The Shadow Within

by Karen Hancock

  Jared’s eyes darted toward it. But still he did not put it on and, after a long moment, asked quietly, “Is it a Terstan thing, sir?”

  “It is.”

  “And will it put a shield on me?”

  “I told you, Jared, the shield only comes to those who desire it and freely choose to accept it.”

  “Do I have to wear it?”

  “No.” He hesitated to say this next, but knew that he must. “However, if you would rather not, I must find you another assignment. I cannot afford to have one so close to me who is not protected.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.” He squared his jaw and drew a deep breath, then shook open the chain and dropped it over his head, threading the orb underneath his white shirt.

  His eyes came up to meet those of his king, his look one of a proud determination to serve no matter the cost, a look that sent a chill racing up Abramm’s back and put a lump in his throat. Oh, my Lord Eidon, if only I can be worthy of his regard.

  “Thank you,” he said to the boy. “That will be all.”

  CHAPTER

  25

  “Oh, come, Gwynne,” said Lady Jenevieve Harrady. “The king only chose Lady Madeleine to keep the field open. You can’t imagine he’d really be interested in her.”

  Lady Gwynne Worslen, whom Simon had escorted to the ball this night, sniffed and waved her lace hankie. “I’m not saying that, only that he could’ve picked a Kiriathan lass by lot if he doesn’t want to choose a favorite yet. It is the Autumn Suite after all. The honor should go to Kiriath not Chesedh.”

  Gwynne, thick-waisted, white-wigged, and wrinkled with age, was ten years a widow, and old school, like Simon. She had never trusted the Chesedhans and never would. They stood near their assigned places at the head of the wide King’s Court stairway, surrounded by the highest lords and ladies of the land. A gauntlet roped off in red velvet led to the king’s apartments, from which Abramm would shortly emerge to start the procession for this year’s Grand Ball of the Harvest. In the court below, a chamber orchestra provided music composed by Roemert, the strains of his Seventh Concerto underlying the rumble of conversation while servants mingled amidst the nobles, bearing trays of appetizers and glasses of watered white wine.

  “Ladies, ladies,” said Harrady, standing to Gwynne’s left. “You’re forgetting how handsomely the Second Daughter has paid him for this privilege.”

  “Aye,” Gillard agreed, resplendent in a doublet of cloth of gold. He glanced down at the buxom Lady Amelia, hanging on his arm. “What’s it been now, four times in the last week already?” He grinned salaciously at the others. “If our formerly celibate king is not careful, we’ll end up with a Chesedhan bastard on our hands. Which will be a lot worse than a few turns about the dance floor.”

  Gwynne sniffed again. “I cannot believe he could be enamored of her. She is so plain and so . . . forward. As well as being Chesedhan.”

  “He’s been a slave so long,” said Gillard, “he probably needs a forward woman.”

  As the others laughed at his joke, Simon managed to keep the scowl off his face and plucked a bite-sized rusk mounded with scarlet roe from a silver tray as a servant bore it past. Popping the morsel into his mouth, he turned his attention to the vast court at the bottom of the stair where the lesser nobility and wealthy freemen had gathered in a sea of silk and feathers and sparkling jewels. There were wigs galore, and walking sticks, and the hideous and silly-looking pear-bottomed breeches—but among them were sprinkled an increasing number who had taken their cue from the new king and dispensed with the frippery to echo his more conservative tastes.

  Simon detested gossip in all its forms but especially that which he knew to be untrue. Since the day that stick Prittleman had burst uninvited into the king’s private chambers and had been banned from the palace indefinitely, he had enthusiastically revenged himself by spinning out ugly accusations, one of which was that he’d surprised the king in bed with Lady Madeleine that morning. Gossipmongers had seized upon the tale and run with it. It had not helped matters that Abramm had taken to retiring at seven-thirty most evenings, refusing to receive visitors for any reason. Simon had asked him bluntly yesterday morning whether they need worry about any half-Chesedhan offspring, and Abramm had heatedly denied having any such relationship with Lady Madeleine, declaring that she would never consent to such a thing, and nor would he, that Prittleman was a pox-mouthed liar, and that he would thank Simon not to contribute further to that vicious rumor. It had taken him a while to regain his composure, after which he apologized for his harsh words and his own unfair accusation.

  Now, listening to Gillard and the others joke about it, Simon wanted to walk away, or at least offer a word in Abramm’s defense. But his relationship with Gillard was strained enough these days, and he wouldn’t make it worse over something so petty as the vulgar gossip of the court. Especially since more than half the nobles on this balcony were saying the same things.

  Realizing after his conversation with Laramor that Gillard needed to hear other opinions besides those of a fanatical border lord, and that Simon was doing the boy no favors by shutting him out, he had forced himself to pay a visit to the crown prince three days ago. It had been a prickly encounter, very similar to the one he’d had with Laramor. Hurt and bitter, Gillard had accused Simon of having been bought off and refused to believe that Abramm was committed to the plan he’d proposed—that he was even capable of being so, in fact. The king’s sole purpose in all this, he’d claimed, was to ruin and humiliate Gillard himself. Simon had bitten his tongue before the conversation had gotten out of hand, striving to convince Gillard as gently as he could that Simon had not abandoned him, that he did not care more about Abramm than he did Gillard, and that his sole consideration was the good of Kiriath. He wasn’t sure how much of it got through, but at least by the end Gillard had stopped arguing and begun to listen sulkily. And had invited Simon to attend the pre-ball party he had hosted at Harrady’s estate the other night, an affair Simon had attended primarily to prove he was neither ignoring nor avoiding Gillard, nor had he “gone over” to Abramm. When he left, he thought he’d been moderately successful.

  Tonight he was no longer sure. Gillard had been tense and cool toward him from the moment he’d arrived, unable to speak without mocking or criticizing his brother. Just now he and his companions had launched yet another round of ridicule for Lady Madeleine’s preposterous song about the Esurhite slave-turned-gladiator/hero, the one so obviously modeled upon Abramm. Mawkishly fawning, disgustingly overdone, and a sheer flight of fantasy they’d dubbed it. If the kraggin tale had strained credibility, this one burst all bounds of reason, so outrageous it was laughable. And while Lady Amelia contended that writing it had been part of Lady Madeleine’s payment for the privilege of dancing in the Autumn Suite, Gillard argued that the king had paid her to create it. “He needs to capitalize on the kraggin thing, after all. Keep his hero status going.”

  “Especially after that fiasco at Graymeer’s,” added Harrady. “Though I can’t imagine who he thought would believe it.”

  “Frankly he would have done better with Graymeer’s,” Gillard said, “although I have to say that the Pretender title’s certainly appropriate.”

  A commotion at the far end of the gallery cut into their laughter, and conversation echoed into silence as Blackwell emerged from the royal apartments, list in hand. Simon grabbed another roe-piled rusk and ate it as the ordering of the procession began. By the time the King’s Court clock had finished striking eight, the nobles were all in their spots and a herald exited the King’s Suite to proclaim Abramm’s advent. The orchestra burst into fanfare as first came the royal attendants, then Abramm himself, clad in a clean-lined, close-fitting doublet of deep blue brocade, stitched with thin, vertical lines of gold. As usual, his only concessions to the glory of his position were the golden circlet on his brow, the five gold chains of his kingly rank looped across his chest, and a trimming of diamonds on his deep-blue s
atin cloak. He’d also consented to replace his worn rapier scabbard with a finely tooled, gold-chased sheath more in keeping with his status. And he’d clearly won the rumored tussle over the long cloak with train that Raynen had instigated as part of royal formal wear—Abramm’s dark cloak fell no farther than his hips.

  He advanced slowly, mindful of the dignity of his position, greeting first Gillard, then Simon, then the high lords after them. He had been well coached, though Simon sensed he was nervous for perhaps the first time since his return. Even so he conducted this initial portion of the procession flawlessly, and they started off, down the stair, across the King’s Court, and along the Hall of Mirrors to the Grand Ballroom, Simon following on his right, Gillard on his left.

  The ballroom’s four crystal chandeliers filled the vast chamber with light. Oak-leaf garlands draped the walls, entwined with masses of red, gold, and russet autumn flowers. More flowers decked the tens of buffet tables lining the perimeter of the vast marble floor, accented by the traditional wheat sprays, crimson-spiked fire gourds, and brown shepherd’s bowl. Among these sat countless platters of meat cakes, sandwiches, pasties, plum coudles, grapes, fruits cut into all manner of shapes, and crimped and curled candies and chocolates.

  They were met at the edge of the dance floor by the ladies chosen to dance the various waltzes with the king, Lady Madeleine among them, looking her plain and pained self—these affairs were not to her liking—a sad contrast to Lady Leona, who, having drawn the honor of being Abramm’s first partner, stepped forward into a graceful curtsey. As always the sight of her caught at Simon’s heart for the way she resembled her mother, especially in that russet gown, its décolletage filled with a necklet of diamonds and sapphires, her flaxen curls piled elegantly atop her head. She looked up at Abramm with open adoration as he took her hand and complimented her beauty, while those in their periphery smiled and traded speculative glances. The couple started toward the dance floor, and from the far corner, the orchestra burst into an introductory fanfare. Traditionally the king and queen—or king and his lady—danced the first round of this opening piece, to be joined by the other attendees on the second. The guests hurried to find their places around the silver-and-white marble floor.

  Anticipation intensified. At Simon’s side, Lady Gwynne caught her breath. Her old friend Lady Jenevieve rested a hand on her arm and watched with keen attention. Even Simon felt a fascination for what would happen next, interest piqued by the rampant rumors of Abramm’s bungling efforts at practice this morning. But those who expected the former Guardian-slave to be tentative and uncertain were disappointed. Abramm led Leona to the center of the marble ring with a confidence that belied his religious past, and at precisely the right moment he moved into action, sweeping her dramatically around the floor, as graceful and sure of himself as if he had had years of practice.

  At Simon’s side, Lady Gwynne sighed. “Goodness. He’s exquisite. Who would have believed it?”

  “He ought to be,” Gillard said acidly. “He spent weeks practicing.”

  Abramm and Leona completed their portion of the dance and returned to floor center, finishing with a flourish perfectly timed to the music’s end. The chamber filled with the rising sound of the onlookers’ murmurs of approval, then the rustle of hundreds of satin skirts and trousers as the other dancers joined the king to complete the second half of the dance. After that, judging his obligations to Gwynne fulfilled, Simon left her and Jenevieve deep in their analysis of the king’s performance, his dress, his manner, the way he had received Leona—“I don’t believe she has a chance of winning his heart, Jen!”—and a host of other minutia Simon could not imagine even thinking about, much less dissecting and debating in endless conversation. Nor was Gwynne’s and Jenevieve’s the only such conversation here tonight. All around him the ladies eyed their new king and compared notes on their observations. It was times like these Simon was truly thankful he’d never been in line for the crown, for he knew he would never be able to bear such scrutiny.

  He wandered around for a while, visited with a few friends, and finally found himself on the mezzanine overlooking the dance floor. The two side loges had been closed and darkened, leaving only the front balcony open. For not the first time he thought there were too few royal guard in attendance tonight—although Abramm had already gained a reputation for being difficult when it came to matters of his safety. Not only did he tend to take blatant risks—the trip to Graymeer’s, for example—but he was also given to riding alone and rowing alone, and he absolutely refused to go about surrounded by a cadre of guards.

  But he always wore that sword. And the dagger, too, Simon had noted the other day. Sheathed on the right where his left hand could draw it, instead of at his back, where most right-handers kept theirs. If they kept one at all. For where the sword was yet a piece of fashion, the dagger was not.

  He found himself thinking of that song of Lady Madeleine’s again, toying with the possibilities, recalling her question the day of the picnic as to why Abramm had gone from scribe to galley slave. She was right: it was an unlikely transition. Unless the man who owned him had suddenly become aware that he had in his possession no mere scribe but the crown prince of Kiriath. A slave who, even if he died in his first game, would still bring in much money, and who, if he didn’t, would be very profitable indeed. There was the matter of the red dragon that had been burned into Abramm’s arm, as well, a device Madeleine claimed was the brand of the same prominent gamer as owned the White Pretender of her song. . . .

  Reason overtook him then, and laughing at himself for entertaining such ridiculous thoughts, he put them aside, aware once again of the anxiety that weighed increasingly on his spirit. It was as if something terrible was going to happen tonight, though what it might be, he did not know.

  Below, the dancers swirled in intricate, ever-changing patterns, Gillard shining among them in his golden doublet. Tall and regal, he glittered in and out of the line of ladies that passed through his arms and into those of the next man in line. On the surface he seemed relaxed, smiling, sometimes even laughing as he moved through the repeating cycles of the dance. But Simon perceived the tension in him; he looked like a man about to do battle, and his gaze strayed repeatedly across the circle to the dancers moving opposite him, where Abramm, no less striking, also met, danced with, and passed on the cycling progression of ladies.

  Well, of course it must be hard for Gillard to be here, to go through the motions as if nothing were amiss, when the bitterness of being cast out of the starring role for this evening was surely eating at him. Especially so since Abramm had not been the bungling fool his detractors had hoped, but was, in fact, carrying it all off quite well. Too well, perhaps. For in one way, Gillard was right: all the admiration and acclaim that had but a month ago gone to him was now being directed toward Abramm. Not because Abramm was taking it; because he was earning it. That was what Gillard didn’t see. Maybe couldn’t see.

  And maybe that was what was making Simon so uneasy. In their talk last week, he had not brought up the question of Gillard’s involvement in the continued attempts on Abramm’s life. Perhaps because he’d wanted to believe Gillard had kept true to his promise to desist. Now, as with every other conclusion he’d come to that day, he wasn’t sure, and wondered if he really knew his nephew anymore. But surely he wouldn’t try to kill his own brother.

  Simon blinked and gripped the balustrade before him, startled by his own thought, and then revolted by it. No, he wouldn’t do that. Much as he hates Abramm, much as he hates being supplanted, he wouldn’t do that.

  But what if he does? Then what will you do?

  A thump and a muffled clatter drew his eye to the loge on his left where the guard so recently standing at the rail had momentarily left his post. Given the nature of Simon’s thoughts, it was not surprising he would see the absence as ominous, but then the curtain at the back swayed and here was the man back again, straightening his uniform jacket and taking up his post, hi
s gaze trained alertly at the dancers below. Or, more precisely, on the king he was sworn to guard, who’d just settled on his throne at the far side of the dance floor to receive the respects of his courtiers, the line of them snaking around the side of the dance floor. Probably just a simple shift change.

  Then again, it would be easy to steal a uniform and come up here, kill the real guard and take his place. Or even buy off one of the men already so employed. With loyalties as confused as they were these days, it might not take much to persuade a man he was serving the true king and not the pretender.

  Below, Abramm continued to chat with his nobles, Captain Channon standing guard to his right, Will Ames to his left. Across the floor from him, Gillard stood with Lady Amelia on his arm again, laughing with Matheson and Moorcock. Ives, it seemed, was not in attendance tonight, though perhaps Simon simply hadn’t spotted him yet. As Gillard’s biggest supporter, it would be unlike him to miss the biggest social event of the year. Unless, of course, he was sick.

  Simon looked at the guard again and a chill of foreboding swept over him. For a moment he stood there, thinking he really needed to do something. Then, realizing he was being paranoid, he laughed it off and went to find the food.

  CHAPTER

  26

  As the smiling, smarmy Lord Denniston bowed his exit from Abramm’s presence and the next peer approached to take his place, the king glanced up at the darkened loge again. The missing guard had returned to his station seemingly without incident. Abramm ran his eye across the balcony to the opposite loge and the other guard, noting the straight-backed, gray-haired figure leaning against the balustrade between the two loges. Simon was looking toward the wandering guard himself, and Abramm wondered again if he knew about the plot. Laramor said not, but Simon had recently mended the breach in his relationship with Gillard. Was it coincidence that it had happened shortly before this attack of Gillard’s was to take place?