The Shadow Within

by Karen Hancock

  Surprise superseded the boy’s wariness. “You’ve read this, sir?”

  Abramm grinned. “About five times, I believe.” He handed the book back.

  “Five times?” Jared’s standoffishness dissolved in the excitement of finding a shared passion. “I’ve only read it twice, but surely it is the greatest book ever written.”

  Abramm’s smile broadened. “You’ve not read Aerie’s sequel, then.”

  Jared’s eyes widened. “Sequel?”

  “It must still be in the royal library. I’ll find it for you tomorrow.”

  “Oh. Thank you, Sire!” His face glowed with excitement. Then his eyes dropped back to the mark, and uncertainty washed it away.

  This time Abramm did not let it go. “Have you never seen one before?”

  “Sir?”

  Abramm gestured at his own chest. “A Terstan’s shieldmark.”

  All the blood drained from Jared’s face. “No, sir. Only heard about them.”

  “And what did you hear?”

  The boy’s eyes flicked up to his, to the shieldmark, to the chamber at Abramm’s back, and finally to the floor. “That you serve the Dark One and drink the blood of goats and work evil spells to snare the unwary. . . . Wild tales, sir. Probably not true.”

  “Mmm.” Abramm studied him, remembering himself at this age. I would have been aghast. Horrified. In fear for my life. He doesn’t seem so bad as that. “Do you serve the Flames, then?”

  “Yes, sir.” Jared continued to stare at the floor, standing rigidly, book clutched one-handed to the side of his chest. “Sort of, sir. My aunt and uncle make me.”

  “Ah.” Abramm leaned forward, folding his hands atop the open First Word. “You have many questions, I think,” he ventured. “Perhaps you would like to ask some of them.”

  “No, sir. I . . .” Jared’s voice died. He swallowed, his grip tightening on the book. Suddenly his head came up. “Did you really look into the Flames and fail, sir?”

  “No. I never got that far.”

  The boy nodded, eyes dropping to the shieldmark, and staying there this time. “Did it hurt when they put it on you?”

  “They?”

  “The other Terstans.”

  “Terstans did not put this mark upon me, Jared. Eidon himself did. And no.” He smiled at the memory. “It didn’t hurt.”

  “Are you”—the eyes lifted to meet his own—“are you going to put one on me now?”

  Abramm felt his brows fly up. “Of course not! I couldn’t do that even if I wanted to. A man must come to Eidon from his own desire and will.”

  “That is not what the Mataian brothers say.”

  “I know.”

  Jared chewed his lip, hugging the book tighter, and Abramm sensed the window for this conversation had closed. Well did he know the horror stories children heard about Terstans. To press Jared too hard would hurt more than help.

  “It’s late,” Abramm said. “We’ll speak of this later.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now get yourself to bed. And don’t stay up reading all night, else you won’t be fit for your duties tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir! I mean, no. I mean—”

  “Good night, Jared.”

  “Good night, sir.” The boy’s gaze caught on the mark one last time, then dropped away as he sketched a bow and hurried off.

  Well, it was a better reaction than I got from Carissa. Maybe there’s hope for Uncle Simon after all. . . .

  CHAPTER

  14

  The Terstan refugees were hidden away at Highmount Holding in a secret room beneath the unrestored garrison stables in the outer yard. The room’s walls and floor finished with rough stone, it boasted a hearth whose chimney was shared by the still-working forge set up outside the stable above. Thus a fire could be kindled and vented without giving their presence away.

  When Carissa joined them, a pot of stew was bubbling over the flames, a meal they later enjoyed with fresh bread brought down from the kitchen and a basket of new apples, crisp and tart from the holding’s small orchard. A young couple with a baby, a single woman with a bruised and swollen face, and an elderly man—a university professor of some repute—with a bandaged right hand comprised the group who waited there at present. As soon as the storm abated they planned to thread the pass and make their way through the forests north of the Aranaaks to the next way station, a small trading post deep in barbarian country. Even to Carissa, who had lived her share of difficult journeys, it seemed a daunting prospect for such a group, especially this late in the season. She mentioned this to her new companions, impulsively offering a place for them here at the holding until spring came. But like scores of their fellows before them, they were determined to go on, confident Eidon would make them a way.

  The two women, it turned out, were sisters, Grace and Clarity. The older one, Grace, had recently lost her husband to the Gadrielites, Mataian laymen sworn to the Order of Gadriel. The Gadrielites, they explained, took it upon themselves to find and reform heretics, Terstans being their primary targets. Anyone found on the streets was fair game for questioning, but more often the heretic hunters sought out the forbidden, clandestine worship services of their enemies, bursting in without warning and dragging off as many as they could manage. Lately they’d even been breaking into people’s homes. Grace’s husband, Brenlan, had been taken at a meeting in Southdock, then tortured to death in the effort to persuade him to renounce his shield and embrace the Flames. The elderly professor accompanying them had also been the recipient of torture, his hand crushed for writing “too many truths the Gadrielites did not like.”

  “ ’Tis not safe to be a Terstan in Springerlan anymore, my lady,” said Clarity.

  Certainly not for those as stubborn as Brenlan Throckmorton, Carissa reflected grimly. Nor this Professor Laud.

  “Master Cooper told us Prince Abramm has returned to take up the throne,” Clarity went on gravely. “When we heard that, we gave thanks we left when we did, for things will surely grow worse if he succeeds. Gillard, at least, only looked the other way. Abramm would surely make it a matter of royal command.”

  Carissa said nothing to this, her thoughts set hopelessly aroil by the mention of her brother, particularly in this context. Back in Jarnek he’d refused to come home in part because of the persecution toward Terstans that had existed in Kiriath when he’d left. If anything, things sounded worse now, and she doubted he would look the other way. Certainly he would be no less stubborn than Throckmorton or Laud should anyone demand he renounce that shield.

  As the others continued to speculate about what would happen next in Kiriath, she busied herself washing their bowls and kettle. When she had finished, the professor, who had been watching her with such keenness of eye she suspected he had recognized her, led the others in prayer and a song of worship. From which, of course, she was excluded, unable even to pretend to praise a god who would allow such cruel injustices to befall his servants as had befallen these four. That night she dreamed of robed men—one of them, Rennalf—bursting into their hideaway to seize them all as heretics.

  She awakened with a cry, staring around in the firelit dimness as the dream faded. The professor alone remained awake, puffing on the pipe she’d earlier watched Grace help him to fill and light. His eyes rested thoughtfully upon her. “Your dreams are troubled this night,” he said presently.

  Shivering, she sat up and crept with her blanket into the fire’s warm radius.

  “The men from whom you flee,” he went on, “the men staying now in your own keep—they are evil.”

  She wasn’t sure if he meant that as statement or question, but she took it as the latter and nodded. “Grace’s husband may have died resisting evil men. Mine, I fear, has become one of them.”

  The old man formed a ring of smoke with his lips and sent it out into the air, watching it dissipate. Then he said to the fire, “I was given to understand it was Rennalf of Balmark who was guesting at your holding, my lady.”
Carissa glanced at him in chagrin, but he kept his gaze on the flames. “From what I sense up there tonight, you are wise to stay away from him. Although I fear that even down here his dark powers touch your dreams.”

  Her eyes flicked to him again. Dark powers? So I was right about that amulet. The Lord of Balmark has changed for the worse. With a shudder she trained her gaze back at the fire. “I don’t believe he knows I’m here, sir.”

  “A man like that?” The professor snorted softly. “He knows, my lady. You are probably the reason he came here in the first place.”

  “If he knew I was here, Professor, he would be down here. Believe me.” Howling and spitting and promising me the beating of my life.

  “Oh, he can’t find you just now. Eidon has woven a cloak of light over us to confound enemies like him.”

  She frowned. “Then how could he be touching my dreams?”

  “He probably planted the seeds last night. That was when he arrived, was it not?”

  Her frown deepened. He turned to meet her gaze soberly. “When he leaves,” he said, “you should leave, too. Come with us if you like. Or head south to join your brothers. Only do not stay in Highmount.”

  She trained her gaze back on the fire. “I would be recognized in the south. And Rennalf would demand my return, which I could not abide.”

  “They say you were close to Abramm. With his Mataian ties, I can’t imagine he would deliver you to a man said to deal in dark magicks.”

  “It is unlikely Abramm will succeed against Gillard.” The moment anyone finds out about that shield on his chest, it will all be over. They’ll never accept another Terstan on the throne after Raynen. “But if he does, Abramm would be more inclined to give me over than anyone. Gillard has only political reasons, whereas Abramm is constrained by the Words of Revelation—which forbid a woman to do what I have done.” He’d probably believe Eidon would make a way for me to survive it.

  They listened to the fire pop and hiss, to the wind rushing over the flue, then Professor Laud said casually, “According to the Words, there are times desertion is justified.”

  “In my case, there are other considerations.” Politics. Duty. The good of the realm. All things her father had used to justify his decision to give her to Rennalf twelve years ago.

  “Yes,” Laud agreed quietly. “There are always other considerations.” As he brought the pipe up to his mouth, firelight glinted off the marriage ring on his left hand, and she thought suddenly that his observation about desertion might be personal.

  “You had to leave your wife behind,” she guessed.

  “And my children and grandchildren, too.” He puffed a moment, then added, “They were happy to see me go.”

  Cloaked in the blanket, Carissa drew her knees to her chest and encircled them with her arms. “Why didn’t you just tell the Gadrielites what they want to hear? At least, then, your family would have been safe.”

  “It was my wife who turned me in,” he said without even a trace of bitterness.

  She stared at him in astonishment. His hand crushed, his university position lost, his wealth taken, his children and his home and his friends left behind—and all of it thanks to the betrayal of the one person closest to him in all the world, all of it for the sake of a god who obviously didn’t care? “And you still follow him?” she blurted, anger burning in her chest. “You still sing praises to him?”

  Laud knew whom she meant and smiled gently. “I am alive, am I not? I am free. And I’m on my way to a new life in Chesedh.”

  “But—you’ve lost everything.”

  “Eidon gave me everything I had in the first place. He is free to take it all away if he wishes. I know it is not without purpose.”

  “Not without purpose? What sort of purpose is there in being betrayed by your wife? In losing your profession and your children and your hand?”

  He puffed on his pipe a few times, the smoke’s sweet aroma rising around her, then said, “I’ve been granted the opportunity to show I don’t serve him because of what he gives me. To show I trust him even when it looks like I shouldn’t.” He smiled. “After fifty years in his service, I know this is not for nothing, my lady. In the end, all will be right and I will be blessed the more for having endured it. It is an honor to suffer for his name.”

  She frowned at him, tense and angry still, for he made no sense, and she could not imagine serving a god who deliberately hurt his people in order to bless them—and then had the gall to call it an honor. Even more upsetting was knowing Abramm served the same god and it was only a matter of time before he suffered a similar “honor.” Even as she seethed, Professor Laud puffed at his pipe and stared into the fire with a small sad smile, and she knew he would never be swayed.

  She awoke to find the storm over and Rennalf and his men already gone. According to Elayne, Ulgar’s claim of seeing Carissa among the servants had been swiftly discounted when a blond maid wearing the clothing he’d described was presented for Rennalf’s inspection and questioned closely. When she reluctantly admitted sneaking away to the barn for a lover’s tryst, he’d seemed satisfied, had even teased Ulgar about it throughout that second evening. They’d left in the morning without further reference to the matter.

  “We’ll not see him again soon,” Elayne declared firmly.

  Cooper was not so certain. “Rennalf always was a sly devil, my lady. I remember more than once when he pretended indifference and was anything but. And I didn’t like that amulet he wore, either. I think he’ll be back.”

  Laud’s warning not withstanding, Carissa sided with Elayne, convinced that if Rennalf truly suspected she was here, he’d have turned the fortress upside down looking for her. Neither woman, however, denied the man was up to something, and it irked Carissa that no one had an inkling what it was. He claimed to have strayed onto Laramor lands chasing barbarian raiders, though no news of such raiders had yet reached Highmount. Barbarians had figured heavily in the northmen’s talk, however—one chieftain’s name having come up several times—though whether they planned to defend against him or ally with him, no one was sure. But all agreed that it was unsettling to hear them laugh at the notion of Abramm challenging Gillard for the throne.

  Of Abramm, naturally, there was a great deal of talk, though the servants closest to Carissa soon learned to avoid the subject in her presence. Those who believed she was Louisa and already regarded her as eccentric thought little of it. Those who knew the truth, like Cooper and Elayne and Hogart, stepped carefully and watched her with increasing consternation. Finally, three days after Rennalf left, four since they’d first received word about Abramm, Cooper broached the subject.

  Carissa was in the solar, a small landinglike chamber whose inner half wall overlooked the Great Room below and whose outer held a thick-glassed window that let in a warm, bright light. She sat beside it, satin-stitching a ring of yellow daisies onto a pillow sham.

  Cooper came and stood for a time before she finally looked up. “The pigeon loft is nearly full of our own birds again,” he said. “It’s time we took some back to Springerlan. I thought you might want to go along.”

  She focused again on her needlework. “Why would you think that? In fact, why would you think you should go at all? The weather will surely turn bad before you return, leaving your bride to pine for you all winter.”

  “I would bring her with us, of course.”

  “Well, I don’t wish to go.” She stuck the needle into the fabric directly alongside where the last stitch had entered. “Furthermore, with Rennalf out there scheming, I don’t want to be here alone.”

  “My lady, Rennalf’s scheming is a large part of why I’d like to get you out of here.”

  She tugged the last thread tight, then poked the needle tip through from the underside. It took her several tries to get it right and push it through. “If Rennalf suspected I was here, he’d have been back before now, Coop. And I’ll not flee from the pot to the flames on nothing more than nerves and what-ifs. Send th
e pigeons down with Rolf and Jamison like you did last summer.”

  Silence stretched between them as she worked, gradually shortening her stitches to draw the petal to a point, then securing it with a couple of backstitches before starting on its neighbor.

  “I want to see him, my lady,” Cooper said finally.

  Even the veiled reference pierced her like an arrow.

  When she kept silent, he added, “I should think you would, too.”

  “Well, I don’t!” She worked the needle rapidly in close, steadily lengthening stitches, then realized she had pulled them all too tight.

  Cooper finally lost patience. “He’s killed the kraggin, my lady! Challenged Gillard for the throne and won it! Do you realize what that means?”

  “That Springerlan is free. That the people are pleased.” She slid her needle under the last stitch she had taken and loosened it. “That Gillard is not.”

  Outside a gust of wind rushed against the glass. Voices drifted up from the kitchen as the front door opened and someone stumped across the Great Room. Moments later they dumped a load of wood into the hearth box, then stumped out.

  As the front door closed again, Cooper sighed. “I thought this was what you wanted, lass,” he murmured. “For him to come back and take up the royal scepter.”

  “I couldn’t care less what he does.”

  “You hate him that much now? Him whom you went to the ends of the world to free?”

  “I—” But her voice failed, and she had to pause in her needlework, blinking away the tears until she could see again. She resumed tight-lipped, her heart feeling like a knot of wood against her breastbone. “He made it plain back in Jarnek what was important to him,” she whispered. “And it wasn’t me.”

  Cooper’s callused fingers tapped against the sides of his legs. Then, “You know that’s not true, lass. Those last weeks he sought with all his might to reconcile. It was you who refused to talk.”