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

by Karen Hancock

  The White Pretender, she thought again. And laughed softly. Abramm glanced at her. “Something amuses you?”

  “I was just imagining Uncle Simon’s face if he could see you now. The White Pretender. He’d be speechless. And this …” She reached up to rub his beard and chuckled. “I wouldn’t have thought you could even grow one. It makes you look quite fierce.”

  He cocked a dubious brow at her, the expression achingly familiar. Abruptly the laughter almost turned to weeping, and for a moment she wanted to fling her arms about his neck again, to bury her face in his shoulder and sob anew with relief and this crazy, giddy joy. But she controlled herself, remembering now that they had an audience.

  Meridon, who had been eyeing her companions suspiciously, drifted up to Abramm’s left side, an instinctive, almost unconscious move of protection. “We’d best get back, my lord.”

  Abramm’s wry amusement gave way to a grimace. “He’s right. I’m afraid we have no time for lengthy reunions. Come.”

  C H A P T E R

  37

  Abramm led them along a narrow corridor to a large natural vault where the Dorsaddi had set up camp. Numerous brass oil pots held aloft on high poles shed their flickering light across the hundreds of men sleeping on the sandstone floor. Sentries walked among them and stood guard at the low, arched opening on the vault’s far side, an outside entrance through which Carissa could just make out the stained, sheer face of an opposing cliff wall, ghostly in the growing light of day. Just inside it stretched a row of striped pavilions, the centermost of which was larger than the others and attended by a cadre of pale-robed guards. Horses shuffled and stamped in a shadowed far corner, the sharp odor of their manure mingling with that of sweat and dung smoke and fresh-baked flatbread. Everywhere she looked she saw piles of rope, longbows, arrows, spears, rocks-the accoutrements of war.

  A compact, lean-faced Dorsaddi with strangely pale eyes and a striped headcloth met them as they entered. His expression did not change as he looked over the newcomers, though his gaze did hesitate on Carissa. Then he turned to Meridon and, with a nod toward Philip, asked in the Tahg, “This is indeed your brother, my Lord Deliverer?”

  “It is, my Lord Commander,” Meridon said. And the Pretender’s sister, as well. They have apparently come to rescue us from slavery.”

  The Lord Commander’s stern face broke into a white flash of teeth. A woman and a boy?” Grinning, he cocked his head at the two men. “I begin to be more certain we have underestimated your people’s courage.” The smile widened as he eyed Carissa again. `And perhaps their capacity for madness, as well.”

  “Who are those men?” Abramm asked, gesturing at the group by the main pavilion.

  As quickly as the amusement had bloomed across the Dorsaddi’s face it vanished, and he was all business again. “The warriors from Deir have arrived. I’ve sent the main body of them on to the southern plateau as you suggested.” He paused. “They have heard of Beltha’adi’s challenge, sir. Debouh is yammering to know when you mean to face him. If you mean to face him.”

  “That hasn’t been decided yet,” Meridon said before Abramm could respond, earning himself a sharp look from the latter.

  The Lord Commander gave them both a calm nod. “Just so you know what’s going on, my friends. Debouh is something of a hothead.”

  “Yes, Shemm’s told us all about him,” Abramm said dryly.

  Shemm? Carissa thought. He’s on a first-name basis with the king of the Dorsaddi? Well, of course, he’s the White Pretender.

  It still gave her goose bumps to think of it. For the first time in months she wanted to go home, to be there when everyone saw him, when they realized who and what he had become.

  The White Pretender had turned to her and was speaking in Kiriathan again. “… take you to my quarters, such as they are.” He gestured to the row of pavilions. “When I’m done talking to the king, I’ll return and-“

  “Absolutely not!” she interrupted. “You’re not leaving my sight for at least a month. I’m going with you.”

  Muffled laughter rose up around them. The crease in his brow returned.

  She waved a hand. “Oh, I know women aren’t supposed to speak in public and all that. Believe me, I know? I promise not to say anything. Besides, you are no more Dorsaddi than I, so why must we abide by their silly rules?”

  “Because the king is my friend, and I have no intention of insulting him,” Abramm said firmly. `And because, frankly, this is none of your business.”

  She gaped at him.

  “We’ll decide what to do next when I’m done.” He didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t seem to expect one, just turned and followed Meridon and his brother and the Lord Commander across the crowded floor to the royal pavilion.

  It took her a moment to find her tongue. Spluttering outrage, she lurched after them, only to find a Dorsaddi blocking her path. She dodged around him, but another pulled her back. “I’m sorry, serra,” he said in the Tahg, “but the Lord Pretender says you must come with us.”

  She would have struggled, but Danarin came up close on her off side. “Better, my lady, not to make a scene.”

  “But he has no right-“

  “He is not your little brother anymore, ma’am. And I suspect in this place he has the right to treat you any way he likes.”

  The cold truth of his words quenched her resistance, if not her indignation. Teeth clenched, she let the Dorsaddi lead her to one of the side pavilions. A veil blocked off the sleeping area at the rear, and the front half was field-plain, furnished only with a worn, dusty, dark-patterned rug and a low table on which sat a flickering oil lamp.

  Though Danarin followed her in, Cooper did not, standing as if on guard just outside the door. She glanced around the small space, then stepped back to the doorway, her irritation intensified by the realization that Philip had not come with her. That he, a mere boy, had been allowed to attend the meeting that was barred to her.

  By the Flames, I hate this land! These people are such narrow-minded barbarians. I cannot wait to be away and back to our home.

  “You gave him no real choice, my lady,” Danarin said. “Challenging him like that in front of everyone.”

  She frowned at him, standing in the doorway beside her. “What are you talking about?”

  “He is the White Pretender. Have you not seen the way the others look at him? Defer to him?”

  She had not, being too busy looking at him herself. But now that she thought of it, she realized it was true. Moreover—

  All at once she could hardly breathe. The White Pretender? The one who was supposed to face Beltha’adi in personal combat. Today, possibly.

  Bright pinwheels spun at the edges of her vision as she gasped for air. “No,” she murmured. “Oh, no…”

  “My lady?” Danarin’s voice came softly in her ear, and she realized that somehow she had come to lean upon his arm, her legs all wobbly beneath her.

  She looked up at him. “He’s going to face Beltha’adi. Isn’t he?”

  Danarin’s handsome features hardened. “Meridon said it wasn’t yet decided.”

  “Fah’lon said he had to do it. That if he didn’t, everyone would call him coward and the Dorsaddi hearts would melt.”

  “Yes, he did say that. Here. Why don’t you sit down?”

  She let him help her to the floor, then leaned forward to drop her head into her hands as he settled across the table from her. “This can’t be happening,” she moaned. “It just can’t be.”

  But it was typical of her luck, was it not? Typical of the cruelty of her life.

  “Frankly, I don’t understand it,” Danarin said. “They’re calling Meridon the Deliverer, so why would Abramm be the one to take the challenge? The prophecy says it’s the Deliverer who’s supposed to slay Beltha’adi.”

  “Perhaps that’s what the discussion is about.” She looked up with new hope. `And why Meridon said it hadn’t been decided yet.”

  “Perhaps, but …�
�

  “But what?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.” He rubbed his nose and squinted out the doorway. Then his gaze came back to hers. “Have you noticed that most of these men are Terstan?”

  “What?”

  “They wear their tunics slit open so you can see the shields.”

  “I thought those were just Dorsaddi medallions-“

  “They’re not. I had heard rumors of this. That instead of wearing the shields as they have in the past, they were now actually branded with them. I didn’t think it possible, but seeing as Meridon is apparently the DelivererI suspect what’s happened is he’s managed to convert most of them.”

  Nausea swirled under her heart. “You can’t be serious?” And yet, as she sorted frantically through her memories, she feared he was right. Had not Philip said something about it himself?

  Her pulse quickened. If Meridon had infected all the Dorsaddi, had he infected Abramm, too? Abramm had, after all, spent the last two years with the man, and in close company. It was obvious, watching them, that they shared a strong bond. And if Abramm had already been deceived once, was that not more reason to fear he might be again? There was that undeniably religious side of his nature, that fascination with things spiritual, that tendency to want to sacrifice himself for a higher good. She might not understand it, but she mustn’t ignore it or underestimate its power.

  The pinwheels were back. She laid a hand on the table to steady herself and made herself breathe deeply, the taste of bile bitter on her tongue.

  Danarin laid a hand on her own. “No, my lady, it is not what you are thinking-Abramm is not one of them. Yet.”

  “He’s not? How can you be sure?”

  “He’d be showing it, like the others, if he were.” He glanced down at his hand resting on hers and drew it away. “I suspect, however, they are pressuring him to change his mind.”

  “Then we must stop them?” She leapt to her feet.

  He looked up at her. “How?”

  She started for the door, turned back, wringing her hands. “I don’t know. Something. We have to do something.”

  But what could she do when she wasn’t even allowed to be part of the discussion?

  Oh, that would be absolutely the end. To have come all this way, endured all she had endured, to see the miraculous change in him-the scrawny, fearful boy become the champion of legend-only to have him …

  A vision of the old man of the hollow flashed in her head, his body bent, his eyes full of curd, his voice shrill with madness as he railed at the boys who came to tease him. It was replaced by her last memory of Raynen, raging about the sparrows, that line of curd already begun in his eyes. In a few years that could well be Abramm. And almost worse was the scorn he would receive from the nobles. The snickers behind his back, the snide remarks, the veiled contempt-scorn a hundred times worse than any he had yet received.

  She swallowed another surge of bile and turned back to the door just as Abramm himself stepped through it, tight lipped and pale. It took only a glance for her to realize he was furious.

  Danarin scrambled to his feet. “Your Highness,” he murmured, bowing and quickly slipping from the tent.

  Abramm let him go without comment, scowling at her as if he were only now remembering she was here and adding that inconvenience to the burden of his troubles. Her eyes flicked to the slit neckline of his tunic, and the sight of the bare, unmarked skin beneath it almost forced a moan of relief from her.

  He looked down too, but at the bundle he carried in his hands-white satin, a froth of lace, a gleaming curl of white hair. Her relief bled away.

  His scowl deepened and he stepped to the inner veil, casting the bundle onto the pallet beyond. “You shouldn’t have come.” He turned to face her, brows knit in a dark thundercloud.

  “If I could’ve sailed out of Xorofin, believe me, I would’ve.”

  “I mean you should never have come at all. Everything you’ve done only makes things worse.”

  The accusation stung the more because she knew-horribly, unforgivably-that it was true. But what else could she have done? Guilt spawned frustration, and frustration, anger. “Well, I’m sorry, brother? Forgive me for the unconscionable folly of caring what happens to you?”

  He stared at her stonily. “It’s not a matter of caring. It’s thinking you can do things you have no business doing.” He turned away from her, paced a step to the veil, and turned back again. “What possible difference did you think you could make? Did you think to buy me back? Steal me away? A woman alone, with a boy and two retainers?”

  “I had to try something.”

  “No, you didn’t! Sometimes it’s better just to accept there are things you cannot do. You should’ve left me to Eidon or the fates or whatever you want to call it and gone on with your life.”

  She snorted. “I had no life, Abramm.”

  “Of course you did! You had your husband-“

  “I was a pariah in Balmark!” The words were out before she could stop them, but once started the rush of anguished truth was impossible to stop. “Relegated to serving as nanny,” she shrilled, “to the bastard son of a husband who didn’t care if I lived or died. What did I have to lose?”

  He stared at her, his mouth half open, his brow furrowed. Pain flared across his face and was absorbed. He closed his mouth. “You left him?”

  “Let’s just say I was lost at sea.” She turned her gaze aside, watching one of the sentries move among the ranks of sleeping men outside the tent.

  He took to studying his hands and after a moment said, “Well, you can’t stay here. I’m going to send you back to Hur. At least there-“

  “No? I’ve not spent two years searching only to be parted from you now.”

  “Carissa, you can’t-“

  “Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do. It’s one thing out there-it’s another in here.”

  “You have no idea what’s going on here.”

  “Oh yes, I think I do.” She hesitated, knowing she was about to tread on uncertain ground, then said quietly, “Let Meridon do it.”

  He went completely stiff, and though he did not look at her, she knew he understood exactly what she meant. More, she sensed this was not the first time the prospect had been put to him.

  “He’s the Deliverer,” she whispered. “He should be the one to fight their battles. And in the costume who would know?”

  “I … it’s not that simple.”

  “Of course it is. You don’t really believe they need you specifically, do you? They just need someone to wear the costume.”

  “But I have a chance of beating him.” He was looking at her now. “If I left … it would be like running out on them.”

  “No. You would be … you would be saving me and returning home to help your own people. And Meridon is no slouch in the arena. Surely he has as much chance of defeating him as you.”

  When he did not speak, she pressed her point. Abramm, think-think what you could do if you went home.”

  “Home? I’ve been exiled, Riss?”

  “Eldrin has been exiled, not Abramm.”

  “But Raynen-“

  “Hated what he did. It was eating him up. He only sent you away because of the hold Saeral had over you. And because Gillard pressured him, I think.” She paused. “You were weak then, as well. But you are not now.”

  She had his attention, those startling blue eyes fixed upon her, the look on his face betraying the fact that he saw the possibilities. Encouraged, she leaned toward him and began to present her case in earnest.

  C H A P T E R

  38

  “He says he’ll clear the south plateau of his men so our people can watch,” Shemm said, nodding at the slope of rock before them. He lay on his belly at Abramm’s side, the two of them cradled between sandstone hummocks, in broad daylight and in plain view of Beltha’adi’s sentries posted less than a stone’s throw away. The amphitheater lay below them, its carved stone benches ascending halfwa
y up the far red wall, stopping at the point where the naturally sloping face grew vertical. This early in the afternoon, it stood empty. Later, that would not be the case.

  The wall itself curved around in a bowl shape, facing southwest, making it the ideal location for the amphitheater. From their present position the two men could look down both sides of that wall, for the wadi turned sharply away from them at that point, curving back and around to the great temple, its carved-out columns and entryway facade flat in the misty light.

  Abramm could not look at it without smiling. To have successfully baited the dragon in his den, not once but twice, made his heart warm with satisfaction. Even better had been the exploit with the veren last night. The chaos and dismay that spectacle had created made it well worth the trouble of hauling the body from Hur, and the scorch marks still stained the white pan of the amphitheater’s floor. Even their ploy to get the soldiers to invade Fah’lon’s villa had worked-though after that, nothing had turned out quite as planned. Fah’lon’s noble guests, the bait for the trap, had escaped, leaving no one for the soldiers to arrest. And the gambit had brought Carissa back into Abramm’s life, which had changed everything.

  Grimacing, he returned his thoughts to the issue at hand. “He’ll have men hidden in the temple,” he said. “Ready to go. And in all the passages under the amphitheater. Probably in the treasury, as well.”

  The king turned his head slightly, dark eyes glittering at him from under the edge of his headcloth. “So we will do likewise on this side, eh?”

  “So much as we are able.” Abramm frowned at the opposite plateau where the dark figures of patrolling soldiers stood out against the pale sandstone and churning mist. The flanking force Shemm had sent out-at Abramm’s suggestion-should be just about in place by now. It was a gamble sending them out, for it reduced the numbers they had to hold the plateau and launch any sort of offensive toward the Esurhites. But as long as they had their rear lines covered-Shemm had men guarding all the potential channels and passages by which Beltha’adi might seek to flank them-Abramm felt they had an adequate position.