Shadow Over Kiriath, Page 2

  Today’s coronation was supposed to resolve the matter, the conferring of the regalia being a sign of divine anointing. Tradition required the ceremony be cleanly executed, however. Accidents, delays, embarrassing missteps, or bad weather would all be counted as ill omens. So would any fumbling with the regalia when they were bestowed, and Abramm had already dropped the practice Orb of Tersius several times during rehearsals. Those who wished him ill were predicting he would do it again today and thus provide “unequivocal proof” that Eidon’s hand was against him.

  In addition, Abramm’s advisors believed Bonafil meant to denounce him openly during the ceremony itself, and all the Terstans on his cabinet were convinced he would come under direct rhu’ema attack, as well. To face all that, he must be strong and confident in the Light. But after the barrage of difficulties that had assaulted him in the last day or so, he was about as deep into the Shadow’s grip as he’d ever been.

  Yesterday had begun as this one had: without Lady Madeleine’s morning appearance. That was followed by a nasty argument with his uncle over the Chesedhan treaty, then yet another practice wherein he dropped the orb, not once but three times. He’d spent the midday meal brooding over it all, fighting to break free of the Shadow’s increasingly protracted holds on him.

  Then, as if timed to arrive precisely when it would do the most damage, a copy of the latest pamphlet was delivered to his hands. The most vitriolic yet, it pointed out that not only had Eidon failed to bless Abramm’s projects, he’d also declined to heal him of his wounds, leaving him hideously scarred and maimed for life. Why, the writer had asked, would this be so when Eidon’s own Words of Revelation demand that his servants be without flaw?

  Even before Abramm finished reading, he knew who had authored it: rhu’ema. Yes, the elusive Darak Prittleman was doubtless the human vector, but this was far too close to the mark to have come from anyone but the rhu’ema—both in the words and in the timing. Even knowing that, he’d been knocked solidly into the Shadow’s control, from which he’d initiated that misbegotten conversation with Trap Meridon and come face-to-face with a reality he’d long suspected but been unable to consider until now: that he was, indeed, permanently crippled. The thought still made his stomach churn and brought cold sweat to his brow.

  Haldon finished buttoning the doublet, adjusted the cravat, then pulled sharply at the cuffs of Abramm’s underblouse while Smyth fastened the five golden chains of Abramm’s kingly rank across his chest and Durstan belted on the empty sword harness. As they laid the red velvet cloak across his shoulders, a staffid that had infiltrated its folds scurried down his arm. Haldon immediately knocked the vermin away, and this time young Harry had the honor of stomping it to death as Abramm’s valets stood by looking pale, chagrinned, and frustrated. They had searched his bedchamber numerous times this morning but failed to find nest or sack. Bowls of onions had been placed throughout Abramm’s apartments, yet still the things came, as if materializing from the air itself.

  “It’s all right,” Abramm said, wrist tingling with the spawn’s proximity. “We’ll solve this mystery later. For now, let’s proceed.”

  And so they did, Haldon tying the cloak across Abramm’s chest as the others pulled and straightened the garment’s train around his feet. When all was properly arranged and no more staffid had appeared, they stepped back to assess the results of their efforts, studying him with silent, grave expressions.

  Finally, he frowned at his grand chamberlain. “That bad, is it?”

  Haldon gave a start, then a ghost of a smile. “Hardly, sir. You look magnificent.” He gestured to the full-length mirror draped in heavy white linen. “Would you like to see for yourself?”

  Every man in the room gasped, gazes flying to the chamberlain in alarm, while Haldon himself paled and gulped with astonishment as if he, too, couldn’t believe what he’d said. It was only then that Abramm acknowledged the mirror had been covered for months and he’d never once commented on it. Nor had he told anyone to uncover it.

  “Was it your idea to drape the mirror, Hal?” he asked, nodding at it.

  A red flush replaced the pallor in Haldon’s weathered cheeks.

  “ ’Twas Count Blackwell’s idea, sir,” Smyth volunteered, when Haldon couldn’t find his tongue. “Though we all agreed he was right in not wanting to add to your distress. We planned to wait until you asked.” He flicked a glance at the chamberlain, whose gaze was now fixed upon a point beyond Abramm’s shoulder.

  “But I didn’t ask, did I?” Abramm said.

  Haldon’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “No, sir. I don’t know what I was thinking to suggest we unveil it now.”

  And after Trap’s revelation last night, I certainly don’t need to have my nose rubbed in any more of my losses. My mood is foul enough as it is.

  Good advice, and he almost took it. Until he realized what a coward he must look to these men—afraid even to look at his own face!—and ordered it uncovered after all.

  Haldon’s eyes darted to his own, his long, wrinkled face frowning. But he only said, “Yes, sir,” before grasping a fold of the linen and stepping back. The pale fabric rippled free to reveal the wooden-framed reflection of a tall, blond, straight-backed man dressed in white, his diamond-covered doublet glittering in the lamplight beneath the crimson robe flowing from his shoulders. The diamonds and velvet and golden chains of rank, the powerful shoulders and commanding stance, the stern brow and determined set of the jaw all hit him in a half-heartbeat of time, bearing a sense of strength and regality that hardly registered as his eyes focused on the face and horrified shock swept away all else.

  Twin tracks of shiny red scar tissue, the inner one thicker and more ragged than the outer, slashed the familiar features from brow to jaw, in no way “barely noticeable.” Discomfort writhed within him, pressing him to turn away. Disbelief held him steady as his left hand lifted to awkwardly stroke the scars, fingertips rough along their tight and tender length.

  “They’re so wide,” he murmured, “and red.” I never should have let them shave the beard. At least I’d have something to mask them with, even if Maddie doesn’t think the wild mountain look appropriate. Better that than this.

  “It’s only been six months, sir,” Haldon said quietly.

  “They’ll draw every eye like filings to a lodestone. The Mataio will have the happiest day of its history.” His arm fell back to his side.

  No wonder they’re saying I can’t be Eidon’s. . . . And when I go out there today, when they all finally see me for themselves, they’ll be more convinced than ever the lies are true.

  He found himself struggling to breathe, hands trembling, knees weak and wobbling. Anguish wailed through him. Why have you done this, my Lord? I trusted you!

  A thumping of footfalls preceded the arrival of Shale Channon, captain of Abramm’s Royal Guard. He burst into the bedchamber full of trouble to report, but the moment he saw Abramm standing among his valets he stopped to stare, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Another wave of painful selfconsciousness seared through Abramm’s soul. Then he took hold of himself, the effort sharpening his voice as he asked Channon why he was there.

  The captain drew himself upright. “Sir, the front axle o’ yer carriage has broken. It canna be fixed, and so—”

  “Broken? Didn’t you inspect it just yesterday?”

  “Aye, sir. The master o’ coachmen is guessin’ a crack, sir. Prob’ly got wet when the coach was washed yesterday an’ didna dry completely. When the temperature dropped last night with this storm, it froze and split the wood. ’Tis Eidon’s mercy alone the thing slid off the lane comin’ up from the coach house. Otherwise it surely would’ve snapped when ye hit th’ drop goin’ into Talwether Square. And what a mess that would be.”

  A mess and a mishap of gargantuan proportion. A sure sign of Eidon’s displeasure with Kiriath’s newest king. Not that anyone would need additional confirmation after one look at his face. Chagrin piled upon chagrin. Maybe he should just cancel thi
s whole thing, abdicate as half the realm wanted him to, and leave the rule to Gillard. Even if he was lying unconscious in the Chancellor’s Tower.

  “With all th’ carriages in use,” Channon went on, “Princess Carissa has offered ye hers. She’ll take Prince Leyton’s, who’ll move with Lady Madeleine t’ Duke Simon’s, who’ll take either Duke Oswain’s or th’ one we’ve reserved for Cap’n Meridon after the ceremony. They’re working it out now.”

  Which would cause a dreadful delay and birth a host of bruised egos and hard feelings. . . . Again he thought of turning his back on it all.

  And wouldn’t your enemies love that? asked a dry, familiar voice at the back of his mind. They win the final confrontation by default. But, then, you know as well as anyone that the best way to win a war is not to have to fight it at all—or have you forgotten that you are fighting a war here? An invisible war, of course, fought against the unseen rhu’eman enemies who were unquestionably responsible for all that had befallen him of late. The broken carriage would be laughably obvious, if not for the serious repercussions it carried.

  Jared had been whispering into Haldon’s ear, and now the white-haired chamberlain straightened from their conversation and cleared his throat. “Perhaps His Majesty could dispense with the carriage altogether,” he said when the captain looked at him, “and ride Warbanner, instead.”

  Channon’s eyes widened. “Warbanner’s been in the pasture all week, m’ lord. He’ll be muddy and shaggy and—”

  “Apparently not.” Haldon glanced down at Jared, who squared his shoulders under the combined gazes of captain and king.

  “We brought him in yesterday, sir,” the young man said to Abramm. “Gave him a bath and a trim, combed out his mane and tail, and left him in a clean box stall in the Green stable.”

  “We?” Abramm asked.

  “Philip Meridon and me, sir. And Lady Madeleine. It was her idea, in fact. Said it wouldn’t hurt to have him ready in case something went wrong.”

  Madeleine. That explained how they’d handled Banner. Maddie had an uncanny touch with the horse. And an uncanny ability to anticipate Abramm’s needs—though he doubted her actions yesterday were solely about that. More likely she was trying to escape her brother, Prince Leyton, with whom she’d fought that morning. And it would be just like Maddie to spend the day before the most important social event of the year down in the stables washing a horse. The thought almost made him smile.

  “I do na think it’d be proper for ye to ride to yer coronation on a warhorse, sir,” said Captain Channon, frowning. “ ’Twill be called an ill omen.”

  “And my broken carriage will not?” Abramm shook his head. “No. Warbanner is clearly the better solution. And frankly, I’d rather ride than sit in a carriage.”

  “I’ll see to it, then, sir.”

  Channon took his leave, and with him went the brief respite Abramm had enjoyed in his presence, even if he had brought news of trouble. At least the carriage hadn’t broken on the way to the Hall of Kings. And Maddie’s foresight in preparing Warbanner was a welcome development indeed. A thread of hope wove through his despair. Maybe things wouldn’t turn out as badly as he feared.

  He noted the mirror looming to his right, its reflected figure tauntingly vague at the edge of his vision. Maybe the scars weren’t as bad as he’d first thought them, either. Maybe the shock of seeing them for the first time had made them seem wider and redder than they really were. Maybe another look would be more objective, give him reassurance.

  It did not. Confronting that face in the mirror again only showed the scars as raw and savage as ever. Again they knocked his thoughts reeling and made him want to crawl out of his own skin. Whatever relief he’d enjoyed through the distraction of the carriage incident and his amused affection for Maddie’s ministrations was lost in a renewed storm of bitter despair. That cannot be me. Surely that is not me.

  “Sir, truly they are not as bad as you think,” Haldon said quietly. “We all have become so accustomed to them we hardly see them anymore, and . . . they’re nothing to be ashamed of, anyway.”

  “Eidon does not scar and maim his servants, Hal.”

  “That passage refers to a different time and mode of service, as I am sure you are aware, sir. In truth, Eidon has dealt quite a few hurts to his servants, all in the name of their blessing and his glory.”

  “I see very little of either in this situation,” Abramm retorted. “And when I go out there in the next few moments, everyone will see the Mataians and the pamphleteer are right. For how can I be Eidon’s and look like this?”

  Haldon looked at him very directly, swallowed once, then jerked up his chin and said, “No, sir. The question is how you can be Eidon’s and think like this!”

  Abramm stared at him, shocked by the stern challenge in his voice as the other servants gaped in astonishment. Then his anger flared. He was about to erupt when the dry mental voice said, Why don’t you save that energy for your real enemies and pay attention to what this man is saying? Or do you really mean to give it over to them without a fight? Whining and mewing like a babe, simply because you’re not as pretty as you once were.

  That’s not it!

  Then why are you making such a fuss?

  Abramm’s gaze switched from Haldon to the image of himself in the mirror.

  You said once that you would accept whatever Eidon made of you, observed the voice in his head. That you would give up everything you had for his sake. Apparently you didn’t really mean it.

  I did mean it! I just . . . didn’t think he would do this.

  And that was the sticking point. Deep down, he had not believed Eidon would cripple him. So long as he maintained his devotion to the Light and the Words and worked very hard, he’d counted on being rewarded with a full recovery. When the time came to go before his people to be crowned, he’d expected to be whole and well, astonishing everyone with the power of his God.

  Instead his arm was truly crippled and his face forever scarred, and Eidon had let it happen. For my blessing and his glory. . . .

  He stared at his lean, hawkish countenance, at the twin tracks of scarlet that slashed it, struggling to comprehend how this could be for his blessing, struggling to find even a vapor of comfort in the thought. But he found only bitterness and fear, rising by the moment as he realized he would soon have to go before his people and show them what Eidon had made of his “servant.”

  He closed his eyes, blotting out the scarred face, the surrounding servants with their pitying expressions, the velvet brocade drapes and the mahogany sideboard.

  Down in the valley, the University clock began to toll the hour as across the room the door opened and closed. Soft footfalls approached, a whispered exchange ensued, and after a moment Haldon cleared his throat.

  “Sir?” he said quietly. “They’re ready for you now.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  With the strains of Mandeville’s Second Concerto ringing in the air around her, Lady Madeleine Abigail Clarice Donavan, Second Daughter of the Chesedhan King Hadrich, finally reached the bottom of the Hall of Kings’ sloping central aisle and turned right. Heart thumping against her ribs, she angled across the open forestage in time to the music, her brother, Crown Prince Leyton, at her side. Together they headed for the royal box beside the granite outcropping that was the hall’s stage. In the eastern alcove beside them, an audience glared down at them, just like the larger audience now at her back had glared as she and Leyton had come down the aisle. At least no one had thrown anything or shouted insults. Yet.

  Leyton led the way up a short stair into the velvet-swagged box and along the front row to Simon Kalladorne’s side, where he pivoted to face forward. Maddie followed suit, leaving the chair immediately to her left the only one in the box still waiting to be claimed. A raft of the highest nobles in the land stood on the risers behind her, their hostile gazes beating against the back of her neck. Few of them liked her much, anyway, and seeing her standing as her s
ister’s substitute in the place of highest honor beside Kiriath’s own crown princess only made things worse.

  Leyton Donavan had arrived three days before the coronation with the news that his father, King Hadrich, had agreed to the marriage alliance Abramm had proposed. Seeing as the prospective bride would not arrive for at least another month, everyone believed they’d be discussing the matter for weeks. Instead, not twenty-four hours after Leyton’s arrival, Abramm had shocked them all by putting his own signature to the treaty. His privy counselors—and everyone else, for that matter—were still reeling from the speed of it all.

  Even Maddie had been surprised.

  Surprised. There was an understatement.

  The thought knotted her stomach and stirred dangerous memories of last night’s dream—the kind you wanted to forget the moment you woke up and realized it was a dream, because you would never do the things you had done in it. In fact, it was hard for Maddie to accept the fact she’d even dreamt of doing them. And yet the very passion that had made the thing so scandalizing had also burned its images indelibly into her mind. . . .

  He stood before her in the practice hall, holding her hands and gazing into her eyes. Even though Briellen stood nearby chatting with the courtiers, Maddie could not make herself look away, not even when his hand slid about her waist and pulled her to him—

  Oh plagues! Think of something else.

  Grimly, she focused on the rough granite stage below, the High Table of the Regalia to her right and the tall-backed Coronation Chair directly before her. To her left, just beyond where the granite sheared down to meet the carpeted forestage, stood the Receiving Throne on its five-stepped dais. Beyond it, a sea of faces flowed up the natural amphitheater along which the Hall of Kings had been built. Vertical white banners bearing Abramm’s dragon-and-shield coat of arms dangled above the restless crowd. At the height of the slope, a drapery-lined passageway beneath temporary wooden balconies led in from the front anteroom. Kiriath’s crown princess was just now emerging from its opening to start down the aisle. Once she had taken her place in the royal box, Abramm would begin his own procession.