The Shadow Within

by Karen Hancock

  He stepped to cut her off. “Undoubtedly there are. If you give me a list of the titles you require I’ll let you know if they’re here.”

  “I’m sure I could see it for myself if there was more light in here—”

  And suddenly, right in front of his face hovered a grapefruit-sized orb, fragile as a soap bubble, filled with glowing threads of gold that swirled around coruscations of white. Its soft illumination spilled out across the darkened room, over the paper-littered desk, the tumbled flowers, the book-lined shelves, and the amused and freckle-spattered face of Lady Madeleine, whose gray-blue eyes were sharp upon his own.

  He stared back at her, shocked beyond hope of concealing it, and it seemed as if his heart had jumped into his throat where it was all but choking him. It wasn’t just that she wore a shield herself, but that she had revealed it to him, and so casually. Before he could follow the implications of it all, however, her eyes flicked to the side of his face, and the dove-wing brow lifted. “You have three holes in your ear, Sire.”

  He just concealed his start of surprise, put off balance yet again. Was the woman unable ever to follow a single train of thought to its end? “Yes. I am aware of that.”

  “The Pretender wore three rings in his left ear. Esurhite honor rings, the third gained within his second year of combat, though a third ring isn’t usually given until at least the fifth year.”

  “It was no doubt done for the notoriety,” he said, feigning unconcern, wondering—hoping—she had not guessed as much as he had feared, her orbmaking but a ploy to win more information on the Pretender. “His master would make more money that way.”

  “Mmm. They say it so enraged his master’s son, Regar, who had only two rings, that it drove him into the priesthood. They say it’s the reason for his all-consuming hatred for the Pretender.”

  “Your knowledge is considerable, my lady. So great it makes me wonder why you even asked to interview me on the subject.”

  “There is still much I do not know. And as I told you—I always go to original sources, if possible.”

  Original sources. Back on that, are we? Abramm grimaced. “Well, if you know anything, you must know my reputation here. And surely it is obvious from that that I cannot be your White Pretender.”

  She smiled. “Your reputation is six years old, sir. And sadly out of date, I fear. Katahn ul Manus was famous for his ability to develop his fighters. From the way you ride, you obviously carry the Kalladorne athletic skills as much as their looks. Besides, I saw how you conducted yourself last night after Terstmeet . . . Alaric.”

  He gaped at her, and she grinned back, an expression that might have been endearing in its impishness had he not been so aghast. “I don’t know who you thought to fool with that ridiculous disguise,” she went on. “Your eyes are a dead giveaway to anyone who’s seen you as Abramm.”

  It came to him in a stunning rush: She was the serving maid for Kesrin! The girl who’d brought the tea and couldn’t keep her eyes off Abramm. No wonder she’d seemed so familiar. Nor was it surprising he hadn’t recognized her—what was the Second Daughter of the Chesedhan king doing in Southdock waiting tables? The answer came immediately: looking for original sources.

  “Fire and Torment, woman!” he burst out. “Are no secrets safe from you?” His mind tumbled with revelation upon revelation of what this would mean and what he must do.

  “None that I want as badly as I’ve wanted yours,” she said, picking up one of the roses and sniffing it. “Don’t worry, though. Your secret is safe with me.”

  He snorted. “Whyever should I believe that, Lady Madeleine?”

  “I suppose you shouldn’t.” She returned the rose to the pile and looked up at him. “Shall I pack my bags and return to Chesedh, then? Or perhaps you mean to throw me in the Chancellor’s Tower.”

  “I doubt you’d stay there long if I did. And it would ruin all chance of an alliance with our countries, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  “So you admit it—I have you.”

  “I admit I don’t know what to do about you.”

  “Tell me your story and you shall have no fear.”

  “On the contrary, my fears would only grow worse.”

  He turned away from her, ready to pace, and stopped himself, lest he look more agitated than he already looked. He had no idea what to do, and all he kept hearing was Byron Blackwell’s warning. “She’ll promise you discretion one day and the very next be trumpeting the matter to the world.” Maybe Blackwell would know what to do.

  “Oh look,” she said from behind him. “It’s died at last. Now you can put the flowers back.”

  He came over and peered into the bowl where the staffid lay stretched out, motionless, its colors drained to lifeless gray. He poked it with the dagger, eliciting no response.

  She was looking at him again with that keen expression he’d come to dread. “You struck it with the Light, didn’t you?”

  He sighed and surrendered. “Tried.”

  “Succeeded I should say.”

  “It took an awful long time for it to die.” He frowned. “Are you trying to distract me, my lady?”

  “Believe me, sir, I have no intention of it.” She picked up the bowl and gestured at the fireplace. “Do you mind if I get rid of the evidence, though? I’ve never been able to abide these things.”

  At his acquiescence, she carried the vessel to the fire and dumped the dead staffid into the flames.

  “How long have you been marked?” she asked, setting the bowl back on the desk and beginning to replace the flowers, one by one.

  “Four years,” he said testily, annoyed anew at the way she had taken command of the conversation.

  But now she looked up at him in surprise. “Four years?! I’d have thought surely it had been longer. After all, you slew Beltha’adi—”

  “That was Eidon’s doing. And not at issue here—”

  “So you do admit it. You were the White Pretender!”

  Abramm held on to his temper. “If I may drag your skittish mind back to the subject of concern—you really don’t seem to understand the jeopardy in which you have placed yourself.”

  She concentrated on the flower arrangement taking shape beneath her hands. “If you were Gillard, I would be afraid. But you are not.”

  He watched her for a moment, then said quietly, “I have killed more men than Gillard ever has, my lady.”

  And that stopped her. She stared at her hands, now motionless, her face gone pale, bringing the freckles spattering her nose into sharp relief. Finally she started to life again, carefully placing the last three stems of foliage before she looked up, and he saw that all the sparkling banter had left her.

  “But you would not kill anyone for this, sir. Nor even, I think, throw them into a tower to shut them up. At least, not those who wish to be your friends.”

  “And do you wish to be my friend?”

  “I already am, whether you know it or not.” She smiled thinly. “I had hoped you’d credit me with more intelligence, though. Do you think I don’t realize the price that would be paid should word of your shieldmark get out prematurely?”

  “It is hard to tell what you realize, my lady. Harder still to tell what you might say.”

  She gave a small harrumph and continued to push and pull at the flowers. “I can keep secrets every bit as well as I can find them, sir.”

  “Perhaps, but did you give any thought to the fact that unfriendly ears might be listening to this very conversation?”

  “Of course. Why do you think we’re cloaked?” She glanced over at Jared, who had returned from emptying the water-filled ash bucket, and sat on the chair by the door, his nose, as always, in a book. She grinned at Abramm’s startlement. “You didn’t even notice!”

  He hadn’t, and it irked him. It irked him further that he had not thought to cloak them himself, though of course he’d had no inkling of what she meant to discuss until they were in the midst of it. “Very well, I’ll concede you
showed foresight, but my secrets are such that I can’t help asking why you should even want to keep them when you would gain such notoriety spreading them about.”

  Her hands pressed flat onto the table as she leaned toward him. “Because I serve Eidon, too,” she said with quiet intensity. “Because you’ll probably marry my sister. And because my people need Kiriath’s help—as you’ll need ours—if we’re to survive against the Armies of the Black Moon and the evil that’s driving them northward. A threat I believe you understand far better than your brother ever will.”

  He stared at her in astonishment, realizing she grasped what more than half his nobles did not.

  She straightened. “Let me tell the story of the White Pretender publicly.”

  “Haven’t you already begun that?” he asked, scowling.

  “I mean the way it really happened. Something people will believe.”

  He turned away from her, struggling with that squirming uneasiness in his belly. “You didn’t come here because of Master Getty, did you?”

  She was a few moments answering him. “He did send me about the book.”

  “But you used it an excuse, came right in, even knowing I wasn’t receiving visitors, hoping to get me alone for your interview.” He turned back to face her, anger rising in him again.

  She had interlaced her fingers before her waist once more and was working them back and forth. “I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped, sir. I figured if I asked openly, you’d turn me down again.” She looked up at him, sober faced. “I have nothing but the greatest respect for you, and I believe with all my heart that this story should be told. Your people need to hear it.”

  Just what Haldon had said. Perhaps what Eidon had said to him last night, as well. “You have a destiny. Are you willing to embrace it?” Kesrin had asked. “Will you go forward in the direction he has led you and rest in the knowledge that he’ll see you through it?” And anyway, hadn’t Abramm already decided to let her tell this tale when she’d first gotten wind of it? No, he’d decided to let her tell a tale, and that by default, since he didn’t see any way to stop her. Now she was pressing him for the real story, one that would only be told if he chose to have it so.

  He glanced at the tapestry of his coat of arms, the golden shield with its red dragon device gleaming in the lower right quadrant. He’d thought the Pretender was only a brief passing, a part of his larger experience in Esurh, but what if he was more? As the Pretender had been used to rally the Dorsaddi, might he not be used to rally Kiriathans? Maybe he represented something Abramm had not yet discovered, a greater part of his destiny than he could imagine.

  Across from him, Madeleine had turned her gaze to the tapestry, as well, and took up his thought as if it were her own. “Your arms bear the truth of who you are, sir,” she said. “Designed for you before you were even born— who can deny Eidon’s hand in that?” Her eyes came back to his. “They go together, the dragon and the shield. And I think in revealing one, you will smooth the way for revealing the other.”

  Let me tell it, her expression pleaded. Why was it so difficult for him to yield? Because he truly did fear to embrace it? Because he feared what that would require of him? The sacrifice? The pain and loss? Or was it because he feared he would be unworthy, unable to meet the challenge?

  Out in the sitting room, a door banged loudly, breaking into his thoughts. Angry voices echoed, growing rapidly louder until, to Abramm’s astonishment, the study door wrenched open and Lord Prittleman burst into the room, trailed by three of his cronies and a grim-faced Haldon.

  “Sir, I apologize for intruding,” Prittleman said, “but time is crucial. The longer we wait—” His eyes fell upon Madeleine and narrowed suspiciously. “What is she doing here?”

  Abramm felt his face flame as the implications of Prittleman’s question battered him like debris in a gale: king sleeps late, refuses to rouse even in the face of a murder investigation, only to be surprised in his privy chamber with a young lady of dubious reputation who had sneaked into the royal apartments at an hour far too early to be respectable. Across from him, Madeleine was blushing, as well, clearly having reached the same conclusion. Seeing her discomfort, Abramm’s own erupted into fury.

  “That is my question to ask of you, sir,” he replied, his voice rough with the effort of keeping it level. “Barging into my privy chamber uninvited to accuse me to my face of being both inept and immoral? Are you insane, or are you simply so swollen with your own pride you can no longer see your place? I am tempted to throw you into my dungeons to remind you where you stand, and if you dare to speak another word or fail to leave my presence at once—indeed, these entire premises—I swear before Eidon himself that I will do it.”

  Prittleman’s face turned bright red except for his lips, which were white and pressed tightly together. Somehow he managed to keep them that way as he folded himself forward in a quick bow and left.

  “Make it known he is unwelcome until further notice,” Abramm said to Haldon.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Haldon left them standing there, the king and Lady Madeleine, neither of them able to find their tongue for a few moments. Madeleine, of course, recovered first—she did not likely have this hot rage to wrestle down—but when she spoke, her voice was lower and almost chastened. “My, but you can be downright ferocious when you wish it, sir.”

  “I cannot abide that man. He sets me off almost worse than my brother does. Especially the way he assumes we are so like-minded. I cannot wait for the day I tell him what I really am.” He glanced again at the tapestry of his coat of arms, and suddenly the decision he’d refused to make was made. “You are right, my lady. It is time I told them the story of the White Pretender. At the very least it should keep idiots like Prittleman from barging in on me unannounced. Did you bring something to write on?”

  She stared at him wide-eyed and pale-faced. “You wish to do the interview right now, sir?”

  “Unless you have some other engagement that requires your attention.”

  “No, sir. Right now is fine.”

  CHAPTER

  23

  Four days down from Highmount Holding it was colder than ever, and still nary a flake of snow nor drop of rain to be seen. Carissa’s chestnut mare swayed sharply and stepped down hard on the steeply canted trail, bumping into Elayne’s mount beside them and banging Carissa’s right leg against Elayne’s left for perhaps the hundredth time today. The kindling-dry forest loomed close around them, veils of mist shifting between dark pines and pale aspen trunks, the silence echoing with the cracks and thumps and jingles of their passage. Only three men rode ahead of Carissa and Elayne—Cooper on point and two of the five armsmen he’d drafted from New Holding—but even that was too many for comfort. Each planted hoof exploded little puffballs of powdery silt from the drought-parched ground, raising a cloud of gray dust around them. It coated everything—horses, tack, riders—and even Carissa’s hands felt gritty beneath her leather gloves. Worse, she didn’t think she would ever get this musty, metallic taste out of her mouth.

  Peri, Hogart, and the three additional New Holding men who brought up the rear had it even worse, so she restrained her inclination to complain. The snow would be here soon enough—she hadn’t expected to get this far without it—so she might as well cherish the luck while she had it.

  No snow, and no Rennalf, either. It had been too much to hope for. Or perhaps, just affirmed Cooper’s contention that her former husband had sent the ells for her at Highmount because he was busy elsewhere, hoping to draw her not to a trap in the forest but to the watchtower up the Kolki Pass, with its possible entrance to the DarkWays. They’d found her stopped at the north gate, after all, not the south. Cooper suspected her nocturnal visitors had planted that fear of a trap in the forest to keep her from doing just what she was doing now. Rennalf, he said, was no doubt scrambling to dispatch agents to intercept her—which was why Coop had pushed them so hard these last four days.

  Carissa had do
ubted him only in his assessment that Rennalf was not actually waiting for her out in the forest, a fear she’d been unable to banish despite knowing the ells had probably implanted it. And while the words of promise spoken by the man in her vision had carried great power at the time, that all seemed like a vague dream now, with no more authority than her own yearnings. For days she’d ridden in abject terror, certain at any moment they would round a bend and find Rennalf’s men awaiting them.

  But they had not, and once she reached the inn at Raven Rock tonight, she thought perhaps she might finally relax. Rennalf could not stage a kidnapping this deep into Laramor lands without igniting a blood feud, and not even Carissa believed he was that arrogant and foolish. Besides, just having four stout walls around her would do much to ease her anxiety. And with the majority of folk at Raven Rock being Terstan, the combined influence of their Light would protect her from the seductive songs of his ells—at least, that’s what Elayne claimed.

  They reached the Owl Creek fording around midafternoon, shocked to find yet another sobering evidence of the drought that gripped the land. The mist-hung creek had sunk far down in its banks, exposing boulders and rocks not normally seen. Cooper called a halt so they could drink and wash and refill their water bags and casks. But as the men dismounted, Carissa’s neck suddenly crept with the sense of unseen eyes. Uneasily, she scanned the opposite bank, evergreens and aspens looming ghostly in the mist. Except for the noises of her own party, the world lay silent around them, no bird calls, no chattering squirrels, not even the sough of the wind in the trees.

  Hogart took her mare, and she swung out of the saddle, joining Peri and Elayne upstream from where the men were watering the horses.

  “It’s going to snow soon,” Elayne announced, gazing at the misty sky as Carissa walked up. “I can smell it.”

  Carissa glanced at the sky, as well, gave the far wood another uneasy sweep, then set to shaking the dust from her clothing and washing her hands and face. Already crystalline shards of ice congealed along the stream’s edge and by the time she finished, her fingers were red and aching with the cold. Swirling her cloak back over her shoulders, she walked over to where Cooper and Hogart were inspecting the road where it entered the water. “Ten or fifteen at most,” she heard Hogart say as she joined them.