Return of the Guardian-King

by Karen Hancock

  They fell silent for a time, until finally he stood to take his leave. She arose to see him off, but he hesitated, gazing down at her. And though he was willing to wait for the fires of her love to kindle, he was not willing to wait for her answer to the question of his suit and brought it up now one last time.

  “What say you, my iblis flower? Will you accept me?”

  She looked up at him, wondering why this was so hard when she felt so vague.

  He stroked her cheek and a tingle swept through her. She let her eyes drift over his face, noting the long lashes, the gold scaling on the cheekbones, the strong jawline beneath his short-cropped beard. The bewitching dark eyes, the gold in his ear and on his fingers, the fresh white linen of his wellmade tunic . . . the power in his voice and presence. He was more than any woman could ever hope to have. He could save her realm. He could save her children. He could save her—and he wished to on all counts.

  If she were honest with herself, part of her—a very strong part—wanted to let him.

  Except for the dwindling hope of Abramm’s return, what reason did she have for refusing? None save the undeniable sense that she would be betraying her husband’s memory. But would Abramm really have wanted her to go on with the rest of her life, raising his children alone? Would he not have wished her to take advantage of this offer?

  She dropped her eyes to the line of buttons that closed his tunic. “Will you show me your shield, Tiris?” she asked.

  He smiled, and the long graceful fingers at once began to unfasten the buttons. When he had undone the tunic nearly to his waist he pulled the edges apart, and there gleaming beneath his inner shirt of silk was the golden shield of Eidon that marked him as one who carried the Light.

  She felt mildly surprised, for in some part of her thoughts she had not really believed he was marked. Even now, she reached out to touch it, wishing it was not covered by the silk so that she might pick at the edge to be sure it was not of paper or those newer ones of pure gold. But to do so he’d have to disrobe completely, and she couldn’t ask him to go that far. So she let go a faint spark of the Light, felt an echo in return.

  He smiled at her. “Satisfied?”

  “Yes.”

  “So . . . will you marry me, Madeleine?”

  Her resistance to the idea weakened with each moment, as if his dark gaze were pulling it out of her. She felt as if she were sliding down a long hole. Yes, say yes . . . The word formed upon her lips. The only word she could give him, the one that would save everyone and everything . . . yes . . . yes . . .

  “Yes.” She blinked, staring up at him in astonishment. I said yes.

  His eyes glowed with pleasure. “We’ll announce it tomorrow, then? Together?”

  “Yes.”

  He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the backs of her fingers, his dark eyes never leaving her own. “You will not regret this, my flower. I promise you. . . .”He turned her hand over and kissed her palm, then pressed his nose to her wrist and, closing his eyes, inhaled deeply, a languorous smile curving his lips. Strangely, the action that had so repelled her the first time he had done it now sent ripples of pleasure up her arm and across her chest.

  He opened his eyes, snaring her gaze again, and the power of her attraction to him dizzied her. When he bent to kiss her, she let him, his lips soft upon her own, his beard tickling her face. He smelled faintly of sandalwood, the scent filling all her head and mind so that when he pulled away it made her dizzy. He smiled. “I will make you forget all about him, my flower. You will see. . . .”

  He left her then, and she stood at the entrance to her apartments, watching him go, waiting until he had disappeared from view at the end of the long hall. But by the time she had returned to her bedchamber, all the warm pleasure she’d derived from his company had faded and she felt inexplicably dirty. As if something precious had been defiled.

  And that night, she cried herself to sleep for thinking of what she had done.

  CHAPTER

  31

  Stuck in the long line of people waiting on the road outside the gates of Horon-Pel in hopes of being granted entrance, Abramm brushed yet another sluggish fly off his stubbled jaw. He let Newbanner’s reins slide through his gloved fingers as the horse tossed his head and sidled impatiently in place; then he regathered the slack. It was the gruesome reminders of the fate awaiting those who transgressed Esurhite law—human heads staked on poles alongside the road—that had brought so many flies, even this late in the season. The nearest was blond, relatively fresh, and already eyeless, thanks in part to the gull perched on its crown.

  Grimacing, he brushed more flies away again and turned his gaze toward the stone anchor posts of Horon-Pel’s iron drawbridge looming in a gathering mist ahead of him. Between the posts stood the fancy gold-scrolled coach that had earlier pushed past everyone else on the road to take the head of the line. Its occupant was still arguing with the guards stationed there to question each traveler before allowing them entrance—or, more often, the closer it got to dusk, turning them away. And with every passing moment, Abramm’s chances of getting himself and his party into the city that night diminished.

  He glanced at Cedric, mounted and dressed in Esurhite black beside him, looking undeniably ill at ease in his bronze helmet. He dared not say a word, for fear of giving his true nationality away. Likewise for Trinley, driving the cart behind them. Galen, who sat beside him, had picked up a surprising amount of the language just listening to Abramm as he’d tutored Borlain, while the latter’s command of it had increased dramatically over the last few months. But they were the only three of the group who had even a thread of comprehension, though for most of the men it didn’t matter since they were supposed to be slaves.

  Their cart they’d found in a deserted, earthquake-devastated settlement on their way down the mountain. Most of the men rode on it now, slaves being brought to the galleys in Horon-Pel, as Borlain and three others brought up the rear on horseback. The multitudes lining the road had ogled them repeatedly for two days now, especially tall, blond, powerful Rolland. Time and again, Abramm had fielded—and refused—offers to buy them before they ever reached the city.

  The earthquake that had blocked the pass and devastated the towns across North Andol had combined with the economic drain of supplying a war to drive most of the populace toward the western cities. Now a sea of humanity camped in the flat, muddy fields beside the road. Small domed tents and makeshift lean-tos crowded around the bow-topped wagons of the east plain nomads as far as he could see. In the gathering twilight cook fires gleamed brightly, adding their smoke to air already heavy with the Shadow’s mist and the stench of too many people crushed too close together.

  They were families who had come looking for work, for food, and for new lives in the wake of the earthquake’s devastation. They were also merchants of all kinds, slave traders, goatherds, fishermen, a few farmers selling last season’s crops, and water vendors. Earlier many of them had stood along the way offering their goods to those still on the road—for a stiff price, of course.

  And many among them had avidly eyed the men in Abramm’s cart as it had trundled by. With Leyton’s rise to the top of the Esurhite Games, Kiriathan slaves had become a valuable commodity, sought by the Game masters to play the role of the defrauded and vengeful King Abramm. The slave who brought Leyton down would win a lot of money, enriching his owner substantially. With Leyton scheduled to fight in Horon-Pel’s arena tomorrow, this fact was especially on the minds of those camped outside the city’s gates, and Abramm believed few around him were above stealing a few slaves if it meant their family’s survival.

  Last night had been bad enough. If they had to spend another in this mass of desperate people, he wasn’t sure how many of his men would be with him come morning.

  He batted another sluggish fly off his face and shifted restlessly in the saddle, trying to ease the stiffness and chill of his legs and bottom. Would that man from the coach ever stop arguing an
d accept his fate? Already some on the road were yelling at him to do so.

  It wouldn’t have been so bad, he thought, if it was just Leyton’s appearance and general desperation that had brought people to Horon-Pel, but there was more. Along the route, he’d learned that the blast that had destroyed the temple corridor at Aggosim had indeed also destroyed the corridor in Oropos, triggering a second earthquake that had destroyed much of that city, as well. As a result, new corridors had been set up in the smaller temples in various cities along the coast, including Horon-Pel. The latter’s temple was situated outside the city walls, so he’d seen that one in action today, proving the rumors true.

  Ahead, the finely dressed citizen was reboarding his carriage, the guards stepping back, their black tunics blurred in the gathering mist. Abramm couldn’t even see the entrance tunnel anymore, but two soldiers were jamming lit torches into brackets on the side of the anchor posts. Despite all the arguing—or perhaps because of it—the fancy carriage was turned away, forced to execute a jerky Y-turn before plunging back through the line the way it had come, moving more rapidly and with less concern than ever for whom it hit. At least, once it passed, the line moved on again.

  Soon Abramm pulled Newbanner to a halt before the guards, explaining his assignment as the gatemen scowled. One muttered something about not many slaves for all the soldiers he had with him, did a cursory inspection of the property in question, then waved him through with directions to the army slave quarters by the harbor. Directions Abramm would recall only for the purpose of avoiding that area at all costs.

  Inside, they plowed into a crowd even more closely packed than the one outside. People filled the gate yard and crammed the narrow lanes beyond, hemmed in by the tall, age-stained plastered walls of the city’s buildings. Garlands of colorful fish-bladder lanterns hung across the streets, suspended between facing windows above the crowd. Here and there, jugglers and musicians clad in bright silks performed, as the people danced—or swayed—and the scents of fried bread, spice tea, and grilled meat filled the air. Many people carried cheering sticks, some bearing the old crescent moons of the White Pretender, the others carrying images of the gold crown that Leyton was defending. It was a bright, festive atmosphere, but the moment he emerged from the entrance tunnel, Abramm knew his plan of finding a deserted alley in which they might change into the civilian clothes they’d picked up along their journey would be more difficult than he’d hoped. Still, he gave it a try.

  But each time they turned off, they only ended up in cramped, crowded dead ends, where they had to struggle to turn about. And though their Esurhite uniforms protected them from heckling, still Abramm saw the resentment in the eyes of those around them. He’d seen it on the road outside the city and even before then as they’d traveled through a land stripped of its resources. With the men gone, there’d been no one to work the fields, so most stood fallow. Veiled, empty-eyed women, stick-legged children, and skinny old men were the only inhabitants, along with a few skeletal goats. The rare storage barns that held anything at all were usually in the process of being emptied by a troop of black-tunicked soldiers who packed the last bushels of corn, beans, or tubers onto their carts and drove away.

  If it was this bad in Andol, he could imagine how bad it must be in Esurh.

  When they were forced to return to the main thoroughfare for the third time, Abramm abandoned his first plan and went to his second: He’d head for the amphitheater and see if anyone was interested in purchasing some slaves for cheap. This plan was far less thought-out than the first had been, in part because he had to know where he was going and have some potential for contacts, and he had neither. The “plan” amounted to little more than going in the general direction of the amphitheater and hoping something useful turned up.

  They proceeded along what he hoped was the main road, though as narrow, winding, and crowded as it was, he couldn’t be sure. It didn’t help that the thick mist overhanging the buildings had confused whatever sense of direction he’d had when they’d entered, so he could do little more than let the tide of people carry him and his companions along.

  Having experienced Eidon’s providence time and time again, however, he was not surprised when that tide bore them up a hilly street and into the plaza that surrounded the city’s gaming amphitheater. A medium-sized venue, its outer walls bore the scallops and engravings typical of Andolen architecture. From the lights in its gateways and the windows at plaza level, he guessed the warrens were open for viewing but saw little point in going over there. The plaza itself was more packed than the street, with people camped out to get good seats for tomorrow’s Games, and he’d not likely find a buyer there anyway. Better to look in some sort of eating or drinking house . . .

  As he looked back toward one he remembered passing, his eye caught on a face in the crowd—a man who seemed to have been staring at him but turned away the moment Abramm’s gaze fixed upon him. Though Abramm had only a glimpse, familiarity rocked him: The dark, hatchet profile, the crescent cheekbone scar, and a flash of gold honor rings reminded him sharply of his old friend Katahn.

  Already off his horse in pursuit, Abramm pushed aggressively through the crowd, even as rationality argued against his impulsive conclusion. Why would Katahn be here, of all places?

  It took only seconds to lose the man in the crowd, even with Abramm’s height advantage. As his excitement ebbed, he had to admit he’d not seen enough of the man to know more than that he was Esurhite and wore a rank of honor rings—which Katahn had not worn for years. And how often of late had he seen familiar faces only to have them turn out to belong to strangers?

  Sighing, he glanced again at the brightly lit teahouse on the corner, then returned to his men. Giving Borlain command of the troop, he left Newbanner’s reins with Cedric and headed back for the teahouse.

  It was a larger establishment than it appeared from the outside, but it was about to burst with its clientele that night, which were mostly civilians, gamers—as he’d hoped—and their people. The tea’s strong, spicy scent filled the air, overlying the aroma of meat and curry—and beneath it all, the faint, acrid odor of fermikia, illegal under Esurhite rule. The house was furnished with the usual pillows and low tables preferred by the southlanders, scattered throughout a honeycomb of dark, smoky spaces marked out by draperies, wooden screens, and beaded curtains. Several larger spaces were positioned amidst them, with communal tables and pillows arranged for those who sought company as they ate and drank.

  Taking a seat on one of the nearest open pillows, Abramm deliberately put himself in a conspicuous spot. Even if Katahn didn’t come into the teahouse, Abramm would be able to gather much information in a short time at the communal table. In fact, he’d made it a practice in each town they passed through to seek out the place of local gossip and linger, nursing his tea and eavesdropping on the conversations around him.

  Now, as he settled onto the pillow and took off his helmet, he saw the dark eyes of the men around him flick toward him in surprise, saw them note his blond hair, the scars on his face, and the width of his shoulders. Several sized him up and made their way over to speak to him. At first he feared they had recognized him. But it wasn’t long into the conversation before he learned they only regarded him as one of many who’d taken on the guise of the avenging King Abramm, returned from the dead to take back his regalia from the thief, Leyton. It was a coveted role for which likely candidates had to compete and be willing, if they won, to have their faces sliced in imitation of the man they pretended to be. In fact, there were a series of qualifying matches that had been played out before Leyton even arrived. The winner had already been determined and ritually cut at the end of his match—and would face the Chesedhan king tomorrow.

  Since Abramm had toyed with the notion of entering the arena as a competitor himself, that news effectively ended such speculation. Besides, as one man told him, he wasn’t even scarred on the correct side. Everyone knew the Pretender’s scars were on the right sid
e of his face not the left, so they’d have refused him outright.

  A serving man brought him hot, syrupy, very spicy tea in a small, thick glass cup and, taking his coin, hurried away. Abramm nursed it slowly—the only way he could drink the potent stuff even after weeks of trying—and listened to the men on his right argue over whether it would really be Leyton Donavan who appeared tomorrow or a substitute, and then whether it was fair to pit Leyton, middle-aged as he was, against the younger contenders, especially since Abramm, had he lived, would be older, too.

  “Aye, but come back from the dead, Abramm would be young again,” another countered, and they fell to arguing the increasingly esoteric points of a mortal fighting an immortal. Abramm’s interest waned, then fastened with sudden intensity on the utterance of a single name in the conversation unfolding on his left side: Madeleine.

  The Pretender’s woman and queen of Chesedh had remarried, they said, yoking herself to a powerful Sorite lord who could give her troops and galleys for the protection of her land. The new alliance was received with open chagrin and much worried speculation about how much longer the war would last because of it. As the conversation drifted to the Sorite himself, Abramm found himself increasingly agitated. The first time he’d heard this rumor he’d laughed it off as absurd. But when in every town it was repeated, built up, and embroidered upon, he was finding it less and less easy to dismiss. With all the furor surrounding Leyton’s arrival, he’d hardly expected to find anyone talking of Maddie, yet here they were. And after what he’d seen today— Kiriathan soldiers marching out of the temple and into Horon-Pel under the banner of the Black Moon, literally under his nose—it was obvious Chesedh needed an ally. And if it was considered the duty of the First Daughter to make alliances for her people, as he knew it was, how much more would it be considered the duty of a widowed queen?