Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1)

by Karen Hancock

  Gillard glanced at him; his lips quirked. “There are those who can be quite accommodating when one has need of disposing of live embarrassments. I’ll even make a little profit off of you.”

  Meridon hissed, every freckle standing out on his suddenly pale face. “He’s your own brother, my lord.”

  As comprehension dawned, Eldrin all but fainted.

  His brother looked from one to the other of them and laughed. Ah. I knew it would be worth coming down here. You should see the looks on your faces?”

  Still chuckling, he turned to one of his men. “Strip ‘em. And cut off that miserable hair. I don’t want anyone to know he’s Mataian.”

  “N&” Eldrin exploded. “You can’t-“

  “I can do whatever I wish,” Gillard snapped.

  His henchman gripped the front of Eldrin’s tunic and jerked downward, the ripping sound loud and obscene in the silence. Another man grabbed a fistful of hair.

  “You’ll pay for this, Gillard,” Eldrin gritted, fury rising again. “Sidon will see that you pay.”

  “Eidon?” Gillard looked mockingly skyward. “I don’t see any bolts out of heaven, little brother. Perhaps your god does not care as much as you think. If he exists at all.”

  He motioned again. Something crashed into the back of Eldrin’s head, and the boat room vanished into darkness.

  LAND

  OF

  DARKNESS

  PART TWO

  C H A P T E R

  9

  The Princess Carissa, Lady of Balmark, waited in the royal gallery outside the king’s apartments the next morning, staring at the gold-framed portrait in front of her. Fog-softened light filtered through mullioned glass to her left. A mumble of conversation and laughter from the king’s court drifted up the stairs at the hall’s end, but here she was alone.

  The boy in the portrait stared back at her-strikingly blue eyes in a pale face framed by thick blond hair. Even at twelve Abramm had worn his hair longer than Father liked, the straight locks curling up at the ends where they fell against his lace collar. Mama had encouraged it-part of her ongoing battle against the Kiriathan heritage her husband revered and she detested. Over the years she’d molded Abramm into her own private statement of defiance, a weapon she sadly did not live to see deployed. It was only after her deathand perhaps in part because of it-that Abramm had entered the Mataio.

  He looked so young, so naive … so fragile….

  Carissa twined her fingers, her middle quivering. What has happened to him?

  Four evenings ago her twin had met with Raynen and refused his offer of stipend and vessel. The following morning a blond Initiate from Fairfield Watch was found murdered in the Keep garden, Trap Meridon’s ram-headed dirk in his heart. Scandal swept the court as Meridon was arrested and charged with murder, and that night fear stalked her dreams as she followed Abramm down a dark corridor. Vague anxieties alternated with sharp premonitions of danger that shook her to trembling wakefulness, and by morning she knew he was in peril. When Raynen declared Meridon’s trial postponed a day-pending acquisition of new evidence-she set off for the Keep, determined to speak to her twin.

  Only to find he had disappeared.

  “It may be,” confided the Guardian at the gate-they would not let her onto the grounds themselves-“that he is in one of the meditation cubicles.”

  He said they could not violate the sanctity of private meditation until her brother had been missing several days at least. And it would have to be approved by the High Father.

  Frustrated, she went to the palace. But Raynen would not see her either, cloistered with his law-readers and investigators as they prepared for Meridon’s trial. At last, frustrated and exhausted, she returned to her flat in Sprin- gerlan-and a second night of dark rooms and nameless heart-pounding fears.

  Meridon had been tried and convicted yesterday and was sentenced to die this very morning. Indeed, his head had rolled at dawn, though the event had been overshadowed by the riot of rumors that burst simultaneously from the Keep. Supposedly Abramm had failed the test of the Flames two days ago and trespassed into the innermost parts of the Sanctum to hide himself away. Last night he’d emerged to attack the High Father himself, then fled in a frenzy of violence no one had dared try to stop.

  Several of the highest Haverallans wore bandages, including Saeral himself, who wept openly and proclaimed his consternation over this unexpected betrayal. His chief aide and head of the Order of St. Haverall, Brother Rhiad, had personally spoken with Carissa, sincerely distraught at the turn of affairs but suggesting such madness was not unexpected when a man failed the test of the Flames. She’d wanted to hit him, and she believed none of it. Not in her wildest imagination could she conceive of her gentle, scholarly brother doing such a thing, Flames or not. Nor did she believe he could have failed the test of the Flames. No man had been more devoted-or worthy-than Abramm. More convincing than anything, though, was the dream she’d had last night, the third in as many nights and the worst of the lot. It was clearly Abramm who’d been in danger, not Saeral, and she was determined to get to the bottom of things.

  Across the gallery behind her a door opened, and she turned as Prince Gillard stepped from the king’s chambers. In the moment before he realized she stood there, she glimpsed an expression of pain and helpless grief on his bold features. Then he looked up and it vanished.

  “Riss?” One white-blond brow arched as he drew up in front of her. “What are you doing here?”

  “I should think it obvious,” she replied.

  He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Ray’s not seeing anyone.”

  “He saw you.”

  “Aye, well…” His glance lifted to Abramm’s portrait behind her. The corners of his lips twitched. “I missed you at Meridon’s execution.” His iceblue gaze came back to her.

  “Why in the world would I wish to attend that?”

  Gillard shrugged. “I thought you had a crush on him once.”

  A crush? He is a Terstan, for Haverall’s sake.” She had to admit, though, she did find it dismaying to think of Meridon dead, for he’d always been the perfect gentleman, undeniably likeable, despite his distasteful religious persuasion. But a crush? Absurd. Raynen, on the other hand, loved him like a brother, and she knew the necessity of ordering Meridon executed had to have been devastating.

  Gillard pulled at the ruffled cuff of his blouse beneath his gray doublet sleeve. “You’ve heard about Abramm, I presume?”

  “I’ve heard a lot of nonsense and lies?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. More than Guardians saw him, after all. I think he has gone mad, and no surprise there.” He took her arm to steer her around. “Come.”

  She shook free of him. “Stop it! I mean to see Ray, and I’ll stay here until I do.”

  Again pain flashed across his face. “Ray is not in any condition for-“

  “Perhaps not,” she interrupted, “but he knows a good deal about what’s going on, and I intend to have some answers.”

  He cocked his brow again, and the pale eyes hooded. “Do you, now?”

  “Don’t be snide, Gillard.”

  He regarded her a moment, then relented, his mien softening. “Carissa, I’m serious. He’s … on the edge.”

  “On the edge of … oh.” With understanding came renewed disgust. “First Abramm’s mad, and now Ray. How convenient for you.”

  “It is not like that.” His voice was soft and low. Suddenly he looked like a lost little boy, and she recalled then that he hadn’t even reached his twentieth year. For all his size and bluster, he was in many ways still a child. “Spend five minutes with him,” he added, “and you’ll understand.”

  She frowned, disconcerted by this uncharacteristic vulnerability-and abruptly afraid. Drawing her dignity about her like a shield, she tossed her head. “I fully intend to, little brother.”

  As she started by him, he pressed a hand to her arm. “Riss, look at his eyes.”

  She stared up at hi
m, frozen, searching for the flicker that would belie his words. She found none-no bravado, no smugness, no teasing. Only genuine grief. He released her and strode away, booted feet smacking the gleaming parquet floor.

  As he disappeared down the stair, the door to the royal apartments opened again and the chamberlain called her in.

  The royal sitting room was high ceilinged and grandly sized, like all the palace rooms, dwarfing furnishings and inhabitants alike. Blue-and-whitestriped, satin-upholstered chairs and couches stood on thick, blue, brushedthread carpeting of paisley design. Dark tables decked with flowers or statuary provided accents. On the hearth a fire burned unnoticed. Her older brother awaited outside on the balcony, facing outward, arms braced on the stone balustrade.

  Birdsong greeted her as she stepped through the glass-paneled balcony doors and joined him. He did not acknowledge her presence, so she waited in silence, hands resting lightly on the railing.

  A black-and-white terrace stretched below them, deserted in the foggy morning. Normally one could see Kalladorne Bay and the port from this vantage. Today, cedars spired half-hidden through the mist on the terrace’s far side. On its near, uphill side an ancient oak lifted gnarled branches bright with spring leaves and alive with a flock of sparrows. In the distance the university clock began to toll, and from the room behind, the mantle clock started up as well, a beat behind its larger, deeper cousin.

  As the last strike faded, Raynen spoke. “They watch me all the time, you know. The birds.” He stared at the oak, the sparrows chirping and hopping and fluttering from branch to branch. “They watch and laugh.”

  Carissa flicked a startled glance at him. She could not see his eyes from this vantage, but the rest of him testified to his distress. His blue doublet wrinkled off drooping shoulders, as if he had slept in it. Above the line of his beard, the usually clean-shaven cheek bristled with days-old growth. Deep crevices pulled downward from his nose and eye, and his skin shone as pale and translucent as the fog that swirled around them.

  “They tell me to jump,” he went on, still staring. “Then they laugh at me.”

  She laid a hand on his arm. “Come on, Ray. Let’s go in.”

  He glanced down at her and she recoiled. His eyes crouched in deep shadows, red-rimmed and bloodshot, and curving along the edge of his right iris rose a pale crescent of curdled tissue.

  The sarotis.

  They had been watching for it since Raynen had converted to the Terstan religion six years ago. Meridon’s influence, Gillard had said, and she did not doubt it. Raynen held the Terstan in altogether too high an esteem. Now he was paying the price.

  “You see it, don’t you?” he whispered.

  Horror closed her throat. Her vision misted and she looked away, blinking back tears. He turned and stalked back inside.

  Plagues! Gillard was right. She had heard rumors of Raynen’s increasing paranoia, his hallucinations, his fits of temper, and recently, the talk of suicide….

  She glanced at the birds in their foliage-bright tree. They had gone still and silent. She swallowed and, drawing a breath of resolve, followed her brother into the palace.

  He was slumped before the sideboard, pouring himself a drink with shaking hands. Kiriathan whiskey. At nine o’clock in the morning.

  “You haven’t asked me how Therese is.” He tossed off the red-gold liquor in one gulp, the cuff of his sleeve sliding back to reveal a scab-crusted sore on his wrist. Her eyes fixed upon it, new horror piling upon old.

  He slammed the glass onto the sideboard with a loud crack, then turned to brace both hands and backside against the cabinet, rheumy eyes fixed upon her.

  “I didn’t know there was cause for concern,” Carissa replied hastily. Therese was Raynen’s wife, now six months pregnant with what everyone hoped would be his firstborn son and heir. “Is she all right?”

  “Went into labor last night. Delivered the child this morning. Dead. Like the others.” His voice was flat, his words driving like spears into her breast.

  Stunned, she sank into a blue-striped chair. “Oh, Ray…”

  He laughed, the odor of alcohol wafting from him. “It’s my punishment, you see. Don’t dare cross the Mataio or they see that you pay. Her nurses say there’s been a lot of bleeding. She may die.” He sighed. “Perhaps I should end it all, just as the birds tell me.”

  “You’re talking nonsense.”

  “Nonsense?” He waved a hand. “What do you know?”

  “Nothing. That’s the problem.” She gripped the chair’s wooden arm and leaned toward him. “What’s going on, Ray? Why did Meridon kill that Initiate? And what’s happened to Abramm? I cannot believe he is mad.”

  “Why not? I am.” Raynen crossed his arms and met her gaze evenly. `And it’s certain Abramm has seen horrors that would unhinge the stoutest mind.” His eyes lost focus, and he dropped his chin to his chest.

  Carissa stared at the wall above him. No wonder Gillard grieved. He was watching the brother he had looked up to all his life crack apart.

  “Trap didn’t kill that Initiate, you know,” Ray said abruptly. “Rhiad probably did it.”

  “Rhiad! Why?”

  Ray lifted his head. “Abramm was close to figuring out who Saeral really is. They needed to distract him and to discredit us. It worked against them, though, for it drove him to trespass into the depths of the Keep and find the truth. He surely looked into the face of evil, and they caught him. I sent Trap to pull him out….” His gaze wandered the room; then he closed his eyes and drew a deep, shuddering breath. Ah, what have I done? My loyal friend. My own brother?”

  His face convulsed with agony, and he stalked halfway across the room, swayed a moment, and collapsed onto a white satin couch, face in his hands, harsh sobs ripping the silence.

  Carissa gaped at him. What had he done? She sprang to his side and gripped his arm, giving it a little shake. “What’s happened, Ray? What are you talking about?”

  He shook his head, mumbled into his hands. “Why did I listen to him?”

  “Listen to who?” Her fingers pressed the steely muscle beneath his velvet sleeves. “Raynen, for Haverall’s sake, tell me what you did!”

  He regained himself, sniffed, and raised his head. “Saeral is a pawn of the rhu’ema. He meant to possess Abramm. I had to get him away, so I sent Trap to free him, supposedly to take him into exile.”

  She released him and sat back, struggling to make sense of his words. “Captain Meridon? But he was executed-“

  “Not him. A substitute.”

  The words took a moment to register. A substitute? Plagues, Ray? You killed an innocent man on that block this morning?”

  The king shrugged. “Hardly an innocent-he was awaiting execution for strangling his wife and children.” He lapsed into silence, staring at his lap.

  Carissa frowned. “So Meridon was with Abramm when he fled?”

  “Yes. He’s the one who probably got Saeral-assuming the snake is truly injured, of course. He was to take Abramm to the river, where he was told a vessel would carry them out to one of my ships. Only…” He looked up at her. “Understand, Carissa, I did what was best for the realm. If either of them ever came back, the kingdom would be driven into chaos. I had to let Gillard do it.”

  “Do what?” It was all she could do to keep from shrieking at him.

  “He sold them to the night ships.”

  She gaped at him, stunned. “You sold your own brother into slavery? He’ll die, Raynen. He’s obviously Kiriathan. Some Esurhite will buy him for their Games, and they’ll kill him.”

  “Not the Games. He’s too weak for that.”

  “So he wastes away laboring in a salt mine. What’s the difference? You’ve as much as murdered him, either way.”

  The king’s face crumpled, and he hunched over again. “Aye.”

  She looked away, feeling ill. At her side a Thilosian vase sat on the end table, eggshell thin, lime green and orange swirling around blood-splotched flowers. It magnified
the nausea swirling in her … then triggered a sudden, pulse-quickening notion.

  “Windbird is nearly ready to go,” she whispered. “He’s only been out a day. If we sail tomorrow, I can buy him back in Qarkeshan and-“

  “N&” Raynen gripped her arm, his bloodshot eyes wide, the lightning shift of his emotions unnerving. “No. Don’t you see? Saeral wants him. Saeral would possess him, rule through him.”

  “Ray-“

  He shook her arm, fingers biting into her flesh. “You must tell no one? If Saeral learns the truth, he’ll go after him. Abramm cannot come back, Carissa. You must forget him.”

  She stared at him, filled with the desire to jerk away and wash herself

  “Promise me you’ll not go after him. Promise me.”

  “Never?”

  “Carissa-“

  A bird chirped loudly on the balcony, and he wrenched around. Sparrows perched along the railing like judges on a bench, all of them staring inward with bright, watchful eyes. Raynen erupted with an inarticulate cry and ran to seize the poker from the rack of hearth tools. “The door?” he exclaimed, fighting to untangle the rod from its holder. “You forgot to shut the door. Now they’ve heard us.”

  He wrenched the poker free, the rack falling with a crash as he lurched into the table at Carissa’s side. The Thilosian vase shattered on the floor, green, orange, and red shards spraying the carpet. He ignored it, rushing to the balcony, swinging his poker in wide, frantic arcs. “Get out! Get out!”

  The sparrows exploded upward in a whir of wingbeats and took shelter in the oak tree. Raynen stared at them, panting. When he returned he closed and locked both doors, then drew the drapes. “They’re his servants,” he told her, turning. “He sends them to spy on me. He’ll send them after you, too. You must be careful.”

  Footsteps thundered in the adjoining apartments and the chamberlain burst into the room, stopping abruptly, the other servants clustered at his back. His gaze flicked from Raynen to Carissa. “Is anything amiss, Sire?”