Return of the Guardian-King

by Karen Hancock

  Seeing him, Rolland came over to ask how things had gone, and Abramm told him what had happened. “I’d rather go with Janner, I think. He seems a down-to-earth sort for all his reliance on the spirits. But he won’t leave until he has the cargo to justify a trip down. And from what I gather, he’s something of a pariah around here.”

  “Well, you can always come with us.” Rolland grinned at him.

  “Or wait. Or talk some of you into changing your minds.” He grinned back.

  “We’ll go with you,” Cedric said, drawing their eyes and indicating himself and his father. He shrugged. “We’re used to rivers . . . it’d be faster, and lots easier. Ridin’ instead of walkin’. Pop’s gettin’ weary o’ walkin’.”

  “I’m not sure two would be enough. I’m afraid I’m just going to have to wait.”

  About then Oakes Trinley came striding up from the town. With but a single snide expresson of surprise at seeing Abramm again, he announced a change in plans: “I couldna find any horses—least not that anyone wanted t’ sell. But I did learn the road t’ Caer’akila will be harder to travel than we thought. The snowpack’s so high this year we’ll not get through ’til midsummer, at least. So I made arrangements fer us t’ go down the Ankrill, instead.”

  Abramm was not the only one to stare at him in astonishment.

  Relishing his moment in the limelight, Trinley opened his hands. “None of us wanna stay here fer three months. And when they told me ’twould only take a week t’ reach Deveren Dol, while we sit an’ watch the scenery go by . . . well, it seemed Eidon was making his will pretty clear.”

  Abramm frowned. “I heard it would take closer to three or four weeks.” More than that, Janner had suggested he take the road if he didn’t want to wait, and said nothing about its being snowed in.

  Trinley’s grin widened. “That’s ’cause ye talked t’ the wrong man, Alaric. Krele Janner is a drunk and an incompetent. His vessels’re constantly going aground, I’m told. Hittin’ snags, shoals, rocks.”

  “How did you know I—” Abramm began.

  Trinley overrode him. “An’ because he spends so much time at th’ bottle, he doesn’t keep them up—lets the caulking dry out so thet halfway down the river they start leakin’. Those that have the misfortune of traveling with him spend most of their time bailing. Or sitting on the side of the riverbank waiting for him t’ fix the leak.” He turned to the others. “The man I chose has an excellent reputation. Captain Dugla’is’s vessels are bigger and faster—he’s the only one who could take us all, in fact. Of course, as I understand it, Alaric, ye’ve already made yer own arrangements with yer drunken friend, so I didn’t include you in ours. . . .”

  “We’re not going down the river,” Rolland said firmly.

  Trinley shrugged. “If that’s yer choice, Rollie, fine, but from what they’ve told me here, Caer’akila is burstin’ at the seams with exiles. There’s food and water shortages, an’ most o’ the new folks’re staying in tents now. Last fall there were rumors of sickness.”

  “How do you know this Dugla’is isn’t lying about that just to get your business?” Marta asked.

  Trinley turned to her as if surprised. “Dugla’is wears the shield, Marta. He wouldn’t lie to us.”

  Abramm snorted. “Anyone can slap on a shield and call himself Terstan. Even if it’s real, he can still be in the darkness of his own Shadow.”

  “I suppose ye’d know all about that,” Trinley sneered. “You think I can’t tell a trickster when I meet one?”

  “If he’s a good one, aye.” Rolland took up the argument now.

  Trinley glared at him.

  “Remember that one man who told us to b’ware?” Rolland said. “That some of ’em here are suspected o’ tradin’ in slaves with the desert folk? We’d make the perfect target. Nobody knows we’re comin’, nobody knows who we are, and no one will know if we ever arrive at our destination because we don’t even know what our destination is.

  A coldness settled in Abramm’s gut.

  “You’ve met Dugla’is?” Trinley demanded. “Looked into his eyes, felt his grip, talked to him? Well, I have. And anyway, why would he lie? He’s got plenty o’ business.”

  Rolland glanced uneasily at Abramm.

  “Why are you looking at him?” Trinley snapped. “Dugla’is wouldn’t even take him. So he’s signed on with a drunkard and a brawler who can barely steer his way around the first bend without running aground. If anyone’s involved in slavin’ it’d be that fella Janner.”

  “That’s not true,” said Abramm. “Dugla’is did offer me a place on his boat. I’m supposed to meet him at the dock in the morning.”

  “Well, now ye don’t have to, since he’s told me there won’t be room for any extras. We’ll have t’ do some of the rowing ourselves, in fact.” He grinned smugly. “Funny how things’ve worked out, eh? Fer all yer impatience, Alaric, we’re the ones set t’ reach Fannath Rill first.” He chuckled, then turned to the others. “The vessels are being prepared now. We’ll move out in the morning. Right now we need to bring whatever can be stowed to the docks so they can get it loaded. I’ll be down at the riverfront if you need anything.” With that he picked up his rucksack and walked away.

  Abramm stood where he was, chewing on his frustration as he watched the group roll into action, organizing their things into what could be taken now and what would be needed for the night, while others went about gathering wood. It would be a bitter draught to swallow, watching them ride away tomorrow without him, and he supposed he could go back to Dugla’is and ask to be squeezed in. . . .

  Rolland and his wife had been arguing quietly behind him ever since Trinley had left. Now they broke off and Rolland went striding down toward the riverfront, and Abramm felt another wave of disappointment.

  After a little while, his friend returned, spoke briefly to his wife, received a hug for whatever he said, and then came to where Abramm sat on a low stone wall edging the north end of the square.

  “Well, it’s all set,” Rolland announced. “We’ll be sailing on Krele Janner’s Sandpiper in the morning.”

  Abramm looked at him sharply, then dropped both his feet to the ground and stood.

  “All us Kemps,” Rolland went on. “Plus Cedric and Totten and Marta Brackleford. And you, o’ course.” He was grinning now.

  “But—”

  “We’re payin’ a reduced price, an’ givin’ him all the things we aren’t gonna need once we get to Deveren Dol. He only goes as far as Deveren Dol.”

  “And he’s going to let me work for my way?” Abramm asked.

  “We have coin, Alaric. We paid your fare.”

  “You have need of your coin. And I’d just as soon work.”

  “Aye, and just what do you know about river running?” Rolland laughed at him and shook his head. “You can pay us back once we get to Fannath Rill.”

  Abramm looked at him sharply, suddenly suspicious. Had Rolland finally guessed who he was?

  No. It was just the offer of generosity and trust one would expect from a friend. He sighed gratefully. “Thank you, Rolland. I’ll do that.”

  CHAPTER

  19

  “And you say they walk the entire route without being chained at all?” Maddie asked of her turbaned, white-tunicked host, Draek Tiris ul Sadek.

  “The entire route. For forty days,” Tiris confirmed.

  They were walking together through the walled garden of shoulder-high sand dunes he’d installed at the rear of his villa, following a scrupulously swept path of cream and earth-red tiling—an undeniable eccentricity at a time of year when most people’s gardens held beautiful spring flowers. . . .

  “Or so the legend says,” he added, smiling. A gold hoop glittered in his ear at the edge of his dark beard tonight, reminding her of the first time they’d met. “Of course, even aside from the effects of the road, where would potential escapees have run to? They were surrounded by leagues of waterless dunes, and a good half of them died
even when they didn’t run.”

  She shuddered. “It sounds ghastly.”

  Ahead of them loomed the three-leveled outbuilding to which Tiris was escorting her, its white-plastered walls tinted pink by the setting sun, windows flashing in rectangles of bright orange. The whole was set off to especially stunning effect by the blue-purple darkness gathering on the eastern horizon beyond.

  The outbuilding, which Tiris named his Desert Salon, was a recently completed addition of which he was quite proud. Tonight was its official introduction to a small, select group of fellow foreign nationals and exiles. With Ronesca and her courtiers occupied in the Great Kirikhal observing one of her many candlelight vigils for the war effort, foreigners were free to follow their own pursuits. The gathering would be heavily Kiriathan—none of them currently welcome in the palace, though most would have refused to set foot in the residence of “that snake Leyton” even if they were. It wasn’t King Leyton anymore, nor even the king, but always that snake Leyton.

  Not only were they furious about the regalia but also about Trap’s having been imprisoned. It was an outrage, completely undeserved, yet after a full month he was still locked up in Larochell. His quarters were at least in accordance with his rank—Maddie had insisted upon that—but no one could move Ronesca to release him. “It has to be by Leyton’s decree” was the stock answer. And Leyton had left for the front and might not return until summer’s end. Or longer.

  Maddie had figured out soon enough why he wanted Trap in jail—of all the Kiriathans here in Chesedh, he was most likely to come after what Leyton had stolen. But every day his imprisonment went on increased the boil of the Fannath Rill Kiriathans’ anger. One day they could well stage a riot. Already Maddie had heard the suggestion. She had counseled them to hold their anger in, that Abramm would be here soon and he would handle it.

  “I’ve heard it said that road is still in operation,” Carissa said from where she followed Maddie and their host toward the Desert Salon. “That even today slaves are being funneled across it to the southlands where they’re put in Esurhite galleys.”

  As they headed up the incline, Tiris glanced back at her. “I think the original destination was to the east. But the Fermikians have always been secretive. It wouldn’t surprise me if their descendents were still working the old routes . . . though surely it would be easier to take their goods south across the marshes into Draesia and not even bother with the road.”

  They reached the salon’s double doors—rich red wood carved with bas-relief birds, dunes, cities, and even a dragon high in the sky. Maddie had no time to examine it, though, for swarthy-faced servants in short white jackets, black trousers, and gold sashes pulled open the doors for them, and they stepped into the sandalwood-scented Gallery of the Great Sand Sea.

  The plastered walls were sculpted to resemble the curving humps of sand dunes, above which the glass had been set in slivers leaded together to produce a heat-wave effect, dark now as the sunset faded. Curved frames covered with off-white linen arced about the room in an abstract imitation of the dune garden outside, and even the cream and earth-red pattern of the walkway was mimicked in the rug’s weave. On this lowest level of the salon, waist-high pedestals stood about the faux dunes, displaying various works of art.

  Ahead and several steps above stood the salon’s central and largest section, where pillows and low tables had been arranged for their gathering. On the third level, overlooking all the rest, Tiris’s fabulous golden fig tree shimmered in a windowed alcove at the top of a huge rock face. Water rippled down to the middle level’s pool.

  Many of Tiris’s guests had already arrived, including Oswain Nott, Temas Darnley, and Wade Callums, one of Abramm’s generals. Former Chesedhan First Minister Garival was there, as well as several of the Chesedhans who had aligned themselves with the First Daughter—anomalies among the foreigners. There were also Draesians, Thilosians, Andolens, and Sorites, among them several female acquaintances who shared Maddie’s interests in history, the arts, and politics. A handful of upper-class ladies she did not know were also in attendance, to whom Tiris was quick to introduce her.

  It was a bigger crowd than she’d expected, and decidedly less intimate than she’d hoped for. But she supposed Tiris could hardly invite just Kiriathans or he’d be raising eyebrows all across the city, and spurring gossip that he, too, was plotting against the queen.

  The evening began with an informal period of mingling, where guests were encouraged to peruse the art objects scattered around the gallery portion of the salon, and of course Tiris was right there to show Maddie his treasures. There were figures of dragons, and of men, mounted on pedestals and carved from some sort of fantastically colored rocks, the likes of which she’d never seen. There were crystals, clever glass vases of multifarious colors, perfect orbs of smoky quartz, and a huge lump of deep yellow amber perched on a pedestal at the center of the display. Tiris claimed to have purchased the latter at an open-air market in Soria on the promise that it would show the future to those sensitive enough to see.

  He claimed to have been disappointed, having not seen anything but golden swirls himself, but he urged Maddie to have a go at it.

  She jerked up her chin. “I don’t believe in such things, sir.”

  “No? And yet you claim to have seen things not present.”

  She frowned slightly. “That is different.”

  “You’ll not even try?”

  “I’d feel like an idiot,” she said firmly. “What is this next thing here. . . ? A dragon eating a woman?” She started toward the statue in question, but something in the amber’s golden depths drew her eye, and she stopped. Just a reflection . . . she assured herself.

  Then the room vanished and the golden light resolved into flickers off the surface of a broad muddy river on which she glided downstream, the wind in her face. It had overspilled its banks, the tips of cattails extending here and there above its rippled surface, while to her left the ragged white walls of an ancient city thrust up from the submerged bank. She recognized the place at once as the ruins at Obla on the north bank of the Ankrill, upriver from the fortress at Trakas. She’d spent a goodly amount of time there in her younger days, exploring its labyrinthine streets.

  Now however, her surprise at seeing it was overshadowed by her rising certainty that Abramm sat immediately behind her, that any moment he would speak and put his hand upon her shoulder. Heart pounding, she turned to look at him—

  And was abruptly back in the Gallery of the Great Sand Sea, the scent of sandalwood tickling her nostrils. Instead of Abramm’s hand upon her shoulder, it was Tiris’s.

  He stared at her in surprise. “Are you all right? The way you started and swayed, I thought you might—” His dark brows narrowed. “You saw something.”

  She flushed, aware she had the attention of everyone in her immediate vicinity. “I saw the ruins at Obla. From a boat on the river. A sight I’ve seen often enough before.”

  Yet she also knew that Abramm would be coming down that way. And the feel of the wind and of the water’s bobbing current, and the river’s distinctive odor had been extraordinarily vivid for a random memory.

  “Obla?” Tiris said, even more surprised. “That’s northwest of the fortress at Trakas. Why would you see that? And didn’t you say you knew nothing of the Road of the Unchained?”

  “Well, I had heard of it—but . . . what does that have to do with Obla?”

  “Obla is the beginning of that road,” he said. “Or near it, anyway. But if you did not know that . . . then it wasn’t our discussion that prompted your vision.”

  “You don’t really think it works, do you?” Temas Darnley asked.

  “Why would she see Obla?” Minister Garival asked. “It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

  Tiris looked at Maddie in expectation. “You tell us, Your Highness. Obla is on the Ankrill, after all. Was he there, too?”

  She knew exactly whom he meant. “I didn’t see him.”

 
; “But you felt him, didn’t you?”

  “Are you saying King Abramm is coming down the Ankrill right now?” Darnley asked.

  “Perhaps.” Tiris’s intensity bled away. “It’s hard to say. The amber is outside of time and can show the present or the future. Sometimes even the past.”

  “Well, then, what the plague good is it?” demanded Nott.

  Tiris shrugged. “The viewer must make the time determination.”

  “I don’t know,” said Maddie. “It was earlier in the day than it is now.”

  “Why don’t you have another look?” Darnley suggested.

  But Tiris informed them that wouldn’t work. Once the amber had been used, it would not present another vision for several days. Nott insisted Maddie give it another try, anyway, and Tiris was proven correct. They continued the tour then, though with less enthusiasm than previously, and Maddie couldn’t help but notice the way guests congregated about the lump of amber, staring into it. Which was just as well because some of the remaining pieces of his collection were so scandalous that as soon as she realized what she was looking at, she flushed bright red and moved on without comment.

  Tiris noted her discomfort but said nothing, only gave her a sly, amused smile. Thankfully he did not insist upon stopping to dissect and comment upon the works, and finally he took her up to the third level of the salon and the fabulous golden fig tree. He told the guests he’d been assured it would never die, that it needed very little water, and yet it produced copious quantities of fruit year round. Its golden flowers could only be pollinated by a special kind of wasps that lived their entire lives upon the tree. “The tree actually produces a small version of the fruits to house them,” Tiris explained. “Without them the tree would produce no fruit.”

  “Pollinate the flower? But this tree is made of gold,” Darnley said, fingering a leaf.

  “Aye, and the fruits are solid gold, as well. . . .”

  “Then how can it be alive?”

  Tiris grinned and spread his hands. “I don’t know. That is why it is such a wonder.”