Return of the Guardian-King

by Karen Hancock

  Having seen what he’d come for, Simon edged back out of the crowd. As he and Seth headed down a nearby alley toward their bolthole, he muttered, “I can’t believe he likes being a Mataian toady. Whoever would have thought he’d come to this.”

  They reached the stable, and Seth opened the door. They slipped inside, the fragrance of horse and straw filling the air. Once their eyes adjusted to the gloom and they were certain they were alone, Seth nodded. Simon stooped to pull up the loop on the trapdoor, revealing a ladder descending into darkness. Seth dropped in first and Simon followed, pulling the trapdoor shut in their wake as the pale white light of a kelistar illumined the rocky walls beside their shoulders.

  Neither spoke as they trod the narrow passage, staffid skittering continuously before them, fleeing the light. Only when they had slipped inside a small chamber some ways along it and closed the heavy door behind them did Seth speak again. “I believe a rhu’ema lives in him.” He set the kelistar on a tin starstick and went to rummage through a trunk in the back of the room. “That doesn’t happen accidentally,” he added. “He had to invite it in.”

  “To get his size back,” Simon guessed.

  Seth pulled a canvas bag from the trunk and straightened. “Most likely.” He handed the bag to Simon and went back to the trunk. “The bad part is, it’s only an illusion.”

  “An illusion!”

  “Laid over the top of what he really is.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I saw it. Just now.” Seth pulled a long cylindrical bag from the box. “I have to admit it’s hard to imagine selling oneself into bondage just for the sake of making others think you’re bigger than you are. He handed over the second bag. “That should be it. You know where to go.”

  Simon nodded.

  “The others’ll be waiting for you. Watch yourself at the Barrie Street intersection. They’ve been monitoring that lately. You might want to avoid it altogether.” He paused, then asked quietly, “Have you heard from him yet?”

  He meant Abramm. Simon shook his head.

  “The storms were awfully bad in the mountains this year,” Seth remarked grimly. “He probably got snowed in.”

  “Aye.” Ironically there had been no storms at all in Springerlan, just the endless fog. And now the rising river—flooded, thanks to the unusual volume of snowmelt coming out of the Chesedhan Aranaak. “He said he’d send word once he reached Fannath Rill,” Simon added. “With the passes clearing it shouldn’t be long now.”

  “If he doesn’t—”

  “I know,” said Simon. Hopelessness pressed down on him again. With no hope of Abramm returning to beat back the tide of tyranny that oppressed them all . . . what was the point of fighting on? Why risk all for something that would never happen?

  Abramm’s time with Maddie had been a turning point. The blessing of being in her presence was incredible, but it had been more than that. It had been the answer to his prayers for her safety and the reassurance that he would see her again, and that, despite the mysterious bowman’s message, she had not forgotten him. Even better, she knew he was alive now and would wait. He had no idea if their time together was real or not, but the morning after, the scent of her had clung to his bedding and even his hands.

  It had filled him with elation and bolstered his confidence that Eidon was indeed preparing him—for between that, the dragon’s visit, and what he’d read in Laud’s little gray book, he was convinced the rhu’ema here not only knew him, they feared him. And if they couldn’t kill him, they wanted him to stay in Caerna’tha for good. Should he attempt to leave once the snow cleared, they would try to prevent it.

  Good. They should fear him, for Eidon was with him and would never abandon him, and their power couldn’t even come close to his.

  After that he’d thrown himself into his studies with as much vigor as he poured into the menial labors that life at the monastery required of him. For both, he realized, finally, were part of his preparation, and he wanted to be a fit instrument in Eidon’s hands when the time came. The next three months flew by, and before he knew it, the time came to leave. Still early in the season, yes, but time, nonetheless.

  “Today’s the anniversary of King Abramm’s death,” Rolland said quietly from where he worked at Abramm’s side, parceling out bags of mutton jerky. “I expect you knew that.”

  Abramm tied the strap tight on the bundle he’d just finished packing and straightened, looking at the big blacksmith in surprise. “Aye, I did know.”

  “I wish we could’ve left today,” Rolland said. “ ’Twould’ve made it all more . . .” He trailed off, groping for the word. “More right-seeming, I guess.”

  Abramm turned his gaze across the bustling hall to the bags of flour and jerky and wheels of cheese. Rolland had no idea. In fact, to Abramm’s way of thinking, leaving the day after the anniversary of his “death” was even more significant, for it marked a new year, a new life. . . . At last he was moving again.

  You need to tell Laud the truth. He frowned as the nagging thought surfaced yet again. The notion had come to him last night as he’d lain on his cot contemplating the tasks he’d been assigned for the coming day, the last day most of them would spend in Caerna’tha. He’d put it aside as a crazy notion. If Laud hadn’t figured out who he was by now, no words were going to change that. And yet, first thing this morning, it had returned: You need to tell Laud the truth.

  Again he’d set it aside, and again it had returned—during breakfast, during their morning’s preparation, again at dinner. Nagging him as persistently as the notion to leave had nagged him when he’d first learned there was an alternate route down the Ankrill Canyon—a high, narrow, little-used trail that snaked along the northeastern canyon wall, exposed to the sun all day at this time of year and thus largely clear of ice and snow.

  Professor Laud had mentioned it almost idly one night two weeks ago, never dreaming someone might actually want to travel on it. But the moment Abramm had learned of it, he’d known this was to be his route down the mountain, and furthermore that he was to leave before the Ankrill started to melt. And he’d not wavered once, not even when the community at Caerna’tha had convulsed with alarm and distress when they discovered his intentions. Nor when first Rolland declared that he and his family would come, then Cedric and Totten, and one by one, all the rest of those in the original group, including Oakes Trinley.

  Abramm had received them all with as much grace as he could muster— probably not enough, given his chagrin—but accepting that part of Eidon’s plan had been easy compared to this persistent request. Tell him the truth.

  What am I supposed to do? he asked. Just blurt it out? Why should he believe me now, when the obvious truth has been staring him in the face for the last six months? Abramm still nursed a bit of annoyance that after all this time no one had guessed the truth about him. Not even Rolland, who had known him before, when he had been king. . . . And why did Laud need to know now, anyway? He wasn’t even going with them.

  Tell him the truth, Abramm.

  Oh, very well. But you’re going to have to make me an opening. And it’s going to have to be obvious.

  About then Trinley and a handful of others came in with the tenting and bedrolls they’d been preparing for the journey, and Cedric arrived with a load of snowshoes, which they would need at least to get down the length of the valley and possibly later, depending on how the trail went. Laud knew little of it, beyond the fact that it existed. In the six years he’d been at Caerna’tha, no one he knew of had taken it, and evenWolmer, who’d been here longest— thirteen years—knew of no one.

  Though Abramm had taken Rolland and Cedric on a day-trip down to where the stream flowed into the Ruk Ankrill—still frozen and easily crossable— and together they’d walked up the first mile or so of the narrow trail, it told them little of what lay ahead. Bridges could be out, parts of the trail could have washed away or been lost as slabs of rock peeled away from the cliff face as a natura
l part of weathering. The path might even cross back over the river and join with the wider, flatter path—still hidden under six feet of snow—on the southwestern bank.

  So they’d take the snowshoes just to be prepared.

  They were going through the various sizes, finding the right bindings and adjusting the fit, when Marta Brackleford came through, handing out the scarves and mittens she’d knitted over the winter. When she pressed the soft wool into Abramm’s hands, she said, “The professor would like to speak with you. Whenever you can break free of your preparations.”

  And Abramm felt a chill of portent. You’re going to have to make me a way.

  Well, merely having audience with the man was hardly a way. He’d have to have a conversational opening, and the words to put into it. And Laud obviously had other things on his mind.

  “Did he say what about?”

  She shook her head.

  And so Abramm stalled—getting his boots and bindings in order, inspecting his water bags, and bringing a load of wood up to the kitchen. By then, though, he knew he could put it off no longer, unless he intended to avoid the man altogether before he left, and that he would not do. He owed Laud far too much for that.

  As he came up the corridor to the study, he heard a man speaking from within it. Not Laud, but someone else. Someone familiar . . . In fact, it sounded like Everitt Kesrin, who had been his kohal in Springerlan. His pace quickened, and as he jogged up the wooden stair, his certainty increased along with sudden excitement. It was definitely Kesrin! But how had he gotten to Caerna’tha? Surely not through the pass.

  He stepped through the door and found Laud sitting alone in the room, a kelistar lying on the desk before him. Abramm stopped and looked all around, yet there was no one but Laud present. Seeing him, the professor flicked the kelistar out of existence.

  “You’re alone,” Abramm said.

  “Yes.”

  “But—”

  Laud smiled. “I was listening to the stone.” He gestured at the pale green lozenge-shaped stone that had been resting on the desk beneath the kelistar.

  When Abramm frowned at him, he conjured a second kelistar and placed it atop the stone. Immediately the object turned white as a tracery of gold threads shivered across the kelistar’s surface and a man’s voice sounded in the hall—coming, it would seem, directly from the stone and star. It was definitely Kesrin.

  “It’s an Ophiran speaking stone,” Laud said. “I found it here shortly after I arrived, and have used it off and on ever since.”

  “If it’s Ophiran, why does it have Everitt Kesrin’s voice?”

  Laud’s brows arched. “You know Kohal Kesrin?”

  “Yes. He was my teacher in Springerlan.”

  “And mine,” Laud confessed. “After I left Springerlan, I heard he went on to teach at the palace. Kohal to the king himself.”

  And here was a perfect opening, except Abramm could think of no words with which to exploit it.

  “So why does an Ophiran stone—”

  “I don’t know. Nor do I know how the lessons are selected. I suppose it is Eidon who does that. Though I will say that for the last year all of them have been repeats.” He paused, then added, “I suspect it means he’s dead. . . . The way I understand it, the Gadrielites struck rapidly and in concert so as to catch their victims unsuspecting. Your kohal had to be one of the first taken.”

  “I have always hoped Eidon intervened.”

  The other man snorted. “He didn’t intervene on the king’s behalf; why would he intervene on behalf of his favorites?”

  And again Abramm saw the opening, but as before, no words came.

  Laud leaned back in his chair, eying Abramm speculatively. “You’ll never win Kiriath back, you know. You’d do more good staying here, helping us, learning of Eidon, devoting your life to him.”

  “My life is already devoted to him.”

  “Not wholly. Not in the way it would be if you spent it studying.” Laud paused. “You are a phenomenal student.”

  “I am not a kohal.”

  “I never meant to imply that you were. But you do have the potential to be an extraordinary scholar. Think of the secrets of knowledge you could unearth here. If you gave it enough time. Already you’ve mastered the Old Tongue—”

  “Hardly mastered.”

  “Your progress has astonished me, frankly. It’s a hard language to know.”

  “My destiny lies elsewhere, sir.”

  “You realize, of course, that your wife has had no idea if you are alive or dead for what? Months? More than a year?”

  Oh, she knows. . . . Abramm suppressed a smile at the memories that thought inspired. Desire for her washed through him, sharp and eager now that it saw hope of being soon fulfilled. “I promised her I would join her—”

  Laud snorted. “That is not a promise a man can always keep.”

  “Perhaps not, but I can try with all that I have to do so.”

  “She’s probably living in peaceful obscurity and your arrival will only bring trouble. For even one of Abramm’s trusted guardians would not be welcome in Chesedh at this time.”

  And for the third time an opening presented itself. He sighed resignedly. Oh, very well, then. . . . “Perhaps not, professor, but I am not one of Abramm’s guards.”

  “No?” Laud blinked up at him. “Who are you, then?”

  “Is it not obvious?”

  Laud looked at him blankly.

  “My left arm is scarred and withered and wears the brand of Katahn ul Manus, an Esurhite Gamer of renown. My chest bears the shieldmark of Eidon himself, who delivered me out of those Games and made me what I became. My face is marked with twin scars, carved there by the claws of a beast no man could slay save the one it was made for. And which, through Eidon’s Light, I did slay.”

  Laud stared at him fixedly.

  “I did not die in Execution Square that day, as all the stories say, but was rescued the night before by my uncle and three others. Spirited away to heal in secret, then crossing the highlands on foot to avoid being seen or captured until I had slipped through the Kolki Pass to freedom and another chance.”

  He fell silent. Laud continued to stare at him, his face devoid of expression.

  Finally, after a long silence, the professor spoke. “Are you saying you are Abramm Kalladorne, then? The deposed king of Kiriath. Executed before at least a thousand witnesses, now reborn by Eidon’s touch?”

  “Not reborn. Delivered.”

  “I see.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  Laud snorted softly and shook his head. “I grant there is the physical resemblance. But too many people saw him die, son. Including his own brother.”

  “My brother, they say, was addled by the use of painkillers for his bone condition.” He shook his head, frowning. “Why would I lie about such a thing, professor?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps you see a chance to become something you could never be otherwise. Or perhaps it is vengeance for your own losses. Or even a misguided sense of loyalty. Do you even have a wife and children in Chesedh? Or is it the queen you plan to join?”

  Abramm stared at him, shocked by the censure in the man’s voice.

  “This is an evil plan, Alaric. And I counsel you to abandon it at once.” He frowned and added worriedly, “You haven’t told the others, have you?”

  “No.” Abramm snorted. “I figured you would be most likely to believe me.”

  And at that the old man looked almost hurt. “It pierces me to the core that you would seek to use me like this.”

  “I am not trying to use you.”

  “No? You are on the eve of your departure. Why tell me now what you have hidden for six months, except that you need my help for something? Do you hope I’ll convince the others where you could not? Though I can’t see how it would help you with Trinley.”

  “I told you because I believed Eidon wanted me to. Because . . .” He trailed off, realizing again that he’d had no
idea why Eidon had pushed him into this, and even less of one now. But that it was Eidon’s doing he did not doubt, for he’d never have said anything otherwise.

  They stood eye to eye for a long moment. Then Laud dropped his gaze to the speaking stone. “I need to get back to this before I lose it all.” The kelistar flared to life and the arrested message continued on, Abramm dismissed from the professor’s mind.

  Abramm stood unmoving, mind whirling. He’d argued with Eidon that this would be the outcome. But now that it had materialized, he realized that against all he’d argued, deep down he truly had thought Eidon would move the other man to see at last. And he hadn’t.

  It made no sense.

  He turned and strode quietly to the door.

  Perhaps it was not for him, my son, but for you.

  For me? I respect the man, and now he thinks I’m a liar and a lunatic, out to steal a dead king’s throne.

  Maybe I just wanted you to know that your secret is not yours to divulge.

  Abramm stopped on the steps outside the study, a chill washing through him as Kesrin’s voice echoed in the narrow hall: “All will betray you . . . prison . . . but you will be delivered, and when the time is full, you will receive back what was taken a hundredfold.”

  The words were from the last sermon he’d heard old Kesrin teach. Words he’d forgotten until now.

  CHAPTER

  15

  Filled with the rituals of mourning for the dead king, followed by the preparations for a double coronation, the winter had passed quickly in the Chesedhan lowlands. Trap was kept busy with the financial concerns of a holding triple the size of what he had previously managed—a task complicated by an across-the-board replacement of staff members in not only the palace but also at the Exchequer and other financial institutions. He had kept long hours, and was repeatedly called out of town—down to Peregris or Mareis or up to Deveren Dol. In the six weeks between Hadrich’s entombment and the crowning of the new king and queen, he was home in Fannath Rill maybe a week and a half’s time altogether.