Return of the Guardian-King

by Karen Hancock

  It was Borlain who brought him Warbanner, and he came with news of how after the dragon had killed half his own soldiers, the rest had either turned on themselves or fled. Most of the Broho had fled even earlier and could not be found. He feared they had slipped into the city to do more mischief when folk least expected it.

  The stream of people emerging from the city had doubled, and it included a cadre of mounted noblemen. As Abramm swung onto Warbanner’s back and surveyed the field of victory, his heart fell. For he saw there was much work to be done in Fannath Rill—work that required a king’s presence—and seeing as Chesedh had no king right now, it was a role he would have to play. So, once again, he could not go to her just yet. But he had learned nothing in these last two years if not how to accept Eidon’s will with grace, and he contented himself with the pleasure of knowing that eventually their reunion would happen.

  Gillard fell spinning and tumbling, closing his eyes and sinking into that place of semiconsciousness as he’d been taught, feeling the Other rise up to enclose him. He sensed its satisfaction with something, and then through it, his brother coming after him. He had drawn Abramm into the corridor after him, and that was good, for the Other meant to kill him, to take him where he did not want to go. To—

  He didn’t know what it would do. The notions tumbled too swiftly through his brain to hold on to any of them. Finally he stopped falling as solid stone pressed beneath his feet and he stepped out of the corridor into the central plaza of Tuk-Rhaal, where he had started. The great crowd of Kiriathan soldiers that had been here two days ago was gone, transported like him to the Fairiron Plain outside Fannath Rill. Most were likely dead now.

  One of the shaven-headed priests who supported and maintained the corridor and who had been kneeling nearby now stood and started toward him. At the same moment something hissed from the corridor behind him, and he leaped forward, his skin puckering with alarm. Embarrassed to have startled right in front of the priest, he made himself stop and turn back, and was horrified to see the emerald column now shot through with streaks of white. A figure had taken shape in it, one about to step out of the light and into the reality of this place. A figure he recognized.

  Abramm.

  The green cleared and the white light illumined his brother’s face—the blue eyes, the level brows, the hawkish features so like those of their father and their long-dead brothers, and those white scars raking down the side of his cheek. Fear mingled with a strange grief as he looked into Abramm’s eyes. His only living brother. The man with whom he had more in common than any other in all the world. Come back to him at last.

  Come back to kill him.

  He fell to his knees, weeping. They could have been friends. They could have been as the brothers they were. They could have ruled together. Abramm as his counselor . . . but he’d never understood that. Never wanted to take the second position. Now he would kill Gillard with his own hand. Because of that wretched shield on his chest. Because of that monstrous orb that put it there. Because of the dying, useless, vicious god he served.

  The grief was overwhelming. Why couldn’t they have had what they were meant to have? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right—

  Suddenly the emerald light flared back across his brother’s face, and Gillard realized that Abramm was receding, fading. . . . And then a blast of white light splintered the green and knocked him backward. He tumbled over and fell facedown as a terrible wind swooped upon him, so powerful it shoved him along the pavement as if he were an old cloak—shoved him and turned him and fetched him up against one of the ancient pillars. Barely had it died away when a loud rumble broke the silence and the ground heaved. He covered his head with his hands and tried to make himself one with the pavement, but it bucked him off. He rolled down a slope where moments before all had been flat, and saw the pillars waving madly against the shredding mist. Then before his eyes, they came apart—huge cylindrical pieces breaking off and slamming to the ground. As he stared, one broke off right above him and plummeted straight down.

  At the last moment he rolled away, covering his head again. The huge stone missile hit the ground with a crash and a thud so deep it vibrated the stones beneath his chest, so close to his arm that it scraped the skin and tore his sleeve. Other chunks followed it in a continuous rain of rock. He lay there jittering and quivering, certain every moment would be his last.

  Then the deadly rain ended, and the ground quit bucking. Finally he dared to look around. The piece of column beside him was three times his size. It had trapped his sleeve under it, and he had to tear himself free, his flesh throbbing from all the hits he’d sustained as the wind had tumbled him about. His left arm, collarbone, and a few ribs were surely broken. Soon the pain would be white-hot and he’d have to struggle to function at all.

  He pushed himself up, sneezing and coughing on the dust that veiled the air. The corridor was gone, the remains of the temple flattened. The priests that had been in attendance lay unmoving beneath various pieces of rock, white with the falling dust. Slowly Gillard turned. Except for a couple of distant horses, the valley lay still and empty, the priests’ tents flattened from the quake.

  Stormcroft still stood across the grassy hummocks, but it would be a long walk for one in such pain. Perhaps he should sit here and wait. Surely if someone had survived in Stormcroft, they’d come out to see what had happened.

  He leaned against the stump of a pillar and slid to the ground, sitting with his back against it, staring at a burn hole that was all that remained of the corridor. Most of his army, what remained of it after the Mataians had forced him to disband it, had been destroyed in Chesedh. Or at any rate were now in Chesedh, with no way to get back to Kiriath anytime soon.

  Abramm had taken Fannath Rill, killed Belthre’gar, and driven away the dragon. He had delivered the Chesedhans. And he had the crown, the scepter, the robe, and most likely the orb and ring, as well. The only thing he didn’t have—

  Gillard stiffened and looked around. He thought he’d brought the sword of state through when he’d come; he’d had it in his hand before he’d charged into Abramm. Had he lost it in the earthquake . . . or in the shock of the pain of colliding with his brother? New misery enwrapped him, for he was suddenly sure that he had dropped it before he’d come through. Leaving it there for Abramm to find. After which he would return to Kiriath to claim the rest of what belonged to him.

  It was Belmir who came to unlock Simon’s shackles, picking his way through the bodies and the debris to where Simon hung in a secret chamber under the Holy Keep’s sacred Sanctum. With the collapse of two of its walls, Simon supposed it was not secret anymore, though there were precious few around to see that.

  Belmir confirmed Simon’s observation. “All dead,” he said, bending to slide his key into the manacles around Simon’s feet. “Crushed or burned . . .” He paused and added, “Well, probably not all of them, because not all of them were around, but all that I could see. And those closest are charred beyond recognition. . . .” The manacle came free and he turned to the other. In a moment both Simon’s feet dangled freely, and Belmir backed away to shove one of the rectangular stones from the fallen walls under them. Then he turned to free Simon’s arms.

  “You were right here in the heart of it all,” Belmir said, “and you’re not even singed. Want to tell me why?”

  “I have no idea.” When his chamber’s walls had collapsed, Simon had found himself facing the etherworld corridor he’d long known the Mataians operated deep in the Holy Keep. Swollen and shot through with streaks of white, the thing had sparked and flickered as if it were broken. Then a man appeared at its midst, clothes and hair and eyes all white. A man with twin scars down the left side of his face. The light had dimmed and Simon saw the eyes were not white but piercing blue. He’d said his nephew’s name aloud, so great was his surprise. But the word had come out a faint croak. Abramm held the scepter; he wore the crown. And he had looked straight into Simon’s eyes. Moments later the corri
dor had exploded and the keep had rained down around him.

  “Abramm’s alive,” he rasped.

  Belmir, who was busy lifting Simon’s swollen and bloodied arm over his own shoulder, paused. “They told you that?”

  “I saw him. In the corridor. Just before it blew. He destroyed it, old friend. And he’s coming back.”

  Belmir said something, but Simon must have passed out, because the next thing he knew, he lay in bed, swathed in bandages. He stared stupidly at the brocade canopy above him, then turned his head—his muscles protesting keenly that simple movement—to inspect the room. Dark wainscoting paneled the lower portion of the walls. A multipaned window looked out on tree branches through which poured . . . was that really sunlight? A man sat in a chair against the wall, and looking up now at the sounds of Simon’s movement, he broke into a grin. “My lord! You have awakened!”

  Before Simon could say a word, the man had run out of the room.

  Moments later Belmir appeared in the doorway, followed by Seth Harker, Philip Meridon, and then half a dozen others from the Underground. But there were also the embattled speaker of the Table of Lords and several others from that body. Most of whom, if he recalled correctly, had been in prison. From them he learned most of the details of the destruction of not only the Holy Keep in Springerlan but also of the Keep of the Heartland—both the result of some great explosion from within. The corridor up in the Valley of the Seven Peaks had also been destroyed, and Underground forces had captured Gillard in the ruins of Tuk-Rhaal.

  Simon snorted softly. “I thought he’d gone to Chesedh.”

  “They think he did. They found him close to the remains of the corridor.” Harker paused. “Sir, they say he’s not spoken but a handful of recognizable words. That he laughs continuously and, if allowed, keeps trying to cut his face again. He’s utterly mad.”

  “Yes, well, he’s been in that state for some time now.”

  “But this is worse. They’re bringing him down to present him to the Table, but I seriously doubt he is going to be accepted. Even if he can string a sentence or two together.” He hesitated, then glanced at the other men. “Simon, we need a king. And you’re the last of the line.”

  Simon huffed gruffly. “No I’m not.”

  “The boy . . . is just a boy.”

  Simon glared at the man. “I’m not talking about my grandnephew. I’m talking about his father.”

  The men looked at one another, clearly understanding what he meant but wondering if they should believe him.

  “Yes,” he said when no one else spoke. “I’m talking about Abramm.” And oh, did it feel good to just come out and say the name. “He’s alive. He was not executed. I know because I helped rescue him. As did Master Belmir and young Philip here.”

  The others glanced at the two men he cited, and they nodded confirmation.

  The former speaker of the Table of Lords said, “So you’re saying the stories out of Chesedh . . .”

  “Are true,” Simon finished for him. “At least some of them. In particular the one about him regaining the regalia, since I saw him with the crown and scepter.”

  “From a fisherman’s nets?” The gray-haired speaker frowned. “Come, Simon. That’s a bit hard to swallow. And anyway, if you rescued him, where has he been the last two-plus years?”

  “I don’t know. I only know he’s back. I saw him when the corridor blew, and he was wearing the regalia.”

  The men looked at one another again.

  “He’s coming back,” Simon said. “I expect he’s finally defeated Belthre’gar. We’ll probably hear of it soon.”

  “But we don’t know that, Simon,” said Seth Harker. “And we need a leader now.”

  “Then I’ll be regent for him until we do know.”

  That seemed to satisfy them. After a bit more talk they took their leave, and Simon was glad of it, for he hurt all over and was very tired. Then he noticed that Belmir had hung back and was now pulling a small velvet bag from his pocket. He held it out to Simon. “You asked me to keep this for you, remember?”

  “Thank you.” He toyed with the string and smiled bitterly. “You were right, of course. I would have been better off not to have parted with it.”

  “Well, now you have it back.” Belmir gave him a nod and left.

  As silence closed about him, Simon relaxed back into the pillows, weary beyond belief, in body. But not in mind. His thoughts brushed lightly over all the things that had gnawed at him so doggedly these last years—the ache, the unrelenting sense of purposelessness. Even saving Kiriath had not come about by anything he had done. And death still lay ahead of him, closer now than ever. Was that to be the end of him, then?

  Belmir said not. Belmir said—no, the Words of Eidon said that he was already on his way to a place of torment worse than anything he’d experienced at the hands of the Mataians. That the only deliverance from it was to accept the payment that had been made on his behalf. Payment for a mind and will and soul that lived in opposition to the perfect good that Eidon was.

  Did he believe any of that? He wasn’t sure. It was hard to take hold of something he’d rejected all his life. Even though the very rejection was part of what had been paid for. Yes, he had been a good man, so far as men went, but he hadn’t made his own flesh, nor given himself life, nor even kept himself alive. Another did that. One who had fashioned him with the very brain and mouth he’d used to deny and reject. One who not only put up with the rejection and denial but allowed his son to take the punishment for it. . . .

  “Religious claptrap,” he grumbled as he loosened the bag’s drawstring.

  But in his mind he saw Abramm again—the white hair and eyes and robe. Someone shining through Abramm. Not Abramm there at the first, and not Abramm at the last . . . someone else. Someone who knew Simon very well.

  “I could never wear a shield on my chest,” he said gruffly. “It’s not who I am.”

  He upended the bag and dumped the orb into his callused palm. It lay there, shining almost as brightly as the eyes of the man he’d seen in the corridor just before it had exploded.

  CHAPTER

  39

  Maddie was more nervous than she’d been on her wedding day. Her husband was coming, and she had a thousand things to do before he arrived. The whole world, it seemed, had crowded into Deveren Dol to welcome him, and she was so excited she could hardly think straight.

  It had been three weeks since the victory at Fannath Rill and the dragon had been chased off. Abramm had sent Trap and a small force of soldiers up to Deveren Dol to deal with the Esurhites who had come down the Ankrill. Carissa had delivered their second child the day after he’d chased them off, and as he’d predicted there was nothing he could do but fret in the sitting room. She’d produced another healthy, red-haired boy, whom they’d named Peregrine, in remembrance of their time in Peregris. Maddie had never seen either of them happier, and it only amplified her own expectations for a similar reunion.

  For Trap had brought with him another letter—the first of a rash of exchanges between the king and queen—detailing how much Abramm wanted to come to her and that he would. But there was such disorder in Fannath Rill, and everyone was coming to him for guidance.

  Some of them are even suggesting I should be their king, he’d written. And not simply by marriage. They’re still using the combined banner we devised for the campaign. You’ve probably seen it by now—the red dragon on a gold shield under a crown? The dragon was their idea, but in the end I think it’s right.

  She had seen the combined banner—Trap had ridden in under it—and she’d also seen the degree of worship the men held for her husband. If it was in any way reflective of what was going on down on the plain—and Trap said it wasn’t even close—she could understand why they’d want him for their king. It made her heart swell with joy and pride and wonder to think of all that Eidon had done.

  She’d have gone down to Fannath Rill herself, and taken the children, but he’d asked h
er not to. It was still too unsettled. Just getting the city government back up and running had been a huge chore, and there was much left to be done. Besides the disposition of the bodies, there was the city to repair and rebuild, and the palace was in ruins. We’re all living in tents here, love. And packs of Broho and other Esurhite renegades—who seemed intent on killing as many of their enemies as they could before they died themselves—needed to be dug out of their hiding spots. Worst of all, they were battling an outbreak of dysentery, and another illness the physicians hadn’t yet identified and he couldn’t bear to risk any of them to that.

  And it wasn’t as if there was nothing for her to do in Deveren Dol, anyway. They had their own ranks of wounded to be tended, bodies to bury or burn, and destruction to repair.

  But finally things were falling into place, and Abramm had decided he’d waited long enough. He would stay in Deveren Dol for a week, then return to Fannath Rill with his wife and children. Then they would see about his becoming king of Chesedh for real.

  It was a four-day ride up from Fannath Rill, and people had come from all over the highlands and the plain to line the way and cheer.

  During those four long days, Maddie at times felt nothing but sheer delight in the anticipation, a joy that quickly crescendoed into unbearable impatience for the moment to finally arrive. At others, she was hit with waves of inexplicable anxiety. He had been gone so long and, from what Trap had told her, been through so much, she worried he wouldn’t delight in her as he used to, worried that while he had changed, she had not, and they would have lost that easiness, that way of knowing what the other was thinking even before the words were spoken. She worried about the children. Ian still wasn’t speaking to anyone and was unlikely to be receptive toward the father he’d not seen in more than two long years. Even Simon had recently developed an inexplicable aversion to seeing his papa. The two of them were so closed and hostile, she feared Abramm’s happy homecoming could turn into a trial and an embarrassment for all of them.