The beast’s claws hovered above his right eye. My Lord, I cast my blades away, as you asked. Where is the Light? Why aren’t you stopping this?
The claws drew nearer, and he couldn’t stop his instinctive flinch away, nor the horrible mewling that slid out of his throat. Oh, Eidon, please! Yet on they came. Something sharp pressed into his brow. Surely now the Light will come. But it did not. The claw pressed harder. He scrunched his eyes shut just as it slashed downward, tracking fire across brow and cheek, all the way to his jaw. Blood trickled hotly down his temple and he gasped, as much in shock as in pain.
Oh, Lord! What are you doing to me? Where are you? I’m trusting, and you promised. You promised.
A sharp cackling intruded on his pleas. And then Rhiad’s voice again. You will lose it all, Abramm Kalladorne. Crown and people and station. Face and skill and body. I will take it all and no one can stop me! Even if you live, you will never wield a blade again. Women will shrink in horror at the sight of you, while men will shake their heads in pity.
It went to work, then, cackling and babbling and shrilling with glee as it shredded his sword arm into blood-soaked ribbons. The pain, both physical and mental, was so great he thought sure he’d fallen through some hole that had taken him to Torments. Voices called him. Rhu’ema voices. Rhiad’s voice . . . those of his men, yelling and screaming. Was he already dead and the beast at work on his friends now? He couldn’t tell what was real and what was not.
And then somehow it all drifted away, as if he had become cut off from his body. A white froth had erupted from his chest. He reached up with his good arm to touch it—marveling that he could move anything at all—and found it not to be froth, but soft, gauzy folds of fabric spilling out of his split jerkin. He clutched it, stirring up the scent of sage and lemongrass.
Madeleine.
She was here . . . but not in body, linked somehow to his soul. He felt her horror at what was happening to him, her anguish at his pain, her deep, unacknowledged love for him. And she was praying. “Eidon, please! Remind him how the Shadow blinds him, remind him who he is and whom he serves.What it is that really matters in this life. I know you hold him in your hands and that you will never let him go. Let him know it, too. . . .”
Remind him of whom he serves. Who did he serve? Eidon, Lord of Light, Creator of All, the Just and Righteous and True . . . The one who promised to guide him, to bless him and prosper him, and never to forsake him. The one who always kept his promises because he alone was unable to break them. The one who had seen Abramm through his years of slavery in Esurh and from that made him something he had never dreamed he could be. The one who delivered him from Beltha’adi and brought him to Kiriath. Whose Light had slain the kraggin, who had given Abramm the crown when he should have been mocked and turned away, who had given him the favor of his people and an army of men sworn to follow him. Who’d given him Simon’s affection, long yearned for, and Carissa’s return. From the other side, all that had looked as impossible as the situation he now faced.
And then there was the greatest impossibility of all—that the creator of all life and light had found a way to reach past the Shadow that tainted Abramm, as it did all men, and make him his own. If he could do that, surely he could handle this morwhol. If he had not done so, if he truly meant to take away all he had given, then he had a reason.
You must be willing to give it all up.
I’m willing, my Lord. Take it all, for none of it matters without you. I don’t know what you’re doing, but I know in the end it will make sense. And I know you will not forsake me, even though I fail and insult you and disobey you, again and again. Yet you remain faithful.
And in that, Abramm Kalladorne, King of Kiriath, finally found his rest.
CHAPTER
40
The light blew through him in a mighty torrent, as if the sun itself had entered his flesh and was burning its way out in a single purifying blast. He had an instant of realization, of dismay and terror, then a sweeping fire of agony overtook him, so intense it made his other hurts seem inconsequential. In a heartbeat it was gone and he floated in some place apart from earth and flesh and time, a place of laughter and delight and a glorious light that washed warmly about him like the waters of a gentle sea. He swam in it, floated on it, rolled and wriggled and reveled in it, and felt, with a deep unshakable certainty, his sovereign’s pleasure.
Gradually it drifted him downward, back to the cold, hard ground, its brilliance fading into a cocoon of sparkling effervescence through which he began to see dark shapes and lighter ones moving around him, hear voices speaking without understanding what they said. Only at the last minute did he realize he was going back.
I want to stay here, Eidon. In you.
You are in me, Abramm. No matter where you are. As I am in you.
But . . . it is so hard.
You thought it would be easy to walk into your destiny? That all would just be handed to you?
No, my Lord. I knew it would be a battle. I just did not expect to have to fight myself so much.
And so this trial has made you stronger, and that much closer to becoming the man I wish to make of you.
I thought you had already done that.
Oh no. I have only just begun. But do not fear. Along with the trials I will bless you beyond your wildest dreams.
It faded then, and Abramm came back to himself, lying on the stone plaza, clutching Madeleine’s scarf to his chest. The dragons loomed over him, dead-eyed and naked of their cloaks of mist. The sun had dawned, washing the sky with the brightness of a new day and driving the shadows back into their canyon.
The last of the Light washed out of him and pain returned, especially in his left arm. Not his right arm, but his left. Perplexed, he lifted the right one, held it before his face, turning his hand this way and that. It was cut and scraped and blood-spattered but it worked just fine. His left, however, would not move, and the pain was increasing by the moment. He lifted his head finally to look past the blood-stained scarf billowing on his chest and found his left arm a bloody mess, ribboned with lacerations, strips of flesh mingled with the shredded sleeve of his jerkin, and here and there the sickening white gleam of bone. Nausea lurched in his middle and he dropped his head back, blotting out the image as he blotted out the panicked thoughts that whirled up from the floor of his mind and focused on the fact that it was his left arm, not his right! Despite the way it had seemed while the beast was attacking him. Rhiad had wanted to take from Abramm what he had lost himself. And Rhiad had lost his left arm. Though he’d crowed about destroying Abramm’s sword arm, in his frenzy at the end, he must’ve gotten confused.
Suddenly there were men hovering around him and one of them began doing something to his injured arm. Familiar faces peered down at him, etched with concern: Trap, Channon, Kesrin, Laramor. He looked from one to the other and finally asked, “Why the plague are you all staring at me?”
“Because you’re alive,” Trap said, squeezing Abramm’s right shoulder. And now his face burst into a smile. “You’re alive.”
Alive, but with only one arm. I’m going to be a one-armed man for the rest of my life! Again he stopped the panicked thoughts, bemused that after everything he’d been through, everything he’d just learned, he could still be such an idiot. Eidon lives within me. He has called me to the privilege of serving him and left me alive to do so. Who cares if I only have one arm? It was the Shadow within him that birthed all this panic. And he would never be free of it—not so long as he lived in this body—so he might as well get used to that fact and not be so surprised when it revealed itself.
He swallowed on a dry mouth. “What about the morwhol?”
“Dead.” Trap glanced up across Abramm’s body as the men on his left side shifted to form a opening through which he could see. His adversary lay sprawled at the base of one of the dragon pedestals ten yards away, the dark bristly hump of its massive shoulders unmoving, the long, lithe hindquarters tangled limpl
y beneath it.
He frowned. “How did it get so far away?”
“There was an explosion. . . . You don’t remember?”
“I remember the Light . . . rushing through me.” He dropped his head back. The man was binding up his injured arm with linen strips, the pain coming in ever stronger waves.
“Somehow you pulled the Light from us again,” Kesrin said at Trap’s side, “drawing it into yourself, then flinging it out toward the beast. It was as if lightning had struck. The force of the blast knocked us flat on our backs, and I swear they must’ve heard the boom all the way to Springerlan.” He smiled now, too. “I would very much like to know how you did that, sir.”
Abramm laughed weakly. “Just gave up trying to fight the thing myself and let Eidon do it.” And trusted him with all the things I feared to lose. As I have to trust him now about my arm. He swallowed again and turned his gaze back to Trap. “It’s really dead, though? You’re sure?”
Trap grinned at him. “We’re sure.”
Besides his arm, the cut on his face was starting to hurt now, as well, and there were slashes on chest and hip, all burning with a fierce hot fire. He heard Channon ask the man working on his arm how it was going. “I’ve got it bound good enough to get him back to the keep,” he said. “It’ll need to be cleaned and stitched up, though I’m afraid—” Channon must’ve stopped him, for he said no more and turned to the other wounds on Abramm’s body, surprised to find that the bleeding had largely stopped. “And the cuts on your face are already closed.”
“Must’ve been the Light,” Abramm said.
“Can it do that, sir?”
“The morwhol was shadow-spawned,” Abramm replied. “And the Light can heal the wounds of the Shadow.”
“Though not always entirely,” Kesrin said.
“No, not entirely.”
Here was Channon again. “We’ve got a stretcher here, sir. We’d like to move you onto it—”
“No.” Abramm pushed up onto his right elbow, struggling not to let the pain show. “I already left my last encounter with my brother on a stretcher. I’m not doing it again.”
“But, sir—”
“Where is Gillard anyway? Is he still alive?”
“Yes, sir. They’re seeing to him now. He’s not regained consciousness.”
Abramm nodded. “Very well, then. Get me up. I’ll ride. I don’t suppose anyone’s seen Warbanner?”
“Just his tail, waving good-bye,” Trap quipped.
Abramm sat upright so they could bind his injured arm to his torso. Then they helped him stand, a feat he accomplished with gritted teeth and a minimum of reflexive hissing. In the process he learned the slash to his hip was worse than he’d thought. Still he could walk. He had taken a few tentative steps to prove it when a thunderous cheer erupted from every side. He stopped and blinked around, seeing for the first time the multitude that encircled him. Soldiers from both armies crowded the plaza, perched on ancient walls and fallen pillars and each other’s shoulders, all of them grinning and cheering and waving their fists in the air. And there was Simon, holding the horse they’d brought for Abramm to ride, looking as overcome with emotion as Abramm had ever seen him.
Abramm stopped before him, half irritated, half bemused. “Uncle, what are all these men doing here? I told you to keep them away.”
“I know, sir, but when I learned what Gillard was planning for you—and that Laramor and the others had gone with you—”
“Without my consent.”
Simon nodded. “Nevertheless, you made me leader in your stead, and I made the decision. I do not regret having made it. The mists lifted right after Gillard fell, and we all came up to watch you fight the beast.”
“So much for my hopes of keeping you safe.”
His uncle grinned wryly. “We’re soldiers, my lord. We’re not accustomed to keeping safe. Besides, you can hardly ask us to flee, when you yourself refused.” He paused, sobering. “You have made yourself a great army here today, sir. Men who will follow you through anything.”
Abramm glanced again at the throng around him and, realizing he was right, relented. “I suppose I owe you my thanks, then, Uncle,” he said finally, and let the older man help him into the saddle. Once settled, he looked around at the men Simon said would follow him through anything and lifted a hand in acknowledgment, which set them cheering even louder. He rode back to the keep attended by an unending gauntlet of admirers whose jubilation warmed his heart.
And when he finally reached into the fortress’s inner yard, there was Banner, nickering a greeting from his paddock and swishing his tail as if to say, “What took you so long?”
Back in his chambers, bathed, dressed in clean clothing, and propped up on a mound of pillows, Abramm lay in his bed and received the reports of his men while the camp physician sewed up his arm. It wasn’t a ploy to gain their respect for his courage, rather it was the only way he could keep his mind off the process—and the pain. Gillard was alive, but barely, and still had not regained consciousness. They had him under guard in one of the rooms on the third floor. Most of the Gadrielites had been killed by the morwhol, and the rest had fled, Prittleman among the latter. As for Gillard’s army, the bulk had capitulated happily, and many of the upper level officers indicated a willingness to give their oaths to Abramm. Simon had ordered them all arrested and imprisoned, nonetheless, their loyalties to be sorted out later. The same treatment was accorded the lords who had led them, and all save Matheson had been accounted for.
By then the physician was finished with his stitching. As he bound the arm in clean linen, Abramm sent the others away and asked the man for his prognosis. “Many of the slashes have already started healing,” the physician said, keeping his eyes on his hands as they wound the linen strip around Abramm’s arm, “so I don’t think we’ll have to amputate. Time will tell, of course. Even so, I can’t say how much use you’ll have of it.” He looked up unhappily. “I’m afraid the slices are so deep, so long, and so numerous, it’s doubtful the muscles will heal right.”
A grim prospect, but better than losing it altogether, Abramm figured. And he still had to remind himself that Rhiad’s monster hadn’t left him nearly as bad off as it had intended. He could walk, still had his sword arm, still had all his loved ones alive around him. That was far more than he had expected to come out of this with when he’d set off for that pass this morning.
He spent the remainder of the day resting, for by then the pain was great enough that even listening to reports could not distract him. Trap, who sat guard with him, said afterward that the Light glowed upon him several times while he slept, which accounted for the refreshment he felt when he finally awakened. With the pain much reduced, he went down to the Great Room just in time for dinner.
By then Carissa and Madeleine had returned, both women obviously dismayed to see the wreckage made of his face, though they said nothing. Abramm had lacked the courage to inspect the damage himself, which compared to the prospect of losing his arm, seemed insignificant. Carissa recovered first, full of excitement over all that had befallen her in the last twentyfour hours, not least of which was her own introduction to the wonders of Eidon’s Light. Madeleine, seeming tired and preoccupied, was content to let Carissa tell of their adventures—how they had gotten lost in the predawn darkness, and then Blackwell’s horse had spooked and bolted, knocking him unconscious on a tree limb. By the time he’d recovered enough to ride, they were just starting down the Bright Falls Canyon trail, when the Light had stirred powerfully in them and there was a great flash in the sky. It was followed by thunder loud enough to shake the trees and loosen boulders from the slopes. After that, Madeleine had suggested they return, not only for Blackwell’s sake but because she had somehow known that Abramm had survived. Carissa offered the floor to her to explain herself, but the Second Daughter most uncharacteristically declined, and Abramm wondered if she knew he’d heard her prayers for him.
The ladies were not the only on
es with stories to tell—lords, generals, and rank and file, all had seen the day’s events through different eyes. Like Madeleine, Abramm found himself content to sit back and listen, marveling at all Eidon had done.
After dinner he looked in on Gillard, pale and still in the bed where they’d laid him, uninjured save for the bite on his neck, but eerily shrunken. His great musculature had been reduced by nearly a third, his face hollow eyed and gaunt cheeked. The sight of him was sobering, not nearly as satisfying as Abramm thought it would be. If anything, his strongest emotion was pity, and that drove him at day’s end to seek the solace of a walk at dusk.
But when he stepped out onto the keep’s front porch, he found Lady Madeleine, standing there alone, her hair once more loose about her shoulders, flowing in soft waves from the circlet on her brow. She was staring thoughtfully over the encampment, the porch affording a view of both inner and outer yards, as well as the valley floor beyond. A light breeze lifted tendrils of her hair, floating them around her face.
He came up beside her, staring across the yards and fields below. He saw her glance at him and do a double take. “Your Majesty! I . . . I . . .” She closed her mouth and regained her poise. “I’m glad to see you up and around, sir.”
“Thank you.”
They stood in silence for a few moments, then Abramm turned toward her and lifted a brow. “Love, Lady Madeleine?”
Her face turned bright red. Immediately she looked away, knowing exactly what he was talking about. “I didn’t mean it like that, sir!”
“Oh? How did you mean it?”
“As a token. Of friendship and respect. And my very sincere hope that you would come back alive.”
The Shadow Within Page 52