The Shadow Within

by Karen Hancock

  “Reminds me of the SaHal.”

  The main room was a cavern four times larger than the first, lit by kelistars tucked in niches carved high into the walls. More gear and supplies had been stacked and dumped in the larger right side of the chamber, while the left served as a gathering/living space for the refugees. A long wooden table flanked by crudely made benches stood beside a raised stone fire pit, in which burned a small blaze. Rolled sleeping mats stood in a niche, and across from them, a large water cask lay on a stand, the ground wet beneath its spigot. Five men sat at the table, bent over a ragged map lit by kelistars clustered on a tarnished starstick. Others sat with their backs against the walls, looking worn and weary, women and children among them. They all looked up with interest at the arrival of the newcomers, and Abramm gave a start as he recognized first Seth Tarker, then Everitt Kesrin, among the men at the table.

  “Kohal!” he cried, striding across the room to greet him. “I thought you were going to the Council Hall.” And there was Yacopan, too, standing by the wall behind his employer.

  “I did.” Kesrin looked grim. “Watched them vote to summon you for an accounting. When Prittleman took the lead in making sure you appeared, I left.”

  “I took too long,” Abramm confessed, still irritated with himself for his failing. “Let all my doubts get to me and dragged my feet until they came out looking.”

  Kesrin regarded him soberly. “I don’t think it would have mattered. Not from what I saw at the Table. Prittleman was frothing at the mouth.”

  Abramm frowned at him. “How did you know I would come here?”

  “I didn’t. But I didn’t want to stay in Southdock tonight. Many of us have fled. At least the city itself.”

  “So . . . what? You plan to wait it out here until things settle down?”

  Kesrin glanced at his tablemates. “Well, Sire, that depends on what you’re going to do.”

  Abramm noted that the moment Kesrin had let drop that “Sire,” the idly curious regard of the others shifted to sharply focused attention. Now as he glanced around at them, every one scrambled to his or her feet, making various kinds of bows and nods and each pair of eyes darting from his shieldmark to his face and back. Each displayed a different reaction, too: wonder, chagrin, excitement, embarrassment, even anger. Seeing the direction of his gaze, Kesrin glanced round himself, then grimaced and said, “I believe we can find someplace more private to discuss this. Come with me, sir.” He started toward the far side of the large chamber, then turned back. “Have you eaten?”

  “Not since . . .” Abramm trailed off. He’d had a twistbread on his way out of the palace this morning, and nothing since. And yesterday he’d eaten little more.

  Kesrin turned to one of the men. “Give us some of those apples and the cheese. I think we have a loaf of bread left, as well.”

  They took the food and retired to the far side of the chamber, where a battered square table stood among the boxes and casks. Kesrin bloomed four kelistars and set them on the wooden starstick at the table’s midst, then pulled back one of the two chairs for Abramm. He would have stayed standing himself had not Abramm motioned him into the other chair, probably would have sliced the bread and cheese had Abramm not taken it from him and done the job himself.

  Kesrin let him eat for a bit, during which Trap brought them a pitcher of water and two cups, then returned to the others at the long table. Once Abramm had eaten most of the cheese and bread, Kesrin returned to the subject. “So, my lord, what are you going to do? Stay and fight? Or run away?”

  Abramm sliced off a wedge of apple and ate it. He didn’t much like the term run away. But he didn’t much like the idea of people dying because of him, either. “‘There is a time to flee,”’ he said softly, referencing a passage from the Second Word.

  “And a time to stay and fight. I’m not judging you, Sire. None of us are. We just need to know what you’re going to do.”

  Abramm sliced out another wedge, then sat staring at its crisp white meat and green skin. “I want to stay and fight,” he said finally, feeling that desire with grim ferocity every time he thought of Prittleman and Gillard and the Mataio. “It’s just that, since the day I set foot on Kiriathan shores, I’ve been haunted by visions of people dying because of me. And now it seems they’re about to come true.”

  Kesrin leaned back in his chair as Yacopan brought him a cup of tea. He took it with thanks but waited until the man was gone before speaking again. “If people die, it won’t be because of you; it will be because of what you represent. Freedom.” His expression became grim again as he fixed his gaze on Abramm. “For make no mistake, sir. If you turn and run, there will be no freedom in this land. The Mataio will own it. And there are more than you know who would fight to see that stopped, both those who wear the shield and those who don’t.”

  “But are there enough to win?”

  Kesrin blew on his tea a few times before taking a sip. “Sometimes it’s enough merely to fight.”

  This reminded Abramm too much of the conversations he’d had with Shettai. And yet . . . and yet Eidon had delivered him out of that. Superior numbers, superior forces had been defeated by inferior. It could happen again. Or not.

  Over and over there was that vision, that sense that he’d come here to die, and that because of his choice and his presence and his intrusion, others would die, as well.

  “‘There is a time for war,’ Abramm. ‘And a time for peace.”’ That was from the First Word. “Eidon has ordained both. And people die in war.”

  “I know. But it’s different when your own decision is the one that sets it all in motion.”

  Kesrin met his eyes evenly. “I think that’s part of what it is to be a king.”

  And then a man said from startlingly close, “Besides, you promised me you wouldn’t back down.”

  Abramm jumped up at the sound of that familiar gravelly voice, a voice he had never expected to hear again, and certainly not in this place.

  Simon Kalladorne stood in the wide aisle among the boxes, Ethan Laramor at his back, the men in the gathering area behind him all on their feet and watching. A blindfold dangled in Simon’s gloved hand, and now his eyes darted to the shield gleaming in the neckline V of Abramm’s jerkin, held there a moment, then flicked up to meet Abramm’s gaze.

  Kesrin, who had risen when Abramm did, murmured a quiet excuse for leaving and did so, taking his tea and Laramor with him. The two Kalladornes stood facing one another, Simon apparently as much at a loss for words now as Abramm was. Finally Abramm indicated the chair Kesrin had vacated and they sat, the starstick with its kelistars standing on the scarred table between them. Six green Wilshire apples lay scattered amid the crumbs, including the one Abramm had started to slice and eat.

  Simon, with only a brief glance at the kelistars on their stand, had returned his gaze to Abramm. His weathered face was stern and unreadable, save for a remnant of the words he had just spoken, which continued to echo in Abramm’s mind. “You promised me you wouldn’t back down.”

  “Why are you here, Uncle? Gillard has won. I’ve been exposed for a heretic, and they tried to seize me on the grounds of my own palace.”

  “So I heard. Heard how you fought your way free, too. Ten against one.”

  Abramm had nothing to say to that.

  “They say your skill is phenomenal.”

  “Of course they’d say that. Anything less and they look stupid and inept.” He looked up sharply. “Is that why you’re here? Because my skill is phenomenal?”

  “No.” The gray whiskers on his uncle’s cheek rippled as he clenched his teeth. “I’m here because you asked me to decide who I thought was best for Kiriath.” Again he fell silent, adding only when Abramm was about to speak, “I also find I have sorely misjudged you. And Gillard, it would seem.” The voice was clipped, neutered by the pain from which it sprang.

  It was an admission Abramm had spent most of his life longing to hear, yet now that he did, he felt none of the
warm validation he had imagined, only the stark and bitter anguish of another man’s failure. He had been to the valley where Simon stood right now, watching his own certainties crumble to dust. Too well did he know the shame of confronting one’s own blindness and gullibility.

  “Yet you met with him this morning,” he said quietly.

  Simon snorted again. “You know about that, do you? I suppose you would. As you also know, I am sure, that I did not go to your armsmen and give his position away.” He paused, gloved finger tracing along a gouge in the tabletop. “Gillard’s known your secret since he sent that assassin after you in your bedchamber, by the way. The assassin no one believed existed, because you couldn’t possibly have disarmed him so easily.” His tone turned ironic.

  “That you met with him at all, though—”

  “He was the one who wanted the meeting! I went solely in hopes of persuading him to abandon this mad course he has set for himself.”

  “He will never abandon it so long as I am on the throne,” Abramm said.

  “I know.” Simon fell silent, caught up in unpleasant memories.

  “So what did he want?”

  His uncle released a resigned breath. “For me to join him, of course. He believed that once I had seen him move against you publicly, I would be forced to abandon my arguments on your behalf and declare for him.”

  “And having you, he expected the army to follow.”

  Simon smiled slightly, a dry irony in his eyes as he looked at Abramm. “You are quite the strategist, aren’t you? Yes, that was his intent. Though I am not at all sure even had I gone with him it would have turned out so.”

  “You are our greatest hero, Uncle. The armsmen all revere you.”

  “I am an old man, my heroics twenty years and more in the past. And I did not kill the kraggin. Nor clean out Graymeer’s in a day—if one can believe the rumors.”

  Feeling his face burn, Abramm returned his attention to his apple, picking up the knife to slice another wedge.

  “Kiriath has a new hero now,” Simon said softly.

  Why did this suggestion always fill him with aversion and dismay? Why did it frighten him so, bring these words of denial to his lips? And why was it most discomfiting of all to hear it coming from this man?

  His uncle went on. “I don’t think you’re aware of the reputation you have gained with the royal guard, sir. Are still gaining, in fact. After what you did at the ball last night—and again at the stable tonight—this tale of your being the White Pretender will no longer be doubted by anyone. Young Lady Madeleine’s song will be sung far and wide, along with the one chronicling your exploits with the kraggin, and . . . well, as I said, we have a new hero in Kiriath.”

  “I did not come to be a hero!” Abramm muttered.

  “Nor, I suspect, did you come to start a war. Yet a hero you are, and a war you have started.”

  And men will die because of you.

  Abramm cut his wedge and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly, tasting only uncertainty and dread. Simon picked up one of the apples, too, turning it in his large hands. “There is something else I must know, sir. Did your brother sell you into slavery?”

  Abramm cut another wedge. “I have no proof of that.”

  His uncle’s hands went still. “You’re sure someone else wasn’t behind it?”

  Abramm snorted. “He came down to Southdock that night to laugh in my face, Uncle. Just so I would be sure.”

  Simon said nothing for a long moment, staring at the apple in his hands. “Yet you said nothing.”

  “Why could I have said? Without proof, who would have believed me? Anyway, it’s over. And even if Gillard meant for me to die, Eidon meant for me to live. I never would have become the White Pretender if not for Gillard’s treachery.”

  “And now you’ve come to pay him back.”

  Abramm looked up sharply. “Not at all!”

  “No?” Simon’s eyes narrowed. “Then why did you come?”

  “Because . . . I believed it was my duty. That my people needed me.” And here he was, blushing again at the hubris in his words, half expecting his uncle to laugh in his face.

  But Simon did not laugh. Instead, he looked sadly sober. “They do,” he murmured. “And that is why I have come to you.” His jaw tightened and the blue eyes looked fiercely into Abramm’s own. “To give you my fealty, here and now. In front of these witnesses.” He tilted his head toward the men at the other end of the room. “If you will have it.”

  And so it was that Abramm stood, and his uncle, Simon Kalladorne, Duke ofWaverlan, Grand Marshall of the Royal Armies, dropped stiffly to one knee before him, with all the men across the room now watching in startled attention, and for the second time that night, Abramm received a man’s sacred oath of fealty.

  This was far more discomfiting than receiving Blackwell’s, however, because Abramm had always looked up to Simon. It didn’t seem right to have the old man kneeling before him. And more than ever he felt the burden of something precious entrusted to him and the keen awareness that he was not remotely, in and of himself, worthy of receiving it.

  __________

  After that they returned to where the others had gathered at the table by the fire and got down to business. Simon said Lords Foxton and Whitethorne and several others were firmly in Abramm’s camp, waiting only for word from him to ride. “And there are many in the army who will side with you, as well, once they’re sure what you’re going to do. Right now no one knows. Gillard is already claiming you’ve fled, in fact.”

  Abramm sat at the head of the long table, Simon seated at his right, the rest of the men he knew best ranged along the benches, with the others standing behind them, faces lit by the pale light of the kelistars. “What do you suggest I do, Uncle?” Abramm asked.

  “Set up a headquarters somewhere—north, maybe—but not too far, and put out a call for all who support the rightful king of our land to join you.”

  “But who would come? A few lords, perhaps. The armsmen have been trained to obey their superiors, not go hieing off every which direction. Besides, I doubt most of them even care who is king, so long as they get fed and paid.”

  Simon braced his forearms on the table, gloved hands folded. “I believe you’ll be surprised, sir. I suggest the Valley of the Seven Peaks, south of the Snowsong.”

  “That’s the one with all the ruins, isn’t it?”

  “The ancient city of Tuk-Rhaal, yes. More important, you have a holding there, Stormcroft. It’s built on a promontory—virtually impregnable—with plenty of room inside for an encampment. A stream runs right by it, and the forests are filled with game. Not likely to see much snow, either, even once the storms get going. Not that I think you should wait that long.”

  He fell silent, waiting for Abramm’s approval. And Abramm had no argument with his plans, it was just . . . hard to make the final decision. As easily as he had slipped into the mindset of waging war with the Dorsaddi, now that it was his own people, his own soldiers—men like Trap and Will Ames and Channon, boys like Philip and even Jared—how hard it all became. The thought of giving orders that could cost those men their lives, that would start the war he had never wanted to bring upon his land tormented him.

  Simon read his mind. “Men will die regardless. Now or later. Fewer or more. That is why we are willing to give our lives as soldiers, Abramm, to defend this realm from those who would oppress her and steal her and defile her. Whether those come from within or without, the call to fight them remains.”

  “There is a time for war.”

  “You are Kiriath’s rightful king,” Simon went on. “And more, you are the right man for the job. You know I don’t hold with your religious views, but if I believed Eidon existed, I would believe you are the man he has chosen.”

  Abramm sat back in his chair and let his gaze drift over the men around him, seated and standing, their faces grave but determined, all of them looking to him to lead them. He felt as he did that first day he
stepped into Katahn’s training compound, staring down at the sword being offered to him, knowing that, should he close his hand around its hilt, his life—and maybe even his soul—would change forever. Right now he was being offered another kind of sword. But that’s part of what it is to be a king.

  He released a low breath and nodded. “Very well. We stay and fight. For Kiriath. And for freedom.”

  CHAPTER

  33

  Despite a cold and steady rain, Rhiad kept them moving throughout the night and most of the next day. Wet, exhausted, and numb with cold, Carissa followed in a half stupor. Around her, water pelted through the forest, dripping off leaves of red and gold and brown, and pocking the puddles on the muddy track they followed. The clouds hung so low they misted the treetops and all the world seemed dead and empty.

  At first she could hardly believe what had happened, her struggle to comprehend and accept hampered by the speed at which events had transpired, and by the unrelenting and surreal nature of this ride through the dark and the rain. She hadn’t spoken a word, nor had Rhiad, since they’d left the fortress at Breeton, though at times he muttered to himself. She thought at first he was talking to the creature he sheltered in his lap, but when at last she’d heard him clearly enough to catch the vitriol in his tone, she decided otherwise.

  As to where he was going or why he’d come through that corridor, she had no idea. Nor did she know why he had taken her with him. Revenge, she could have understood, for she couldn’t help wondering if his present scarred state was the result of her own actions four years ago in Esurh. But he’d said nothing about revenging himself on her, and had restrained his pet by telling it he had another use for her. “She’s very important to him,” he’d added. Whoever “him” was.