The Shadow Within

by Karen Hancock

  “But to even order the men to go inside—”

  “They’re all volunteers, Uncle.”

  And that brought Simon to silence. Volunteers? He’s gotten men to volunteer to enter Graymeer’s? Then, Well, why not? They’re already signing up for the army, why not this?

  Abramm smiled a little. “I’ve been in places like Graymeer’s before, Uncle. They’re not uncommon in Esurh, so I do have some idea what I’m getting into.”

  “And you encountered these places while you were rowing your galley ship?”

  The smile widened. “I haven’t rowed a galley ship in years.”

  That’s right. He’d come to Kinlock in Bre’el wearing Esurhite robes and carrying enough Esurhite gold to hire a trademaster and all her crew for his monster-hunting foray. Obviously much had transpired between his time on the galley and then. Much that so far he’d said little about.

  Abramm’s voice intruded into his musing. “To get back to your report— I’d like an addendum detailing all that will be necessary for reopening Graymeer’s. Beyond that . . .”

  He went on to authorize most of Simon’s recommendations, and then, just when Simon thought he was finished, Abramm shocked him again. “I have one more request of you, Uncle: a list of men you regard as trustworthy and level-headed. And any other advice you deem important.”

  Simon gaped at him. “You ask me for a list of men you can trust? Knowing my ties to Gillard?”

  Abramm leaned back on the divan, one elbow braced on the armrest. “Those ties are precisely why I am asking you.” He paused. “And speaking of Gillard, what do you know of the plots he is hatching against me?”

  Simon flinched. “I know of no plots, sir.” A flare of red, a flash of fiery eyes stabbing into his own, a gleam of steel, a low, croaking voice . . .

  “No plots?”

  Only a strange, recurring, senseless dream. He straightened his shoulders and looked the king in the eye. “No, sir. In fact, I counseled him against taking such action.”

  “Did you?” Abramm ran his fingers along the silk upholstery of the divan’s arm. “And was he involved in the ambush against me the evening of the reception?”

  “He claimed he was not.”

  Abramm studied him thoughtfully. “You believe otherwise?”

  “By all the gods, Abramm! Must you be so direct?”

  “I serve only one god. And yes, I must be direct if we are to understand each other.”

  Simon looked away, hands clenched in his lap. He had not expected this level of audacity. Had not expected Abramm to face him eye to eye and challenge him like this. “Your Majesty, please. You must know the position you put me in with such a question.”

  Abramm’s blue eyes stayed cool and flat. “These are hard times, Uncle. Few of us occupy positions we desire. I least of all.” He paused, then repeated, as if Simon were perfectly at ease before him. “So was he involved, then?”

  “Sire . . . please!” Desperate to escape that piercing gaze, Simon leaped up and paced to the hearth.

  “This is not some bizarre competition for your affections, Uncle. We are talking about the fate of our realm, the lives of our people, the duty that comes to us because of our heritage and our name. A duty that does not ask us what we like or prefer.”

  Simon stared blindly at the dying fire. Those were words he’d uttered repeatedly over the years, though Gillard never really embraced them. That Abramm would use them now—as reproof, no less!—shook Simon deeply. And made him feel as wretched as he’d ever felt in his life, teetering on the knife edge of a decision he never dreamed he’d have to make. Let me look into it, Your Majesty, he wanted to say. But other words presented themselves, words he was loath to voice, even as he did. “He claimed at first he was not. Later he admitted he was, but with no intent to harm, only to frighten. To get you to abdicate and return to your Mataian towers.”

  Behind him, Abramm snorted softly. “I hope you know now, Uncle, that I will not do that.”

  After a moment, Simon turned from the hearth. “Even if it means igniting a civil war?”

  Abramm watched his own fingers caress the silken armrest. “I do not wish war, Uncle. It is the last thing Kiriath needs. But if he takes it that far”—his eyes came up to skewer Simon’s—“I will not back down.”

  And looking into that gaze, Simon knew he would not.

  “The question is,” Abramm went on, “which side of this struggle will you be on?”

  “I am on Kiriath’s side.”

  “Then you had best decide which of us is the better man for Kiriath.”

  Simon had nothing to say to that, and after a pause, Abramm stood to dismiss him. “Will you be coming with us tomorrow, Uncle?”

  It took a moment for Simon to gather his poise and redirect his thoughts, “On the picnic? Or up to Graymeer’s?”

  “Whichever one you wish. Though I would welcome your commentary on Graymeer’s.”

  Simon scowled at him. “Then I will oblige you, foolish and vain as I believe your project to be.” He hesitated. “And the advice you asked for? Make sure you get yourself a horse you can control. No one expects you to be an accomplished rider, but even so, the sight of one’s king on a runaway does not inspire confidence.”

  He had expected—intended—his remarks to be nettlesome, but they seemed to have missed the target, for Abramm only smiled. “I shall do my best to comply, Uncle.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  Though the morning of Abramm’s picnic and inspection of Graymeer’s Fortress dawned calm, clear, and beautiful, the king himself awoke to an overwhelming sense of dread. For the first time since arriving in Kiriath, he’d had a nightmare. In it, Lady Madeleine tricked him into claiming before all his courtiers that he was, indeed, the White Pretender. As the peers laughed hysterically, Gillard challenged him to prove the lady’s contention, and before Abramm knew it, the two of them were trading thrusts and ripostes. For some reason Abramm had only his dagger—not nearly long enough to counter his brother’s rapier—and so was forced to retreat up the hillside where they fought all the way to Graymeer’s peak and from thence into the tunnels beneath the ruin. All the while Gillard laughed, telling him he never should have come home, that he was a scrawny little loser who would only bring death to a people who didn’t even want him. Finally, frustrated and furious, Abramm found an opening and plunged his dagger—suddenly become a sword again—into his brother’s heart. The pale blue eyes opened wide with surprise, then glazed over as the body fell back off Abramm’s blade.

  The shock of realizing what he’d done jerked him awake, emotions churning with satisfaction and horror . . . and a paralyzing dread of what this day would bring. Last night, Shale Channon had told him Gillard planned a fencing demonstration as part of today’s activities. “He thought it’d be appropriate, in light of you wantin’ to get the peers int’rested in military matters,” Channon had explained. “He’s takin’ all comers, he himself subject to whatever reasonable handicap they demand. We’re having quite a time coming up with ‘reasonable handicaps.”’

  He’d hesitated then, adding that Gillard would probably challenge Abramm to join him—as a matter of “courtesy” to the king. Not that anyone, Gillard included, would expect Abramm to accept such a challenge—or care should he decline—but Abramm would do well to prepare himself for the moment, since it could be embarrassing otherwise. Abramm had fallen asleep reviewing all the reasons why he must decline his brother’s challenge, ruminations which had undoubtedly triggered the nightmare. But understanding its origins did little to alleviate the dream’s effects, and for a time he didn’t even want to get out of bed.

  He might be able to postpone his inspection of Graymeer’s—enough people had complained and warned and sought to persuade him against it that he’d likely be viewed as sensible rather than cowardly—but that wouldn’t give him reason to cancel the picnic. Perhaps he could plead the grippe—Blackwell had come down with it last night, so why not
the king?

  Because it’s a cowardly maneuver, he told himself, and will only put off the inevitable. He needed to win the lords’ respect, not only for his projects but for his leadership, and he couldn’t do that hiding in bed. He’d just have to leave Gillard and Madeleine and all the rest of them to Eidon.

  Thus at precisely nine o’clock in the morning, King Abramm the Second rode into the Grand Fountain Court to meet his courtiers and begin the procession to the headlands. About half of those who’d claimed they were coming hadn’t arrived yet—including his brother—but given that nine was early for most, he assumed they would come later. As the university clock tolled the hour, he threaded the gauntlet they had formed for him, those at the fore falling into line behind him after he had passed. He rode slowly, exchanging morning greetings and noting sourly that most were dressed more in keeping with an afternoon tea than a ride across the headlands. Lord Darnley was a show all in himself, decked out in a red velvet riding habit and an extravagant broad-brimmed hat complete with black egret feather. His saddle sported silver tassels, and his horse’s mane and tail had been plaited into hundreds of braids trimmed with tiny silver bells. Looking at him, Abramm wondered if the Esurhites might have been more right about his countrymen than he’d wanted to admit.

  Warbanner pranced and sidled nervously, impatient with the slow pace, rattled by the other horses—and perhaps the nervousness of his rider, as well. As the last of the clock’s deep tolls faded into the morning, they trotted down the bricked drive and out the western gate, following the Avenue of the King as it switchbacked down the populous hillside. At the bottom, it straightened, cutting through the city in a broad, tree-lined thoroughfare to the King’s Bridge, the third span from the bay, and grandest of the nine. Spectators lined the route, most of them cheering and waving white banners bearing the shield and dragon of Abramm’s still-startling coat of arms. The few who didn’t, he noted unhappily, congregated nearest the river, many of them with shieldmarks exposed, standing silent and sullen as he rode by.

  On the west bank the Avenue diminished to a wide street, which gave way to the hard-packed road that climbed the headland and ran on to Longstrand on the distant western coast. As storefronts yielded to farms and grassland, he gave Warbanner his head, and the colt exploded into a full run, leaving the others in his dust, as usual. This time Channon had posted guards along the way, and had himself ridden out with a couple of men in advance of the king. Though they had a sizeable lead by the time Warbanner started, he caught them easily, even nosed his way ahead for a time, before he’d finally had enough and slowed. Abramm’s guards came up around him again, Channon and a subordinate abreast of him, a third man behind. It was a beautiful day, all blue and gold and sparkling. The sun shone brightly on the rippling grass, the sea gulls soared freely overhead, and the air was crisp with the chill of autumn, all working to erase the last trace of his dream-inspired dread.

  He glanced at Captain Channon, riding stiffly beside him. The man had strongly protested his sovereign’s plans to inspect the dreaded Graymeer’s this day, and with good reason, Abramm supposed. Channon’s father had been part of Simon Kalladorne’s expedition to restore it the last time, so his knowledge of its dangers was more intimate—and accurate—than most. Nor did it help that the volunteers escorting Abramm today were not the Terstan soldiers Channon had hoped to enlist but were a mixed bag of men who mostly wanted the extra pay. It wouldn’t matter for what Abramm intended today—just a quick look to get a feel for the damage and show everyone he wasn’t afraid of the place—but in the days to come it would.

  “How did your attempts go at recruiting from that private source you were going to tap last night?” Abramm asked. He was pretty sure Channon’s private source was one of the Tersts that reportedly met in Southdock. “Did you get any more of the sort of men you wished?”

  Channon glanced aside at him. “I did, sir, though not nearly enough.”

  “Only one, in fact, as far as I know,” said the armsman to Abramm’s right.

  Annoyed at the man’s uninvited intrusion, Abramm turned to reprove him—and swallowed his words as the familiar voice registered. Along with the recollection of the man’s solidly muscled form, seen but not truly noted earlier, and now the sight of his freckled, red-bearded face, shaded under the wide-brimmed hat that was part of the King’s Guard uniform.

  As Abramm gaped at him, the armsman grinned back. “I must say the rumors about the dramatic change you’ve made in your appearance are resoundingly true, sir. Most impressive. You’ve become every inch the king.”

  “What the plague are you doing here?” Abramm blurted.

  Trap Meridon grinned wider and lifted a finger to his hat brim in salute. “Caden Merivale, at your service, sir. And after that little ride you took last week—not to mention your plans for today—I’d say you’re in sore need of me.”

  Abramm glanced forward and back again, checking the distance of the men around them, all but Channon out of earshot. “Are you out of your mind? What if you’re recognized?”

  “Nearly all the men I knew were transferred when Gillard came to power. As for the nobles”—Trap looked over his shoulder at the ragged line of riders trotting up the long incline below them—“I’m rank and file now. They don’t see me even when they look right at me—you didn’t yourself just now. Besides, I’ve changed almost as much as you have.”

  That, Abramm allowed, was true. Hardship, trial, and time had stripped the boyish roundness from Trap’s face and set a flinty light in his eye. And with the beard and the swarthiness gained from seven weeks at sea, the whole feel of his countenance had changed.

  “To say nothing of the fact that I’m supposed to be dead.” Trap’s glance came back to Abramm. “Anyway, I’ll be spending most of my time today up at your fortress.”

  Abramm glanced round at Channon. “You knew about this.”

  “I asked him to come, sir.”

  “But how did you know he was—”

  “I recognized him right off. And we talked a bit the night we fixed Wanderer.”

  Abramm glanced from Channon back to Trap again, thinking he had a good idea what they’d talked about. Trap had been loath to let Abramm go to the palace without him and must’ve wrung a promise from Channon regarding Abramm’s safety. Which accounted for the man’s overprotective zeal.

  “So did you get to Sterlen at all?” Abramm asked Trap.

  “I thought it better not to. Didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I’ve been staying in Southdock, listening to all the rumors about you.” He grinned again. “You look remarkably fit for a man dragged half a league through the forest on a runaway.”

  Abramm scowled. “Half a league, was it?”

  They were interrupted then by a thunder of rapidly approaching hoofbeats, and at Abramm’s nod, his guards separated, Channon trotting forward as Trap dropped to the rear. Warbanner’s pale, dark-tipped ears swiveled nervously, and Abramm was just glancing over his shoulder when a huge black horse skidded up beside them in a riot of flailing mane and forelock. Abramm glimpsed an eye rolling white in a black face as the head whipped round in a spray of spittle to snap at Warbanner’s neck. The young stallion squealed and dodged, then lunged at the black with a nip of his own. Abramm checked him with the offside rein, pulling him toward the road’s edge, out of the black’s reach. As the horses settled, he turned his focus to the rider, not surprised to find his brother, arrayed in cloth of silver this morning, grinning back at him.

  “Fire and Torment, Gillard!” he snarled. “If you can’t control that foultempered beast, why don’t you take him back to the stable? Better yet, let him take you!”

  Gillard had obviously expected a different reaction. For a moment he sat there, smile fixed upon his face. Then it vanished, leaving a hard light in his eyes as he spoke with careful courtesy. “I beg your pardon, sir. He’s been a handful this morning. I thought the run had cooled him off a bit.”

  No you didn’t, Ab
ramm thought. You knew exactly what you were doing. He recognized the horse now, a five-year-old stallion whose reputation for nastiness exceeded even Warbanner’s. Nightsprol was his name, and no matter how long he was run, it wouldn’t temper his evil nature—though it appeared from his sweat-lathered coat that Gillard had run him hard, likely all the way from the palace.

  “He doesn’t get ridden enough,” Gillard said. “Too much spirit, not enough riders skilled enough to handle him.”

  Or stupid enough.

  “From what I’ve heard of your own troubles this morning,” Gillard went on, more loudly than was necessary, “I thought you’d understand.”

  “My own troubles?”

  “They said Banner needed two grooms to hold him and three to help you mount.”

  “No one helped me mount,” said Abramm testily. “And the grooms’ troubles were their own.” He faced forward again, wondering how he was supposed to work with a man whose only intent was apparently to annoy him.

  “Great day for an outing,” Gillard said after a few moments. “And it was certainly needed. The courtiers get restless with all this idle time.” Nightsprol was edging back toward the middle of the road.

  “Perhaps they’ll be moved to find some profitable way of filling it,” Abramm said. Warbanner’s ears had gone back, and so had Nightsprol’s, the two of them eyeing each other unpleasantly. Gillard appeared oblivious, but Abramm knew he was not.

  Hold your temper, Abramm, he reminded himself. You know how to deal with this sort of man, even if he is your brother. He drew a deep breath, then said very calmly, “If you can’t keep that horse on your side of the road, Gillard, I’ll ask you not to ride with me any longer.”

  Gillard flashed him a startled glance. Then, “I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t realize it was a problem.”