you’ve misinterpreted.”

  Mephid had scowled at him but had not argued.

  “In any case, if he refuses it … well, this was known to Sheleft’Ai since the beginning and taken into account. He must not be the one your prophecy speaks of”

  In point of fact, despite Mephid’s attempt to drag in the prophecy of the kings, there was considerable evidence that Trap himself was the one. He was, after all, the Lord Deliverer. Indeed, there would have been no question of his going had Beltha’adi not specifically demanded that it be the Pretender who faced him.

  And the Pretender had been more than willing to take up the challenge.

  Until Carissa had shown up.

  Now Abramm drew a deep breath and turned to face the king. “It has been my privilege to serve you, Great One, but I believe I have done all I can do here. You’ve made it clear enough that I am not your choice of champion, and truly you have no real need of my sword in the coming battle should it go as we hope-even if it doesn’t, my hand would not be the one to turn the tide.”

  And you do not wish your sister to be caught up in any of it. I understand that, friend. As I understand the call of or’dai.”

  Or’dai. Blood right. Vengeance. Justice. He had not given it a thought until Carissa had brought it up, made him see, suddenly and startlingly, that he could do it. That it was his right. That he could actually return to Kiriath and repay Gillard for his deeds. Face-to-face, sword to sword. The moment he had acknowledged it as a possible reality, the desire for it had boiled up, hot and driving, in his soul.

  He need not die here. He need not be swept away by other people’s concerns. He could seize the reins of his own life and go back, do what at the heart of things he wanted to do more than anything else in life. More, perhaps, than life itself.

  The power of the need startled him, all hot rage and savage bloodlust.

  “Yes,” he said softly, hearing the passion shake in his voice.

  “Go, then. If you move quickly, you should reach the rim before the rains. Sheleft’Ai guard you and keep you, and may you find at last the destiny he has for you.”

  “Thank you, my king.”

  Carissa was waiting at the opening to the cavern in which they’d set up camp, impatience tightening her lips. “Did you hear the thunder?” she asked as Shemm went on and Abramm drew up before her. “They say the rains may break before sundown.”

  “We should be well up on the rim by then.”

  “Yes, but … Abramm, I’ve been in the rains.”

  “Would you prefer to stay here?”

  “Of course not.” She turned to walk with him. “Did you ask him about Peri and Eber?”

  “He said he’ll send someone to free them.”

  `And pay them?”

  `And pay them.”

  Cooper sat alone outside Abramm’s tent, awaiting their return. He looked morose, staring blindly off into space, so that he didn’t notice their approach until they were nearly upon him. Giving a start, he scrambled to his feet and sketched a hasty bow.

  “Where’s Danarin?” Carissa asked, looking around.

  “I thought he was with you, my lady.” Cooper flicked a glance at Abramm, then looked away, still nervous in his presence.

  “Great,” Carissa muttered. “Here we’re finally ready to leave and he’s off gambling.” Scowling, she scanned the chamber, arms folded before her. “We should just go without him. It’d serve him right, and I’m not sure I want him with us anyway.”

  Abramm arched a brow at her. “Oh?”

  “I don’t trust him. I haven’t since Qarkeshan.”

&nbs
p; “You think he’d betray us to Beltha’adi?”

  Distaste flickered across her face. “No, he could have done that hundreds of times on the road from Xorofin. I just … He makes me uneasy, I guess.”

  “Aye, because he has eyes for her,” Cooper said. And he’s a handsome devil, with no reluctance whatever in pursuing her, no matter that she’s a noble lady and he a common sailor.”

  Abramm cocked a brow at his sister. She stared at the floor, red-faced.

  Cooper said something mollifying, but Abramm didn’t hear it, his attention snared by the man striding briskly along the line of tents in his direction. He’d half hoped he wouldn’t have to confront Trap before he left, but clearly that was not to be.

  The Terstan offered a nod of greeting to Carissa as he stopped in front of Abramm and looked up at him, his eyes keen and sharp. “Can we talk?”

  Carissa laid a hand on Abramm’s arm. “I’m sorry, Captain, but we really have no time to spare. Not if we’re going to beat the rains.”

  Once Abramm might have used her intervention to avoid what he did not want to face. But he and Trap had gone through too much together for that, and anyway, her forwardness irritated him. He shook off her hand and stepped away with Meridon. “You go find your friend, Riss. This won’t take long.”

  He walked off without waiting for her answer, Trap striding beside him. They paced along the remainder of the tent line, heading toward the horses picketed at the back of the cavern. For some time neither of them spoke.

  “So that’s it, then?” Meridon said presently. “You’re really going to leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “To go home.”

  Abramm glanced at him sidelong. “You want her caught in the middle of this?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I don’t want to die here, Trap. And I have a score to settle in Kiriath.”

  A score.” Disapproval soured his voice. It was a thing Abramm had never understood-Meridon’s willingness to forgive those who had so deeply wronged him. His insistence that it had been Eidon who had brought them here, Eidon who would make it good.

  They stopped at the edge of the picket line, standing on a small shelf of sandstone, a well of space separating them from anyone else. He could see the men out on the floor watching them surreptitiously, murmuring to each other-by now the word was surely out that he was leaving. He did not think they would understand.

  Then again, considering the matter of or’dai, perhaps they would.

  `And what of Saeral?”

  The question cut into his thoughts, momentarily startling him. Then he snorted. “If I can stand against Broho, I can handle Saeral. Wasn’t it you who was telling me how much more I know about good and evil now?”

  “More, maybe, but not enough for that.”

  “Of course not,” Abramm said dryly. “Nothing is ever enough with you, nor will it be until I wear your shield upon my chest.”

  Trap regarded him soberly. “Eidon is the only answer in this world, Abramm, and life is not about settling scores or being respected by people. It’s about his power and his worth and what he did on that hill outside Xorofin. You must come to him as nothing. But you don’t like that. You want it to be about you. Your sacrifices, your efforts to make yourself worthy.” He paused, studying the horses without really seeing them. “It’s pride, Abramm. That’s why you won’t believe.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it? You’ve memorized more than half of the Holy Words. Go back through them, without the Mataian slant, and see if what I’m saying isn’t true. Or are you afraid to put it to the test?”

  Back up the row of tents, Abramm could see the wandering Danarin had finally returned-the group of them watched him and Trap as they talked. Carissa was wringing her hands, clearly distressed and apparently pouring out her woes to Danarin, who was frowning at him.

  He turned back to the horses, pain and impatience rising together, and decision crystallized. “Carissa’s right. If we don’t leave now, we’ll never beat the rains. I’ve got to go.”

  The disappointment in Trap’s expression was wrenching to behold.

  “I … I’m sorry,” Abramm said, rushing on, as if hurrying would somehow ease the pain. “I hope someday you’ll understand.”

  “I pray someday you will.”

  “Good luck with Beltha’adi.”

  He turned then, feeling wildly awkward, and hurried back to the others.

  He saw Carissa’s eyes fix upon his chest and realized then why she had been so quick to intervene, and the reason for her earlier distress-not because their time was running out, but because she was afraid he was going to give in to Trap’s persuasions. The look of relief on her face when she did not find the shield she feared would have been comical were he not so torn himself. Despite all he had said, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was walking away from the only thing that would ever really matter in his life.

  C H A P T E R

  39

  Carissa was beside herself with joy. For the first time since this whole wretched expedition began, something was actually going right. When Abramm had come back from talking with Meridon, tight lipped and scowling, it was all she could do not to crow aloud.

  He led them off with a few clipped words, and for once she forgave him his incivility. She was willing to take a lot more if it meant saving him from having to face Beltha’adi or, worse, from having a golden shield burned into his chest. Now he was free to go home and become the great man he was meant to be. She could not wait to see the look on everyone’s face, could not wait to see Gillard finally-finally!-receive his comeuppance. The White Pretender, a man who had faced down the monstrous Broho in the Val’Orda itself, would never be intimidated by the likes of Saeral. Or Rennalf of Balmark. He would be a loyal ally of Raynen, a valued advisor, and perhaps, eventually, king himself.

  The thought spawned a little zing of warmth just under her heart. After all her twin had endured, it seemed a fitting end. Almost enough to make her believe there was some justice in the world after all.

  For some time they descended a long, zigzagging stairway carved into the rock beside a series of dry catchment basins and crumbling cisterns. Russet cliffs flanked them closely on both sides, and the mist had dropped in from above with unusual density, reducing the world to a ten-foot pocket of visibility. Thus when the stairs ended in a sudden fifty-foot drop-off, it took her by surprise.

  Apparently it took Abramm by surprise, as well. Until then he’d led them through a maze of canyons, channels, and stairways with the practiced ease of a native. Now suddenly he stopped, staring at the cliff beneath his feet as if it shouldn’t be there. She drew up beside him, tugging at the folds of her gown where they had bunched uncomfortably beneath her sash. He turned back, his gaze flicking across the stairs, his face hard to read, even for her.

  Uneasiness intruded on her joyful ruminations. It would be so easy to lose one’s way in these convoluted canyons. With each looking very much like the next, how would you ever find your way back? And to be caught here when the rains came would mean almost certain death. A deadly fall, a flash flood, starvation …

  Before she could dwell too much on those perils, he turned into a slit beside the stair’s end as if he had never been in any doubt.

  False alarm, she told herself.

  Unfortunately, once the anxiety was sparked it didn’t go away. The slit was dark; the cliff walls reaching high overhead bulged toward one another to blot out the misty sky. Though she had walked through numerous similar slits, this one suddenly made her feel trapped. Even with Danarin and Cooper right behind her, she kept shivering with the sense that someone was stalking them. What if Shemm had changed his mind? Had decided Abramm must play his Pretender role after all and sent men after him?

  She tugged at the folds under her sash again and glanced over her shoulder. Neither of the men behind her seemed to share her uneasiness, both clearly caught up in their own thoughts. She was pro
bably tormenting herself for nothing.

  The slit dog-legged through the rock, narrowing to shoulder width and finally widening into a small grotto before spilling down into a curving, rubble-strewn basin that turned out to be another dead end. Abramm stopped there with an oath, scowling at the smooth concavity. Finally he turned back, muttering, “I must be more tired than I thought-“

  Something about the way his head came up and that last word choked off made Carissa turn in alarm. Danarin stood facing them, but Cooper was nowhere in sight. Moreover, there was no sign of the slit they had just come through, only a sheer salmon-colored wall stained with black, rearing up into the mist at Danarin’s back.

  Which was not possible.

  For a long moment they all stood there. Carissa stared at the wall and only gradually realized how odd it was that Danarin had not turned to see what had so obviously startled her and Abramm. When the oddness finally grew strong enough to direct her attention to the Thilosian himself, she realized the two men were staring at each other.

  Danarin wore a faintly smug, almost victorious expression, and the amulet on his throat, which she had never noticed before, glowed with a faint red light.

  The sudden crushing realization of disaster hit her at the same time her brother moved, his sword leaping to his hand as if he had conjured it there. It flashed in the gray light as he lunged toward the other man, who lurched aside in time to avoid the killing thrust, the point only snagging his shoulder.

  As Danarin dodged up the basin’s curved side, something cold clamped about Carissa’s throat, the fierce pressure choking off her cry of alarm. She dropped to her knees, gasping and gurgling, clawing to free herself from whatever had her. Her fingers found only the necklet Danarin had given her on Ormah Fah’lon’s terrace.

  “Back off.” she heard Danarin say through the ringing in her ears. “I’ll crush her windpipe before you take a step, so drop the blade.”

  White lights pinwheeled across her vision; the ringing became a roar. She tried to tell Abramm not to do it, but the world grew dark, and she began to fall….