“This is it,” he said, turning his attention to the text above and beside it. “What is it?”
“A morwhol. A few pages earlier there’s a story about some border lord who made it to slay a rival. After ravaging a good number of the rival’s kinfolk, the beast killed the rival himself, then was recaptured by its maker and caged. For years afterward he used the threat of its release to ensure his people’s obedience.”
“A man made it, you say?”
“Yes, sir. In the end, the thing escaped and turned on him—killed him and all his kin—then lived on in the area for some time after, a danger to all who strayed too near.”
“And I suppose it’s still up there to this day,” Abramm suggested wryly.
“No. It finally died, though the narrative doesn’t say how. In fact, the implication is it can’t be killed. At least not by natural means.”
He frowned at her, then flipped to the title page: Tales of the Highland Lords.
“I haven’t read the whole book,” she said, “so there may be something more. And I don’t know how much of what’s in it to believe. Some of it’s pretty wild.”
He went back to the picture. Made to slay the rival in a blood feud, she’d said. Rhiad’s accusations of heresy had apparently failed, so if he was as committed to revenge as he claimed, why wouldn’t he try something else? And if the rumors were true about him having made the kraggin, why not one of these morwhols? The mad Mataian’s words still haunted him. “Do you like him? You will meet him soon. And what you took from me, he will take from you.” Abramm shuddered, realizing for the first time that Rhiad might be more dangerous than he’d thought; more dangerous even than Gillard.
Lady Madeleine was staring up at him with a bemused look, and he realized she had asked him something. “I beg your pardon, my lady?”
“I was just wondering where you got that ring?”
“This?” He lifted his right hand from the book. “It’s my signet.”
“No, the one on your left hand. Coiled around your index finger.”
He looked at it, puzzled, for he didn’t recall even seeing it before, much less putting it on. “I guess Haldon brought it out with the other clothes.”
“You guess? Do you have nothing to say about it, then? You just let them dress you like a doll?”
“Well, hardly like a doll.”
“I’ve never seen you wear it before.”
“Are you keeping catalog of my apparel now, too, Lady Madeleine?”
“No, but this is . . . your pardon, my lord, but it is singularly ugly.”
“It’s a family heirloom.”
She frowned up at him. “A moment ago you didn’t seem to know what it was.”
“Is this all you came about?” He closed the book and handed it over. “If so, you’d best get back to your business. Let me know if you learn any more about this morwhol creature.”
To her credit, Madeleine knew a dismissal when she heard one. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” She dropped a curtsey and he continued on alone.
But once she was gone, he looked at the ring again and admitted she was right: it was ugly. And how did he know it was a family heirloom when he could recall no family member ever having worn it? He felt he should probably examine that question but found he had no interest, and a moment later his thoughts ran off to other more compelling subjects.
Trap Meridon was waiting in the sitting room when he arrived, returned from what Haldon had said was an “urgent mission.” Now the first thing he did as they came together was to flick a hand, producing a drift of music and a tingle of Light as the cloak that would protect them from unfriendly ears settled around them. Abramm noted it and cocked an expectant brow. “What’s this about?”
“Remember how Kesrin told you the night you revealed yourself to him that one of the peers needed to know your secret? One who was probably being put off from you by the rhu’ema just as Kesrin was?”
“I’ve been wondering what came of that.”
“Kesrin only made contact with the man a couple of days ago. I guess they’d had a falling out. For the same reason, it turns out, that the man’s been so hostile toward you—someone put a ring staffid on him the very day you arrived. If that tells you anything about his importance in all of this.”
Abramm leaned his backside against the nearest divan and folded his arms. “So did Kesrin tell you this man’s name?”
“Yes, sir. In fact, I’ve just come from the man’s flat. He’s been sporesick for days, telling everyone it’s the grippe.” Half the court had fallen victim to the ailment in the last two weeks, and all blamed Abramm’s picnic—not because they’d been drenched on their way home, but because they believed it was part of the curse that had been loosed by his ill-advised intrusion into Graymeer’s. The epidemic seemed largely over now, though a few still—
“Khrell’s Fire!” Abramm cried, coming forward onto both feet as all the pieces fell together. “It’s Ethan Laramor, isn’t it?” The man was a border lord, sprung from a culture in which everyone hated Mataians and a large minority were Terstan; whose own lands were crossed by the Terstan underground on its way to the Kolki Pass in the Aranaak; who’d been irreconcilably hostile toward Abramm from the start and was said to be actively supporting Gillard; and who had been very sick now for almost a week.
Trap smiled grimly. “Very good, sir. He is absolutely flailing himself for his error—would’ve renounced his clan lordship and sent himself into exile had Kesrin and I not dissuaded him.” He paused, his eye catching on Abramm’s hands, the right slowly twisting the ring on his left.
Noting the direction of his gaze, Abramm stopped the movement and lowered his hands, feeling a mild irritation. He half expected his friend to comment, but Trap went on with his tale, relating how, in the attempt to make amends, Laramor had confirmed their own predictions of what Gillard had planned for tonight. The attack would come during the Autumn Suite, with two knife-throwers, only one of whom knew about the other. They’d be striking in close succession from different positions, since the chaos that would arise after even one attack would preclude any further attempts.
“Unless they want to get in close,” Abramm pointed out.
“Laramor said no. One of them has refused to go anywhere near you. Apparently he heard about the man who tried to kill you in your bedchamber last week and does not hold with Gillard’s contention that he failed because he was inept.”
Stunned by Abramm’s unexpected skill with a blade, the bedchamber assailant had been easily disarmed. Stunned in his turn by the golden shield glittering between the edges of his attacker’s leather jerkin, Abramm had let the man escape.
“The problem is,” Trap went on, “Laramor’s been out of touch with the plotters for days now. The plans could well have changed, especially with all this talk of Lady Madeleine’s new song—about you being the White Pretender and all.” He was frowning again, for he’d not been pleased with the timing of the song’s debut. Better, he said, to have waited until after the ball. “If the men Gillard’s got lined up were already uneasy because of the tales your bedchamber assailant told, they might quit altogether if faced with the prospect of going after the Pretender.”
Abramm rolled his eyes and went back to lean against the divan. “Nobody really believes I’m him, though, and you know it. They all think I paid her to write the thing, and I can’t imagine Gillard’s thugs turning down the kind of money he must be offering because of some crazy rumor.”
“Well,” Trap said, “it will certainly make our lives easier if you’re right.” His gaze caught again on Abramm’s ring, which Abramm was again stroking, and this time he stepped closer to get a better look at it.
Abramm dropped his hands and stepped back from him. “Yes, Madeleine has already informed me of how ugly it is.”
Meridon looked up at him, puzzlement moving toward suspicion. “Where did you get it, sir? I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.”
“It’s a fam
ily heirloom.”
“An heirloom.” Trap glanced up at him. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!” Abramm snapped. “And why are you even asking me about it? My selection of accessories is hardly your concern.”
Meridon regarded him uneasily. “My lord, according to his description, Ethan Laramor wore an ugly ring very much like that one. He wore it for almost three weeks, in fact, without realizing what it was.”
A squall of horror blew through Abramm, quickly squelched by incredulity. “You think this is a ring staffid?” He held up his hand.
“Take it off and we’ll see.”
But Abramm was already turning away from him. “Ridiculous! I know a staffid when I see one. And I’m certainly not going to pick one up and put it on.”
“You might if it was delivered to you personally.”
“So now you’re saying I’m not only stupid and blind, I’m also a witless fool?”
“I said no such thing, my lord! Why are you taking such offense?”
“I’m not taking offense. Fire and Torment, man! It’s just an ugly heirloom.”
Trap met his ire stolidly, his face blank, his voice quietly calm. “If so, sir, then you should have no trouble taking it off.”
“My wrist always starts tingling whenever I’m near them, and it’s doing nothing of the kind. Besides, you of all people know how sick spore makes me.”
“Some spore is subtle, and some types of staffid have auras that are almost undetectable, especially to those not well skilled in the Light.”
“Now you’re saying I’m not well skilled in the Light?”
“Oh, for crying out loud, Abramm!” Trap exclaimed, patience finally worn through. “Just show me you can take the blasted thing off and we’ll be done with it.”
“How dare you speak to me like that!”
“I dare because I am responsible for your safety!” Trap wrestled his temper back under control, his voice softening. “I am your liegeman sworn, sir, and your friend. And this uncharacteristic temper of yours is only confirming my fears. All I’m asking you to do is take it off for a moment. After that, I’ll bear whatever punishment you deem just.”
Abramm glared at him, mollified but still feeling obstinate and violated. Yet he could not deny the reasonableness of Meridon’s request. Nor the peculiarity of his own fit of pique over it. “Oh, very well.” He yanked the ring off, slid it back on again, and then looked up defiantly. “Now can we go on?”
Trap’s gaze bored into his own. “You didn’t take it off, my lord. You didn’t even touch it.”
Abramm’s protest died in his throat as he realized Trap was right. So he tried again, forcing himself to take hold of it, and, very deliberately, pull it off his finger. Illusion told him he had. Feel told him it was still on his hand. And the moment he realized his eyes were deceiving him, the illusion vanished, and there was the ring—an opalescent gray-green spiral, coiled around the entire first joint of his left index finger.
He began to tug in desperation, panic arising in tandem with the compulsion to give up—and even now to hope it wasn’t what he feared.
“Let him do the work,” Trap murmured.
The admonition brought him up short. Yes, you are trying to do it yourself. . . .
Deliberately, Abramm drew a deep breath, confronting the panic and rejecting it as he turned his thoughts toward the One behind the Light. Immediately a sharp pain shot up his arm and he felt the prickle of hard insect legs against the soft skin on the sides of his finger. Then the thing gave way. Revolted, he tossed it onto the end table. As it landed, the Light tingled through him, leaping unbidden from his finger to strike the spawn in a tiny bolt of white. Struggling to right itself, the creature arched back at the blow, writhed in one last corkscrewing convulsion, and stilled.
Rubbing his now-tingling finger, Abramm stared at it, the chagrin of being wrong offset by the surprise of having struck the thing with Light—when he hadn’t even thought to do so. It seemed his practice had paid off, though he had no idea if he could guarantee the same results next time. And now the chagrin was renewed as he recalled his protest that he was not unskilled in the Light—a blatant self-delusion if ever there was one.
“How long do you think you were wearing it?” Trap asked quietly.
With a sigh Abramm dropped into the chair beside the table. “I don’t know. Since this morning, maybe.”
“Do you remember how you got it?”
“Someone did give it to me—I remember that. But not who and not when.” He looked up. “So it was deliberate.”
“You’ve known from the beginning they would be close to you, seeking to hinder or control you.”
Yes. He knew it. It was just too easy to forget it when he couldn’t see them or feel them, and he had all these human enemies to contend with. Human enemies who were, in the end, merely pawns of his real antagonists.
“Did you give Jared the orb yet?” asked Trap.
“Jared!” Abramm’s head came up in surprise. “You think it’s him?”
“I don’t think he’s possessed. But he’s already been used once. You haven’t given it to him, have you?”
“Not yet. I’ve been distracted. And . . . frankly I’m not sure he’ll accept it.” And if he doesn’t, I’ll have to send him away. He poked at the dead staffid on the table, pushing it around on the waxed surface, then sighed. “I’ll give it to him this afternoon.”
Meridon nodded, then went on to ask him what he wanted to do about the ball, seeing as it couldn’t be an accident this thing had come to him today. “Whoever did this probably knows of your sensitivity and hopes to incapacitate you enough you won’t be able to defend against Gillard’s attackers tonight.”
“Or else scare me into backing out altogether.”
Trap’s glance flicked up to his, discerning Abramm’s unspoken intention at once.
“I feel fine,” Abramm told him. “And you said it took Laramor three weeks to get sick. I’ve only been exposed a few hours and can’t have picked up more than a trace.”
“Even a trace can waken the rest.”
“But it’s not wakened, that’s the point. If it does, we’ll reconsider. But for now—plagues, Trap! Gillard’s practically delivered himself into my hands. And anyway, if I don’t attend, think what that’ll do to me politically. The peers are irked enough that I’ve canceled all their other parties. And pleading illness?” He shook his head. “It won’t do. Even if I really did feel bad, I’d have to go.”
Trap did not give up easily, either, but in the end Abramm prevailed. The ball would go on as planned, and they would trust Eidon to see them through it.
__________
Later that day, Abramm found a moment to speak to Jared alone. Having sent the other servants away, he called the boy to his desk, where, riffling through the various parchments and papers, he retrieved a gray-bound book which he offered to the boy. “Since you enjoyed the Aerie books so well, I thought you might like this.”
“Blue Mountain!” Jared’s eyes went wide and he took the volume reverently. “This is the one you told me about, isn’t it? Thank you, Your Majesty!”
As he had promised that first night, Abramm had found the sequel to Alain’s Aerie and presented it to the boy. Jared had taken it wide eyed and pale faced, struggling to get out a thank-you. But the next day he had appeared at his duty post with his brown locks cropped close in obvious imitation of Abramm’s own, and from then on Abramm had become increasingly aware of how the boy hung upon his words and hovered about him in hopes of performing some service, his admiration and deference bordering on worship. He was counting on the depth of that regard to serve them both now.
Already starting to open the book, the boy remembered himself and dropped it to his side. “Will that be all, sir?”
“No. I have something else, as well. Something a little more important.” Fighting a twinge of guilt at having so shamelessly maneuvered the boy into a position of gratitude
, he extracted a small leather pouch from his pocket and gave it over.
Inside was the Star of Life Abramm had instructed Trap to have set into a chain, its light blazing brightly across the boy’s palm.
Jared looked up at him. “What is this, sir?”
“What does it look like?”
“A white pebble on a chain.”
A white pebble? Well, that’s encouraging.
The boy’s brows were drawn together in obvious perplexity as he dangled the orb before him. “Is it a gift for my mum?” His tone said he would find an affirmative to be completely incomprehensible.
“No, Jared. It is for you, if you agree to take it. It will protect you from the staffid. And other things. You should wear it under your tunic, and never take it off.”
Jared lifted the orb with his free hand to examine it more closely. “What sort of other things, sir? Feyna?”
“Those. And lost old men who bid you do things you don’t remember doing.”
Jared’s face fell, and he looked at the floor, so intensely and immediately shamed by the memory, Abramm regretted having to bring it up again.
The evening of his return from Graymeer’s, Abramm had asked the boy about the queue of hair he’d been sent to burn with Abramm’s reeking Dorsaddi robes. Jared swore he had burned both and that, even though he’d had to go all the way to the kitchen to find a fire on that warm afternoon, no one had delayed him nor questioned him on his way. Indeed the only person who even spoke to him was an old underservant who’d strayed above his station and gotten lost.
Quietly indignant at the very idea he might have given such a creature the queue of royal hair, Jared had also admitted to having no clear recollection of casting it into the fire, either. When Abramm had gently explained that he believed the boy had been put under Command, Jared was horrified.
“I told you that wasn’t your fault,” Abramm said now. “So don’t you go studying your feet again.”
Slowly the brown head came up.
Abramm gestured toward the orb on its chain. “This will help protect you from him and others of his kind.”
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