Shadow Over Kiriath

by Karen Hancock

  Shocked as he obviously was by these orders, Channon offered only a “Yes, sir” and departed. Then Abramm turned again to Blackwell, who seemed no less surprised.

  “Well, you did recommend I be tough with them, Count.” Abramm zapped a staffid as it skittered out from under the nearest chair.

  As it flexed backward in its death throes, Blackwell closed his mouth and drew himself more upright. “Indeed, sir, but . . . to search the Keep . . .”

  “Makes perfect sense.” Abramm snorted. “Prittleman’s been hand in glove with Bonafil for years. The only reason I’ve held off searching it this long is to avoid giving the perception of deliberate persecution. Pritt’s probably been there from the start.”

  “But the repercussions—”

  “Will not be as bad today as they would have been before my coronation.”

  Byron frowned out the window toward the Keep. “Bonafil will protest, sir.”

  “Indeed,” Abramm said grimly. “I’m counting on it.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  “I know these things are basic for many of you,” Everitt Kesrin said to the crowd gathered in Whitehill’s Blue Theatre that night for Terstmeet, “but if you think you already know them, think again.”

  Trap winced inwardly at the rebuke and resolved to pay attention to the kohal’s message for longer than a minute at a time. He sat in the king’s box at the left front of the audience at large—an audience big enough to fill the room for the first time since Kesrin began teaching months ago. Forward and right of Trap sat the king, bent over his writing table, rapidly penciling notes by the light of the great chandelier hanging over the audience at his back. Trap could see the hunch of fatigue and pain creeping into his shoulders— hardly surprising, given the fact he’d not rested since they’d returned from Graymeer’s.

  The low stage at the room’s front stood in shadow, allowing Kesrin’s Light-created images to show up brightly at his side, and just now a soldier, fully armed and armored, glowed in vibrant golden lines to his left. Tonight the kohal had interrupted his study in progress to give the sudden glut of newcomers—many of them newly marked—an overview of what those new marks meant. Familiar material to Trap, who’d received the shield when he was six and knew the Words backward and forward. Who also knew that no matter how many years one studied, nor how basic the truths being taught, there was always something to learn.

  But knowing didn’t guarantee doing, and tonight Trap’s head was so full of the day’s events—and tomorrow’s potential troubles—the basics couldn’t hold him. If Abramm had taken risks this morning in Graymeer’s, it was nothing compared to what he’d done this afternoon. Ordering the Keep searched had taken as much courage as chasing a known enemy through the fortress’s tunnels. And it had ignited a political firestorm that was still spreading.

  Bonafil had burst into the throne room to protest that very afternoon, interrupting the foreign dignitaries’ tribute already in progress.With his gray-and-white robes fluttering like wings, the Mataian High Father had stalked across the marble floor as if he were the king himself. Pushing aside the Thilosian ambassador at the foot of the throne, he’d glared up at Abramm and cried, “You dare to send your men into the consecrated portions of the Keep? Profaning our most holy of places?!”

  The amulet at his throat had pulsed with a ruby light echoed by the scarlet sparks in his eyes. Threat radiated out of him, and no one spoke nor moved. Trap wondered if anyone could.

  Abramm must have felt the man’s power, for it was directed primarily at him, yet he met the fiery gaze as if it were nothing. “Give me Darak Prittleman, Father,” he said at length, “and I will instruct my men to depart.”

  But of course Bonafil would never admit to sheltering the man and launched into the denunciation he’d apparently intended to deliver at Abramm’s coronation: a rapid-fire expulsion of vitriol that Abramm soon cut off with a barked demand for silence.

  His words dammed up in his throat, the High Father gaped like a fish, eyes bulging with disbelief. Knowing the Mataio still held the hearts of the majority of Kiriathans, he must have thought Abramm would not defy him in a face-to-face confrontation. But the icy calm with which Abramm regarded him had sent chills running down even Trap’s spine.

  “Your words are treasonous, Father Bonafil,” said the king, deep voice echoing in the stone-still room. “Spoken to my own face before these forty witnesses. Surely you cannot think I will allow that?”

  The High Father’s eyes narrowed as his mouth closed and his brows drew down. “Come against me, Pretender,” he grated, “and Eidon will repay you double measure.”

  At which point Abramm had turned to Shale Channon. “Escort the High Father to Wetherslea, Captain. Secure him in one of the top-floor suites and see that his needs are met, but grant him no visitors.”

  Again the holy man’s mouth had fallen open, but he was hauled away before he could regain himself. Only as the throne-room doors closed behind him did they hear his screams of outrage.

  The tribute resumed as if nothing had happened, but outside the story spread like wildfire. Reactions ranged from euphoric bravado over Abramm’s firm stand against Mataian intimidation to outraged declarations that he had grossly exceeded his authority. If ever there was a good time for Abramm to have done this, Trap knew it was now, with the coronation miracles fresh in people’s minds. Even with all the recent conversions, Mataians remained the majority among Kiriath’s citizens. Should they come to believe their Terstan king and his friends meant to force them to abandon their beliefs, they would resist. A fact some of the king’s alleged friends seemed to have forgotten.

  All through the post-tribute reception and banquet and even in the halls outside the theatre prior to Terstmeet, Trap had listened to a stream of idiotic bluster and threat—inflammatory words that could easily spark a riot. Abramm was far too preoccupied to notice it, and in fact, much of the talk was not expressed in his presence anyway, since he’d already castigated one man for suggesting the Mataians be rounded up and whipped.

  But out of his hearing, numerous high-ranking officers and nobles—men who should know better; not all of them even Terstan—talked and laughed without regard for the effect their words might have on the realm at large. It frustrated Trap keenly, and he feared before the evening ended he would be called upon to confront it. Hardly how he’d hoped to begin his service as First Minister.

  “You wear that shield because you’re his!” Kesrin’s voice, suddenly loud and forceful, intruded upon Trap’s worries. He blinked, chagrined to realize he’d wandered off again. A golden shield shone against the shadows beside the podium now. “It is his sign of ownership, a visible reminder of his calling on your life. A calling you will never be able to fulfill if you do not pay attention in Terstmeet.”

  And again Trap grimaced under the rebuke. Worse he’d lost his last chance to make it right, for the kohal was starting his closing prayer. Profoundly annoyed with himself, Trap bowed his head with everyone else and acknowledged his failure.

  Usually, the moment Kesrin started praying, Abramm left the theatre, exiting with his guards through the left front side door so as to draw as little attention as possible. Tonight, of all nights, Trap expected him to make a hasty departure, for he couldn’t last much longer. Thus he was surprised— and chagrined—to hear no sounds of movement during the prayer and, when it was done, to find the king still seated at his desk. At first he feared Abramm had reached the end of his strength and was unable to stand. But just as he started to stand himself, he realized the king was staring at a woman who stood by the front side door: Lady Madeleine.

  Apparently she had slipped in during the lesson, for she had not been there at the start of it. In fact she’d been impossible to find since she and Carissa returned this afternoon from their discovery of the shipwreck in Treasure Cove. Her brother had suggested she was ill when she’d not accompanied him to the tribute and banquet, but when Abramm had sent servants to her
apartments, she was not there. Now she stood looking wide-eyed at Abramm, clutching a black leather folio and a bound copy of the Words to her chest.

  At Trap’s back, the audience, having risen immediately upon the conclusion of Kesrin’s prayer, now noticed the king’s continued presence. People lingered in the nearest rows, and Trap heard them commenting nervously among themselves, wondering why Abramm was still here, if his wounds were paining him, if they dared speak to him.

  Below him, Madeleine’s attention shifted from Abramm to Leyton, heading toward her down the side aisle. Immediately her lips tightened and she turned to hurry out the door. Half a heartbeat later, Carissa stepped into the aisle, blocking Leyton’s path and forcing him to stop and answer her greeting, a pleasantry he carried out with patent frustration. Meanwhile, Abramm left Jared gathering up the pens and papers and stepped awkwardly out of the box to follow Madeleine.

  Driven by years of habit, Trap started after him, then aborted the motion as he saw Channon and Philip attending to that duty. You’re a duke now, he told himself. And you have no reason to follow. But it was difficult to watch the other men go off with him, knowing their charge might collapse at any moment. At least tonight there would be no webs for Abramm to blunder into, unless one counted the web of attraction Madeleine so obviously held for him.

  He then perceived the sudden silence around him and realized he was not the only one who’d watched the king disappear through that doorway. Nor to have seen whom he was following.

  “Not exactly subtle, is he?” Byron Blackwell said dryly, standing now at his elbow.

  Trap shrugged, irritated at Blackwell’s criticism. “What need has one of subtlety when there is nothing to hide?”

  Blackwell snorted.

  “He’s done nothing improper, Byron.”

  “Nothing besides meeting her unchaperoned at all these odd times and places and thus fueling the gossip as high as it will burn. I don’t think the First Daughter will be quite as understanding of such behavior as we are. . . .” He paused, light flashing off the disks of his spectacles as he glanced again at the side door. “Makes me wonder how much he really wants this treaty after all.”

  Trap had nothing to say to that, though it troubled him in a way he could not articulate, and he was glad when, after a moment, Byron hailed Arik Foxton and left Trap standing there alone. He glanced again at the door through which Abramm had departed and considered going after him regardless of propriety. If only he could think of a reasonable pretext for doing so.

  “I see it’s going to take you some time to get used to not shadowing him everywhere he goes.” Carissa’s voice broke into his thoughts and drew his gaze around to where she stood behind him.

  He smiled sheepishly. “Your eyes are far too discerning for comfort, my lady.” He glanced around. “Where’s Prince Leyton?”

  “Off to harangue his sister, no doubt.”

  He nodded. “Where was she today, anyway?”

  “I don’t know.” Carissa glanced toward the raucous laughter erupting behind him. “I suspect one of the libraries.”

  “Abramm sent men to both. She wasn’t there.”

  “Well, if Madeleine doesn’t want to be found, it’s not likely she will be.”

  He frowned at her. “Why would she not want to be found?”

  The crown princess shrugged and fixed her gaze on something behind him. “Most likely because she didn’t want to be interrupted in whatever she was doing.”

  He thought about asking what that might be, but he knew Carissa well enough to realize she’d have volunteered the information if she wanted to share it. Maddie had been the one to find the Esurhite dragon fetish—which no one besides her and Carissa had yet seen because Channon hadn’t thought to ask for it and no one expected her to disappear. Not that anyone really needed to see it. Its significance lay in its use as indication the Esurhites had taken the Gull Islands, though with the recent storms it really could have come from anywhere.

  “You wore that same suit last night, didn’t you?” Carissa’s question broke into his thoughts, so at odds with them it took him a moment to figure out what she was talking about.

  He glanced down at his gray doublet and breeches. “Yes, I believe I did.”

  “A man who is a duke and a First Minister really needs to have more than one suit in his wardrobe. You’re going to have to get your tailor working harder.”

  He felt his eyes widen at her. “My tailor?”

  “I can recommend a good one if you like.” She smiled.

  My tailor?

  “Or perhaps you would like me to simply give the name to your secretary.”

  “I don’t have a secretary.”

  “Well, you’re going to need one of those, too.” She was plainly enjoying herself.

  He was still trying to get his mind around the notion that he should have a tailor. Before the conversation progressed further, however, they were interrupted.

  “Your Highness,” came a low, familiar voice from Trap’s right. “Your devotion to the Words is an inspiration. Despite all your troubles of this long day and past night, here you are. Lovely as ever.” Duke Oswain Nott followed his words with a courtly bow.

  Carissa blushed furiously, while Trap’s stomach tied itself into a knot of distaste.

  “I trust you are fully recovered from your scare last night?”

  The princess looked startled at the question. Nott didn’t seem to notice, shaking his head sympathetically. “How gratifying, at least, to have had your claims borne out today.”

  Carissa’s mouth was tightening, her brows drawing downward in an expression that reminded Trap eerily of her brother. “I presume you are speaking of Rennalf of Balmark, sir, and I assure you I would prefer my claims not to have been borne out and him still trapped behind snow-locked passes.”

  “I understand completely. I am surprised, though, that Abramm hasn’t assigned you a special protective detail. With that leg injury and all the furor over Bonafil, it must’ve slipped his mind.” He paused, smiled, and added, “I’d be happy to escort you safely to your door, though.”

  I’m sure you would, Trap thought sourly, marveling at the rapidity with which his dislike for this man was growing.

  “Why, Duke Oswain,” Carissa asked, “whatever would I need a special detail for? I have my own men with me, and—”

  “With Rennalf still at large, my lady, your men may not be sufficient to protect you, wily warlock that he is.”

  Trap’s irritation finally got the best of him. “Rennalf is not at large,” he said. “He escaped through the corridor before Abramm destroyed it.”

  Nott turned to look down his long nose, gray brows arching upward as if he could not believe Trap had actually spoken to him without first being addressed. “Ah, the new Duke of Northille.” He gave Trap a nod that was at best cursory, then said, “Just knowing a man went through a corridor doesn’t tell you where he ended up.”

  “The king is convinced he’s in Balmark.”

  “Ah.” Nott chuckled. “That must be where he is, then.” But he couldn’t quite keep the condescension out of his tone. “I do understand why you might be concerned, though. Don’t your lands butt right up against his?”

  “No, my lord duke.” Trap allowed himself a small smile. “Balmark borders the Ruk Pul, far to the north. My land is just south and west of the Highlands, bounded by the River Kalladorne on the west and the Goodsprings Valley on the east. . . . The only holding it directly abuts is Amberton.”

  Nott grimaced and waved a dismissive hand. “Northille, Amberton, Goodsprings . . . I can’t keep all those little fiefdoms straight.” His own holdings extended east of Springerlan across most of the Keharnen Plain, including its accompanying seacoast, providing him vast tracts of farmland, a bustling fishing industry, and a lock on the proceeds of the salt flats at Chastwort. He added, “The only thing I know for sure is that they’re a breeding ground for Mataian heretics.” He flicked Trap another smile. �
��Perhaps with you running things, Northille, we can make some inroads there.” He paused. “There haven’t been Mataians on any Nott holding for over a decade now.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a distinction I’d be bragging about today,” Trap said dryly, feeling his ire rise.

  Nott blinked at him, surprise opening his long, furrowed face.

  “The Mataians are still in the majority, sir,” Trap pointed out when the man seemed not to understand. “And though Abramm holds the Crown by inheritance and human law, he does so in defiance of Mataian standards. People are already resenting Bonafil’s arrest, even when all agree Abramm had no choice. If they think he means to deny them their faith . . . we could have another war on our hands.”

  By now Nott’s surprise had turned to incredulity. “You presume to lecture me on matters of politics and religion, Northille? When you have been a member of the peerage less than forty-eight hours? I suggest you curb your hubris, sir.”

  Trap had expected Nott would react like this, just not so soon into the conversation. Nor with such sharp and blatant disdain. It shocked his brain to blankness and momentarily robbed him of his ability to speak. Nott smiled down at him smugly, as he realized uneasily they had now become the center of attention. Anger and frustration roiled up in him, and in that moment he wanted nothing so much as to pull out his sword and start lunging. Which, of course, would never do.

  Seeing he had rendered his opponent speechless, Nott turned very deliberately to one of his companions and said, “Not for ten years have Mataians dwelt on my lands, nor will they again, so long as I’m duke. If we don’t start cleaning our own houses, Eidon will soon be doing it for us.”

  “I hear there’s talk in the river districts of storming the Keep tonight,” said one of the men beside him.

  “Perhaps we should go and join them,” Nott said. “Cloak ourselves in robes and cowls as the Gadrielites used to do and give them a taste of their own medicine.”