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

by Karen Hancock

  “This was our informant,” Abramm said, stepping away from the Gamer. “Katahn ul Manus. Show him your mark, my friend.”

  Katahn unfastened his tunic and bared his chest.

  “Your former master?” Shemm asked.

  Abramm nodded. And cousin and heir to the great Beltha’adi. Which, I guess, makes him king of the Esurhites now, if they’ll have him.” He flashed a half smile at Katahn.

  Shemm regarded Beltha’adi’s heir intently, seeming to see things Abramm could not fathom. Then he nodded once and said to Katahn, “I will take him now.”

  “I can walk,” Abramm insisted, pushing away from them both.

  They swallowed their protests as he reeled slightly, then took hold of himself and strode through the rapidly growing crowd. The men’s compliments and congratulations embarrassed him, knowing how little he deserved them, but he received them graciously nonetheless. He spied Cooper’s pale face among them, staring at him as if he were not human, but he was too tiredand hurting too much-to do more than nod at the man.

  Yearning for the privacy to collapse, he shuffled on, spoke another thank you … and sensed sudden movement behind him. Instinct whirled him faster than thought. Jerking the short sword from Shemm’s scabbard as he came around, he deflected the length of steel now plunging toward him. It missed his ribs but sliced his side, and he staggered back, dizzy from his efforts, as the man was seized from all sides. If Abramm hadn’t called a halt, his assailant would have died on the spot.

  Drawing a breath to steady his legs, Abramm straightened, gesturing with his sword that the man be brought forward. He came head down, and recognition penetrated slowly. “Cooper?”

  The old guardian raised his face, misery in his eyes, and fell to his knees. “I swore an oath to King Raynen, my lord.” His voice was rough and so wracked with emotion it was barely understandable. “To kill you if we found you. I don’t believe he thought we would. I didn’t.” He paused, drew a deep breath that was nearly a sob. “Kill me now, my lord, and end this for me. I beg you.”

  Abramm stared down at him, leaning heavily on Shemm now, so shocked and benumbed by the betrayal he could hardly think. And yet he must. He must think, must resolve this now, must order the man executed for his crime. Mustn’t he?

  For the first time since Beltha’adi’s death, Eidon’s Light rippled through him, clearing his mind, sending strength back to his wavering knees. He recalled the sober, scarred face, the dark gentle eyes-and the cancelled debt of his own affronts, far greater than any Cooper might commit against him.

  I do not deserve even to live, he thought, yet here I stand with victory and honor and protections upon protection. How can I punish a man bound by an illmade oath? An oath he could not have avoided making had he wanted to?

  Moreover, Cooper could not have picked a worse moment to attack or executed it more ineptly.

  Abramm swallowed on a raw throat and was shocked to find what an inhuman rasp his voice had become. “I’ll not kill you, Felmen Cooper. You were only carrying out what you were sworn to do.” He swallowed again, mastered the tremor that had crept into his words, and pitched his voice to carry and convince. “You have failed, and but for my mercy you would never have another chance. I count that full satisfaction of honor’s demands. Moreover, Raynen is dead, so the oath would no longer bind you in any case.”

  Cooper looked up at him, horrified astonishment now mingling with his shame. “Dead, my lord?”

  “So I understand.” His voice was growing steadily hoarser, and he was beginning to shiver. If you don’t wrap this up soon, he told himself, you’ll be flat on your face before all of them.

  He spoke to the Dorsaddi at Cooper’s side. “Stand him up.”

  On his feet, Cooper stared at the floor again, seeming lost and bewildered.

  “You’ve shown your sense of loyalty, at least,” Abramm said. “I would hope henceforth you direct it toward those who are your friends.”

  And that was definitely enough. He limped on toward the curtained archway not far ahead now.

  “That makes you king, my lord,” Cooper said in a low voice.

  Abramm turned yet again. His old guardian was staring at him with wide eyes and pale face. That look of worship had returned, and there was nothing subtle about it.

  Other faces stared at him in surprise, as well.

  “The third king,” someone muttered.

  And at once the words whispered through the gathering. “Shemm … Katahn … Abramm … three kings.”

  Thus another prophecy is fulfilled, Abramm thought wryly. I wonder what Trap will say to this.

  Trap! Is he even alive?

  Cooper suddenly stepped toward him, startling his Dorsaddi guards. Before they could catch him, he flung himself at Abramm’s feet. “You have bought my life, Sire. Whatever you ask, I will do; whatever I have, it is yours; whenever you call, I will come.”

  Abramm gulped, staring at him in astonishment, the ancient words of fealty registering slowly. Light’s Grace? Was Cooper swearing allegiance to him?

  Abramm shook his head. “We are not in Kiriath, Cooper. And I am not a king here. I am just a man like you. Although I value your loyalty and your friendship more than I can say.”

  He tried again to leave, but again Cooper stopped him. “Sire, the mark on your chest-they say it is free for the asking.”

  “For those who wish to know Eidon.”

  “If it is him you serve, then I wish to know him.”

  Startled, Abramm glanced at Shemm. “How do you… ?”

  “You just think it.”

  And as easy as that, Cooper took the blazing orb from where it floated in the air, and the golden shield bloomed upon his chest. It was hard to tell who was more astonished, the giver or the recipient.

  After that, it all caught up with Abramm, and he remembered very little, except that he finally did collapse, despite all his efforts not to. The pain returned tenfold, making him gasp and shudder, and someone found the cut deep in his side. He heard curses of surprise and anguish, shouts for aid, and after a time, even Carissa’s voice, high-pitched with hysteria. Then it all faded away, and he heard only the incessant howling of the wind.

  It was still howling when he awoke, accompanied now by the smack and spatter of rain. At first he couldn’t figure out what it was, so long had it been since he’d heard it. He also had no idea where he was-some upper room along the Wadi Juba, perhaps. The arched window across the chamber revealed the canyon’s familiar red face, veiled now in driving lines of rain. The wind blew away from the archway, fortunately, though heavy woolen curtains framed it in readiness should conditions change.

  As his mind slowly churned back to awareness, his hand slid across his chest, fingers tracing over scabs and tender stitched-up slits until they came at last to the shieldmark glittering over his breastbone. A thrill of wonder swept him. It really had happened, then.

  Sighing, he took closer note of his surroundings. He lay on a feather mattress dressed in silk sheets and accompanied by the usual excess of pillows. Sheer draperies descended from the ceiling above him, roped back to the wall. A brazier of coals stood nearby, and beyond that Carissa lay asleep on a mattress of her own.

  He raised himself on his elbows to see her better, grunting with the pain it caused the wound in his side-the only one that had been bandaged. She looked haggard, and her face was lined with grief Had she come to terms with what he was now? Or was that part of her grief?

  Not wanting her to know he had been watching her, he slumped back into the bed, then gave a groan and a big yawn and rolled onto his side as if he had just awakened. She jerked upright. Her blue eyes fixed upon him, wide with surprise. Then she bolted from the room.

  Not the reaction he had hoped for.

  With a sigh he pushed himself back to a sitting position. After the first wave of dizziness settled and the worst of his discomfort had passed, he began to think about how he might get up. He was still sitting there when Trap c
ame in, followed by Katahn, and for several moments it was smiles all around as they congratulated one another for surviving. Then his visitors settled on the floor beside his mattress and brought him up-to-date. He had been unconscious and fevered for nearly a week, thanks to the festering wound in his side. During that time the rain had continued to fall, the wadis had turned into raging torrents, and Jarnek was closed down. The Esurhite army had been decimated, those not slain by the Dorsaddi having been washed away in the floods. A few, Trap said, were no doubt being harbored by the citizens of Jarnek, but for the most part the threat was gone.

  `And your son?” Abramm asked Katahn. “Do you know if he survived?”

  The Gamer shrugged. “In truth, I pray he did not. Yes, I know he does not wear the shield. But Beltha’adi’s death will leave a hole in the Brogai hierarchy, and my son …”

  “Is heir to the position,” Abramm said.

  Katahn nodded.

  For a moment they all sat in silence, contemplating the repercussions of that reality. Then Trap said, “Well, I’ve learned one thing these last two years, and that’s that you never know when a man will change his mind about the truth.” His glance darted to the shield on Abramm’s chest, and his grin returned. “I’ve stared at that thing for five days now, and I still can’t believe you actually did it. And these tales I’ve been hearing about your great faceoff with Beltha’adi-“

  “It wasn’t my face-off,” Abramm interrupted. “It was Eidon’s. All I did was watch.”

  Trap cocked a brow as his gaze slid over Abramm’s bared and battered torso. “I’d say you did a little more than watch.”

  “I have never seen a man fight like he did,” Katahn said gravely.

  “Nor I,” came a new voice from the doorway. King Shemm stood in the arch, smiling at him. “It is good to see you awake, my friend.”

  The other two scrambled to their feet, but when Abramm started to do likewise Shemm waved him down. ‘As king of Kiriath, are you not my equal?”

  “I am not the king of Kiriath, Great One,” Abramm said. “Nor am I ever likely to be.”

  “I have heard differently.” Shemm settled on a pillow, waving the other men back down beside him. He fixed his dark eyes upon Abramm. “We always thought the three kings would be Dorsaddi. But Sheleft’Ai proves time and again that he will not be constrained by our narrow ways of thinking.” He paused, still studying Abramm, then returned to the conversation his arrival had interrupted. “My friend, you fought as if the hand of Sheleft’Ai was on you.”

  “It was,” Abramm said firmly. “I would never have succeeded otherwise.”

  “I believe you. But…” Shemm turned to Trap. “Did you not say one newly changed could not use the power?”

  Trap cocked a brow at them, then turned to Abramm. “Conjure us a kelistar, my friend.”

  A kelistar?”

  Trap lifted a hand, and the familiar palm-sized orb floated at his fingertips.

  Abramm frowned, looking from one to the other of them. He tried thinking of it, as he had done to produce the Star of Life for Cooper, but nothing happened. Finally he shook his head and shrugged. “I give up. What do I do?”

  “I don’t understand,” Shemm said.

  Trap laughed softly. As you just pointed out, my friend, Sheleft’Ai is not bound by our beliefs of what he can and cannot do, what he will and will not do. Generally it is true that one cannot use the power without knowledge and practice. But that does not mean he cannot use us-any time and any way he wishes. In fact, I think sometimes he enjoys using those we least expect him to.”

  “‘He uses the simple to shame the wise,’” Abramm quoted.

  “Exactly.” Trap grinned. “So don’t let it go to your head. I daresay it’ll be a long time before you experience anything like that again-if ever.”

  After that there was a great deal of catching up to do, each man with his own part of the story to relate. Of course, the others were all familiar with their side of things, but none knew just how Abramm had been turned in his headlong flight from truth. It was in the telling of that story that he realized Carissa had not returned.

  Not until the next day, when he insisted he was sufficiently mended to be up and walking-and proceeded to prove it-did he see her again, seated by one of the windows of the upper gallery along the Wadi Juba. She was staring at the rain, a look of unutterable sorrow on her face. He started toward her, but the moment she saw him, she leaped up and fled.

  Trap told him later that she’d kept rigidly to herself since her arrival, speaking to no one save the king, and that only because she had to. Her sole confidant was her retainer, Cooper, likely because she did not know he, too, wore a shield, since he had kept his conversion to himself and continued wearing his tunic laced up.

  Over the next few days Abramm tried to catch up with her, but she always evaded him. Finally he summoned Cooper in frustration, and the old guardian only confirmed-miserably-what was already obvious.

  “She hates the world right now, Sire. And you, I’m afraid, most of all.”

  “But if she would just talk to me, I-“

  “She won’t.” A bitter smile quirked his lips. “She’s a Kalladorne, m’lord. And you know how stubborn they are.”

  Trap also counseled patience, and so Abramm let her alone. Fortunately he had much to occupy him. Being the hero of Jarnek-however reluctanthe found himself drawn into Dorsaddi life and culture as if they were his own. There was much to be done in preparation for consolidating their conquest of Jarnek once the rains stopped, and he had as much of a knack for directing large and complicated projects as for guerrilla maneuverings. His advice was constantly sought, his opinion solicited, his company courted. And when he wasn’t busy with planning, he was practicing with sword or sling or longbow, or attending Trap’s lectures on how to live in the power of Eidon’s Light, or helping translate Katahn’s copy of the Second Word into the Tahg.

  He saw Carissa only now and then, and he tried to assure her by manner alone that he was open to her approach, but she was well and truly a Kalla- dome when it came to stubbornness, and she did not seek him out.

  Six weeks after the rains started, the clouds rolled away, leaving a vault of blue sky arcing over a land laced with streamlets and waterfalls. As the floodwaters receded, Jarnek opened its doors and the people emerged, reveling in the fresh air and glorious light.

  Abramm was hard at sword practice with Trap one morning when he noticed Carissa standing at the back of the ring of spectators that always gathered to watch them. As usual, he pretended not to notice and finished the workout as if nothing had changed. Afterward, wiping away the sweat as he mingled with the onlookers, he made his way casually in her direction. For once she held her ground, looking up at him expressionlessly when he stopped in front of her. Her face had grown thinner, older looking.

  “You are very good, brother,” she said softly.

  “Thank you.”

  “Maybe as good as Gillard.” Her eyes caught on his mark and flinched away.

  Someone whistled low to him, and when he looked, Trap tossed him a linen tunic.

  “But of course, you don’t really care, do you?” she said as he shrugged into it.

  “Care?”

  “About Gillard.”

  He pulled the tunic down around his hips. “No. I guess I don’t.”

  Her lips made a moue of distaste, and she studied the room behind him, letting the silence stretch out uncomfortably. Finally she drew a breath and said firmly, “I’ve come to say good-bye.”

  “Good-bye?”

  “The roads opened yesterday. I leave in half an hour.”

  “I see.” He wiped his face again where new sweat had beaded, stealing sidelong glimpses of her. “Where will you go?”

  “Thilos, I think.”

  `And then?”

  “I don’t know yet.” She stared across the empty room and fiddled absently with the rings on her fingers.

  “You don’t have to do this
,” he murmured.

  “Yes. I do.” She stilled her hands and let them fall to her sides. “I don’t belong here.”

  “You could.”

  “I don’t want to? I hate this place. I hate the land, the culture, the people…”

  “These people have been nothing but kind to you since the day you arrived.”

  “Only because they hope one day to convert me? I can feel it in their eyes, the way they look at me.”

  “Carissa, half of them don’t even wear shields.”

  She folded her arms and frowned at the floor. Then shrugged. “It’s what you want, though, isn’t it? For me to join you?”

  He couldn’t deny it.

  “Well, I can’t, Abramm.” And now, finally, she met his gaze. `And because of that there’s a huge wall grown up between us. A big, bright, golden wall shaped like a shield. A wall I will never break through!” She fell silent. Then wiped her eyes and looked away. “I feel like I’ve lost you as surely as if you’d died.”

  “Carissa, you haven’t lost me at all. Nothing has changed.”

  “Everything has changed! It’s all you talk about. It’s all you think about. It’s all you live for.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Then, come home with me.”

  He frowned at her.

  “See? You’re enslaved as surely as you ever were.”

  There was nothing he could say to that, and finally he sighed. “What would be the purpose of my going? Gillard is king now, and he’ll not give that up without a fight. Not to me. People would die, and for what? I have no desire to rule. I am happy here.”

  She looked at him long and hard, then turned away and wrapped her arms about herself. “Well, I am not. I don’t belong here, and I don’t believe you do, either, but it’s plain you’re never going to see that. So I am going. Good-bye, Abramm.”