Shadow Over Kiriath

by Karen Hancock

  The crown continued to dim, gradually revealing its changed shape. Only a few charred strips remained of the ermine-trimmed cap, while the heavy gold base with its two transverse arches had been reduced to sagging silver filigree. The massive pearl listed dully atop them, the gemstones faded and opaque, rendered insignificant against the plaited circlet—the original crown, perhaps?—shimmering beneath the ruined base.

  At last the herald recalled his job. With a gasp, he stiffened his spine, threw back his shoulders, and let his clarion voice ring out in the silence, formally introducing Abramm as the thirty-sixth king of Kiriath, “confirmed before us this day by Eidon’s own hand.”

  As if to make up for their former reluctance, the people bounded to their feet, shouting acclamation in a tumult of sound that drowned both trumpets and choir. Numerous calls of “Long live King Abramm!” raised themselves above the din, and Abramm stood there, letting it all roll over him, a half smile touching his lips.

  Philip leaned against Trap and shouted into his ear, “You still think that arm won’t come back, brother?”

  He’d been furious with Trap for telling Abramm he was crippled, vigorously taking his older brother to task for making predictions he had no business making.

  Now Trap could only smile and shrug in reply. Whether Abramm recovered use of his arm or not was up to Eidon. But if he didn’t, it wouldn’t matter, for his true strength had always lain with Eidon. This just made it more obvious.

  The cheering went on and on until Abramm gave up waiting for it to stop. Indeed, the cries intensified as he strode to the side of the stage and down the stair, then back across the forestage to climb the five-step dais of the receiving throne. His limp was barely noticeable, his shoulders straight, chin high, just as a king’s should be.

  As he settled onto the throne, Trap’s eye caught on sudden activity in the royal box beyond him. In the second row, Lords Foxton and Whitethorne were discreetly hauling a dazed and disheveled Byron Blackwell back to his feet. Nor was he the only one. Several of the ladies farther up in the box were also being fanned back to consciousness, and even Lady Madeleine, standing in the front row with her brother, seemed to have succumbed. Knowing her link with Abramm through the Light, Trap wasn’t too surprised. She did not, however, seem terribly debilitated, pushing away from Prince Leyton’s supporting arm as Simon now stepped past them to begin the offering of public fealty.

  As the others in the box jostled into line at his back, Simon descended the stair to the forestage, where he was the first to kneel at the foot of the Receiving Throne dais and offer his public oath of fealty. Then he returned to his seat in the box as one by one the others did likewise, a process that took almost two hours to complete.

  Then it was time for the ceremonies of elevation. As the first name rang out, Trap’s stomach twisted itself into a hard and breathless knot. Suddenly he recalled just why he was sitting in this honored first space of the first bench, his brother and parents beside him, and all four of his sisters with their husbands on the bench behind: today the swordmaster’s son would be made a duke.

  He had not believed it would actually happen, despite the fact he had known Abramm’s intentions for months and had rehearsed this part of the ceremony for days. For one, he’d not been sure Abramm would make it through his coronation without disaster. For another, it was one of those unthinkable developments only Eidon could conceive and Trap himself had never quite been able to get his mind around. Even the act of arguing that it was far too high a rank to bestow on a commoner—and Trap had argued that—had seemed surreal.

  Now as the first man knelt on the upper levels of the receiving dais, Trap thought of the oath he’d sworn to Raynen more than six years ago to go with Abramm into exile. He’d believed it a death sentence for both of them. Instead, here they were, Abramm a king and Trap about to be elevated to the highest hereditary rank in the peerage. Not only was it unbelievable, he wasn’t sure he even wanted it.

  He watched as Abramm parceled out to his own men the lands he had confiscated from Gillard and his supporters. Then, before Trap knew it, the herald was calling his name and he was kneeling before his sovereign.

  What happened after that passed in a haze, blurred by the sudden intense self-consciousness Trap experienced at being the focus of hundreds of pairs of eyes. Abramm was thorough in enumerating his reasons for granting this exceptional degree of elevation, relating all the story of their journey together, and finally coming to the end.

  “If it weren’t for this man’s devotion, I would not be here today. If anyone deserves this highest accolade, it is Eltrap Meridon, son of Larrick, defender of Raynen, Captain of the King’s Guard, the White Pretender’s Infidel, the Dorsaddi’s Lord Deliverer, and henceforth, by my hand and sword”—he touched the tip of the Sword of State first to Trap’s right shoulder, then to his left—“Duke of Northille.”

  The sword tip touched the top of Trap’s head and released a burst of Light, its warmth shooting down through his bent knee and the soles of his feet.

  Only as it faded away and the sword’s touch withdrew did he breathe again. And then he was offering his own sworn oath of fealty, already given once in the stern cabin of Wanderer en route to Kiriath some nine months ago, now offered publicly, the oath of a duke and not a simple armsman. After that he stood, and the Officers of Ceremony came to lay across his chest the red ribbon and gold chains of his new rank. Then, at last, he turned to face the audience behind him as the herald called out his new name to the assembled multitude, and chills washed over his body yet again.

  I am a lord. I am a duke. . . . I am a swordmaster’s son, for pity’s sake!

  Philip was grinning up at him, looking ready to burst. His father was worse and his mother’s cheeks were wet. Behind them, in the second row, his sisters and their husbands sat gape-mouthed, for they had never believed he would amount to anything—he was still unmarried, was he not?

  After standing for what seemed far too long, he turned back to the king to drop a deep bow, then back-stepped to his seat. As he sat down, Philip punched his arm and Father reached across to take his hand and squeeze it, tears glittering in his eyes.

  Abramm retired briefly to a side chamber and reemerged in the long, purple Robe of State. He was supposed to have replaced the heavy Crown of State with the lighter Crown of Rule, but had apparently chosen to retain the original. Stripped of the ruined arches, base, and jewels, its pale plaiting still shimmered against his brow with its own light, echoes of its earlier fire. He’d also retained the jewel-hilted Sword of State, as well as scepter and orb, though in the case of the latter two, he was supposed to.

  As the musicians played a majestic recessional and all the audience stood again, Abramm strode up the center aisle toward the top of the hall. Trap turned with the others to watch him go, glimpsing now for the first time the many cravats lying untied about their owners’ necks, doublets and shirts unbuttoned to reveal the golden shields that only hours ago had been burnished into the chests beneath. Tens of them. Maybe even hundreds. Just like had happened at the Valley of the Seven Peaks after Abramm had slain the morwhol.

  As the king passed beneath the temporary balcony and out of sight, Carissa exited the royal box to start the recessional. Leyton and Madeleine, Simon and Oswain Nott—the other two of Kiriath’s three dukes—followed after her, keeping a respectful distance between themselves. Trap waited until the gray-wigged Nott had ascended halfway, then stepped out behind him and joined the recessional himself, walking a gauntlet of cheering onlookers and enjoying, for the first time in his life, the privileges that came with being the Duke of Northille.

  Outside, bright, warm sunlight poured from a cloudless midday sky, the slushy morning snow long since melted and evaporated, leaving the streets dry beneath the feet of those who crowded them. This will be a good omen, he thought as he descended the stairway toward the carriage waiting to bring him to the palace and the coronation banquet still to come. Then he smiled. Tho
ugh after what you’ve done today, my Lord, I can’t think why anyone would still be looking for omens.

  He was nearly to the carriage when he realized the footman holding its door open was his brother, Philip.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, pausing before the open door. “I thought you were coming out with Mother and Father.”

  “Channon pulled me out right after the king left, my lord duke,” Philip said, emphasizing the last word with a smile like to break his jaw. “Seems I’ve got some prisoners to interrogate.” He gestured toward the carriage seat as he glanced back at the door where the new Count of Strafford, Lord Foxton, and his wife would soon emerge from the hall to board their own carriage now waiting in line behind Trap’s.

  With a schedule to keep and no time to dally, Trap climbed reluctantly into the carriage. “Why are you interrogating prisoners?” he growled. “And why now?”

  “Esurhites tried to take Graymeer’s this morning,” his brother replied, shutting the door with a snap.

  Trap’s head whipped around in horror.

  “It was only a pair of scouting galleys,” Philip hurried to assure him. “And all aboard both were caught. Duke Simon was notified when the news first came, during the giving of the fealty. He made the decision to hold off telling the king until he changed into the Robe of State.”

  Trap nodded approval. If the action had already concluded and the threat was neutralized, no need to cause unnecessary disruption of the coronation. “But why are you interrogating the Esurhites?” he demanded.

  Philip shrugged and his grin returned. “I’m the only one who speaks the Tahg.”

  “I speak it better than you by a long shot. And I have more experience questioning prisoners.”

  “Aye, but you’re a duke now, brother,” Philip reminded him with a thump on the door. “You have more important things to do.” He stepped back with a salute, and before Trap could say any more, the carriage lurched forward. Thus the new Duke of Northille also experienced for the first time the limitations of his new station.

  More important things to do, he groused inwardly. Like what? Ride in this carriage and wave at people? Receive the insincere congratulations of a flock of two-faced courtiers who, truth be told, would rather send me off to exile again? He’d not missed the glare Oswain Nott had given him as he’d passed by in the recessional. More important things to do, indeed! What could be more important than finding out how the Esurhites attacked and why? It could be no accident they had chosen today to do it. Not only had Graymeer’s stood vulnerable with a quarter of its usual force to defend it, this was the coronation day of the White Pretender, the man hated above all others by the new Supreme Commander of the advancing Armies of the Black Moon.

  But no, Trap was a duke now, and that meant, apparently, that all he was allowed to do was sit around and look aristocratic. I knew I should never have accepted this position!

  At the palace, the door guards welcomed him with broad grins. Which made the cool and sudden silence of his reception inside the already crowded entry atrium all the more startling. Many of the courtiers had raced away from the Hall of Kings in advance of Abramm’s departure so as to provide a welcome for him here. Now, as Trap stopped in the entry to strip off his gloves and let the servants take his cloak, all conversation ceased and every eye turned his way, few of them friendly.

  Abramm, of course, was not present, having gone immediately to his chambers to change out of his coronation clothes. After that, if Trap knew him at all, he’d be calling an emergency meeting of his war cabinet, something a captain of the king’s guard might have had the privilege of attending, but another thing denied to a duke. Or at least to this duke, though he supposed he could force his way into it if he wanted. . . .

  Simon was not in the atrium, either, nor surprisingly, was the Chesedhan crown prince, Leyton Donavan. But Oswain Nott was, happily in conversation with Princess Carissa, who had her back to the door and didn’t see Trap’s entrance. Nott did, however, his hard, narrow eyes fixing coldly on Trap the moment he entered. As the only other duke in the room, Nott should have hastened to congratulate him. Instead he stood staring, and Trap could see his conflict—the desire to turn away and shun his new rival warred against not wanting to offend his king. Before either position could win out, Carissa turned to see what had captured everyone’s attention and, breaking into a grin, came at once to greet him. Nott was left standing there, and Trap did not miss the flash of rage that darkened the man’s long face.

  “Welcome to Whitehill, my lord duke,” Carissa said to Trap as she dropped a deep and respectful curtsey before him. Blood rushed hotly into his face.

  “Oh, look, Princess,” said Lady Madeleine, who had tagged along at Carissa’s elbow and seemed none the worse for her earlier fainting spell. “You’ve embarrassed him. Not used to being a duke, I guess, are you, sir?”

  Carissa beamed at him. “Well, he’d better hurry up if he’s going to—” She broke off as Madeleine’s elbow jabbed her ribs.

  “If I’m going to what?” he asked, trying to ignore the fact that they were still the center of everyone’s attention and that the onlookers had begun to whisper among themselves as they watched.

  “Did you hear about the birds?” Madeleine countered, oblivious to their audience.

  It took a moment for the word to register with him. “Birds?” Had they attacked along with the Esurhites? A new skill among the disciples of the Shadow? Or was it merely feyna, misidentified again?

  He noted Arik Foxton come in behind him about that time, noted the servant who spoke into the new count’s ear and sent him hurrying away up the east hall. Summoned to that War Cabinet meeting, no doubt.

  Carissa had taken up the story of the birds. “When Abramm stepped out of the Hall of Kings they say a whole raft of white pigeons erupted from the eaves—all on their own.” Her face was flushed, her startling blue eyes alight with an excitement he sensed wasn’t wholly related to her story, but which, he thought, made her more beautiful than ever.

  “Pigeons,” he repeated, as his mind finally caught up with her words. Not feyna. Not even at Graymeer’s.

  “There were no baskets,” Carissa went on, “no handlers, no one who had anything to do with it. It was a miracle. Another sign.”

  “Aye, and there’s more,” Madeleine added. “People have been healed all through the city today—the blind and deaf and crippled made whole. Right about the time the crown was placed on Abramm’s head.”

  “I’ll wager your brother is excited about that,” he said dryly.

  She grimaced as he glanced around, looking for Leyton again. Trap was about to ask where he was when he noticed Nott headed his way, an insincere smile pasted on his long lugubrious face. Apparently the man’s desire not to offend the king had won out. A longtime wearer of Eidon’s shield and recently come to his position upon his father’s death, Nott was the man Abramm was expected to appoint as First Minister of his cabinet in the next day or two.

  Before he reached them, however, a servant stepped up and bowed. Assuming the man was bowing to Carissa, Trap ignored him. Until he said, “My lord duke, the king requires your presence.”

  “The king?” Trap repeated blankly. From the corner of his eye he saw Nott stop in his tracks as, again, total silence gripped the room and all the courtiers looked Trap’s way. It was a vapid remark, to be sure, but hardly enough to warrant the degree of shock with which they were now regarding him. And why did Nott look as if he’d just eaten a mouthful of bad roe? More than that, why was Carissa smiling in that I-know-something-you-don’t sort of way?

  The servant gestured toward the east wing. “My lord?”

  And why was he gesturing to the east wing? The king’s chambers were to the west. As Trap followed the man out of the atrium and down the mirrored corridor, he realized it must be the war council. Abramm’s war room was in the east wing, and Trap did have some experience fighting the Esurhites. He felt a stab of chagrin to think he’
d believed Abramm would really leave him out of things. . . .

  Sure enough, he was shortly ushered into the familiar second-floor chamber, the rank of tall windows lining its eastern wall flooding the room with light. A long gleaming table lined with high-backed chairs paralleled them. Closer to the main door a number of damask-upholstered chairs and divans stood in clusters on a green and gold Sorian rug, and a blaze crackled in the marble fireplace.

  Though Abramm had not yet arrived, several men were already present: Grand Marshall Simon Kalladorne, the bulldoggish Grand Admiral Walter Hamilton, and their respective assistants, as well as the commanders of Kildar and Graymeer’s fortresses, and Seth Tarker, head of the king’s intelligence network. Shale Channon, in full dress uniform, was also present, as were Arik Foxton and Leyton Donavan.With the exception of the latter, Trap had come to know all of them well in the last six months.

  Now all conversations cut off as he entered, and every man within turned toward him. Simon was the first to offer congratulations, clasping his hand and clapping his shoulder. “No question you deserve this, son. And of all the men I know, you’re one of the few who can probably handle it.”

  Trap looked at the older man in surprise, for he knew Simon had been among those who argued against giving him the dukedom. He seemed wholly sincere now as he added, “It won’t be easy, though. There are many who opposed this and will continue to do so.”

  “I’m sure they will, sir,” Trap responded, thinking wryly of Nott’s sour look.

  “If you need any help at all—advice on servants, accountants, where to get a good deal on breeding stock—don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “I won’t, sir. And thank you.”

  Admiral Hamilton made the same offer, and soon the rest of the men were clustered about him, offering congratulations, seeming genuinely pleased by his promotion, particularly Captain Channon.