“She said that my wife is pregnant with our third child and will be unable to wait for me.” He hesitated, still staring at the fire, then added, “And that our two sons are dead.”
Beside him, Laud sat in silence for a moment. “And you believe her?”
“I don’t know. She said the birds told her. I guess it’s the possibility she’s told the truth that’s killing me.”
“So you want to go south. Try to beat the weather, maybe.”
Now Abramm turned toward him eagerly. “Do you think I could?”
“If it were Eidon’s will.” Laud fingered open the pouch and poured a measure of fragrant tobacco into the pipe’s bowl. “I thought you’d made this decision already.”
“I thought I had, too. But now I wonder if I would be remiss if I did not try every possible way to get back to them as soon as I can.”
“Why would you wonder that?”
Abramm was momentarily bewildered. “Are they not my responsibility?”
“Did you not see them as your responsibility when you made your decision to stay here a few days ago?”
“Yes, but a few days ago it seemed I had no choice. I had to put them in Eidon’s hands because there was nothing else I could do.”
“And you accepted the fact that Eidon had brought you here for the winter in order to teach you something.”
“Aye, but things are different now.”
“What is different? The weather is better. And your enemies have brought you troubling news that may not even be true. Yes, you could try to go south. Sheer common sense says otherwise, but if you believed that was Eidon’s course for you, perhaps you might go against it. I don’t think that’s what you believe. And the circumstances of your arrival coupled with what happened today cannot be overlooked in assessing what’s going on here.”
Abramm considered that as Laud busied himself with lighting his pipe. Once he’d gotten it going and taken a couple of puffs, he added, “If you’re sure your motivation was right, and you were in the Light when you made your decision . . . don’t let circumstances—or the enemy’s innuendoes—push you into second-guessing yourself. Trust that Eidon made himself clear the first time, and stay the course.”
He’d said nothing Abramm hadn’t already thought of, but it was good to have his conclusions affirmed. After a time he sighed and gave in. “I guess I’m here for the winter, then.”
Laud almost smiled. “Good. Now . . . perhaps you would be willing to aid me.”
“Aid you?”
“I don’t think I’ve come down to the Great Room one night since you’ve arrived and not seen you with a book in your hands. So I’m guessing you know how to read.”
Abramm glanced at him sharply, not until that moment considering how much his demonstration of that skill would say about him.
“And if a reader,” Laud went on, “I presume you also write.”
“Why? Are you looking for a scribe?”
At that the older man laughed outright. “Actually”—he held up his leather-bound stump—“I am. Though I’ve learned to scratch out the words with my left hand, I have a terrible time reading any of it. If I had someone to write for me, it would help immensely. I’d thought your script might be suitable. It’s got to be better than mine.”
Abramm stared at him. “You want me to be your scribe?”
Laud chuckled again. “I realize it would be a considerable demotion from your former position.” His brow cocked in such a way that for a moment Abramm thought the man had guessed who he really was. If he did, though, he didn’t pursue it. “My scribe. Yes. And lest you worry about the workload, now that the storm has passed, there won’t be quite so much. I was thinking you could do the heavy labor in the morning and help me in the afternoons. . . .”
CHAPTER
8
So Tersius left his throne, stripping himself of his position to take on human flesh and be abused by those whom he had made. Thus he paid the penalty Eidon’s justice demanded. . . .
Abramm lifted pen from paper and paused, as much to rest his hand as to reflect upon what was being said. It was early afternoon, a week after he’d agreed to become Laud’s scribe, and he sat at the smaller desk in the professor’s study, copying the man’s barely legible scribblings into notes for a future sermon. Outside another storm howled, but inside a crackling fire filled the book-lined chamber with light and warmth. Laud’s desk stood nearer the fire, piled with books and deserted by the professor, who’d gone off to Caerna’tha’s vast library in search of a special volume.
Having spent the morning clearing snow off the hay barn roof—again— Abramm reveled at being inside, though his hand shook annoyingly in reaction to the hours of gripping the shovel’s handle. Laud would no doubt comment on the wobbles in his lines. With a smile he dipped the quill point into the inkpot and began copying the next paragraph.
As Tersius suffered, so must we who have been faithful, counting it an honor to do what the luima cannot: believe that Eidon is good and right, though everything around us seems to say he is not. Will we stand firm and wait for him to keep the promises he has made to us? To restore what has been lost for his sake?
A shiver zinged through him and he paused again. To restore what has been lost . . .
For almost a week now, the quiet conviction that he would one day receive back all that he had lost had grown. It was a thought he’d been reluctant to contemplate—easier to accept his losses if he did not think of gaining anything back. Except for wife and children, the rest hardly mattered. And if he were to hang his hopes on that promise . . . what if it were not fulfilled? What pain would he know then?
Yet here it was again. He’d lost count of the times and ways it kept coming up. Almost as if Eidon insisted that he accept it, embrace it, and believe it. It would come in Eidon’s time and manner, of course. Abramm had only to wait—though waiting, Laud liked to say, often took more courage than doing. Especially waiting peaceably.
Abramm let his eyes drift about the room. Am I at peace? It hardly seemed possible, or even logical, but he had to say that so long as he kept his focus in the moment, he was. Laud had been pleased with his script, and they worked well together. Abramm was even learning some of the Old Tongue in the course of things, determined to master it before he left so he might surprise Maddie.
But that was not all of it. Years ago as a Mataian novice he’d relished the calm quiet of the scriptorium, the smell of the paper and ink, and the way the smooth lines flowed from the tip of his quill. The time it took to write things out ensured protracted concentration upon them, transforming the process into a form of worship, drawing the thoughts into himself to write them out again until they became his own. In the Mataio he had copied the words of Eidon’s Revelation. Now he copied those and, in addition, the comparisons and categories and concepts embodied in them, from which sprang not only a greater understanding of Eidon himself, but a deepening sense of contentment. And of promise.
Beyond that, he was warm, well fed, and healthy, and he was with people who, while not exactly friends, were still companions he was growing to appreciate. Most of them, anyway, he reflected wryly, recalling Trinley’s antagonism at the recent midday meal. That everyone in Caerna’tha now believed him to have been a member of Abramm’s Royal Guard was a misperception he’d still not corrected, largely because the thought that he was Abramm’s man had inspired new heights of abuse from the disgruntled alderman. Every day he still considered setting them all straight, and every day backed down, unable to muster enough motivation to overcome the aversion. What difference did it make anyway, whether they knew who he had been or not? He wasn’t that man anymore. Certainly not at Caerna’tha.
The hollow thump of footsteps on the wooden stair preceded the appearance of Marta Brackleford, ash pail and broom in hand. She stopped in surprise at the sight of him, and a slow blush crept up her cheeks. She gave him a polite greeting, then went straight to the hearth, shoveling a portion of the excess
ash into her pail. He frowned at her, disappointed that the atmosphere had become so strained between them, and knowing it was largely his fault.
“I’m sorry I didn’t let on sooner about my wife. I had no intention of—”
“I know.” Her voice was clipped and oddly high-pitched. “I’m glad you told us about her.” She set aside the shovel and worked a bit with the broom. “So did the Gadrielites take her, too?”
“No. By Eidon’s mercy she escaped before then.”
“With your sons.”
“No, they went with a friend after her. At least that was the plan . . .”
“Oh.” She paused, then straightened and picked up her pail. “I’m sure they’re safe.” She started for the door, then stopped. “Your wife. What’s her name?”
Abramm hesitated. Was this the bit of information that would make all fall into place? “Madeleine.”
Marta’s expression lightened. “Like the queen!”
“Yes.”
She was at the door when he asked, “Why did you want to know?”
“So I can pray for her.”
The sound of Professor Laud’s approach in the hall set her into motion again, and she hurried away before he could say anything, shocked as he was by her admission. And pleased, as well. A moment later, Laud entered in her place, a stack of books balanced along his left arm and chest. He slid them onto the already crowded desk with a sigh.
Abramm cocked a brow at them. “I thought you were going for a single book.”
Laud grinned sheepishly. “There are so many interesting titles. In fact, I came across a couple I thought might interest you.” He pulled two books from his stack and brought them to Abramm.
One was small and gray, the black symbols of its three-word title rendered in the Old Tongue alphabet. The other, ledger-sized, was bound in an agestiffened brown leather cover and fastened with a belt and buckle, also titled in the Old Tongue. “Ah, you mean for me to practice,” he said, opening the bigger book. Inside were pages of parchment inscribed in the clear, flowing hand of some ancient person, whose words Abramm could not read. A lack of pictures forced him to sound out the title’s letters. After a moment, he looked up at Laud in confusion and disbelief. “The Journals of Avramm?” he asked. “Avramm the First? Of Kiriath?”
“I think he is the only Avramm of note.” The professor eyed him over slipping spectacles. “I thought the hope of reading the exploits of your king’s namesake in his own language might motivate you to learn it faster.”
Unwilling to risk speaking further, Abramm turned to the smaller book, hoping Laud wasn’t noticing the suddenly increased tremor of his hands. He struggled with the next title, distracted by the welter of thoughts bubbling up in his mind. Once a world-renowned retreat for learned Ophirans desiring rejuvenation for body and mind, Caerna’tha’s library had been almost as famous as its baths. But that was over six hundred years ago, and Abramm had assumed most of the ancient collection would have been carried away by now.
The . . . As he pieced together the first word of the little gray book’s title, he thrilled to think that Avramm might have written of the regalia—of their creation, of how they worked. He would surely tell of his battles against the Shadow in conquering Kiriath. Red . . . Perhaps the secret of the guardstars lay between those pages. Or some insights into the reason a red dragon had been woven into his tapestries. What part had it played in his struggle to bring peace to his realm? Would Avramm’s writings give some hint as to how it might figure into Abramm’s life, as well? . . . Dragon.
His thoughts lurched to a stop. He went through the letters again, heart slamming hard and fast in his chest. Finally he looked up at Laud. “The Red Dragon.”
Just saying it sent a current of foreboding through him.
“I happened to see it,” Laud said, “after I found the other. And, since the red dragon was a part of King Abramm’s coat of arms, and as I understand it, you wear the same mark on your own arm . . .” He shrugged and smiled again. “Looks like I guessed right.”
Having no idea what to say, Abramm turned his eyes to the book and paged through its yellowed leaves. As with the other, the text was inscrutable, but this one had pictures, rendered in multicolored inks: a scarlet dragon flying over pointy mountain peaks jabbing up through rolling waves; a cow staked out in a meadow, the dragon a silhouette over the trees; a page of varied designs involving dragons; a handsome, dark-eyed man cloaked in golden scales; a dragon soaring above a vast plain filled with armies. . . . Abramm closed the book, unable to breathe, fighting the roaring of his ears. The awareness of Eidon’s hand upon his life had never been stronger.
After a moment he realized Laud had spoken again. Abramm stared at him blankly. “I’m . . . sorry?”
The professor arched a smug brow. “I said, Rolland tells me it’s a slave’s brand. On your arm. That last night you admitted you once fought in the Esurhite games. He says you have the battle scars to prove it, too.”
Last night Abramm had, for the first time, been persuaded to visit the hot spring-fed baths up the hill while the others were there, too. Though all had seen his brand and scars, none had realized the truth, proving again the validity of Maddie’s claim that people most often saw only what they expected to see. The only thing to come of it was that Rolland, having established that Abramm had fought in the Games, asked if he’d teach them all to fight.
“So . . .” Laud continued. “Are you going to join the queen, then? In Fannath Rill?”
“Why would you think that?”
“That is where she’s fled, is it not? Along with the First Minister and the king’s sister and the little crown prince?” He smiled at Abramm’s look of shock. “You are not the first of Abramm’s guardsmen to come this way. Many passed through last summer, right after he fell. All of them hurrying to join with the queen and her sons in hopes of forming an army to retake the throne. Of course, there are others who say the sons did not survive. . . . Rumors, of course. But if not them, there is always Princess Carissa.”
His words were like fiery darts, each of them piercing Abramm’s heart with increasing horror, though, of course, Laud had no idea. What if his sons were dead? . . .
He wrenched his mind off that dark path and changed the subject, uncaring if it seemed rude or too revealing. He held up the gray book. “What do you know of this dragon?”
If Laud noted his evasion of the question, he did not pursue it. “The Words refer to the red dragon as one of Moroq’s two forms. The beautiful man, a creature of light and wonder, yet able to turn into the cruel and powerful dragon at will.”
“So why would his symbol be in Abramm’s coat of arms?”
The professor shrugged. “The symbol is ubiquitous in Kiriathan heraldry, dating back to the time of Avramm. In his day, it was common to put the sign of a defeated adversary on one’s shield. Avramm defeated the tribes of Hasmuluk in establishing his realm, and they worshiped the dragons—hence a dragon in his crest. Since Abramm was named for Avramm, it’s only logical his coat of arms would echo that of his namesake.”
“Aye, that’s the human explanation. But Eidon guided the crest maker in his choice, as he guided Abramm’s parents’ choice in naming him. Why? Even more, why did he allow Abramm himself to receive that very same mark on his own flesh?”
Laud looked at him oddly. “Is it Abramm you’re asking about here, son?
Or is it yourself?”
Abramm stared back at him, his thoughts arrested by the ironic ambiguity of that question.
“Abramm, after all,” said Laud, “is dead. So whatever meaning the mark had for him will have to be assessed within the boundaries of his life. And I think it’s pretty obvious that as Avramm was victorious over the beast’s followers and received its sign in his crest, so Abramm was victorious over them in refusing to renounce his shield, even to the point of death.”
Except that Abramm isn’t dead yet, professor, Abramm thought wryly. He almost uttered the words aloud,
but something held his tongue, and instead he found himself saying, “So you don’t believe Avramm might have fought a real creature, then?”
The question took Laud entirely aback. “A real dragon? You mean like Moroq himself?”
“The Words say Moroq is the enemy of all who wear the shield.”
“Aye, but you can’t think he personally confronts each of us. He has his underlings for that.” Laud leaned back in the chair, smiling at him in amusement now. “Do not think so highly of yourself, lad, as to concern yourself with having to battle a dragon. You’d do better focusing on the battles you’re facing with Oakes Trinley.”
And as swiftly as that he had turned the subject to the rift widening between Abramm and the other man, one he judged must be bridged before reconciliation became impossible. It was a familiar subject, and Abramm saw there would be no returning to the subject of the dragon. Likely Laud had given him all he knew, and Abramm doubted the man would agree to read the book aloud to him.
Trap Meridon, once the Duke of Northille, now the finance secretary to the Chesedhan First Daughter, strode through the cobbled street of the palace’s southeastern service gate, dodging carts, horsemen, and piles of manure as he fought his way upstream through the mass of humanity pouring through the gate. It was early morning, the first clear one in three weeks— and the servants, groundsmen, and guards were arriving for their shifts along with the service people bringing in their fruits and grains and milk. None gave him more than a passing glance, though his cloak and trousers were considerably finer than most and his boots much shinier.
In Kiriath, a duke would have traveled by horse or carriage. But here, as the finance secretary of a First Daughter out of favor with the ruling princess, and a Kiriathan exile out of favor with everyone, it was difficult to get the grooms at the royal stable to give him either. Even when they promised him something, they took all morning to deliver. It was easier to walk, since his errands were rarely far from the palace. Besides, he liked the exercise and the opportunity to be alone with his thoughts. And since he was no longer sharing cocoa with his wife in the mornings, he certainly had time for it.
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