Return of the Guardian-King

by Karen Hancock

  Maddie stared back at him, shocked herself that a great lord and foreigner such as Tiris ul Sadek would have heard of Abramm.

  Ronesca was clearly annoyed. It was not often she found herself outmaneuvered in conversation. Now she smiled and intruded again. “Perhaps you have not yet heard the details of his tragic death. I—”

  “Rest assured, Highness,” ul Sadek said, cutting her off. “All in the south and east have heard by now of the death of the White Pretender. If indeed he is dead.” He cocked a dark brow at Maddie, the gold on his cheekbones glittering exotically. “It would not be the first time he has come back from the grave, now, would it?”

  “Come back from the grave?” Ronesca tittered nervously. “He was executed before hundreds.”

  “As hundreds saw him die in the Val’Orda. Or so the song goes. Is that not so, Princess Madeleine?” And he turned again to Maddie, leaving Ronesca in a wordless fluster.

  “It is, Your Grace,” Maddie replied. “But alas, I fear this time . . .” The words stopped. He stared at her, his dark eyes boring into hers, a slight twitch at the corner of his lip. But she could not make herself go on. Could not make herself say aloud the truth that he was dead and wasn’t coming back.

  Ronesca did it for her. “This time there will be no miraculous returns. Abramm’s death was a great loss to us all.”

  “I’m sure it was, Your Highness. Thank you so much for coming.” Ul Sadek gestured now toward the room at large. “I invite you now to enjoy some of my art collection, mostly sculptures today, but I trust you’ll find it as fascinating as it is unusual. And don’t miss out on the refreshments.” He caught Maddie’s eye yet again. “The golden figs have become edible just this week and are especially delicious.”

  With a nod to each of them, he turned his gaze to the aristocrats waiting behind them, the dismissal again bordering on rudeness.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, Maddie expected Ronesca to hiss with outrage. Instead she seemed completely smitten with the man, not even noticing the snub. “Is he not the most charming, gracious, and utterly manly man you have ever seen? I could listen to that voice all day, even if he were just reading figures. And his eyes . . . They look right at you, right into you. He certainly had his eye upon Madeleine, though, didn’t you think, Iolande?”

  As they made the rounds, Ronesca was unable to talk of anything but Tiris ul Sadek, marveling at the dcor, the food, the music, in between blurts of sublime appreciation for his person. Though she showed no interest in the art collection, the food was divine. Before long she was making random comments that gradually evolved into reminders that Maddie had her future to think of, that being unwed at her age was exceedingly eccentric, and though she never came right out and said it, that Tiris ul Sadek would make her a wonderful match.

  The notion was so ridiculous—and repellent—Maddie struggled to believe what her eyes and ears were telling her. But that was really what her sister-in-law was suggesting. When Ronesca spotted Tiris moving among his collection of crystalline sculptures and all but shoved Maddie into his path, she was finally convinced—and fully alarmed.

  Tiris, of course, was utterly gracious, apologizing for having nearly run her over, while his dark eyes laughed at her obvious befuddlement. With no desire to speak to the man one moment more than she already had, Maddie insisted it was her own clumsiness and glanced about for an excuse to make her escape. But though she’s fully expected his other guests to move like water into her place, she was unnerved to discover they had all been drawn away, each person suddenly occupied with the pedestaled artwork or other conversations. Leaving her face to face with her host and no polite way of disengaging.

  “You must think I am a dreadful man,” he said in that marvelous voice, “sneaking about in back room orgies, trafficking in flesh, buying babies.”

  The blood rushed to her face, and her mind went blank.

  He flashed a glorious smile at her. “I assure you, princess, my intentions were purely honorable, if misguided. Though you can hardly blame me for that. . . .”

  It felt as if her cheeks would burst into open flames, but still she could not speak.

  He laughed softly and let it go. “I keep an orphanage.” With that he offered her his arm. “Walk with me a bit?”

  Uncomfortably aware of the amused and speculative glances coming their way, she accepted, and after a few moments of gazing at the crystalline statue of a long-haired, bare-chested man with arms flung wide to the heavens—she couldn’t decide if the subject was angry or worshipful—they began to stroll in silence.

  “I have heard about the orphanage,” she said at length. “That you established it because you were yourself an orphan.” She glanced around hopefully, but there was still no one to deliver her. “It appears you have come a long way.”

  “Oh, I was not a poor orphan. I was an orphan of extreme privilege. Servants, attendants, tutors . . . I simply had no parents. But I understand the hole that leaves in a child’s soul. My adopted children grow up fully cared for, educated at the highest level of our culture, with a name and an honored place in society.” He paused, eyeing her. “Had you stayed long enough, perhaps I’d have had time to explain that to you. Had you stayed long enough, I might have offered you even more.”

  She averted her eyes, not sure what he meant by that but not wanting to ask. Instead she concentrated on the sculpture before them, then said, “What is this, exactly?”

  He chuckled slightly, shaking his head. “You are a most fitting complement to the White Pretender, my lady.”

  Which drew her eyes back to him in surprise, wondering at the way his words could please her and cut her to the quick at the same time.

  He gazed at the sculpture. “She is a dragon rider. You have never heard of those?”

  “From the Sorian myth cycle.”

  “Virgin riders whose mounts are said to transform into men at certain times of the year and perform their . . . manly duties.”

  She flushed, as much from his words as from certain physical aspects of the dragon she was only now noticing. “Well, it looks like no dragon I’ve ever seen.”

  “And have you seen a dragon, my lady?” He seemed amused, and she thought she had never seen so expressive a mouth.

  She shrugged. “In pictures and murals. A few statues. There is a ruins in Kiriath—” “Tuk-Rhaal.”

  “You know of it?”

  “Of course. Tuk-Rhaal predates Ophir. And they worshipped the dragon there.” His eyes glittered keenly. “You have an interest in dragons, then?”

  “It’s something of a curiosity.”

  “Ah yes. Your husband was marked with the red dragon brand of Katahn ul Manus, wasn’t he?”

  “You certainly know a lot about my husband, sir.”

  “Hmm. I confess I’ve made him something of a matter for personal study.” He led her to another sculpture, this one of a great dragon rising out of the sea in a wonder of form and fury. “They say he gave up his life for his god. . . .”

  She nodded slowly. “He did.”

  “But not for you.”

  “Oh, it was for me, too. He gave himself up to them so his men could get me free.”

  “But that wasn’t what you wanted, was it? Your freedom without him?”

  A chill zinged through her—of surprise and pain and wariness. His question drove too close to the door that would release the deep, dark, angry part of her nature. The part she had refused for so long to let control her. And refused still. She looked him straight in the eye and changed the subject. “So then, have you seen a dragon, sir?”

  He smiled easily, seeming unaware of the effect his words had wrought in her. “Everyone knows dragons are only a myth.”

  “And yet,” Maddie countered, “every people has such myths. Surely at one time there must have—”

  “The Qeptites have no dragons in their stories.”

  “I am not familiar with the Qeptites.”

  “They are from the far s
outh. And another millennium.”

  “So . . .” She dropped her hand from his arm and circled the statue to study its far side more closely, then glanced up at him. “Have you seen a dragon, sir?”

  He cocked a dark brow, a half smile on his face. “And what would you think if I told you I had?”

  “I think I would find that hard to believe.”

  “Exactly.” He started on toward the next piece. “So if you are prepared to believe only one of the possible answers I might give, why ask the question at all?”

  “You’re saying you have seen one.”

  “I’m asking why you’d ask me, if you think you already know the answer.”

  “Confirmation, I suppose. . . .” She gave up then and gestured across at the dragon rider statue they’d left some time ago. “So what sort of dragon is that, then?”

  He shrugged. “A Sorite dragon, I would guess.”

  “You mock me, sir.”

  He grinned at her. “Forgive me, princess. You provided too tempting an opening.”

  They walked on to a final sculpted figure, this of a dragon by itself, perched on a rocky crag and clutching an orb in one claw. The ruby that was its eye glittered at her balefully, almost as if it were alive.

  “There is another ancient city ruin in the high Waladi—the place you know as the Great Sand Sea,” he said. “The city of Chena’ag Tor. They worshipped dragons there, as well.”

  “And have you been to that one?”

  “As it happens, I have.” The earring glittered beside the darkness of his short beard, and the light reflected iridescently off his cheekbones. “That is something not very many can say, for it is a hidden city, guarded by the sea of shifting sands, where mist hides the sky and not even the sun can be used to navigate.”

  “How do the sands shift if there is no wind?”

  “How do you know there is no wind?”

  “They say once the Shadow mist moves in, the winds die away.”

  “That is true. In this case, though, there are winds in the sand sea. And sun and heat. But the sands can shift without the wind, and the winds can stir the dust to hide the sky as well as any mist.”

  “So how is it you alone found this place?”

  He smiled. “It is a long tale—one I would enjoy telling you. But . . . as I have other guests today that I must greet, I shall have to decline your request.”

  His disengagement jolted her, and she realized at once he was playing with her. And also that he was a masterful taleteller. Even though she more than half disbelieved his story of the hidden dragon city, she wanted to hear the rest of it. And he knew it, for now he cocked his head and said, “Have lunch with me next week and I’ll tell you my story.”

  “I fear I’ll be leaving for Deveren Dol next week.”

  “You cannot postpone your trip a day or two?”

  “I suppose . . .” If she had a luncheon date with Tiris ul Sadek . . . perhaps Ronesca would relent on her deadline.

  “But if you wait too long,” he said, a twinkle in his eye, “the purpose for the trip will have been nullified, no?”

  She lifted her chin and met his eye directly. “I have no idea what you mean, my lord. Also, I must be honest with you: I have no interest in being courted.”

  At that he laughed. “You have no interest yet, Princess.” He paused, then gave her a short bow. “Until next week, my lady.”

  “Draek Tiris.” And she curtsied in return.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Abramm slid the shovel’s flat-ended blade under the bank of powdery snow sloping up the kitchen roof before him and flung another bite of it over his shoulder. A glistening veil of fine flakes drifted downward in its wake as he scooped up another bite of snow and flung it likewise. With snow filling the yard to the eaves, he and Galen were in the process of clearing the accumulation from the roof and piling it into a growing ridge along the edge of the newly exposed wood shingles.

  The storm had lasted eleven days, and after all the time he’d spent clearing roofs in gale winds and driving snow, it was nice to have a clear sky and bright sun overhead. He could actually feel all his fingers and toes and had even started up a sweat. The work was still backbreaking, however, and when he reached the side edge of the roof, he was glad to stop and take a break.

  With a sigh, he straightened, bracing the shovel’s flat-bottomed edge against the ice-coated shingling as he rolled and stretched his weary shoulders. His left arm and hand ached fiercely, protesting all the manual labor he had forced upon them these last days. He’d thought it unfair and even a little insulting when Rolland, standing across from him now on the other side of the roof’s snow-covered peak, had suggested Abramm and Galen work together on one side, while the blacksmith took the other for himself. Now he had to admit he was grateful he’d acceded to the suggestion. He had more than enough work to challenge him, and Rolland’s strength appeared inexhaustible.

  Which was a good thing, since, though they each stood a mere three feet from the top, they had wagonloads of weight yet to move.

  Shifting his feet to more stable purchase, Abramm lifted his eyes to the stunning scenery that the storm’s passing had revealed—the soaring whiteclad peaks of the fabled Aranaak Mountains towered on every side, immense and rugged. A flight of crows flapped low overhead, heading toward the snow-filled valley, then turning to follow its now-buried watercourse downstream to where opposing tumbles of snow-covered ridges came together.

  “Looks almost passable today, doesn’t it?” Rolland remarked from across the roof peak, apparently noting the direction of Abramm’s gaze.

  His tone was so wistful Abramm looked round at him in surprise. “You aren’t thinking of taking your family out now, are you?”

  The big man chuckled. “I have t’ admit it tempts me. I hate waitin’ around here all winter when we could be gettin’ settled into our new lives. . . . My wife’s got family there—an uncle. Dunno how welcome we’ll be showing up all unexpected, but at least it’s something.” He fell silent, waiting for Abramm to reciprocate with a tidbit of his own information.

  Though Abramm had seriously considered Laud’s admonition to be more forthcoming about his past, he’d had no idea how to implement it. Should he reveal everything or continue to live under the guise of Alaric? Mysterious, perhaps, but a commoner like the rest of them. Part of him enjoyed the anonymity, and even the growing easiness developing between himself and the others. All that would vanish once they knew who he really was.

  On the other hand, sharing his identity with them would also bind them to him in ways he wasn’t sure he wanted to bind them. It would even endanger them, bringing them again to the attention of his enemies who had attacked them repeatedly coming through the Kolki Pass—because of him. They were simple common folk, not lords nor wise men nor soldiers, not even close to the army he hoped to eventually build. And if they didn’t believe him—and they might not—then his revelation would deny him both their camaraderie and their respect.

  Thus he’d gone round and round. He’d been so close-mouthed for weeks on all personal details of his life that people had long since stopped asking, and he’d fallen into the assumption that the secret was his to keep or divulge when he wished. Now, out of the blue, an opportunity had arisen, and he found himself paralyzed by his ruminations.

  Rolland had never asked him much while they were on the trail, and Abramm sensed that he was only asking now out of simple friendship. So far as Rolland knew, they were just two men working on a roof, of an age and station in life that gave them a natural compatibility. That the blacksmith was relaxed enough to ask, was proof of the ease they now shared. For Abramm not to reply would only hurt him.

  But what could Abramm say without disrupting everything? His life as king was over. Perhaps all that was needed were the parts Rolland could relate to and understand, bits and pieces that would be enough to satisfy, yet not drive him away—and it surprised Abramm just how much he desired the other ma
n’s company and companionship.

  “Ye got someone in Chesedh?” Rolland prodded when Abramm said nothing. “Family o’ some kind to take ye in? ’Cause if not, ye’re welcome t’ come with us.”

  “Thanks, Rolland. I appreciate the offer. But I . . .” Abramm hesitated, touched by the man’s generosity. “A wife,” he said, finally. “And two sons. They’re waiting for me in Fannath Rill.” Though his enemies had claimed the boys were killed during the Mataian uprising, he had good reason to suspect otherwise and chose to believe the best: that Captain Channon had fulfilled his mission to find them and had already brought them to their mother in Fannath Rill.

  Rolland gave a nod of satisfaction. “I figured as much.”

  “You did?”

  “I see the way ye are with my own boys. With the women, too. And the way ye went so wild t’ think we were stuck here fer the winter.” He shook his head. “I’d’ve been wild, too.”

  Galen had finished his row and, as he moved back toward the center of the roof, called, “Alaric has a wife?! Is that what I heard you say?”

  Abramm turned to him in consternation. “Is it that difficult to believe I might have a wife, Galen?”

  “Well . . .” Galen’s dark eyes strayed uncomfortably toward Rolland, and a flush suffused his thin, pale cheeks beneath a baby-fine beard.

  “You didn’t think brigands would have wives?” Abramm suggested.

  “I never said ye was a brigand.”

  “No, but your uncle Oakes has.”

  “He has sons, too,” Rolland informed Galen. “Waitin’ fer him in Fannath Rill.” He turned his gaze back to Abramm. “Daesi will be pleased, but poor Marta . . .”

  Now it was Abramm’s turn to color. “I’ve never given Marta any reason—”

  “I know, my friend. Which is another reason I suspected. How old’re yer sons?”

  “Two.” Abramm hesitated, then, “The eldest is four and a half, his brother . . . a little over two now.” And suddenly the sense of loss swept up to seize his throat and throttle off the end of his last word. It tore at him to think how cavalierly he’d headed off for Chesedh to visit Hadrich last winter. And then, not four days after his return, he’d left again, this time to face off with Rennalf, leaving little Simon with that false promise of returning swiftly, when he knew it would be months. And now was already almost a year. . . .