The Shadow Within

by Karen Hancock

  Why have you done this, my Lord? Are you trying to tell me I can’t really be king until I’ve acknowledged both? That I should come clean of all my secrets now and let you handle the explosion that’s sure to follow?

  But as with the matter of telling Simon, he got no clear answers.

  CHAPTER

  15

  On the eighth day of Abramm’s reign, at ten minutes to two in the afternoon, Simon Kalladorne clattered up to the palace’s main entrance on his big bay stallion and dismounted. Flinging the reins at the first lieutenant of his escort, he pulled his document pouch from its saddlebag and jogged awkwardly up the stairway to the carved and gilded front doors, pulling off his gloves as he went. He stank of horse and sweat and road dust, but he was scheduled to see the king in ten minutes, hardly time to get there, much less wash and change. He’d spent all day yesterday at the Briarcreek Garrison, finishing up the details of his report for the king on the status of the army and had intended to leave for Springerlan early this morning. But all sorts of things had come up at the last minute, delaying his departure.

  He was in a foul mood and he knew it. Seeing the new conscripts always did it to him. Conscription regulations had been filled with so many exemptions of late that the only men they could actually draft were peasants or outright criminals. With military service having fallen out of favor among the peers years ago, fewer and fewer of Kiriath’s aristocracy entered voluntarily. Not that the upper classes would be any better than the lower. Take that young fool he had encountered on the way here. The wheel had come off his buggy, stranding him, and the young dandy was in a dither, wringing his hands and screaming at his servants to fix it. When Simon and his escort had arrived on the scene, the peacock had all but fainted for fear they were bandits. A fine soldier that one would make.

  Simon stopped at the entry to hand over cloak and gloves, brushing at himself in a futile attempt to remove some of the dust. As he straightened, Temas Darnley and a coterie of adoring young nobles crossed the domed atrium on their way to the east wing. Darnley nodded a greeting, not even noticing that Simon only scowled back. They were all the same, a flock of pigeons decked in ribbons and lace with their ridiculous wigs and scented gloves and silly canes. They made him sick and angry, and sometimes he wanted to grab them by those lace cravats and—

  He cut off the mental tirade. Raging did no good, and they were not all like that. There were still real men within the peerage—in military service, too. And Abramm’s plans, if they were legitimate, would go far toward improving things. Even his person, if he continued to manifest the appearance and manner he’d adopted, would do that. Indeed, a number of the new men Simon had seen yesterday were there precisely because of Abramm, inspired by the way he’d dealt with both the kraggin and the court—to say nothing of his near miraculous escape from slavery. That they were also unemployed and suffering economic hardship likely had something to do with it, too, but at least they were claiming loyalty and admiration for their king. Simon just hoped Abramm would turn out to be worthy of it. Then frowned at himself for the thought.

  He drew a breath and headed right, crossing the atrium to enter the spacious Hall of Mirrors leading to the west wing. Gold laced the marble floor and the mirroring of the inner wall, gleaming in the warm light of the row of windows opposite. He was halfway to the Fountain Court at its end when Leona Blackwell and her ladies-in-waiting emerged from one of the salons beyond the mirrored wall. A gown of magenta silk set off her ivory skin and flaxen hair to startling advantage and deepened the blue of her eyes, which today sparkled with an unusual animation. “Lady Leona,” said Simon, bowing. “How lovely you look.”

  Her blush deepened as she curtsied and thanked him for the compliment, while he marveled anew at how much she favored her mother. He glanced around. “I thought the king had canceled the morning concerts and brunches.”

  She sighed mournfully. “He has. And everything else, too, I’m afraid. Well, except for his picnic to the western headland day after tomorrow, but that hardly counts. I’ve tried to persuade him otherwise, but he is set on conserving funds for his military projects.” She affected an endearing pout. “The winter will be so very dull. . . . I don’t suppose you could speak to him, my lord duke. . . ?”

  The pout had evolved into a coquettish plea. But Simon shook his head sadly. “I fear, my lady, that Abramm is right.” He was momentarily startled, hearing his own words, then went on. “It’s a sacrifice we all must make.”

  “You really think those southlanders could be that much of a threat?”

  Simon smiled at her. “Not so much now, my lady.”

  Leona sniffed and tilted her head. “Lord Temas says they’re not. That Abramm’s unnecessarily paranoid. That it’s his Mataian background that’s driving him—all those years of denying himself and seeing pleasure as something evil.” She sighed again. “At least he has not canceled the Harvest Ball as he threatened to do.”

  Simon frowned as something she’d said earlier struck him. “Did I hear you say you sought to convince him of these things, my lady? Have you met with him, then?”

  “Oh.” A hint of pink touched her cheeks as she smiled. “I’m assisting him with the dances for the ball. We had our first practice this morning.”

  “Ah. And how did he do? I expect your toes must be rather bruised.”

  “It’s just the patterns he’s rusty on, sir. He’s actually quite”—her blush deepened and she averted her gaze—“athletic. He’s very athletic, sir.”

  And only now did Simon recall how Leona had all but swallowed Abramm with her eyes at his reception the night the kraggin was burned. The court gossips must already be chattering of a budding royal romance. “I assume your brother approves of this developing relationship?” Since as Royal Secretary now, he’s no doubt set it in motion.

  She blushed furiously, and her small hands fiddled with the ribbons at her waist. “I would hardly call it a relationship, my lord. I am only here to help with the dancing. As to my brother’s approval”—her hands fell motionless at her sides and pique crept into her voice—“I should imagine he would be pleased if such a thing as you are suggesting developed. He was the one to arrange my tutoring sessions, after all.”

  “Ah.” Simon suppressed a smile. The younger Blackwell had much of his father in him—particularly the ability to manipulate people into believing his plans for them were actually their own.

  Now Leona blushed again, and her hands plucked up her skirt. “Well, it’s been a pleasure speaking to you, my lord.”

  “All mine, I assure you,” Simon said.

  She swept away with her ladies, their skirts hissing, and Simon watched them go with a thoughtful smile.

  “They’re already taking wagers she’ll be the next queen,” Ethan Laramor said from just behind him, “Chesedhan negotiations notwithstanding.”

  Simon turned with an oath. “Plagues, man! You move like a spirit. Can’t you give me a little warning?”

  Laramor grinned and shrugged. “I thought I had. Maybe the problem lies with your ears, eh?” He wore the standard Borderer jerkin and britches today, his clanlord earring glinting alongside his jaw.

  “My ears are fine,” Simon growled. “And what the plague are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were avoiding the palace now that the Guardian-King has come to power.”

  “I was waiting for you, actually. And you, my friend, are going to be late for your meeting.”

  Simon scowled. “Is that a problem?”

  “Unlike Gillard, Abramm is a stickler for punctuality,” Laramor said. “He’s already refused audience to several of the peers when they failed to arrive on time.” He gestured along the gleaming corridor. “Come, I’ll walk with you.”

  As they fell into step Laramor came quickly to his point. “What are you planning to say about the border situation?”

  Simon glanced at him sidelong. “Is there something specific you want me to mention?”

  “I’d rather you g
o easy on the subject. Don’t give him reason to send his Mataian brothers up there to set things right.”

  “It sounds to me like Balmark is treating with the barbarians, Ethan. I can’t very well not tell him.”

  “We don’t know what Balmark’s doing,” Laramor said, hands clasped at his back. “And Abramm’s got enough to deal with. He probably won’t pick up on it if you don’t do it for him.”

  They fell silent as a group of courtiers passed them, then resumed their discussion as they turned into the King’s Court and started toward the broad convex staircase leading up to the Royal Apartments. “I have to at least mention it,” Simon said, frowning at his friend.

  “Just don’t give him any more than he asks for,” Laramor said quietly. “And try to keep him from asking for more than you give him.”

  “You know that sort of thing is not my style.”

  “Precisely why I’m bringing it up,” Laramor said with a wry smile. They stopped at the base of the stairs, and the border lord’s expression went from amusement to concern. “Be careful in there, Simon. Gillard’s right, you know. Abramm will try to win you. He has to.”

  Simon scowled at him. “Do you really believe I’m so addlebrained I won’t recognize flattery, manipulation, and double-talk when I hear it? And from Abramm, of all people, whom I’ve known since he was a babe?”

  “Just see that you don’t forget what you know of him,” Ethan said grimly. “That his mentor was Saeral—as charming a snake as ever there was.”

  He left Simon to climb the stair alone, and five minutes later the old duke was ushered into the royal sitting room where, as Ethan had predicted, Abramm already awaited him. The new king sat upon the blue-and-whitestriped divan near the fire, lost in thought, a glass of orange juice in one longfingered hand. As happened every time since Abramm had come before the Table that first night to claim his birthright, Simon found himself startled anew by the change in his nephew’s appearance. How much bigger he was than expected. How much more solid than he’d ever been as a boy. How confident and assured.

  Clad in brown fine-wale corduroy breeches and vest over a full-sleeved ivory-colored blouse, Abramm’s dress was austere, a decided relief compared to the excesses of his courtiers. As usual he wore no jewelry save his signet ring. Even the hilt and scabbard of the rapier he still wore—an odd concession to fashion when he so disregarded it in other respects—lacked all ornamentation, looking more like a service piece than the decorated broomsticks that were the norm.

  As Simon stopped between divan and chair, Abramm took notice of him and indicated he should sit. “You look travel worn, Uncle,” he said, leaning forward. “Would you like a drink? Something to eat?”

  Simon allowed that he would, and both were swiftly provided. Once his guest’s comfort had been seen to, Abramm nodded to one of the servants, who led the others out without a word.

  Simon could not complain about his listener’s attentiveness. The report was specific and comprehensive, yet Abramm never lost interest, never seemed lost, and did not hesitate to ask questions both intelligent and surprisingly relevant—not at all the sort that would be asked by a man who cared nothing for the military. Or who knew little about it. Nor did he allow any slighting of the border situation, questioning Simon closely when he tried to pass over it and ultimately extracting all the information Simon had to give before allowing him to move on. Which, despite Ethan’s warning, made Simon warm to him all the more.

  Until he brought up Graymeer’s. Or, more specifically, the fact that Simon hadn’t brought it up. “When I would expect it to be at the top of the list of deficiencies that need addressing.”

  It was like opening one’s wardrobe and finding a nest of staffid inside. Simon frowned, all his goodwill smothered by rising suspicion. “Sire, you grew up in Springerlan. You know what Graymeer’s is.”

  Cloaked in mists and infested with shadowspawn, the old fortress sat atop a honeycomb of dark passages so convoluted they’d never been thoroughly investigated, much less mapped and secured. For almost a century now, that lacking had doomed to disaster every attempt to reclaim the site, the lives lost to it grown too great to count.

  “I know what it is today,” Abramm said, picking up the glass of orange juice he’d set aside earlier and draining it. “But I also know it wasn’t always like this. And I know that as long as it stands in ruin, the bay’s west channel is an open lane for invaders to take the city. And yes, perhaps our navy can handle it, but why anchor a ship there defending the channel when a battery of cannon on the headland can do the job as well or better?”

  His blue eyes met Simon’s boldly, as if he expected to be challenged. But Simon smiled, feeling the irony of the moment. “Surely you know by now I would be the last to argue with you on that, sir. I just don’t think spending more lives on Graymeer’s is the way to go. Better to build elsewhere. I’ve already researched an excellent site at the mouth of the river.”

  “Which would let them get far too close to the city,” Abramm pointed out, fingering the now empty glass in his hands. “Besides, we don’t have time or funds to build anew. And it would be a foolish waste of both when all Graymeer’s really needs, I suspect, is a good cleaning.”

  “A cleaning.” The words sent a chill up Simon’s back. “What do you mean to do, then? Set Brother Belmir and a pack of his Mataians to the problem? Or worse, Lord Prittleman?”

  Abramm’s head jerked up, his expression startled and indignant. “No! Why would I?”

  “Because the Mataio has been screaming about cleansing that place for years. Now here you are, determined to do the same. It doesn’t take much to add the figures. A worthy goal, I would say, for one who would be their Guardian-King.”

  “I am not their Guardian-King!” Abramm said sharply. “When I renounced my vows, I renounced it all. I thought I had made that clear.” He was plainly irritated. But was it because of frustration at not being believed or because he feared his************ façade was being uncovered?

  “Belmir claims your disbelief is temporary,” said Simon. “That soon you will be back in the fold. Father Bonafil speaks of a coronation in the Keep.”

  “I’ll be dead before I’m crowned in the Keep!” Abramm said fiercely. “And I’ve told them the truth to their faces. If they refuse to believe me, it’s hardly my fault.”

  His passion seemed genuine. But Ethan’s words would not go away. “Remember his mentor was Saeral, as charming a snake as ever there was.” “So you’re saying to me,” said Simon, “clearly and plainly, that you are not a Mataian and never will be again.”

  “That is exactly what I am saying, Uncle.”

  “Why?” Simon burst out. “After all these years of stubborn allegiance, why do you reject it now? And how can you expect me to believe it is permanent? It’s not like you hold another faith in its stead!”

  He met Abramm’s glance defiantly, expecting the boy to shrink back and avert his eyes. Instead, he found himself caught in a gaze suddenly piercing and intent, as if his nephew sought to see his motives or was perhaps gauging some other aspect of his character. Simon had no idea what he might have seen, but finally Abramm did look away, apprehension flashing inexplicably across the hawkish features as he set the glass down on the table beside him. For a long time he sat in silence, one finger circling the glass’s rim, until finally he released a long breath and looked up. “Why, you ask?” His voice was grim. “Because I’ve seen it for the lie that it is. Since the day I discovered Saeral’s true plans for me and fled, nothing that happened to me should have happened. By Mataian reckoning, I should have been blessed for my service—not chained to a galley and forced to break my vows or die.”

  “Chained to a galley?” Simon exclaimed, startled. “I thought you were a scribe.”

  “I was both. Scribe first, galley slave second.” His lips twisted ironically as his hand left the juice glass and went to the opposite cuff. “Do you want to see the brand?”

  No! Simon thou
ght. I don’t! And yet he said nothing as Abramm pushed the billowing sleeve upward to reveal a muscular arm slashed with white scars. On the swell of his bicep stood a red dragon rampant, somewhat distorted by the way the scar tissue had formed, but very clearly a dragon. Simon had already heard the stories that it was just like the dragon in Abramm’s coat of arms, but hearing stories was not the same as seeing the thing in the flesh. Not only was it close enough to the dragon on his coat of arms to raise the hairs on Simon’s nape, but it was a brand. The mark of a slave on the son of Simon’s brother, now king of Kiriath. It was such an affront, such a shock, he could hardly bear to look at it. And now other details pushed themselves forward—the white scars, the broadness of shoulders and chest, the heaviness of his hands, thickened from hard labor. Galley slave. That’s how he’s come back so changed. That’s how he backed old Haldon up against the bedpost. Branded, chained to an oar, forced to row or die. Plagues! The steel was there. How could we all have missed it?

  Abramm looked away, jaw clenched, face touched with a hint of flush as he let the fabric fall back down his arm, covering the brand again. As he refastened his cuff he said, “I am no Mataian, Uncle, and I swear to you they will never rule this realm so long as I live. If my solemn word is not enough, I will swear it before Eidon himself, or upon any binding relic you wish.”

  There was that intensity again, a passion of declaration that rang with undeniable conviction. Simon did not know what to say to it, so he said nothing. The silence stretched between them, filled with the thumps and voices of the servants in the adjoining chamber, muffled and indistinct behind closed doors.

  “I still don’t think Graymeer’s is a good idea,” Simon burst out.

  “I’ll know better in a couple of days.”

  “My lord, that is another thing . . . you’re not really going up there with all your courtiers—”

  “Of course not. They’ll only be there for the picnic. We’ll be setting up on the flat above Sander’s Cove. I’ll spend a bit of time with them while Captain Channon and his men secure the fortress—as much as they can— then I’ll go have a look. It’ll be midday, and we won’t stay long.”