The Shadow Within Read online

  Shale Channon, promoted today to Captain of Abramm’s Royal Guard, did not agree. Stretching north and east from the formal palace grounds, the royal preserve was bounded along its western border by the sheer-walled rim of the Keharnen Rise and by an impenetrable hedge everywhere else. It was a wild land, populated only by the royal foresters—a prime spot for an ambush, by men or spawn. Abramm was not about to live his life hiding in the wardrobe for fear of spawn attacks, however, and as for the men, though he knew he had enemies aplenty, he doubted they could orchestrate anything in time to take advantage of an unplanned ride whose route not even Abramm himself had decided.

  Channon was not mollified. Nothing about this venture made him happy. Not the destination, not Abramm’s limitation of the escort, not the late hour—not even the horse Abramm chose to ride. Especially the horse, a feisty two-year-old dapple-gray stallion named Warbanner, whom everyone from the head groom to Channon himself warned Abramm off. “He’ll take you on a wild ride and dump you in a bramble bush somewhere,” the groom had predicted. “We’ll be lucky to find you with nothing but bruises and wounded pride.” Which only stiffened Abramm’s resolve to have this horse.

  As they set off across the formal grounds, young Warbanner prancing and tossing his head, Channon rode as close as the colt’s ill temper allowed, positioning himself and his five men to cut off any attempts at bolting. Abramm hid his amusement and let the man alone. He and Warbanner had already reached an understanding as to who was in control, and as soon as they cleared the formal grounds and entered the preserve itself, he loosened the rein and nudged the young horse’s sides. It took only a nudge—Warbanner’s speed change was explosive, and his prodigious stride soon left Channon and the others in his dust.

  Keeping a light hand on the reins, Abramm crouched over the animal’s neck, exulting in the wind on his face, the clatter of hooves on the hardpacked, dirt road, the golden glory of the grasslands flying past, and the exhilarating sense of freedom. He let the colt slow on his own, savoring the smell and feel of the horse as he reveled in the scenery. Copses of hickory and oak, leaves just starting to turn, stood interspersed amid a rolling expanse of grassland, all ashimmer in the afternoon light. By the time his escort finally caught up again—dust-cloaked, windblown, and breathing hard—he felt himself renewed already.

  As overhead a few gulls wheeled on the updrafts, their raucous cries sounding grace notes alongside the jingle of the horses’ tack and the thud-clop of their hooves, Abramm turned his mind to the day’s events. This morning he’d delivered his first official address to the combined Upper and Lower Tables. Recalling Shemm’s advice to speak from the heart and get to the point, he’d told them of Esurh.

  How he’d seen the shipyards at Qasok and Usul, and the armies of the Black Moon and the new Supreme Commander, heir to the slain Beltha’adi. “I have watched their Games and listened to their boastings of Destiny,” he’d said. “The Taking of Springerlan, The Rending of the Northland, The Surrender of the King of Kiriath—those are the names of their Game-tales. They mock us as a race of womanish comfort-seekers without the backbone to fight, worthy only to be conquered. And conquer us they will if we do not prepare.”

  The force of his conviction must have come through, because when he had finished, his listeners sat in stricken silence, staring at him with pale faces. He gave them only a moment to digest it all before outlining what he meant to do: first, to increase the numbers in both army and navy to allow adequate patrolling of the borders and, second, to repair and rebuild the realm’s crumbling fortresses—starting with the one at the mouth of Kalladorne Bay, whose languishing had left the very heart of Kiriath open to attack. Yes, a tax would be required to fund all this, and though the projects would provide jobs and business opportunities for those suffering from the effects of the kraggin’s blockade, that wouldn’t preclude the fact that sacrifices would be required. Starting with Abramm himself. To conserve needed funds, the lavishness and number of palace entertainments would be sharply reduced, and all work on palace additions would be suspended. Furthermore, ambassadors to both Thilos and Chesedh would soon receive authorization to proceed with alliance negotiations—even though the Chesedhans had insisted the only way they’d ally with Kiriath was on condition of a royal marriage.

  When he was finished, Abramm summoned Simon Kalladorne, Grand Marshall of his army, and Walter Hamilton, Grand Admiral of his navy, to a private meeting, instructing each to prepare for him a report of the status of their respective forces. While Hamilton displayed an open enthusiasm for Abramm’s plan, Simon had been merely professional, according the new king all the deference protocol demanded, but not one flicker of genuine approval. Which Abramm could not deny was bitterly disappointing, though the number of lords who approached him afterward eager to echo Hamilton’s endorsement was something of a balm. Byron Blackwell was so enthusiastic, in fact, he had offered to serve as royal secretary until Abramm could appoint someone to the position permanently.

  Overall it went well, Abramm admitted. I just have to give Uncle Simon time. It was unrealistic, after all, to suppose that a changed appearance and a few well-delivered words would revise opinions held for over twenty years. But it was still difficult to take.

  As they followed the road into a fragrant grove of oak, hickory, and evergreen, Abramm’s armsmen closed ranks around him, nervously eyeing the close-growing trees. Since human ambushers were highly unlikely to strike this early in the ride, Abramm concluded it must be spawn they feared. Feyna could be deadly in sufficient numbers, after all, as the attack on Abramm’s own father fourteen year ago had shown. That that attack had come in the deep forest on a dark and cloudy night—not a clear afternoon in a sun-dappled grove of trees—might have given them comfort, he supposed, had they not believed themselves to be guarding a man who was helpless to defend himself. But maybe that was just as well, for their paranoia freed him to turn his thoughts to the very issues he’d come out here to consider.

  Like selecting a cabinet of advisors. And getting the Terstans to quit fighting him—a score of them had been arrested for rioting just last night, in fact. Though he’d questioned them personally this afternoon in hopes of demonstrating he was not their enemy, they had responded with sullen silence, forcing him to cast them into his dungeons. Then there were the Gadrielites to be dealt with, and— But no, he had to take things one at a time or he’d never accomplish anything. And right now he had his cabinet to consider.

  Emerging from the shadowed copse into brightness again, he watched his growing escort of sea gulls circle overhead in hopes of a picnicker’s handout and thought of the men he had met. Though he’d learned much about Blackwell today, he still didn’t trust the man. Arik Foxton, Lord of Summerall, had presented himself as a possible ally after Abramm’s address. Rich, athletic, conservative, and quietly sensible, Foxton might be a good choice. The border lord Ethan Laramor had a quick mind and a sense of hard-won man-savvy, but something about him set Abramm on edge. Even apart from his undisguised and undiminished hostility. Then there was—

  You must try to win your brother.

  His thought flow stopped. Where had that come from?

  Shrugging mentally, he went on. Laramor had a good grasp of the border situation, though he seemed completely unconcerned about the Esurhites and—

  You need to win your brother.

  He frowned. That was a ridiculous notion, as distasteful as it was impossible. Why was he even thinking it?

  But the third time it intruded, he gave up in exasperation and confronted it. Try to win my brother? I’d rather throw him in my dungeons! In fact, last night, seeing him for the first time in years, he’d wanted to do a great deal more than that. Everything he loathed about Gillard had manifested itself in that Council Hall. Even now his sly, baiting words made Abramm’s blood boil. “So why did you not come to Raynen? Why did you simply disappear?” he’d asked oh-so-innocently, secure in the knowledge that without two witnesses Abramm could br
ing no accusation against him. “I sold you into slavery,” he’d seemed to say, “and there’s not a thing you can do about it!”

  Abramm had wanted to fly across the chamber floor and strangle him on the spot. Nothing I can do about it? Well, we’ll see—

  You must forgive him, Abramm.

  And again his inner monologue halted. That thought wasn’t from him. Forgive him, my Lord? He felt vaguely ill.

  My son has paid his debt, and I have forgotten his transgressions. How is it then that you dare to remember them?

  Abramm knew the Words very well—could cite that passage by sector and line, in fact—but right now could not care less. Outrage smoldered in him as a dozen memories of that fateful night in Southdock tumbled through his mind. The feel of the net dropping over his head; the narrow, fishysmelling room; Gillard throwing back his cowl to reveal himself so Abramm would know exactly who was doing this to him.

  It is not so easy for me to forget, my Lord. He—

  Is a very unhappy young man who is confused and deceived—

  And arrogant and selfish and egotistical and just plain mean.

  And you, of course, are never any of these things, since you are perfect.

  Abramm scowled at the sea gulls swooping and wheeling against a cloudstreaked sky.

  Lord, you know I know I am far from perfect.

  You need to forgive him, Abramm.

  But— Abramm ground his teeth together as a hundred more rationalizations sought to flood his mind. But how could he refuse the One who had bought his very soul? All right, my Lord. I forgive him, but for your sake and only by my will. A sick, horrified feeling churned in his stomach.

  You must try to work with him.

  Work with him?! Never! Not after what he did!

  And what was it he did, my son? I seem to have forgotten.

  Abramm exhaled his frustration. I will forgive him, Eidon. But I can’t work with him. He’s insufferable and he hates me.

  You need to offer your hand in peace.

  He’ll only slap it away.

  You must offer it anyway. As I offered mine to you, though you slapped it away many times, were no less insufferable, and hated me even more than he hates you.

  He could never argue with Eidon. When would he learn that? Somehow he always ended up like this—without a leg to stand on, feeling foolish and chagrinned, face-to-face again with his own worthlessness.

  I will offer him peace, my Lord. Though it’s certain to be rebuffed, and I’ll only look the fool . . .

  But Eidon, he knew, cared nothing for how Abramm looked to others, and thus he shouldn’t, either. After that he was left to consider his cabinet selections uninterrupted, and before long it was time to turn back. Angling southwest off the track, he put Warbanner to an easy canter, and soon they reached the wide, hard-packed road edging the Keharnen Rise. Springerlan sprawled below them in a golden haze of smoke and mist bisected by the barge-clogged river, gleaming like molten gold in the sun’s lowering rays. Beyond loomed the western headland, shrouded in purple shadow as it stretched southward to form the bay. At its farthest seaward end, old Graymeer’s Fortress was just visible as a jagged upthrust against the darkening blue haze of the sea.

  They had ridden along the rim only a few minutes when the drum of approaching hooves brought them all around. To Abramm’s surprise it was Byron Blackwell who cantered up to join them, his lifeless brown curls tied back for the ride under a wide-brimmed hat. Looking bemused behind his spectacles, he pulled his horse to a stop and dropped the king a truncated bow. “Your Majesty.”

  “I certainly didn’t expect to meet you out here, Blackwell,” Abramm responded.

  “It’s been a full day, sir. A hard ride in the preserve always clears my head.”

  “I didn’t know you were a horseman.”

  “A passion we share, I’m guessing.” He eyedWarbanner significantly. “Not too many can ride that colt.”

  Abramm acknowledged the compliment with a nod, sensing it was genuine. At his invitation, the man joined him, and they continued south along the road, the palace a distant gleam behind the trees and hills ahead. Beside them the gulls wheeled in a salmon-tinted sky, winging at eye level with them across the sheer cliffs.

  “I must confess,” Blackwell said as they rode, “that this meeting is not entirely by coincidence. When I saw the gulls circling, I hoped it was you.”

  “Did you.”

  “I’ve had something on my mind since last night, sir, but I wasn’t sure how to approach you with it.”

  Abramm encouraged him with a glance.

  “I fear I should not have stopped you from baring your chest to the Table. Better would have been to have let you settle the matter then and there.” He paused. “You might want to find a way to be seen bare-chested in the next day or so. Perhaps invite guests for early tea and wear your blouse unfastened. Or take a morning stroll around the lake. The more people who see the truth, the sooner you’ll be free of the accusations.”

  Abramm received the advice soberly.

  “You do see my point, don’t you, sir? If you do nothing, the question will only fester, and already its—”

  “I see your point.” Abramm gazed over the valley to his right, watching the light change as the sun slipped behind the headland, turning the clouds to dramatic fiery slashes in a salmon-run-to-pale-blue sky.

  “I know it’s distasteful,” Blackwell added after a moment. “It’s just that poor Raynen’s fate is so much on everyone’s mind again.” He shook his head. “There’s not been such a dramatic case of Terstan madness in a long time. I’ll tell you plainly it horrified even those among us who wear the shield themselves.”

  Those among us? Are you trying to tell me something, Count? “I’m surprised you allowed him to reign that long,” Abramm commented blandly.

  “We’d have removed him sooner, but Gillard refused to accept the Crown in his stead.”

  “Gillard?!” He’s willing to sell me to the night ships to get me out of the way, yet wouldn’t remove Ray when he was obviously incompetent?

  Blackwell shrugged again. “They say he loved your brother very much.”

  He doubted Blackwell had any idea how much that statement cut to his heart.

  After a few moments, the count added quietly, “It should be done soon, sir. Time is crucial in these matters and—” He stopped, his eyes flicking to Abramm sharply. “I’m assuming, of course, the accusation has no merit. . . .”

  Abramm cocked a brow at him. “Are you asking me if I wear a shield, Count Blackwell?”

  At once the man averted his gaze, red-faced. “No, sir. Of course not. I just . . .”

  “I appreciate your advice, Count. For now, though, I think I shall take one last run.”

  And so, with the sea breeze in his face, tainted even here by the ammonia of the kraggin, Abramm nudged Warbanner into an easy rolling canter. But it wasn’t nearly as pleasurable as it had been earlier, for Gillard weighed on his thoughts now, and some part of him held Blackwell responsible.

  Even so, he couldn’t deny Blackwell had pretty much single-handedly saved his bid for the Crown last night. He’d learned today that the man had become count only four years ago, after his father died in a hunting accident. Elected speaker of the Table of Lords a year later, he was generally characterized as a political middle-of-the-roader with a conservative bent and a low profile. “One of those men no one notices much—until they end up Speaker of the Table,” Lord Foxton had confided with a grin during their private meeting this morning. “I don’t know him well, sir, but he seems a good man and a hard worker, and most everyone likes him. And he’s served on a goodly number of committees.”

  They slowed again some ways farther on, eyeing uneasily the great cloud of gulls boiling up from the road where it bent out of sight into a copse of trees. Channon said he didn’t like the looks of it, and though he didn’t much like the idea of taking to the hollows either—not at dusk with all the spawn they had t
hese days—he thought it the better risk. “But we mustn’t dally,” he warned.

  Thus they descended the forested hillside at a trot as the world turned ruddy around them, the fiery streaks overhead fading slowly to pink. Already the scent of damp grass mingled with whiffs of pine and hickory in the still air, and with the squirrels gone to their holes, the only sounds were those of the riders themselves. They started across a meadow cloaked in purple twilight, the gulls swooping and diving above the trees to the right. Whatever had caught their attention, Abramm’s party was going to miss it.

  Then, halfway across the swale, Abramm’s nape tingled with the sense of imminent attack, triggering an instinctive, hard-won set of reactions. Dropping onto Warbanner’s neck he kicked the animal forward just as a flight of arrows burst from the hickories to the right. By then he was off the road and galloping over the hummocks in an arc headed round toward his attackers’ position. Another horse followed close behind. He thought at first it was Channon, until he heard his captain bellowing from much farther away for some to “Get them!” and others to “Cover the king!”

  Then Abramm was among the trees himself, engulfed in the deepening twilight. He checked Banner and, as the horse slid to a stop, groped for the sling that wasn’t there, settling instead for his sword. As it hissed from its scabbard, he sat rigidly, scanning the gloom-cloaked foliage and tree trunks, suddenly aware that he wore not one piece of body armor.

  The other horseman caught up then—it was Blackwell, his eyes wide in a pale face as he clung to the saddle, reins flapping uselessly, his horse, unguided, having instinctively followed Warbanner. As the count came even with Abramm, the sudden prickly awareness of shadowspawn washed over him, setting his old wrist scar tingling. At the same moment, air stirred above and behind, and he wheeled Banner to face it, glimpsing black wings, a long beak, a glowing blue-white eye. His rapier flashed, white light shimmering down its length as it sliced the feyna in half and flicked back to decapitate another, Banner shying and squealing all the while. Two more came at him, then three, as he slashed and stabbed with one hand and fought to control Banner with the other.