Shadow Over Kiriath

by Karen Hancock

  “Of course I can. I’m Second Daughter. I can do as I wish. . . . And I wasn’t vomiting this morning!” She stepped to the chair he’d just vacated and dropped into it.

  “But . . . if you leave now, they’ll be sure you’re with child.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ll be gone, Leyt. I won’t care. And Bree will walk into nasty rumors whether I stay or go.”

  “But you’ve been living with these people. You know them. I thought you’d want to help her get settled, introduce her around. Try to make this thing work.”

  Maddie stared at him in sudden suspicion. “We both know that Bree will have no need—or desire—of my help settling in.” She frowned at him. “She is coming, isn’t she?”

  “Of course. Why would you think otherwise?”

  “Oh, only the small matter of our ancestors’ repeated attempts to steal Kiriath’s regalia . . . and your own far too obvious obsession with them. You weren’t exactly subtle at dinner tonight, brother.”

  “I’m not here to steal them.”

  “So then, were you simply trying to annoy the man?”

  “I was trying to figure out if he had any idea what he has.”

  “How could he not after what happened today?”

  “I don’t know, but it seems he doesn’t!” And she saw the passion rise in him with almost physical force, sparking in his eyes and tightening every muscle into eager alertness. He dropped onto the chair beside her and leaned over its arm. “By the prophets, Mad! They proved more than half the legends true today—the wind clearing off the clouds, the Esurhites discovered, the healings . . . all those conversions. Even the transformation of the Hasmal’uk stone. I could hardly contain myself.”

  “Yes, that was obvious.”

  “And yet, he spoke as if it was all Eidon’s doing, a one-time event, not something he can control and wield against our enemies.”

  “Well, he was the one at the center of it all. I’d be inclined to give him some credit for knowing who was doing what.”

  Leyton shook his head. “He’s only been changed four years, Mad. It’s completely reasonable to think he’s as ignorant and undiscerning as he seems.” He sagged against the chair’s back, eyes drifting to the flames. “All that power . . . all that promise . . . It’s like giving a finely balanced rapier to a child.” His eyes came back to her. “And you— You at least know the tales. I’d expected you would have been studying them, hoped you might have stumbled onto something already. Instead he’s got you wasting your time on old fortresses.”

  “Ophiran guardstars are a known entity. He’s seen one of them in action. I’d hardly call it a waste of—”

  “The regalia may well be the key to the survival of both Kiriath and Chesedh!” he interrupted sharply. “Something that can be used offensively against the Shadow’s hordes. Something that can drive them back and utterly destroy them!”

  But she hardly heard the end of his outburst, her focus honing in on what he’d said at the first. Key to Kiriath and Chesedh’s survival? She realized then that his passion sprang from more than the simple excitement of seeing longheld beliefs coming true. His tone held an undeniable note of desperation. And that was most unlike Leyton.

  Abruptly it all fell into place. “You brought those ships to Kiriath because they’re useless to Chesedh now, aren’t they?”

  He went very still, his gaze fixed on the fire, big hands clenching the chair’s arms.

  “I knew things had to be desperate for Father to give Briellen to the Kiriathans,” Maddie whispered.

  Leyton sighed. “Not exactly desperate. But not good, either.” He spoke quietly. “North Andol has fallen, and Draesia surrendered without a peep. Shadow holds all the southern regions of the strait and is moving into the eastern portions. The winds are all but gone. To take any sort of offensive action, we must have galleys ourselves—we’ve been frantically building them for months now. At least our wind-driven vessels can be used here. And preserved if things go badly at home.”

  Cold to the core, Maddie sagged back in her chair.

  “There’ve been no emissaries yet,” he went on, “but they’ll come, offering the same deal they offered the Draesians: surrender and they spare both land and people, allowing us to go on with our lives as usual—save for the governors Belthre’gar would set over us, and the black-tunicked soldiers garrisoned among us, and the forfeiture of a reasonable tribute. . . .”

  “And all who wear the shield forced to renounce it in favor of allegiance to Khrell,” Maddie said grimly.

  “That was not part of the negotiations, of course.”

  “Of course.” But they both knew it would come. Had to come. Shield bearers hindered the power of the Shadow.

  As if he read her mind, Leyton said, “Shadow’s already closed our eastern borders. We’ve had our trade lines cut off, treaties with Draesia and both Andols changed by fiat. Our supply of iron has been eliminated. We’ve made a few agreements with the barbarians to the north but they’re not much help, besides being untrustworthy. Much as it galls to admit it, we need Kiriathan wheat and iron and men. We need cannon and shot and powder, and the Western Isles are now our only source.”

  They sat in silence for a time. Then she roused. “And you’ve told Abramm none of this?”

  He smiled wryly. “When negotiating a treaty, little sister, it doesn’t do to let the other party know how desperate you are. . . .” The smile faded. “There’s more.”

  She regarded him soberly.

  “Belthre’gar took all three daughters of the king of North Andol for his harem—after having the king’s sons killed before their father’s eyes. It was the last thing the old man saw before being blinded. Payment for their resistance, Belthre’gar said.” He watched his fingers pick at the fibers on the chair’s padded arm. “That, I think, was what pushed Father to sign Abramm’s treaty. Better a Kiriathan than that Shadow-loving savage. Bree’ll be here within two weeks.”

  Two weeks! The coldness in her belly spread up to her shoulders and arms. What for so long they had dreaded was practically on their doorstep. “Abramm needs to know, Leyton. Especially this last. Belthre’gar really does have a personal grudge against him. Finding out Father’s sent Bree to him . . .will only make things worse.”

  “He’s already threatening to kill us and take our lands, Mad. How could things be any worse? Besides, I won’t risk Abramm getting cold feet. Bad enough all this talk of the treaty and wedding being a trick to get the regalia.”

  “For which you have mostly yourself to blame.”

  He made a face. “I’ll not deny my fascination with them. Nor even that I’ve given thought to what we could do with them back home. . . .”

  “Most likely a big fat nothing. They obviously belong to him.”

  “And he, just as obviously, has no idea what he’s got in them.”

  “He knows more than you think.”

  “But not nearly enough, I fear. Someone needs to instruct him as to the nature of what he’s inherited.”

  “Is that what you were trying to do at dinner? Instruct him?”

  Leyton’s gaze returned to her, speculative now. “Actually, I was hoping you might be the one to enlighten both of us.”

  Suddenly she could hardly breathe, distraught by the quick, hot, heartleaping eagerness to burrow herself back into Abramm’s life; the opposing dread of soon seeing him with Briellen and knowing he would always be offlimits. The fear that if she stayed, her feelings would be discovered, that she might, in another cascade of mindless impulses, reveal them to him.

  But against all that was a firm, resolute voice asking how she could put such petty, personal concerns before the fate of their two realms.

  “Why did you faint today, anyway?” Leyton asked, his question intruding into her thoughts. “If you’re not ill. Did you feel their power?”

  And again she felt as if a giant hand squeezed her chest. What could she say that wouldn’t give everything away? “I felt the Ligh
t,” she said finally, choosing her words with care. “I don’t know if it came from Abramm or the regalia or Eidon himself. After that . . .” I only know there was a wedding . . . and a coming storm, and mingled armies . . . and, according to Abramm, a great red dragon circling overhead.

  Oh, Father Eidon, what does it all mean? And what do you want me to do?

  Down in the valley the University clock tolled the first hour of the new day, followed a heartbeat later by the chime of the mantel clock.

  “So will you stay?” Leyton said. “Will you help us?”

  She sighed deeply. “I—I’ll think about it.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  Abramm stood motionless in the teahouse, reeling in the wake of Maddie’s abrupt departure. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t believe I can be of help to you anymore.”

  How could she say such a thing? Even if she didn’t know how much he relied upon her, surely that determination was up to him to make. He wanted to command his servants to bring her back, wanted to order her to stay. He could do it. He was king, and as long as she was in his realm, his commands held sway over her.

  Except . . . she was no longer the Second Daughter here alone. She could appeal to her brother, the Crown Prince of Chesedh. The treaty would be destroyed and Kiriath would lose Chesedh’s much-needed protection against their Esurhite enemies. And in light of the attack on Graymeer’s this morning, Abramm knew the day of reckoning was fast approaching.

  Besides, if she was unhappy here, how could he think of forcing her to stay? He’d chalked her restless moodiness up to her troubles with the song of the morwhol, promised for the coronation. But six months of working had left her nothing to show for it, and now he realized that something had been deeply amiss even before Leyton’s arrival. Today’s events had merely brought it all to a head.

  The grit of leather soles on gravel drew his eyes to the walkway leading up to the teahouse where a tall silver-bearded figure approached, cloak flaring out behind him: Simon, come to find him for their trip to Gillard’s bedside tonight. He couldn’t have missed Maddie’s departure.

  Abramm met him at the doorway. “Your timing is excellent, Simon. I was just about to leave.”

  “Is Lady Madeleine all right?”

  “She’s had a difficult day.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Simon fell into step beside him as they crunched back along the graveled walk. “First thing out of bed she was vomiting, then that fainting spell at the coronation. The courtiers are calling it—”

  “Morning sickness. I know.” Abramm kept his voice even, though his anger was already simmering. “Except she wasn’t vomiting.”

  “You’re certain of this information.”

  “Yes.”

  They walked in silence for a bit, then Abramm said, “I despise all this gossiping.”

  “Perhaps you should consider avoiding her, then, sir. Evening meetings like this one, however innocent, do nothing but fan the flames. And I’ll tell you now, the way she looked as she ran by me—ran into me, truth be told— made it look anything but innocent. Whatever you said to her distressed her a great deal.”

  It wasn’t I who said it. It was she. And if it was so distressing, why did she say it?

  But he had nothing to say to Simon’s suggestion, reflecting unhappily that she’d apparently already solved the problem herself. Perhaps that was the very reason she wanted to leave. It couldn’t be pleasant to be continually accused of being the king’s mistress.

  They climbed the graveled path up through the garden, and when Abramm said nothing more, Simon introduced a new subject: “I suppose you heard Donavan’s talk tonight about the regalia’s supposed powers: that the scepter can control the winds, the jeweled sword has killed a thousand men in a day, and he who wears the crown can see a hundred leagues. . . .” He trailed off, glancing sidelong at the crown Abramm still wore.

  Abramm smiled at him. “I cannot see a hundred leagues, Uncle. But I doubt he would believe me.”

  “He wants them, though. He was practically drooling over them this morning before the ceremony. And afterward?” He shook his head. “I’ll admit that for all I fought you on it, I’m daily seeing more and more need for this alliance you’ve made us. But I still don’t trust the man. What if this whole thing really is a sham to get at our treasures?”

  “The Esurhites have already attacked us, Uncle. And the Chesedhans helped catch them. Maybe even kept them from launching a larger force against us. If it is a sham, we’ve already reaped significant benefits.” He thought back to his conversation with Leyton at dinner, which seemed even odder in retrospect than it had at the time. “And if the news we’ve just received about the fall of North Andol and Draesia is true, the Chesedhans will need our help and goodwill as much if not more than we need theirs. I can’t believe he’d risk destroying that with another attempt to steal them. And if that truly is his intent, surely he wouldn’t be so obvious about his interest.”

  “Maybe he can’t help himself. Like a man in love with a woman he can never have. . . .” He glanced at Abramm sidelong, but when the latter only stared at him blankly, he went on. “He asked me today when the facsimile he believed you to be wearing this evening was made.”

  Abramm snorted. “What did you tell him?”

  “That it wasn’t a facsimile. Though I think he already knew that.” He fell silent, the crunch of their feet upon the gravel mingling with the chuckle of the streamlet beside them. “He has no regard for you at all, you know. Laughs at the tales of your exploits, scoffs at the idea you were the White Pretender, all of it especially galling given the wild stories he tells about himself.”

  “Maybe that’s why he doesn’t believe mine: because he knows his own are false.”

  Simon snorted agreement. “In any case, I submit he needs to be watched.”

  “I’ll talk to Seth about it. It wouldn’t hurt to focus on him a little more.”

  Trap and Channon met them at the top of the gardens, and the four men strode on in silence, going round to the coach house, where a closed carriage awaited to bring them to the Chancellor’s Tower and Gillard. Abramm’s thoughts shifted now from the problem of Leyton and the regalia to the problem of his brother, who had lain shrunken and insensate for the last six months in the tower’s top suite. He had no reason to think the tale of Gillard’s brief awakening was untrue, nor did he expect to learn anything new on this visit, but he felt compelled to look into it personally, nonetheless. The man was his only remaining brother, after all, and had suffered a dreadful loss. More than that, Abramm half hoped his own presence might somehow stir Gillard back to wakefulness, though why he would want that, he could not say.

  Trap made a small kelistar to put in the sling that hung from the coach’s ceiling so they wouldn’t have to ride in darkness, and the two dukes sat facing their king. Trap spent a few moments relating some of the things he had gleaned from the conversations he’d participated in or overheard this night— confirming to Abramm’s secret delight the rightness of appointing the man his First Minister—while Simon sat silently beside him, his features growing more and more stern the closer they got to the tower.

  The University clock was striking the first hour of a new day as they alit from the coach at the ramp leading up to the great square tower. Though Abramm was heavily cloaked and hooded, the cold moist air of the riverfront crept in around his newly bared cheeks and neck, raising gooseflesh in its wake. He glanced left toward the front of the coach, the horses’ pluming breaths obscuring the darkened tower yard beyond. Soldiers on the night watch marched their short beats in slow cadence at various points along the fence, while out on the river a barge clanged its warning bell.

  The tower’s heavy wooden door stood open, flanked by four guards. Abramm strode quickly up the ramp and into a chill, musty anteroom where a tallow dip guttered on a small corner table. Captain Channon awaited him there, along with the old man Abramm recognized as the head of Gillard’s three attendant
-keepers.

  The old man dropped Abramm a bow. “Welcome, sir.”

  As Simon and Trap stepped in behind him and the heavy door squealed shut, Abramm said, “Master Gregory, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.” The man bowed again, almost compulsively, and now Abramm saw the awe in his eyes. “If you’ll come this way, sir?”

  He led them up a short stair into the tower’s large first-floor room, stone floor covered with a braided rug. Rough-hewn tables and chairs sat empty before the fire.

  “I understand you were with him when the event occurred?” Abramm asked of Gregory as they crossed the room to the tower’s single stairwell.

  The man turned and gave him an abbreviated bow, avoiding his eyes. “Aye, Your M-Majesty.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Gregory led the way into the ancient spiraling stairwell, so narrow its walls brushed Abramm’s shoulders. “I was sweeping out the hearth when a wind rushed through the room,” the man said, “though the windows was closed and locked. I leaped up an’ he cried out. Arched up in the bed, a bright light on his chest. His eyes was open, but he saw nothin’. ’Twas frightenin’ weird, sir.”

  “When he cried out, what did he say?”

  “If ’twas words, I couldn’t make ’em out. More like a moan. He was sittin’ all the way up by then, eyes right on me, but blank an’ dead. Then the light went out and he fell back.”

  They climbed a few moments without speaking, the shuffle of their footsteps and the rasp of their breathing echoing around them.

  “And that’s all?” Abramm asked presently.

  “Been layin’ there ever since, sir. Just like he’s laid there these last six months.”

  They spoke no more, for by then the effort of climbing made it too difficult. They passed five successive locked doorways on five successive landings before reaching the last one, six floors above the street. Gregory produced an iron ring of keys and fumbled out the one he needed. It clanked into the lock, the tumblers’ grinding loud in the small stone-enclosed space. Then the door creaked inward, and Abramm stepped into the first chamber of the crown prince’s sumptuous two-room prison suite. A large rectangular sitting room was furnished with satin-upholstered chairs and divans, elegantly finished end tables, and in the opposite wall, a marble fireplace. Paintings and tapestries provided decoration, and a dining table attended by two chairs stood before a draperied window on the right. Another curtained window faced it from the left, the only illumination coming from the small hearth blaze and three tallow dips placed randomly about the room.