The Shadow Within

by Karen Hancock

  Abramm regarded him evenly, started to tell him exactly what he thought of the lie, then stopped himself. Gillard had moved Nightsprol over, so for now he’d let it go. They rode in silence for a time before he let out a weary breath and said, “I know you hate me, Gillard, and I know it can’t be easy having me come in and take what you’ve held these last four years”—and lusted after for twenty-three—“but the fact is, I have. And for good reasons, though I don’t expect you to understand. At the bottom of it all, though, is that I want what’s best for Kiriath.” He shot a sidelong glance at his companion. Gillard stared stonily at the road. “Because of that, I’m prepared—” But the words stuck in his throat. Forgive him. Let Eidon handle him. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m prepared to let the past stay in the past.”

  Gillard barked a laugh. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “No. But the truth is, you did me a bigger favor than you know, even if you didn’t intend it that way. And . . .” Abramm’s eye fixed on the lone sea gull floating lazily above the hillcrest toward which they climbed. “And we need to work together.”

  There. He’d said it. And just as he expected, once the words finally registered, his brother’s head whipped around. “Work together?”

  Abramm met his gaze. “Why not?”

  Gillard’s nostrils flared, and his eyes said, I’ll be dead before I work with you! But as before, he kept his comments to himself.

  “Kiriath will need both of us in the trials that are to come,” Abramm said mildly, facing forward again. Or so Eidon thinks, apparently.

  “Aye,” Gillard said. “With all those Esurhite galley ships preparing to invade, we’d best get started immediately.” His attempts at sarcasm had never been subtle. “What post will you offer me? Grand Marshall of the Royal Army?” He lifted his chin, looking archly down his nose at Abramm. “I hope so. It’s the only one I’ll accept.”

  I told you this wouldn’t work, Abramm thought at Eidon. It’ll take a miracle to change his heart. And while Eidon was very good at miracles, Abramm knew he wasn’t going to reach in and forcibly change Gillard’s will. But I did try.

  “If you reconsider, let me know,” he said and nudged Banner into a canter, leaving his startled brother behind.

  They reached the picnic site around ten o’clock. The servants, who had set out earlier with the provisions, had been working all morning to get things ready. They’d erected the grand blue-and-white-striped pavilion on the wide flat at the base of the massive upthrust which supported Graymeer’s—close enough the courtiers would feel a spice of danger, yet far enough none need worry he might actually be harmed. Smoke arose from the barbecue pits where spitted beef and mutton had roasted since dawn, filling the air with their mouth-watering aroma. Already a raft of sea gulls soared in elaborate patterns overhead, waiting to snatch up the spoils.

  As Abramm dismounted and handed Warbanner off to a pair of waiting grooms, he saw Trap join the group of mounted armsmen gathering at the base of the road that switchbacked up to the mist-shrouded fortress. While Abramm ate and entertained his courtiers, they would scout the place out, then return to escort him up. Even from a distance he sensed their unease and was glad Trap would be with them.

  The pavilion had only one canvas wall in place, the others drawn back to take advantage of the spectacular view: the bay to the east, scattered with the white sails of the many ships plying its waves; Springerlan to the north, the river gleaming at its heart; and the wide swath of grasslands tumbling into the distance to the west.

  Taking time to greet his courtiers individually, Abramm worked his way through yet another gauntlet toward the oversized chair at the pavilion’s rear where he would be served his morning chocolate and twistbreads. Halfway there, Lady Madeleine waylaid him. Clad in a blue woolen riding skirt and leather boots, her honey-colored hair plaited into a single thick braid, she was one of the few who had dressed appropriately for the day. Now as she greeted him with a curtsey and a keen-eyed gaze, he couldn’t help recalling his dream and eyed her uneasily. That she had not yet told anyone of her suspicions regarding his identity as the White Pretender gave him hope she’d taken his warning to heart, but it was a hope soon dashed. Leaping over the formal pleasantries, she got straight to the point. “Is it true what they’re saying, sir? That you spent your time in Esurh as a galley slave?”

  As if some unseen rhu’ema had suddenly invoked a Command of silence, all the courtiers in their immediate vicinity stopped talking and turned to catch his answer.

  “Where did you hear that, my lady?” Apparently Uncle Simon had a bigger mouth than he’d imagined.

  “It’s been roaming through all the talk this morning. We’re evenly split between believers and unbelievers.”

  “And which are you, my lady?” As if he didn’t know.

  She smiled, her eyes sparkling with that look that said she had him. “Oh, I’m a believer, sir. You didn’t get those shoulders copying inventory lists.”

  He felt his face heat as beside him little Leona Blackwell asked, “It’s true then, sir? You really were in one of those galleys?”

  The wave of silence was still spreading, more and more faces turning toward them. Uncle Simon and Ethan Laramor stood with Gillard not far away, their conversation interrupted. Simon looked embarrassed, while Laramor affected his usual blankly hostile expression and Gillard scowled as if he couldn’t believe people would be so foolish as to even consider such a thing.

  Abramm kept his expression neutral and said, just loudly enough for his brother to hear him clearly, “I was, yes. That’s why I know so well what they can do.”

  Gillard looked away as Madeleine spoke again. “It seems an odd transition,” she mused. “Slaves with scribing skills can’t be common. Why would your master waste your talents by chaining you to an oar? Was it a punishment?”

  Oh, you are good, my lady, he thought, his eyes coming back to hers. Leading him skillfully along the path to disclosing with his own mouth the truth she hoped to capitalize upon. Already she’d gained quite a bit. He wasn’t giving her any more. With a smile and a nod, he said, “I’d rather speak of other things, Lady Madeleine. That period of my life was not pleasant.”

  She blinked up at him, her smile turning brittle.

  Then Lord Prittleman was intruding with his numerous suggestions of what should be done during Abramm’s upcoming inspection of Graymeer’s, foremost among them that Prittleman himself be allowed to lead the way. Abramm told him he would consider it and managed to extricate himself, wishing for Blackwell, who always seemed to know just when Abramm needed him to intervene.

  At length he reached his chair and had his breakfast, attended by a circle of faces that were not only becoming familiar but increasingly friendly. Foxton, Whitethorne, Hamilton, Bucklen—they spoke enthusiastically of his plans for Kiriath and for Graymeer’s, opining that, since he’d succeeded in killing the kraggin, he might well succeed with Graymeer’s, too, despite its grim history. They spoke of Esurh and of the border situation, of the Chesedhan treaty negotiations and the Harvest Ball, and then, inevitably, wound round to Gillard’s demonstration—who would face him, what handicaps would be imposed. Gillard himself, standing now among his merry men not far from Abramm, kept eyeing him with a sly, amused expression that said it wouldn’t be long before the challenge came. And in fact, Abramm had just given command that the games and amusements should begin when it did.

  Abramm had spotted Trap outside the pavilion, back from his trip to the fortress, and was on his way to join him when Gillard confronted him. With a bow and a courtly smile he asked if Abramm would do him the honor of partnering with him for a brief exchange of swordplay. Abramm had prepared a polite declination, as Channon had suggested, but now that it was here, found himself staring wordlessly at his brother, startled by how fiercely he wanted to accept. In fact he was a hair from drawing his rapier and starting it right now. But he didn’t trust this dark, angry current running through hi
s soul, which did not seem at all like forgiveness, and which suggested that even if Abramm accidentally killed his own brother, wouldn’t that be a good thing? Hadn’t Gillard tried to kill him? Twice now? And wasn’t one man’s life worth saving the realm from destruction?

  “I know it’s been a long time since you’ve had to use a blade,” Gillard said blithely. “But surely you remember some of it. And”—here he smiled again— “I promise to go easy on you.”

  The current rose closer to the surface: anger, wounded pride, years of mistreatment demanding justice. A justice Abramm could finally achieve with his own hand. He had no doubt he could fight his brother and win. Possibly within a very short time, since Gillard had no idea who he was really challenging. And if he died . . .

  You said you would work with him. Offer him the hand of peace. Forgive him.

  He doesn’t deserve to be forgiven.

  Neither did you.

  I don’t care.

  And the moment he thought that, he realized it was the Shadow within him—hatred, outrage, pride, jealousy, the lust for vengeance and for the approbation of all these people who would watch. It was roiling around in his soul now, demanding to be satisfied. But it was wrong. There was no Light in it. And he was supposed to be king. “A man cannot rule others,” the prophet Remmath had written in the First Word of Revelation, “until he first rules himself.”

  And I said I would forgive him. Leave the injustice for Eidon to avenge.

  He drew a deep breath and said with a faint, ironic smile. “Not today, brother. But I’m honored you asked.”

  Gillard looked quite smug as he bowed and turned away, calling to his friends and to the others whom he had elected to face first. As the crowd started moving again, Abramm caught Trap watching him soberly, and when their eyes met, his liegeman gave him a nod. He’d made the right choice. Even if it did mean he’d lost face. Perhaps he could make some of that up with the coming inspection—which would also relieve him of the disagreeable prospect of having to watch his brother show off yet again.

  Before he could reach his liegeman, however, here was Lady Madeleine again, a group of ladies in her wake. “Sir,” she said brightly, “what is that hanging from your belt? We’ve been discussing it all morning, and no one can figure it out. I guessed a coin purse, though it looks more like it’s holding stones.”

  Abramm glanced at the leather pouch he’d tied to his belt this morning, fingering the smooth hard forms within. “It is holding stones.”

  Once again Madeleine had succeeded in drawing all eyes and ears his way, specifically now to the oddity on his belt. She looked up at him with raised brows. “Stones, sir?”

  “After what happened on my last ride, I resolved never to go without it again. At least on jaunts like these.”

  “You plan to throw stones at potential assassins?” This from Uncle Simon coming up on Abramm’s left.

  Abramm allowed himself a smile. “In a manner of speaking. Stones can be deadly, after all. King Joktar was killed with one in the Battle of the Hulluk’s Plain.”

  “Joktar?” Simon’s bushy brows flew up. “He was killed by the Ophiran, Xantes. And Xantes used a sling.”

  “As will I.” Abramm lifted the folded lengths of his sling where he’d tucked it alongside the pouch. The pavilion was only about a third full now, the majority having gone off with Gillard or to pursue their own interests, but among those who remained, all conversation had ceased, those around him staring at the sling with puckered brows.

  “You know how to use one of those?” Arik Foxton asked.

  “More or less.”

  “Bah! A stone and piece of leather!” Simon burst out. “It’s a peasant’s weapon.”

  “But a very effective one,” Abramm pointed out.

  “Real soldiers use bow and arrow, if not blades.”

  “Yet arrows can bounce off armor almost harmlessly, where stones can inflict great damage regardless. Arrows are subject to wind and weather, can be more easily seen and evaded. And from the hand of a skilled slinger, stones can fly as sure and fast as an arrow and be every bit as deadly.”

  Simon drew himself up, frowning at Abramm with his best stern-uncle expression. “Well, sir, I cannot allow that statement to go unchallenged. I propose a demonstration.”

  Abramm shook his head. “I said from the hand of a skilled slinger. I am only a novice.”

  “Ah. When the challenge is made, you back down. So much for your contention.”

  “I’m not backing down, merely pointing out that I cannot offer a true demonstration of the weapon’s efficacy.”

  “But since your Esurhite friends are not present, you are the only demonstrator we have.”

  Abramm frowned, trying to read his uncle’s expression and failing, as usual. “Well, perhaps I will consider it for another day. Right now I am off to inspect my fortress, and the rest of you have some fencing matches to attend.”

  “The fortress isn’t going anywhere,” Simon pointed out, with extreme neutrality.

  “And we’ve seen a hundred fencing matches!” said Foxton. “Which your brother always wins. Nothing new there. I want to see if this sling is what you say. We’re here and you’re here, so let’s see it, sir.” He grinned.

  At that, Abramm relented. But when he glanced at Lady Madeleine, who gave him yet another of her smug smiles, he realized she’d known all along what was on his belt. Her questions had been only to force him to this very position, laying more groundwork to ensure that her tale of him would be believed when finally told. And perhaps that was worth the opportunity she’d given him to save face in front of his courtiers.

  It was decided Abramm’s demonstration would be conducted down on the western slope where the steep rise of the cliffs could serve as a backstop. Foxton and Whitethorne prevailed upon the cook to provide them with some cabbages, one of which they fixed to the end of a pole driven into the ground before the cliffs. They stuck two apricot pits into it for eyes, then topped it with a jaunty, feather-trimmed hat and stood back to admire their work amidst hoots of laughter. By then the main body of the courtiers had gotten wind of the demonstration and came down to watch.

  Abramm slid his hand through the loop cut into the bottom of the sling’s length, adjusted the leather so it lay flat around the back of his wrist and then up across his palm. He flipped up the sling’s slender tail, caught it between thumb and forefinger, and gave it a few practice turns and releases.

  “Assassins come upon a man quickly, giving him no time for practice shots,” a gruff voice said from the crowd, and Abramm was surprised to see it was Ethan Laramor.

  “True.” Abramm pulled a red, lozenge-shaped stone from his pouch, one of ten presented to him by the Dorsaddi king, Shemm, upon Abramm’s departure from his land.

  Lady Madeleine watched more intently than ever, while Trap positively smirked. The other men didn’t seem to know what to make of it, though all were highly amused. Channon, as ever, looked worried. Perhaps he feared Abramm would hit himself in the head with his own stone. His first shot, released too soon, dove into the grass only ten yards in front of him, raising a puff of dust at the point of impact. His second took the cabbage’s hat off. He loaded a third, swung the sling a few times over his head to get the feel of it again, aware now of the smirks and elbowings and good-natured muttering. He was making a fool of himself and should stop. Just a few more tries, then he’d give it up.

  He let the sling drop back behind his shoulder in the ready position, drew a deep breath, and fired up a quick prayer for help. Then, aiming right between the apricot pits, he flexed back, drew himself together, and flung the sling overhand, releasing it just as the two thongs pulled hard in his grip. The stone flew forward, too small and fast to see. He heard a faint thunk, saw the cabbage quiver, and noted, with some satisfaction, no puff of dust from either ground or cliff. He was pretty sure he’d hit it.

  Everyone waited while Foxton and Whitethorne went to examine the target. After a few m
oments of hunting around in the grass, Foxton called back, “I’m afraid you missed it entirely this time, sir.”

  “No, Fox, I think I hit it.”

  “He’s right,” Laramor said. “I saw it shiver.”

  “Must’ve hit the pole, then.” Foxton went back to searching the ground.

  “Bring the cabbage here,” Abramm ordered.

  The cabbage was brought, Whitethorne turning it in his hands. “Not a nick on it, sir,” he said apologetically, handing it to Abramm.

  Abramm turned the “face” up and felt a chill of wonder when he found the hole he sought, for he knew he was not this good. The stone had pierced dead center of the apricot pits, its entry hole hidden by the edges of overlapping leaves and the fact Whitethorne had been looking for a large chunk of missing cabbage, not a narrow hole. Thank you, Eidon. “A direct hit,” he said to the men, who examined the hole he pointed out to them, then looked up at him in surprise.

  “So it is, my lord,” Foxton affirmed. “And right between the eyes at that. Too bad it bounced off.”

  “Oh, it didn’t bounce,” he said. “Cut it open.”

  Doubtfully, Whitethorne set the cabbage on the ground and sliced it in half. At the middle of the densely packed, pale green leaves lay the red stone, its narrow entry track clearly visible. Whitethorne loosed an oath of disbelief as Foxton took the halves from him, inspected them himself, then handed them to Laramor. As the slain cabbage made the rounds, Simon looked at Abramm with that exasperatingly blank expression he was so good at. “I thought you said you were a novice.”

  “It took me three tries, Uncle. And I wasn’t even moving.”

  “Well, I’ll grant your claim of deadliness,” Simon said as he passed on the evidence to Bucklen. “I still say it’s a peasant’s weapon.”

  “No argument there. In Esurh the peasants are forbidden to own swords or bows, and would lack the resources to maintain them, anyway.”

  “So the peasants taught you, then?”

  Abramm grinned at the memory of King Shemm’s painstaking tutorials. “Not exactly, sir.”