The Shadow Within

by Karen Hancock

  The whole thing looked hopeless. Unless he meant to announce the truth to the entire realm and stand by it, he didn’t see how he could convince any of these people he was actually on their side.

  Kesrin had been teaching for about half an hour, when Abramm finally put aside his fears and frustrations and forced himself to attend to the man’s words, surprised to find he had gone from the subject of the feyna, to the system that produced them. And the enemy that had devised that system: Moroq and his rhu’ema minions.

  “They will hide in the shadows and the darkness, hoping you will forget they exist. Hoping you will focus on the pawns they send against you, instead. They will seek to wear you down, to fill you with fear, to get you to doubt your ability, your destiny, your very place in the Light.”

  Abramm sat rigidly, his eyes locked upon the kohal. Chills crawled over his flesh as memories of his struggle over the last few days paraded through his mind. It was as if the man were speaking directly to him. No. Not the man. Eidon himself.

  “They will seek to keep you from using the power that is your heritage and rely instead upon human power. And they have myriad ways of doing that, starting with their inside ally—the Shadow that dwells within us. Never think you have conquered it, for you won’t. Never think you will escape it, for you will fight it until the day that you die. Constantly it will project its selfish and arrogant desires into your soul, seeking to turn you back to the self-dependence you lived in before you took the Star. And living in the Shadow’s power always brings one back to fear.

  “You have a destiny. Do you know what it is? Are you willing to embrace it? Lay down your very life in its service? Or will you let your enemy hold you back with fears and illusions, keep you from trusting him whom you should trust above all others? He knows exactly what he is doing in your life, and he has everything under control. You know that, but do you believe it? Will you go forward in the direction he has led you and rest in the knowledge that he’ll see you through it? Or will you back away?”

  He fell silent, leaving the words to echo in Abramm’s hearing, igniting a fire of wonder in his soul. For it was as if Eidon himself had stood before him, and he knew without doubt that he was being told in no uncertain terms what to do. Trust me, Abramm. Carry on with the plan. Let me take care of the details.

  Abramm frowned at the gray-haired man standing at the head of the group beside the glowing tablet. Nothing about him looked any softer, any more inviting than before. He could not imagine how he could be persuaded.

  Leave that to me.

  Very well, my Lord Eidon. I will speak to him and see how you do it.

  “Know that the Light within you is greater than anything the enemy possesses,” Kesrin said. “And that they are afraid of you going forward in it. Know that. Believe that and you will be—”

  There was a bang, a rapid thumping of footfalls, and one of the men who had stood guard at the door burst into the main room. “Gadrielites!” he cried in a low voice.

  The kohal flicked his crystal tablet into oblivion as the gathering arose en masse, hastening to their chosen exits with well-practiced silence. A whip skirled to the ceiling and with a single crack extinguished all the orblights, shrouding the stable in darkness. Someone grabbed Abramm’s arm and pulled him to the side of the room opposite the entrance. He heard the soft hiss of others’ breathing, the shuffle of feet, the jingle and rustle of clothing, and his main reaction was not fear, but intense irritation. Why did they have to be raided now, just when he’d decided to release his secret? Now he’d surely have to wait, and who knew what might happen in the interim?

  Before he had reached the safety of the exit, he heard a faint, brief staccato of clinking that was the strangely benign sound of clashing rapiers. More bangs and thumps preceded the invasion of new light, murky and flickering, as four gray-cloaked figures burst into the main room, armed with chains and sandclubs. One of them carried a lantern, which he hung immediately on a wall peg as the others fanned out.

  At that moment all thought of fleeing passed from Abramm’s mind, and he turned, his rapier leaping from its sheath. It was not anything consciously thought out, indeed was in violation of all the plans he had agreed to, all the warnings he had heard. But these were his people, and just like with the kraggin, he would not stand by and allow them to be violated.

  He flicked a score of kelistars into the air for light, wrapped the cloak around his left arm, and stepped forward, the long blade of his sword advancing before him. Beside him, Trap had done the same, but their adversaries seemed not to have divined their danger. Within their cowls they only chuckled and kept coming.

  The leader, a stocky, muscular man, swung his heavy chain once over his head, then let the end fly. Abramm blocked it with his padded left arm, twisted his wrist to grab the heavy links, and drove his rapier into the man’s shoulder, piercing muscle, bone, and ligament. As the man staggered back howling, Abramm jerked the chain free of his assailant’s grip, then snapped it back against the side of his opposite, uninjured shoulder. He staggered away and Abramm switched focus, slashing at the sandclub that was tumbling toward his head and dissolving it in a spray of sand and an empty fabric tube, fluttering downward. Snapping the chain again, he caught the sandclub wielder at the hip, knocking him to the ground.

  Trap was meanwhile disarming his opponents with equal ease, and soon all six were scrambling for the door. Abramm dashed after them, taking the original man down with his chain and leaping upon him, knee driving into the broad back. The ruffian had come prepared with binding cords, which he’d looped around his waistbelt under his cloak, and now Abramm plucked them free and used them on their bearer. Then he rolled the man over and pulled back his cowl.

  The face beneath was broad, bearded, and pocked beneath a receding hairline of curly brown hair. It looked vaguely familiar. The black eyes slitted with fury. “You’ll pay for this, filthy Shadow lover!” the graycloak hissed. “No one touches Eidon’s chosen and gets away with it.”

  “A warning you’d do well to heed, friend,” Abramm retorted mildly, standing upright. By then, Trap had secured another of them, but the other four were gone.

  As they pulled both men to their feet, Abramm grew aware of the audience that had gathered in the shadows beneath the rear loft: Seth Tarker and four of his fellows stood frozen, watching the proceedings in horror.

  Now Abramm addressed him, remembering his Tahg lilt only at the last minute. “Ah, Mr. Tarker. Sorry we didn’t get all of ’em. Maybe next time we’ll do better.”

  Tarker stepped out of the shadow, his face twisting with some intense emotion. “Are you insane, man? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” He stepped forward and pulled the Gadrielite from Abramm’s grasp. “What did you think to do with them? Take them to the borough magistrate? They’ll be let go before you can leave the jail. And then they’ll be back, angrier than ever.”

  “Perhaps if you stood up to them more,” Abramm said sharply, “they’d be afraid to come back.”

  “We’ll never be afraid of the likes of you,” the graycloak muttered, glaring at him.

  “That’s because you don’t know me very well,” Abramm said with a wicked grin.

  “Stop it!” Tarker snapped. “You have no idea what’s going on here, Alaric.” He turned to the stocky captive. “These men are strangers to us, Mr. Skurlek. We’ve never seen them before tonight, and we certainly didn’t ask for their help.”

  Abramm stared in astonishment as Tarker passed Skurlek off to one of his associates and another took possession of Trap’s man. Then the two were escorted—still bound, at least—out the door under the rear loft. Tarker lingered, his dark-eyed gaze flicking between his two befuddled listeners.

  “One thing taught among us is the importance of not meddling in affairs you know nothing about. Thanks to you, it’ll be days before we can gather again. Maybe weeks. And now we’ll have to find another place to meet, too.”

  “And another after that if yo
u keep caving before them,” Abramm said, gripped by a rising anger of his own. “They’re nothing but bullies and lawbreakers, and they’ll never stop taking from you if you don’t stand up to them.”

  Tarker’s frown deepened into a scowl. He started to speak, but apparently thought better of it and closed his mouth again. Finally he shook his head and stepped back from them. “Please do not try to find us again. You will not be welcome if you do.”

  And with that he took his leave.

  CHAPTER

  20

  “Well,” Abramm said some moments after the sounds of Tarker’s passage had faded. “That certainly did not go as I had hoped.”

  He was still in shock. To find himself deprived of his opportunity to speak to Kesrin and forbidden even to try again was bad enough, but to have it come as punishment for just action against the unlawful persecutions of the self-righteous Gadrielites was infuriating. It also showed him how much he had settled into the role of king, for he was having a very hard time accepting the fact that he’d just been ordered not to do something by a commoner.

  “So what do we do now?” Trap asked, breaking into his mental tirade. His liegeman was looking around the small yard with obvious unease, and the recollection that both their lives and reputations remained in peril jolted Abramm back to the present.

  “Go back, I guess.” He shook his head. “They had blades themselves and were using them! So it’s all right to fight, just not to win? What kind of sense does that make?”

  “None. Which only underscores the truth of Tarker’s words. We really don’t know what’s going on down here.” He paused. “As I understand it, the last time some of them stood against their enemies, a good number ended up in the royal dungeons for their trouble.”

  “There was nothing that could be done about that,” Abramm protested quietly. “None of them would testify.”

  “I know, sir. I’m not casting blame, merely pointing out the complexity of it all.”

  They reentered the square where the fire had been, finding it silent and deserted now. Even the boardinghouse stood dark and still.

  Abramm sighed. “This is a fine fix I’ve gotten us into. One I have no idea how to get out of.”

  “Eidon will make us a way.”

  “I thought he already had.” Abramm grimaced at the boardinghouse and the Bunman Bridge looming behind it, tendrils of fog drifting in front of its dark bulk. When no brilliant solutions presented themselves, they headed back down the alley through which they’d originally come. Halfway along the narrow passage, Abramm laid a hand on his liegeman’s shoulder. “You don’t happen to know where the Westland Shipping Company is, do you?”

  Meridon’s face was hidden in the shadows beneath his hat and he was a moment replying. “The office or the warehouse?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  The warehouse stood along Springerlan’s waterfront and at this hour was, not surprisingly, locked up for the night. An overseer supervising the unloading of a nearby merchantman gave them directions to the company offices, of which there were two—one along prestigious Banker’s Row, way up in the hills off the Avenue of the Keep, the other on Hyde Street, only three streets up from the waterfront. They had to follow it some ways around, though, and back into the outskirts of Southdock.

  By then the fog was thickening rapidly, curling around the tops of buildings and piercing their cloaks with its damp chill. An increasing number of taverns made for more activity, the narrow streets alive with revelers recently come ashore. The smell of liquor mingled with that of vomit, garbage, and tobacco smoke. They walked into two private duels and had to detour around a square of brawling sailors before they reached the company office, only to find it also closed for the night.

  Abramm stood in front of it scowling, even as he berated himself for his disappointment. What did you expect? he asked himself. It’s nearly midnight. Of course there’d be no one here.

  Beside him Trap muttered, “They’re still after us, sir.”

  “I know,” Abramm said irritably. They’d been shadowed by graycloaks since leaving the stable, and he did not doubt Skurlek was among them, eager to avenge his wounded pride. Right now he almost wished the man would attack him again, just so he could release some of this frustration.

  “I’ve seen six of them now.”

  And they’d have to lose all six before they dared to return to the palace. Finally conceding defeat, Abramm glanced down the street to his left where store and office fronts lined the narrow way, their darkness highlighting the activity swarming around the inn they’d passed coming up. Ruddy light spilled from its open door and windows across the damp cobbled street and illumined a weathered sign whose peeling paint proclaimed it the Golden Loaf. Laughter, loud singing, and the wheedling of a reed pipe echoed faintly up the street.

  Not the most reputable establishment perhaps, but it looked crowded and chaotic enough to serve their purpose. He pressed through the crowd outside the door and into the smoky stone-floored room beyond, Trap on his heels.

  Oil lanterns hung on chains from the rafters, adding their smoke to that of tobacco and the great crackling hearth fire on the left, a haunch of mutton spitted over its flames. Wooden tables packed with patrons filled the floor space, a fact Abramm noted peripherally as his eye went first to the only two exits besides the door they’d just come in—the mouth of a hallway at the top of a short bank of steps leading leftward beyond the hearth, and a swinging door just beyond the long bar to the right. No guarantees on the hall, but the swinging door clearly led to the kitchen.

  They found a space at the bar’s far end, hidden from the entrance by the other patrons. The innkeeper attended them swiftly, and they arranged to rent his last room for the night, then ordered themselves each a slice of the mutton with cups of mulled cider. As the man went off to get them, Abramm glanced over his shoulder at the crowd. Though no one was looking at him, he knew every person in the room was focused on him and his companion, being strangers and Esurhites. Anyone coming in to ask about them later would certainly be rewarded, although hopefully it wouldn’t matter.

  He did not expect the Gadrielites to follow them in here. Despite Tarker’s claims to the contrary, invasion, kidnapping, and assault were still illegal, and Abramm doubted they’d be so bold as to act with this many non-Terstan witnesses. More than that, he did not believe the others would stand by and do nothing should they try. Most of these people, while common and rough, looked like decent folk. Anyway, they wouldn’t be here that long. They’d eat, go up to their room, and in a little bit, slip away out the back door. Or the window, if need be.

  The barkeep returned with two mugs of steaming cider, and shortly thereafter a girl brought their mutton, pink and hot in its own juices with a thick slab of dark bread beside it. She looked vaguely familiar, but as she was already regarding Abramm with far too much interest for his comfort, he didn’t feel free to return her stares. Trap paid her with a half crown and she went away.

  They had barely started to eat, however, when the crowd at the door stirred and muttered, finally parting to admit four men in Gadrielite gray. Their cowls were pushed back, their faces boldly revealed—it was Skurlek and his cronies—and with their arrival every head swiveled toward them and silence gripped the room. As they scanned the crowd with narrowed eyes, Abramm saw the others flinch, avert their gazes, and almost sink into their own tunics. So much for his prediction of Gadrielite timidity and civilian boldness.

  Still mostly hidden from view, Trap leaned close against his side and said, “Might be time to leave, sir.”

  To reach the hallway where the stairs led up to their room, they’d be spotted for sure, and considering the way the Gadrielites had barged in here, and the way they had the others cowed, he wasn’t sure going to the room would solve anything anyway. There were four of them in here now, which left only two to guard the back door. He and Trap could easily handle two.

  The Gadrielites fanned out, peering at individual p
atrons as conversation started up again. Abramm and his liegeman could stand and fight, of course, but recalling Tarker’s fear of retribution, Abramm was reluctant to bring trouble on the innocent innkeeper.

  As the serving girl passed by again, carrying a stack of dirty plates, Abramm stopped her and asked if there was a back door through the kitchen. Her gray-blue eyes flicked up to his, then darted toward the Gadrielites in immediate comprehension. Her mouth tightened, but she gave a quick nod, then hurried on her way.

  Abramm glanced at Trap, and together they pushed casually away from the bar and slid around it. They were noticed immediately, Skurlek’s rough voice barking a command to halt. Which Abramm would have ignored had not the other two graycloaks pressed through the swinging kitchen doorway at the same moment to block their exit. They stopped together as the room quieted again, the silence broken only by the crackle of the hearth fire and the hissing sizzle of the meat juices dripping into it. All along the wall between them and the hallway, men had gone stiff and alert, eyes flicking from quarry to pursuers and back again.

  “These men are Terstans!” Skurlek declared, his booted feet loud on the stone floor as he approached. “They have profaned the Flames and Hands of Eidon, and will be held accountable—as will any who dare to aid them.”

  With a sigh, Abramm turned back to face his accuser, partly regretful and partly rather pleased. Flicking his cloak over his right shoulder, he checked his immediate periphery to be sure nothing would hinder the draw of his sword as Skurlek now drew up before him, his breath sour with rotten teeth.