Brannock Whitethorne entered in the midst of it all and added his congratulations, and just as conversation was turning to the reason they’d been called here, Mason Crull, the small, bespectacled assistant to Royal Secretary Blackwell, burst into the room, breathless and pale as mist.
“It’s Prince Gillard!” he said with quiet intensity once the door was safely shut behind him. His gaze tracked from face to face. “He roused this morning! Right about the time the other healings happened. Cried out and sat up in his bed. First time he’s moved at all in six months, much less spoken.”
The fire crackled and popped as the men digested this. Then Simon asked in his gravelly voice, “You’re saying Gillard’s conscious?”
“No. He fell back into his stupor almost immediately and remains as senseless as ever. His guards have been locked up in the suite with him until the king decides what to do about it.”
“The king’s been told, then?” Shale Channon asked.
“When he changed to the Robe of State. I’ve just come from interviewing Gillard’s attendants, in fact.”
Simon scowled. “When his supporters learn of this we’ll have yet another spate of harebrained rescue plots to waste our time with. As if we have any to waste—especially after what’s happened today.”
“Well, hopefully we’ll keep it quiet and they’ll never know,” Crull said.
“Unless,” Simon began, “it turns out he’s finally coming out of—”
He was interrupted as the door opened at the back of the room and the doorman entered. “Gentlemen . . . the king.”
And Abramm stepped into the room. He had exchanged his white coronation suit for a doublet of burgundy brocade and black trousers but still wore the jewel-hilted sword and the ancient crown of Avramm. Without its blazing light to overshadow them or the beard to hide behind, his scars seemed startlingly vivid again, giving his hawkish face a fierceness Trap had not noticed before. Indeed, as Abramm stopped beside the high-backed chair at the table’s head and raked the gathering with his gaze, Trap felt the tension ratchet up in the men around him. And coming on top of that display of power in the Hall of Kings today, Trap could well understand if they were no longer sure who he was, nor what to do in his presence.
The king’s blue eyes fixed upon Crull and he frowned. “Where’s Blackwell?”
“Ill, sir,” Crull said, bowing. “H-he suffered another one of his fits during the ceremony, sir.” Ever since his encounter with a tree branch the morning Abramm faced the morwhol, Blackwell had been prone to such fits, particularly when he became excited. “It left him—” the small man grimaced— “quite unable to function. They had to carry him back to his chambers.”
“Will he be all right?” Abramm asked.
“I believe so, sir.”
Abramm regarded him steadily for a moment, then nodded and indicated that everyone should take their places at the table. In the past, Trap would have stood somewhere on the room’s wainscoted sidelines as Captain Channon and the high officers’ assistants were doing. Now he had his own seat, the place of highest honor, in fact, directly to Abramm’s left. Crull, serving in Blackwell’s stead, sat to Trap’s left, then Foxton, Seth Tarker, and the commander of Kildar. Simon, Whitethorne, Admiral Hamilton, and the commander of Graymeer’s sat across from him, with the blond, ruddy-faced Leyton seated at the end.
Sitting at the same table with a foreign crown prince, a duke, a high admiral, a count, an earl, and the king himself did not feel at all real. But Trap had little time to contemplate, for as soon as they were settled, Abramm got down to business.
The Esurhites had rowed a pair of scout galleys in on a still sea under cover of the morning fog and moored at the old sea entrance on the west side of the cliff where Graymeer’s sat. Each boat carried a thirty-man crew— twenty to row, ten to fight—and between the two had sent twenty men ashore. Before they could accomplish their still-unknown goals, a wind had sprung up to blow away the fog, and the lookouts spied the boats. Stones dropped from the fortress’s ramparts had inflicted sufficient damage that, even though the galleys escaped the landing, one of the Chesedhan warships Prince Leyton had brought with him had chased them down.
Meanwhile, the fortress defenders had surprised the invaders in the tunnels on their way up from the sea and captured all of them. The prisoners had arrived at Wetherslea Prison in Springerlan shortly before the coronation proceedings had concluded. Kildar’s commander confirmed there’d only been the two galleys, no larger attack force waiting out in the fog. Hopefully Philip Meridon would find out just what they’d intended to accomplish.
“The thing that troubles me most,” said Abramm, “is how they got here. We’ve had no sightings, so it’s unlikely they came up the coast. That casts suspicion on the Gull Islands, no matter how barren and unnavigable we believe them to be.” He glanced at Admiral Hamilton. “As does the continued absence of your scout ships.”
The ships had been sent out almost three weeks ago, and even accounting for the storm that had blown in the day after they’d left, if they’d found nothing they should have been back several days ago.
“They say the Gulls are Shadow-bound,” Leyton remarked blandly, speaking for the first time during the meeting. “Perhaps the barrier of mist that protects them has extended farther out than you counted on. Without wind, ships cannot sail.”
Abramm frowned at him, but agreed that could cause things to take longer than anticipated and decided to wait a few more days before sending out a fleet of search vessels. That decided, he informed the commander of Graymeer’s he intended to visit the fortress tomorrow to have a look at things himself. “But I want no special preparations made.”
Commander Weston’s militarily stiff bearing somehow stiffened even more. “No preparations, sir?”
“You and Brookes are the only ones who are to know I’m coming.”
Trap leaned forward, suddenly uneasy. “What are you thinking, sir? That we didn’t get them all?”
Abramm glanced at him grimly. “I’m thinking we’re dealing with Esurhites—sent by the son of our good friend Katahn ul Manus, who trained him well in the tactics of the games. It may be there’s nothing for us to find— but I’d like to preserve our advantage of surprise as long as possible. I’ll know more after Lieutenant Meridon finishes.”
“Sir,” Channon said, stepping away from the wall, “if you really think there might be a trap waiting up there—”
“I don’t. But rest assured I wouldn’t think of going without your protection, Captain. We’ll simply do so as returning soldiers rather than the king and his escort.” He glanced at Trap again. “I hope you’ll consider coming along, as well, Duke Eltrap.”
“Of course, sir.”
The door opened at that point, and a servant slipped in with a message for the king’s ear alone. At Abramm’s nod, he hurried out and was immediately replaced by Ethan Laramor, who also spoke to the king privately. Except that his whispered message caused Abramm’s eyes to widen as he turned to look full at the border lord who now straightened. “Gold, you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you say it’s solid?”
“As near as we can tell without breaking it all apart. Do you want me to have it brought up?”
Abramm glanced around at his counselors, who watched him with unveiled curiosity. He said nothing to them, however, and finally turned back to Laramor. “Bring it up to the banqueting hall, when we’re finished eating.”
After he left, Abramm grinned at them and said, “This is definitely turning out to be a day filled with extraordinary events.” He paused, letting their curiosity deepen. Then the smile vanished and he returned to the matter of Graymeer’s, finished up a few last details concerning tomorrow’s expedition, then dismissed the fortress commanders, their assistants, and finally Leyton Donavan. Only then did he listen to Crull’s report on his visit with Gillard’s attendants and make arrangements to visit his brother’s bedside later that night with
Simon and Trap.
Then, when it seemed to Trap that there could be nothing left to discuss, he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers before him, and tracked his gaze across his advisors, a smile pulling at his lips. “So, gentlemen, have you considered my suggestion of a candidate for First Minister?”
As all eyes immediately darted to Trap, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck lift with a horrible sense of portent.
“We have considered your suggestion, sir,” Simon said neutrally. “We all agree the man is reliable, trustworthy, experienced, and intelligent. Except for the matters of social standing, which we’ve already discussed, I believe he is well suited to the position.”
“And you would fully support his appointment?”
Simon’s eyes fixed upon Trap. “I would, sir.”
“As would I, sir,” said Hamilton.
Foxton and Whitethorne voiced their approval, as did Crull, adding, “The count gives his blessing, too. And a poll taken of the members of the Privy Council at large has resulted in approval by an overwhelming majority.”
Pox and plagues, Abramm! Trap thought, looking full at his king. You wouldn’t . . .
“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Abramm. “You are dismissed.” His shrewd blue eyes fixed upon Trap. “Save for you, Duke Eltrap.”
The others trooped out, exchanging sly looks and suppressed smiles. Trap’s sense of foreboding intensified. As the door snicked shut, Abramm clasped his hands on the gleaming table before him and looked at his friend soberly.
Trap’s stomach began to churn, and when Abramm said nothing, he finally broke the silence himself. “What is this, sir?”
“I’m sure you’ve already guessed, my friend.” The blue eyes held his own. “I want you to be my First Minister.”
For a moment Trap had a sensation of falling, of the room twisting around him while his stomach lurched and his ears rang. His teeth came together with an audible click and his chest seemed to have squeezed all the air from his lungs.
The king’s First Minister held the highest position of governmental rank, second to the king himself in power and rivaled only by the office of Royal Secretary when it came to access.
“You are not pleased,” Abramm said quietly.
Trap scowled at him. “You’d make me a poxed politician? When you know how much I loathe politics? And how unsuited I am to the eeling and subterfuge that goes with it?”
Abramm bore the outburst placidly. “I neither want nor expect you to eel. I need men with integrity to help me run this government. Men who are competent and trustworthy.” He paused. “There is no one I trust more than you, Trap.”
Directly across the table a wood-colored staffid suddenly folded its body lengthwise along the table’s edge and skittered toward Abramm. Barely had Trap noted its presence before a thin white thread of Light leaped from Abramm’s clasped hands to impale it. The creature flinched, clung briefly to the table edge, then fell away. He heard the small clicks of its legs and carapace on the chair, but soon those, too, faded.
Abramm had never taken his eyes from Trap’s face, waiting for his answer. Beyond him, outside the window, the trees’ newly budding branches waved gently in the breeze, their tops glinting with the warm late-afternoon light, the bottom two-thirds of them already steeped in shadow.
Trap exhaled sharply. “I appreciate the honor that you’ve given me, the regard in which you hold me . . . but, sir, I know nothing about being First Minister.”
Abramm’s brows arched with amusement as he leaned back in his chair. “You know more than you think, my friend. You understand men. And all of this . . . politics, I’m finding, is not so very different from the battles we waged with our blades in the gaming theaters. At the hilt of every blade there’s always a man. . . .” Abramm glanced down at his finger tracing the outline of the wood’s grain in the table’s polished surface. “Your reaction now and your words to me last night—those are precisely the reasons I want you.” He looked up again. “Who else is going to tell me to my face what they really think, Trap? Especially when they have reason to believe I’m not going to like it. You saw the way they looked at me when I came in earlier—as if I’m some sort of avenging god.”
“Well, you did put on quite a show today.”
“It’s not been just today.”
Trap met his gaze for a long moment, and the sight of his king’s resolve sent the first wave of terror sweeping through him. “Light’s grace, Abramm! I’m a swordmaster’s son! They’re having a hard enough time accepting me as a duke. Who would ever accept me as First Minister?”
“My cabinet, for one.” He paused. “And you’ve been more than a swordmaster’s son for some time.” Again Abramm watched his finger trace the lines of the wood’s grain. “However, if you really can’t abide it, Oswain Nott will be happy to take up the slack.”
Trap snorted, surprised by the strong aversion that rose up in him. “That’s not fair. You know what I think of Nott!”
Abramm kept his gaze on his fingers, the scars bright and vicious along his face. “He’s the only other duke we have. Indeed, since he inherited his position, he should have precedence. . . . I just don’t happen to think that makes him the hands-down expert in affairs of state he seems to think he is.”
“You’re twisting my arm here, Abramm.”
And now his king looked up at him, eyes twinkling. “Merely stating the facts, my lord duke.”
“Is that why you’ve made me a duke?”
The twinkle left at once, and Abramm’s expression sobered. “I’ve made you a duke because I wanted to express my gratitude for all you’ve done. I offer you this position on my cabinet because I’ve always had you to guard my back, and I need you more than ever.”
“Guard my back.” He would have to use those words. And it was no accident that he did, was it, my Lord Eidon? How can I refuse him now? Or you, for that matter? Trap pushed himself back from the table with a sigh of resignation. “Oh, very well, I’ll do as you ask. As much as I’m able. I just don’t think I’m very well suited to this.”
Abramm grinned as he, too, sat back in his chair, blue eyes twinkling again. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” Trap’s doubtful expression only made his grin widen and he stood up. “I don’t know about you, Duke Eltrap, but I’m starving. Let’s go eat.”
CHAPTER
5
When Abramm entered the banquet hall with Trap in his wake, he was greeted by the creak and rustle of one hundred and six chairs pushed back across the carpeted floor as his guests sprang up to receive him. Four linenclad tables ran the hall’s grand length, while a fifth sat on a raised dais at the head of and perpendicular to the others. All chairs at that high table were occupied save the center two, reserved for Abramm and Trap. Madeleine, he noted happily, stood on the dais immediately to the right of the central chair, and he wanted nothing more than to stride up there at once to begin grilling her about the vision he’d seen during the ceremony. Instead, he bowed to the constraints of his office, taking his time to speak to those who stood along his path, many of them new-made Terstans as of today.
It was an odd thing to have urbane statesmen twice his age, hard-faced border lords, world-savvy merchants, and wealthy freeman landholders acting as overawed in his presence as young princelings. They approached him as if they expected the Light to flare again before their eyes, and many struggled to articulate their words of greeting.
“Eidon’s grace be upon you, Your Majesty.”
“May your reign be long and prosperous, sir.”
Some would hardly look him in the eye. And yet, as acutely uncomfortable as their awe made him, the pragmatic part of him knew he would be wise to tolerate it. For surely it would make them more amenable to approving the tax and conscription orders he would soon put before them.
The men and women at the high table were less intimidated than those on the floor, but even here he sensed a new stiffness. Everitt Kesrin, Ethan Laramor, Temas Da
rnley, Arik Foxton, Oswain Nott—even Uncle Simon—all seemed to regard him from behind some invisible barrier, the gap between him and them wider now than ever. Even Carissa, though she had beamed at him from the moment he’d stepped onto the dais, lost her smile as he stopped before her. Staring up at him wide-eyed and solemn, she dropped him a curtsey as reverently as if he were a stranger, and when she lifted her face to his again, her eyes gleamed with tears.
Unnerved, he stepped past her to his own place at the table, Trap’s empty chair to one side, Lady Madeleine and her brother, Crown Prince Leyton, standing on the other.
Madeleine’s curtsey was even more perfunctory and distracted than usual, and Leyton seemed to find the whole affair secretly amusing. But then, he always looked as if he thought life were a vast joke, the details of which only he perceived. He’d sat through the War Council meeting with the same expression he wore now, in fact.
A big man, he was several years older than Abramm and firstborn of the Chesedhan king’s brood. His weathered features were a coarser, stronger version of Maddie’s, his pronounced freckling testifying to his preference for the out-of-doors over palace halls. Shrewd, gray-blue eyes crouched beneath bushy, blond brows, watching Abramm with a keen light of appraisal and the ever-present amusement.
After receiving Leyton’s respects, Abramm stepped into the space between his chair and the silver- and crystal-decked table before him, the last to come to the table. Before and below him stretched the hall with its massive paintings and blazing chandeliers, the ranks of servants waiting along the wainscoted sides, and the bejeweled and satin-clad guests who filled it. To his surprise those guests now spontaneously burst into cheers and applause. Quite a contrast to all that fuming over the treaty yesterday, he thought wryly. And yet the outburst moved him deeply.
He let the applause continue for a few moments, then held out his hands for silence. After thanking them for coming, he offered a brief summary of what had happened at Graymeer’s that morning, stressing that the small group of invaders had been apprehended and that, for now, all was well.
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