Part of him could hardly believe he was here, still free, still in contention for the Crown. It seemed a miracle he had come this far, and yet, he felt as if he trod a knife-edge of disaster. It took but a slight shift of perspective for all his plans of convincing the lords to accept him over Gillard on image alone to look ridiculously naïve. These were men seasoned in the ways of politics and rule, many of them antagonistic and suspicious, most of them having more years of experience than Abramm had even lived. It would take such a little thing to ruin it all. A loss of poise, a breech of protocol, some heedless remark, and it could all come tearing apart. Even assuming the plan would do anything more than make them laugh in the first place. That was the worst part—imagining their laughter.
Little Abramm? King of Kiriath?
For a moment it was as if a great hand squeezed round him, pressing out his breath, replacing it with a snake pit of writhing doubts. How could he possibly think this would work? He had nothing to bring to them. He was nothing. Yes, he had gained experience with the Dorsaddi in Esurh, but Esurh was not Kiriath, and he was a fool to think it had prepared him. A fool to have come here at all, knowing how things were. As Blackwell said earlier, Gillard would fight him, smashing his shield of imagery and projected confidence into rubble.
You should never have come back . . . you’ll only make trouble . . . men will die because of you.
He gripped the tub sides and stopped the tumbling thoughts. He was here now and could only go forward. Doubts would not help him—and was not Eidon the one who’d brought him here? Would He not see him through this?
Resolutely refusing to contemplate further all the ways he might fail, all the very real weaknesses he had, he turned back toward the Light, and in that moment it seemed that something left him. Some subtle finger of presence.
He sat upright in a rush of trickling water, his nape hairs rising, his heart pounding hard against his ribcage. A wave of hot prickles rushed over his skin as he wondered—was that a rhu’ema’s touch? He couldn’t be sure. It had been so subtle, so delicate, hardly even there. Yet Trap had warned him such attacks would come, just last night aboard the crippled Wanderer.
“Your biggest enemies will be the ones you cannot see,” his liegeman had said. “Not flesh and bone, but powers of air and shadow. Once you start to walk into your destiny, the opposition becomes intense. Spore, spawn, and rhu’ema themselves— they’ll come after you from every quarter. And while High Father Saeral may be dead, you know the rhu’ema that controlled him is not. He’ll seek to control you again, and as well as he knows you, don’t think he’ll have a hard time of it.”
If Saeral was not in Bonafil, he was probably in some influential palace courtier. One of the three noblemen he’d met earlier, for instance. Of them, Blackwell, as Speaker of the Table, was the only one who should have been there, Abramm having instructed Channon to inform him discreetly. The other two, the fop and the prig, had not been invited. And though he could think of numerous benign reasons for their presence, including the ones they’d given, he purposed to watch them carefully.
There would be spawn to look out for, as well—staffid, feyna, nightsprols. Staffid especially. He’d watched them come after the Dorsaddi king, Shemm, relentlessly. And Channon had already told him of the staffid infestation the palace had endured this summer. Indeed, he had noted for himself the bowls of onions sitting on hall tables as Haldon had led him to these apartments. There was even one in the bedchamber outside this bath closet.
Every successful attack would deliver new spore, activate the old, and provide a window in which the rhu’ema could work, tainting and twisting his thoughts. Shemm, under constant attack, had grown proficient at zapping them from afar, a Lightskill Abramm had not yet mastered and must. Soon. Meantime he’d better keep his guard up.
When the water had cooled he took up soap and brush from the tub-side table, scrubbing and rinsing himself repeatedly in his efforts to expunge the kraggin’s odor. He had just come up from a dunking when something long and gray and fringed slithered over the edge of the tub and into the water with him.
With an oath he flew out of the bath, slipped on the wet tile, windmilled to catch his balance, then leaped aside as another of the multilegged things slithered toward him from under the tub. It was a huge species of staffid, a fact he realized even as his bare foot smashed down upon the segmented carapace. Light flowed out of him on contact, frying it. He stomped another, smacked a third with the scrub brush as it came up the side of the tub. After that he lost count, for they seemed to be everywhere. He dodged and danced around the tub, slipping and sliding on the wet tile as he stomped and smacked them to death. Where the plague are they coming from?
It was inevitable one would get him, and ironically it was the first he had seen, the one that had joined him in his bath. It came up out of the water and wriggled over the tub’s edge, dropping straight to the floor and landing atop his foot, where it wrapped itself instantly around his instep. With a shout of annoyance, he yanked it off before it could bite, only to have it twist in his palm and clamp around his fist. A bright pain stung the back of one knuckle, followed instantly by a flow of white fire down his arm and into the staffid, loosening its grip. The thing writhed in brief agony, multilegs fluttering. Then it flared blue and went limp.
He flung it to the floor with the others, glanced around warily to be sure it was the last, and froze as his eyes fell upon Jared and Haldon standing in the doorway, staring at him in slack-jawed astonishment.
CHAPTER
7
The tub itself, standing hip-high between them, afforded Abramm a measure of modesty, but did nothing to hide the golden shield on his chest. Jared stared at it, transfixed, while Haldon took one look and immediately turned away, stopping the servants now coming up behind him and herding them back out the bedchamber door.
Abramm heard him assure them it was only staffid, heard the door shut and the latch click. Only then did his mind, stunned by the sudden discovery, churn back into action. His robe lay on the other side of the tub, soaking in a puddle of water. Not that it mattered now. Feigning calm, he turned, took one of the towels from the sideboard and wrapped it around his waist.
About that time Haldon returned, stopping in the doorway behind Jared, who still had not closed his mouth. As before, the chamberlain’s gaze riveted upon the shieldmark. After a moment, it flicked to the red dragon rampant branded into Abramm’s left arm, then to the scars that laced his torso. “True trophies of a warrior’s successes,” his former master had called those scars. Haldon’s eyes catalogued every one before moving on to the dead staffid littering the floor. When his gaze finally returned to Abramm’s, he looked pale and shaken.
“Look at all the staffid,” Jared murmured. “They’re huge! And there’s so many of them. . . .”He lifted his wide eyes to Abramm. “And you killed them all yourself, my lord!”
And not one without my having to touch it first, Abramm thought morosely. He counted eleven of them and wondered again where they had come from. Staffid were self-propagated, either free roamers or cultivated and delivered to a specific target by an agent. In daylight the free roamers might roll into any number of disguises designed to be picked up and brought into the house, unrolling in the night to seek out warm flesh. Others took on the form of jewelry—bracelets, rings, and armbands—and exerted a subtle compulsion over the finder to put them on, sometimes without even knowing it. They fed on blood, injecting their victim with a tiny amount of sense-dulling spore so they would not be felt. Staffid spore was among the most benign. Injected in minute amounts, it produced no negative symptons for weeks.
These particular staffid were not, however, free roamers. They had come after him aggressively, their spore atypically strong. Someone had cultivated them especially for him, hoping no doubt to break down his resistance to deception.
“Who’s had access to this chamber?” Abramm asked, scanning the tiled floor for the remains of the membrane pouc
h that had held them. Quiescent as long as their target was not nearby, they could have been left here for hours, awakening to chew through only when he’d come close enough.
Haldon frowned. “Since you sent us all out, no one save Smyth, me, and the boy here.”
“And before I arrived?” He stepped back to look under the tub, then bent closer. Sure enough, shreds of a translucent blue-gray membrane floated in the puddled water near the claw foot farthest from the door.
“Before that,” Haldon said, “we were getting ready. . . . There were probably close to fifty people, and no one really watching for anything suspicious. At least nothing like this.” Coming around the tub to see what Abramm had found, he bent down to pick up the membrane. It dangled, dripping, from his large, bony fingers, shimmering in the light. “Do you know what this is, sir?”
“It’s part of the pouch the staffid came in.”
Something in Haldon’s expression made Abramm think the man already knew that. He draped it over the tubside with a grimace and wiped his fingers on one of the towels. “Sir,” he said finally, “I do not believe this is something your brother orchestrated. You have other enemies here.” His eyes darted to the shieldmark on Abramm’s chest and away, as if it made him uncomfortable to look at it.
“Yes,” said Abramm.
Jared was staring at the mark again, as well, his expression jolting Abramm’s thoughts from questions about the staffid to a greater concern. Feeling his attention, the boy’s eyes flicked up to his own, then down to the floor, his face growing white as the tile.
Abramm sighed. “You understand, Jared, that what you have seen here is not information you are free to spread around. That if it does spread, I will know the source.”
“Yes, my lord. But—” He stifled his words, looked pleadingly at Haldon, then at the floor again.
Abramm raised a questioning brow to the chamberlain.
“Sire, the rumor that you wear a shield is all over Springerlan. Everyone knows what Master Rhiad accused.”
“Nevertheless, this gives neither of you leave to confirm it. If you do, I will know.”
Jared drew breath to speak and again stopped himself before the words came out.
“You have something to say, Jared?” Abramm asked.
“Only that . . . sir, it goes against the code of honor for a valet to reveal such information. I would never do such a thing.”
“At least not knowingly.”
“Maybe it would be best to send him away, sir,” Haldon suggested, his tone carefully neutral. “To one of the border fortresses. Archer’s Vale, maybe. Or Highmount Holding.”
Jared’s eyes went wide.
Abramm frowned. “Exile him for accidentally learning something I’d prefer he not know?”
“What he knows could ruin you,” Haldon said quietly.
Abramm turned to the boy. “What do you think, Jared? Can you hold your tongue, or would you rather be somewhere distant where it won’t matter what you say?”
“I swear to you on my life, Sire, I will say nothing.”
Something in his tone, in the solemnity of his mien reminded Abramm of Philip Meridon, hopefully already in Sterlen with his parents by now. Philip would say it the same way. And he would mean it. Abramm sensed that Jared meant it, too. He regarded the boy long and hard before releasing a low breath and nodding. “Very well, Jared. I accept your oath and your service.”
“You can start by gathering up these staffid and throwing them into the fire,” Haldon said.
“Yes, sir.”
His first bath completed by default, Abramm slipped on the plain white shirt and black breeches Haldon brought to him, then followed the chamberlain into the dressing chamber to select the clothes he would wear this evening. Once the older man reached the wardrobe, however, he merely stood there, staring at the closed door. The expression of severe neutrality he had worn throughout the interview with Jared had given way to one of increasing dismay. Now he turned from the wardrobe’s dark bulk and lifted a hand.
Abramm gaped as a kelistar bloomed on his large fingers. Completely taken aback, he was a moment finding his tongue. “Thank you for showing me this, Haldon. I am . . . more pleased—and relieved—than you can know.”
But that only increased the pain in the old man’s face. Flicking out the orb, he said, “To my shame, sir, I must confess that I have broken the honor of a valet.” He hesitated. “When you attacked me, I thought it proof you were . . . compromised. I am afraid I . . . passed that conclusion on.” He dropped both hands to his sides.
“You thought I was controlled by rhu’ema?”
“It was widely known among us they intended that for you six years ago. It seemed the only explanation. You were so strong and quick. You nearly killed me! That is not something a simple scribe could’ve done.” His eyes flicked back to Abramm’s chest, hidden now by the shirt. “But then you weren’t a scribe, were you?”
“I was for a time. Who did you tell?”
“Only Beeson. Your chef. But he will tell others. Already has, I’m sure.”
“Terstans?”
Haldon nodded. “I’ll tell him I was wrong, of course. But for many, I fear, it will not matter. They’ll just think I’ve fallen to your deceptive abilities.”
It hadn’t occurred to Abramm that the men he’d assumed would be his allies might reckon him possessed, and he thought himself an idiot now for the oversight. Had he not on his last arrival at Springerlan been kidnapped by Terstans who believed he was to be the Mataio’s puppet king? Why would they think differently now when the Mataio itself was openly claiming exactly that?
Haldon looked more miserable than ever, but he kept his chin up and fixed his gaze on something beyond Abramm’s right shoulder. “I am disgraced, sir,” he whispered, white hair shining in a halo around his craggy face. “I am the one who ought to go to Highmount Holding.”
“That is true,” said Abramm. And Haldon slowly paled. Abramm let him squirm a moment, then relented. “Nevertheless, I know you for a faithful man, Haldon, and I trust you’ll not make the same mistake again.”
“Never, sir.” Haldon still had not met his gaze.
“Besides, it will hardly be to my advantage to send you away now you’ve learned my secret, only to have to begin anew with someone else. Although frankly I’m beginning to wonder if this subterfuge is really worth it. I hadn’t counted on having to win over my allies as well as my enemies. Maybe I should just come clean of it at the start and see what happens.”
Haldon’s head jerked up in alarm. “Tonight, sir?”
“Why not? I’ve already been openly accused.”
The chamberlain shook his head. “If you declare it, sir, they will never accept you. It is not good to be a Terstan these days. In the last month alone, two high lords were ruined for it, their titles stripped, their holdings seized. The month before another disappeared without a trace. We suspect the Gadrielites took him. He probably died from their attempts to drive the evil out of him.”
Abramm frowned. “I had heard of this new order of heretic hunters back in Qarkeshan—breaking into people’s homes and hauling them off—but I believed the tales exaggerated. Assault? Kidnapping? Outright robbery? The authorities allow such things?”
“Civil authorities have no jurisdiction in Mataian matters, sir. And heresy is a Mataian matter.”
“But everyone who is not a Mataian is a heretic, so—”
“Only Terstans are considered such right now. And because it’s only Terstans, those who might otherwise object look the other way.” He hesitated, then added quietly, “King Raynen’s last days frightened a lot of people. Even those of us who wear the shield. The Mataio has used that fear to its advantage.”
The chamberlain started to open the wardrobe doors, then motioned for Jared to draw the drapes on the tall windows ranged along the western wall. As the scent of dust tickled Abramm’s nostrils and the room flickered into dimness, he said, “Tell me about Ray, Haldon. All
I’ve heard is that he went completely mad of the sarotis and threw himself off Graymeer’s Point.”
Haldon grimaced. “It was seeing Captain Meridon executed that started it, I think. Many say Meridon was set up, that the accusations against him were but a deceit to remove him from the king’s circle. Especially after the— well, whatever it was that happened with you.”
“When I fled the Mataio, you mean.”
“Aye.”
Abramm said no more, though Haldon clearly hoped he would. When he held silence, the chamberlain sighed and returned to his own story.
“After that night your brother was never the same. He met assassins in his bedchamber, saw evil spirits behind the draperies, heard voices whispering from the balcony. He turned out all his personal servants, convinced we were spies. He even suspected the birds.” Haldon snorted softly. “The drapes and doors and windows had to be closed at all times. He took to slinking around the palace, using the secret passages to spy on those he suspected of spying on him. His hair and beard grew long, his teeth green. He never changed his clothes, never bathed, and often we heard him screaming or cackling afar in those passages he haunted.”
He fell silent, lost in recollection while Abramm entertained memories of his own. Raynen had seen their father murdered, knew of Gillard’s aspirations for the throne and of Saeral’s evil plans involving Abramm himself. He was, in fact, the man responsible for opening Abramm’s own eyes to the matter— and who, then, let Gillard sell Abramm into slavery and Trap along with him, betraying them both to save himself.
Guilt could cripple a man—so could fear. In combination they were toxic. Worse, they smothered the Light and so allowed the sarotis to grow.
“He was bent and crippled at the end,” Haldon continued. “The curd filled his eyes and dribbled down his face, drying on clothing that had grown ragged and filthy. His decisions became completely illogical and inappropriate. The Table had to remove him. They locked him up in the Chancellor’s Tower—for his own safety—but the next day he escaped and slipped off to Graymeer’s.”
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