Hazmul knew it, even through his rage. Knew if he did not control himself, the vessel would burst and the body become useless to him.
He didn’t care. He almost wanted the silly thing to die, weak bag of water that it was.
We almost had him. He should have been ours! He was ours!
Hazmul still could hardly believe what had happened. He’d been in close contact with Terstans for centuries and prided himself on his toughness, his ability to endure a multitude of manifestations of Light without the slightest flicker of unease. He was a warhast, after all.
But this . . . this searing had taken him completely by surprise. Just as he’d been about to help the miniol strengthen its hold on its target, the Light had burst upon him, spearing through the buffering flesh of his host. . . . The next thing he knew, he was lying here in this darkened room, brought here from the coronation because he’d “had another spell.”
Another wave of fury swept through him. He could hear the air exiting the trachea of his borrowed body in deep, ragged grunts. It brought no comfort to know the others had been overbowled just as brutally, nor that all the unfleshed host gathered in that hall to witness what was to have been Hazmul’s great victory had fled screaming. He was a warhast, and warhasts did not collapse when faced with manifestations of the Light. Particularly not when they came from within a mere man. When he found out who among his organization was the cause of this debacle, he would see them damped. He would not tolerate incompetents.
Already he’d had to endure a rhu’eman inquiry regarding the incident with the morwhol last fall, when the boom of Abramm’s passage into his destiny had been heard all the way down to the Throne. Whatever had happened in that coronation hall today would have been heard, as well. There would be a full investigation this time.
The little cadre of inspectors would probably arrive tonight, questioning him in their sly, smarmy tones, auras sparkling with presumed superiority. Hazmul swore harshly and felt his host’s limbs thrash. The vessel began to vibrate alarmingly. He teetered on the verge of letting it rip, letting the useless blob of pudding destroy itself.
But to give in to that urge was exactly what Hazmul despised in his inferiors, and so, finally, he curbed his wrath. The pressure eased. The racing heart slowed; the breathing deepened; the fists unclenched. Abruptly he realized he was drooling.
Disgust welled in him. So weak these creatures were. And this body in particular.
He brushed away the spittle, startled to note that the hand he used was blistered and burned. With that awareness came the perception of smoke burning his eyes and nose. He looked around at the splintered, blackened furniture, some of it still smoldering. White shards of porcelain littered the wine-colored carpet. The velvet drapes hung in scorched shreds beside the window.
He felt another surge of disgust, this time with himself. The mess would have to be cleaned up and the room redecorated without arousing suspicion—an inconvenience he could ill afford at present. He should have exercised more self-control. And if he wanted to stay in control of this situation, he’d better calm down right now and start thinking again.
Not long after Hazmul regained his composure, Underwarhast Vesprit slithered through the crack under the bedchamber door, arriving as a saffron ribbon of light wreathed in veils of shadow. Seeing Hazmul up and alert, the underwarhast immediately shifted phase to present his formal persona and bowed in salute.
Like all Bright Ones, Vesprit was beautiful, his highcheekboned face set off by a mane of long, glossy black hair briefly tamed by the silver circlet on his brow. His smooth skin gleamed with the subtle amber glow of his characteristic essence, and there were times looking at him made Hazmul resent having to hide within the clumsy ugliness of his current host. On the other hand, he would not be able to accomplish nearly as much were he not so shielded, and thus he must bear it for the short time needed to carry out his plans.
He saw the beautiful dark eyes flick around the room, noting the devastation, saw the brief darkening of uneasiness that shivered across his essence.
“So tell me what happened, Underwarhast,” Hazmul said. “Abramm was reeling when I left the palace. Devastated by the sight of his scars and securely in the grasp of his Shadow. . . . How could he have recovered in time to facilitate a manifestation like that?”
“I’m not sure, sir.” Vesprit did his best to suppress the vibration of his doubts, but it was a skill he had yet to master, one he would have to if he expected to advance higher than underwarhast. Indeed, if he had a superior officer less compassionate than Hazmul, he would have been sent to the ghahera on the spot, for such doubts were highly insulting. Fortunately, Hazmul was sen sitive enough that he also perceived the harmonic of Vesprit’s accompanying admiration for him, and so he let it go.
“You’re afraid of him, aren’t you, Underwarhast?”
Vesprit’s form suffused with the muddy ochre of embarrassment. “Sir . . . he is strong in the Light.”
“Of course he is,” Hazmul cut in dryly. “We wouldn’t bother with him if he wasn’t. But even with the Light, he is hardly more intelligent than a cockroach. Moreover, the Shadow lives within him, waiting to do our bidding. How can you think we won’t defeat him?”
“I . . . I suppose I didn’t think it through, sir.”
“No. You did not. Now, what happened after I left the palace this morning?”
“Well, sir, there was Lady Madeleine’s preparation of the horse. The krator on duty said learning of it produced a definite lightening in Abramm’s aura. And his man Haldon said—”
“Give me the memories.”
“Yes, sir.” And Vesprit opened his mind to release the recollections of the two kratori assigned to monitor Abramm and Lady Madeleine.
An instant later, Hazmul swore aloud. “How was I not made aware of this? She spent half the day at it!”
“Sir, it didn’t— We didn’t think it would make any difference. She was just trying to escape her brother. Who could have guessed Abramm would choose to ride the horse? It’s against tradition. His clothes weren’t right for it. The horse is hard to handle and unaccustomed to close crowds. . . .”
“And the old man? Haldon. He should never have been given the opportunity to speak.”
“We had no idea he would challenge him like that, sir. The words were out before anyone had any inkling he was going to say them.”
“Who was on duty?”
Vesprit told him.
“See that he’s disciplined for inattention. There is always some indication of these things; he simply did not draw the right conclusions. Most likely because he made too many assumptions. Haldon may only be a chamberlain, but he, too, carries the Light and, worse, has become as fanatical about living in it as the king. Such men are always a danger.”
Vesprit murmured his assent as Hazmul fell into silence, already compiling the information he’d received. A nasty Light plague would emerge from all this, but such things happened to everyone now and then. Of greater concern was the regalia’s manifestation.
“How was it Abramm was able to trigger the regalia? I sensed him when he arrived, and he seemed nowhere near strong enough to have done that.”
“No, sir.” Vesprit hesitated. “The consensus is that He overruled.”
Hazmul stared at his underling, fear ghosting through him for the first time. He squelched it immediately lest it be transferred to his host’s aura and Vesprit note it. “Lodge an official protest, then. That is against the rules. I’ll file another when the investigative team arrives. If it’s true, no one can fault us for this.”
He paused, aware of the sick suspicion that this situation might be more complicated than he’d thought. All the theatrics that went on today would very likely provoke Abramm’s curiosity as to what he had in the regalia and could lead him into an investigation that could be very troublesome. Not only with regard to the regalia but also concerning the other things that were part of his royal inheritance—things so far Abramm
had no idea about; things that, if Hazmul had his way, the king would continue to be ignorant of indefinitely. Better set some distractions in motion right away.
“Initiate containment measures on the plague at once,” he said to Vesprit. “And get our boy Prittleman fired up. I expect he already is, but don’t let his passion wane. I want a new pamphlet. Give him some extra protection and get as many copies out as you can. How receptive is he to suggestion?”
“Given the right sort, sir, very.”
“Good.” Hazmul went on to detail the sorts of things he wanted the pamphlet to say.
When he was finished, Vesprit’s essence was vibrating with an unmodulated concern that bordered on alarm. Hazmul kept his own irritation tightly controlled. “You have an objection to these instructions, Underwarhast?”
Vesprit sparked with surprise and chagrin, immediately tempering the frequency of his reactions. Then he straightened his shoulders and said firmly, “Sir, if you have Prittleman write these things, Abramm will take strong measures. Someone will surely give him up.”
“Let me handle that.” Hazmul took satisfaction in noting how his own confidence worked to settle Vesprit. He went on. “That Terstan group that broke off from Kesrin under the cobbler—they were disgruntled with Abramm’s toleration of the Mataio, so I’m sure they’ll be happy to hear how Bonafil and his boys were driven from the coronation. I want you to see that they are ecstatic.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good, then.”
It was not a direct dismissal, but one Vesprit should have read as such. Still he stayed, concern flickering through his essence.
“What is it now, Underwarhast?”
“What about Abramm himself, sir? Shall we continue our work on him at the same pace or intensify?”
Hazmul snorted. “Of course not! What have you been doing for the last four thousand years?”
The warm lemon of surprise flared across Vesprit’s form. “I’ve spent all of it in the deep south, sir. There haven’t been too many with the Light. And I thought the rule was that whenever they have a success we’re to immediately pound them with a counterattack.”
“That is only one of several relevant guidelines, all of which must be considered together: flexibility, variability, and target awareness are also in view here. If we become so predictable he knows what we’re doing, we’ve lost our advantage. He’s on to us now, ready for another attack. So we’ll let him think he’s won for a time, while we turn our efforts in other directions.”
Vesprit’s saffron glow deepened with understanding and approval. “I see, sir.”
“I’m thinking it would be profitable to play on Lady Madeleine’s feelings for him. She’ll try to ignore them, of course, but we won’t let that happen. In fact . . . if we can tease his to the fore, as well . . . why, that would be perfect.”
“Perfect, sir? I thought she was a danger to us. That she made him too strong.”
“That was before the coronation. Now she is merely her sister’s rival for his attentions. . . . If she can win him, and we can provoke him to act upon his feelings . . .”
“Oh yes. I see, sir. It’s brilliant!” Vesprit’s sudden flush of awe was so profoundly stimulating, Hazmul had to struggle for a few moments to keep his host’s aura placid. At length he gave a brief nod, as if Vesprit’s reverence made no difference. “You may go then, Underwarhast.”
As Vesprit shifted phase and flew off, Hazmul turned to the other Bright One who had come in during their conversation and waited quietly in the sidelines. “Now, about the king’s brother . . .”
CHAPTER
6
At dusk, just after the banquet ended, everyone went out on the terrace and balconies to view the fireworks shot off over the bay. Then Abramm started the coronation ball by dancing a solo round with Lady Madeleine, again serving as stand-in for his absent bride-to-be. She was as stiff and cool as she’d been at dinner, hardly looking at him, hardly talking, hardly even touching him. As soon as her duty was done, she made herself part of the crowd and, throughout the remainder of the evening, managed to elude him every time he tried to seek her out—though occasionally he did catch her looking at him from across the room. Eventually she disappeared altogether, and though he feared at first that she’d retired for the night, on further consideration, he decided she had more likely escaped to the royal gardens, lit up tonight in concert with the ball.
Hoping to catch her there, he set out on a stroll with Trap Meridon, ostensibly to discuss the day—the ball had been afire with talk of all that had happened in connection with his coronation—and his plan to visit Graymeer’s tomorrow. They hadn’t gone far before Channon quietly reported that Maddie was in the tea garden, giving direction to Abramm’s strolling.
As they came out on the uppermost terrace of the multileveled tea garden, an armsman stepped from the concealing shadows and directed Abramm’s eye to the cloaked figure standing below them at one of the garden’s mid-level overlooks. Lights glimmered in the surrounding foliage and lit the overlook’s railing. Below her, nestled at the garden’s midst, stood the teahouse, aglow with its garland of kelistars. With a sudden squall of nerves, Abramm ended his conversation with Trap and went on alone, hearing his friend’s voice, low and indignant behind him: “What the plague, Captain! You’re encouraging them?”
Out of earshot before he heard Channon’s reply, Abramm grimaced with annoyance. Where had Trap gotten the idea there was a them to encourage? All Abramm wanted to do was talk to her without that insufferable Leyton listening in, and without all the court getting the wrong idea.
Wrapped and hooded in her cloak, Madeleine stood at the rail of the overlook, staring over an array of terraces lit with swirls of tiny orblights. She must have heard the grit of his feet on the gravel, for she turned toward him while he was still some yards off. Seeing him, her eyes widened and her body stiffened.
“Ah, Lady Madeleine,” he said, drawing up before her. “I hoped I might find you out here.”
“Your majesty.” She dropped him a curtsey.
“I trust I’m not intruding.”
“Of course not.” But it was obvious from her tone and manner that he was. She straightened, her eyes darting up to his and down again so quickly he wondered anew if his scars, stark and shocking now on his newly cleanshaven face, were putting her off.
An awkward silence ensued, and after a moment she turned back to the rail. Distant strains of music warbled, overlain by the crackling of his men’s booted feet on the ground cover as they ranged out around him, their protective net unusually close tonight on account of this morning’s attack.
Finally Abramm murmured, “Shaving the beard was your idea, you know.”
Her chin came primly up, only the front lines of her profile visible beyond her cloak’s hood. “And a good idea, too,” she said, still facing the garden. “You looked very handsome today.”
He snorted. “Please, my lady. You needn’t lie to me. I know what I look like.”
She continued to stare at the garden for a moment, then sighed and watched her gloved hand stroke the marble balustrade before her. “No, sir, I don’t think you do.”
“I’ve seen my face, Maddie. This morning, when I bid them to uncover the mirror.”
“You didn’t see your face. All you saw were the scars.”
He gave a bitter chuckle. “It’s hardly possible to see anything else.”
Now, finally, she turned toward him, staring up at him from out of the cowl’s shadows. He watched her eyes, wide and dark, rove across his face, touching the scars only briefly before meeting his gaze. Her expression softened and she shook her head. “Oh no, Abramm, it’s very possible not to see them at all.” And for a moment she reminded him of Shettai standing on that Xorofin balcony, staring up at him with a tearstained face. Except that Madeleine wasn’t crying.
He frowned. “Well, then, why have you been so standoffish today? Why do you act like it hurts to look at me?”
“Of course not!” He laid a gloved hand on the balustrade, leaning so he could see her face around the edge of the concealing cowl. “I just want you to be normal again.”
“Well, I can’t be normal. Not with everything that’s happened.”
“You mean the ceremony?”
She was silent for a long time. “My troubles are hardly your concern, sir. Just believe me when I say it’s been a . . . a very hard day.” And with this last, her voice trembled and she turned her face away from him, hiding behind that wretched cowl.
He frowned at her, more befuddled than ever. Before he could pursue the matter, however, she pushed off the rail and stepped away from him. “I’m getting cold. Do you mind if we walk a bit?”
“Of course not.” It must be Leyton haranguing her about all those rumors. She’d not cared about them before, but with her brother’s coming and Abramm’s signing of the treaty, the courtiers’ antipathy toward her had intensified. With half his nobles still outraged at his “inexplicably rash” decision, she was the natural focus for their anger. And Leyton’s fixation with the regalia hadn’t helped.
They strolled along the winding path through sculpted topiaries, the thin strains of violin wafting through the darkness around them. The early spring night was cold, the air heavy with the scent of damp leaves. Terstan orblights sat along the path and rested in various holders along the way, while overhead the trees stretched their bud-swollen branches against a brittle, star-filled sky.
Shadow Over Kiriath Page 8