The Shadow Within Read online

  And again Gillard was brought up short, jaw clenched, eyes blazing. He glared at Abramm a moment, then leaned in himself and said in a low voice, “Fortunately Kiriathan law requires two witnesses to reach a conviction. Even for the king.”

  “And you were ever good at concealing your misdeeds, weren’t you?” Feeling his anger rising, Abramm deliberately caught the eye of Blackwell, who had been watching for just such a sign. As the count started toward them, Gillard scowled, but he managed to restrain himself from making a comeback, and Abramm stepped away, dismissing him. His brother had no choice but to sketch a stiff bow, again no lower than he could get away with, and depart. He stayed half an hour longer, mingling with the guests to prove he was completely at ease, then left for good around ten o’clock, early as these things went, but not early enough for Abramm’s taste.

  He was given little time to dwell on the interchange, however, for Blackwell, despite knowing Abramm’s willingness to marry for the sake of the foreign allies he was pursuing, had set himself the mission of introducing the king to every unmarried woman of standing in the court, including the count’s own sister, Leona. All of whom smiled and simpered and batted their eyes in unpleasant reminder that, if not for the treaty considerations, Abramm would be the most sought-after bachelor in the kingdom.

  Ironically, the only woman who didn’t make eyes at him turned out to be the Second Daughter of the very king Abramm most wished to ally with. Lady Madeleine, noting his surprise and even alarm when she introduced herself, quickly assured him that as Second Daughter she was dedicated to Eidon and would never have to marry for politics. “Or at all, if I choose not to,” she announced prissily. “Certainly I’d not choose a Kiriathan and never a king.”

  Which was welcome news, indeed, seeing as she was not only the plainest woman in court, but also the most outspoken. She’d proceeded to grill him on his reaction to the song, which by then had become a source of great irritation to him. Irritation he’d expressed freely, unfortunately, right before discovering she was, in addition to being Second Daughter, the official balladeer of her father’s court and the one who’d penned the thing. Worse, she was in Kiriath not as part of the Chesedhan negotiating party but to research and write a ballad of the White Pretender. Seeing as Abramm had recently returned from Esurh and had admitted just today he’d seen the Games, she was certain he would be an excellent source of information. Her eyes were sharp upon him as she said this, and he could only pray Eidon had somehow blinded her to the shock her words produced in him.

  Thankfully, Blackwell intervened then, ushering in another young lady for him to meet. Not long after that, when it finally dawned on him that, as king, he could leave whenever he wished, Abramm decided he had had enough.

  Somehow Blackwell contrived to be among his escort back to the royal apartments—as he had contrived all night to be the man most often at hand to answer Abramm’s questions or direct him in the next move of his social debut. Now as Captain Channon led them through the palace’s blessedly deserted back corridors, Abramm asked why he’d brought all those ladies by. “You know, I’ll probably marry the Chesedhan princess.”

  Blackwell gave him a glance and a slight smile as they turned into a long, darkened corridor. “Don’t worry about that, my lord. The Chesedhans are no more likely to approve your taking their First Daughter to wife than your court would approve her. Treaty or not, that is one thing that won’t happen.”

  “Then why did they propose it at all?”

  “Actually, I believe we did. As a sign of goodwill. You have to be amenable, after all. Offer the right things. No one expects you to go through with them, though.” He flashed Abramm another smile. “Besides, I thought you’d enjoy their company. And there’s no harm in playing the field before the vows are taken.” He snorted softly. “Nor afterward for that matter.”

  “The Words forbid such things, Blackwell.”

  “Aye. The Words forbid a lot of things that people do all the time. And what would the court be without its romantic liaisons and passionate affairs?”

  Abramm frowned at the gleaming marble floor stretched out before him, feeling put off. What he had known with Shettai was something precious and private, even sacred. He couldn’t imagine flinging himself around like a dog with anyone who caught his fancy.

  “In any case,” Blackwell went on, “I did have a legitimate reason for my actions. The Harvest Ball is coming up in only three weeks. You’ll need to choose one of those young ladies to escort.”

  “But I said just today that I was canceling all that nonsense.”

  “No, you said such affairs would be reduced in frequency and lavishness. And, sir, I strongly advise against moving too swiftly on that. You’ll need the peers’ goodwill if you hope to fund the military improvements you envision. The lesser amusements can go for a time, but we’ve been looking forward to the Harvest Ball all year. After what we’ve suffered this summer, taking it away will only make people angry and bitter.” He paused, a sly smile spreading across his sallow features. “And think of all those young ladies who worked so hard to catch your eye tonight. Each hoping desperately to be the one who’ll be dancing the Autumn Suite.”

  The Autumn Suite? As king he’d be the one dancing that, wouldn’t he? Right out there in the middle of the ballroom floor, alone with his partner, and all the court watching. Fire and Torment! He’d never given thought to this aspect of wearing the crown of Kiriath, and the prospect made him quail. Worse, he’d have to choose among all those desperately hopeful young ladies. He grimaced again. “And my choice, of course, will furnish an abundance of grist for the gossip mill.”

  “Unavoidable, I fear. But you are expected to go a-courting, sir. Chesedhan or not, you must take a bride soon, for the Crown needs an heir. Unless you want Gillard nipping at your heels for the rest of your life.”

  Was that why Eidon had told him to work with his brother?

  But courting? Siring an heir? Khrell’s Fire! The thought made his stomach sour. He still wasn’t over Shettai, and not one of these women could even come close to replacing her. “Perhaps I’ll choose Lady Madeleine and shock everyone.”

  “Lady Madeleine?” Blackwell’s head swiveled sharply, his expression one of incipient alarm. “The Chesedhan Second Daughter? That wouldn’t shock, sir; it would give the whole court apoplexy.”

  “Precisely why the notion appeals.”

  Blackwell fell silent, clearly trying to discern if Abramm was jesting. After a few steps, Abramm took pity on him. “I meant for the Autumn Suite, Blackwell.”

  “Ah.” The count flashed a wan smile, and Abramm recalled that the man’s sister had been among the contenders for his notice this evening.

  They had reached the corridor’s end and turned into a new one, shorter and brighter and hung with dark tapestries depicting the conquest of Kiriath. As their footsteps echoed around them, Blackwell said, “Be careful about the Second Daughter, sir. She is . . . quite the busybody and utterly without respect for propriety.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Or privacy for that matter. More than that . . . she’s frighteningly quickwitted. They say her sister got the beauty and she got the brains. From what I can tell, it’s no understatement. And you know Chesedhans cannot be trusted. She’ll promise you discretion one day and the very next be trumpeting the matter to the world. If you have a secret you want to keep, best stay as far from her as you can.”

  “I assure you, Blackwell, it will be my pleasure to do so.”

  Blackwell studied him a moment more, then, apparently satisfied of his sincerity, launched into a new subject. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it seems a rift has developed between your uncle and your brother.”

  A rift? Between Gillard and Uncle Simon? “I did see that they came separately tonight.”

  “And strictly avoided one another for the duration. Your uncle’s been at Gillard for months to go after the kraggin, but Gillard put him off, saying he’d only get m
en killed and ships sunk.” Blackwell eyed him thoughtfully.

  “Perhaps he was right, if you killed that thing the way I suspect you did.”

  Abramm frowned at him and he went on. “In any case, your uncle spent the day checking out your story. And everyone agrees your speech to the Table today echoed things he’s said for years. Many think he favors you now.”

  Abramm thought back to his earlier meetings with the man. “He sure didn’t seem disposed toward me that I could tell.”

  “He’s a Kalladorne. You’re all notoriously hard to read. But he definitely had his eye on you tonight. Of course he’s paranoid about the Mataio taking control of the realm and still isn’t convinced you’re not one of them. If you could persuade him beyond all doubt that you’re not . . . I believe he might be won.”

  Uncle Simon? Won this soon? “But I’ve already done everything I can think of to show people the truth. What else is there?”

  Blackwell glanced over his shoulder at the men trailing them, close enough to protect, far enough they couldn’t hear if the words were spoken softly. “There is one other thing.”

  At first Abramm could not imagine what he meant. Then it hit him—as obvious as it was unthinkable—and he shook his head. “He’d find that truth even more repellent than his Mataian suspicions.”

  “There is that risk, of course, though the political advantages, should you succeed, would be profound.” They reached the back stair to the royal apartments then, and Abramm paused as Channon started up. Blackwell glanced again at the trailing armsmen—who’d stopped when the king had—then shrugged. “I simply offer it as something to consider.”

  He sketched a quick bow and said his good-byes, leaving Abramm to climb the stair in thoughtful silence.

  CHAPTER

  13

  Had Abramm and Blackwell left the Gallery by the main entrance, they would have passed the gaming rooms and salons in which the diehard pleasure-seekers had congregated. Harrady had talked Simon into a game of dice soon after they had left the reception hours earlier. Predictably, Simon had lost money, and finally, despite Harrady’s assurances that patience would win it back, he retired to one of the quieter salons and fell to playing uurka with Ethan Laramor. They were on their third game now, which Laramor was winning—again, to Simon’s annoyance. He knew himself to be too tired, too brandy headed, and too preoccupied with the day’s events to give his whole mind to the game, but it irritated him to lose all the same.

  Gillard’s too loud laughter rang through the doorway behind and to his right, the young man dealing with his troubles in typical fashion. No matter how drunk he became, he never slurred his words, which deceived those who did not know him into thinking the alcohol had not affected him. But Simon heard the bitterness in his tone and, as had happened last night, the blustering, unguarded tongue whining about Abramm’s failure to have bared his chest and lamenting that the bowmen who’d staged the ambush had not been more accurate.

  His companions took the words in jest, or so it seemed. Simon wondered how many actually shared Gillard’s sentiments. Did they suspect him of orchestrating the ambush, too? Were the fires of rebellion being kindled even now in the king’s own palace? Not that Simon could do anything to shut him up. His nephew was hurt and upset, and if Simon tried to speak to him now, he would only play more to the crowd. He had to get the boy alone. And since Simon would be leaving for the Briarcreek Garrison at dawn tomorrow to begin collecting information for his report to the king, it was now or never.

  Thus he sat trying to concentrate on the game, one ear cocked on the door, while his mind roved back through the past six hours of the reception. Seeing Master Belmir, with his gaggle of Mataian attendants hovering in Abramm’s vicinity all night, had filled him with great unease. As did the man’s incessant talk of the prophesied Age of Light—one requiring the purification and dedication of all men—which he believed to be dawning on Kiriath’s horizon. Meanwhile Prittleman bragged he would soon lead his Gadrielites in a purging of old Graymeer’s, a claim Abramm had not denied. Though, with Byron Blackwell bringing by that steady stream of young ladies for the king’s inspection, it was possible Abramm hadn’t noticed.

  “Well, that does it,” Laramor said, breaking into his thoughts and finally moving his archer. “I believe you are besieged, sir. Would you care to surrender? Again?”

  “Yes, yes. You win.” Simon glanced over his shoulder at the door to the dicing room, from whence rang another burst of laughter.

  “I’ll not ask you for a fourth,” Laramor said. “I think your chair could have played as well as you have.”

  Simon frowned at him. “You needn’t rub it in.”

  “I don’t know why you bothered to put on the pretense. You’d have done as well to doze on a sidebench until the boy’s done with his playing. At least you’d have gotten some sleep.”

  “Aye, and missed my chance of speaking to him at all.”

  “Which might be for the best.”

  Simon began returning his game pieces to their starting positions. “He took what I said all out of context.”

  “But he’ll be drunk now and even more sensitive. You’ll only make things worse.”

  “If he was behind those attacks, he has to be stopped.”

  “Does he?”

  Simon’s hand froze on the figure of the archer he’d just set down. He looked up. Ethan was concentrating on carefully replacing his own pieces to their original positions, the light of the pedestal lamp beside him gleaming off the pewter-colored ring coiling around his index finger. Only when he had all the pieces put back did Laramor look up.

  “It would be the easiest way to put things to right.”

  “Put things to right?” Simon went back to repositioning his own game pieces. “You could get yourself hanged for talk like that, man. And anyway, things have not turned out at all the way we thought they would.”

  “They’ve turned out almost exactly as I thought they would.”

  “Oh come, Ethan. You don’t really believe the Mataio’s held him in hiding all these years, do you?”

  Laramor shrugged. “I’ll admit, your evidence does refute that theory. But it’s possible they sent one of their people to Esurh to find him and bring him home, one of those men on the water with him that no one can find.” He rubbed the coil ring with his thumb. “Abramm’s the Mataio’s man, Simon. Didn’t you hear Pritt going on about his plans for Graymeer’s tonight? And the need for a purge? And Abramm standing right there, saying nothing?”

  “I heard.”

  “It’s only the start, you see.”

  “Maybe.” Simon lined his footmen in their ranks. “And maybe not. Abramm’s barely arrived. And what he said to the Table today . . . well, it was good, Ethan. You can’t deny it.”

  Ethan’s thumb stilled on the ring, his brow furrowing. “I thought you were with us on this. I thought you agreed he must not be allowed to rule.” He leaned back in his chair. “Or is Gillard right and he has won you?”

  “Don’t be absurd. It’s just . . . what you’re talking about is not only dangerous, it could backfire terribly. It’s a last resort, and I don’t think we’re there yet.”

  “So when will we be? When the purges begin? When we’re forced to wear gray doublets with little red flames and commanded to surrender our wealth and our sons to the Holy Flames to keep the realm free of evil?” He tapped his ring on the tall brass form of his game king, gray eyes hard beneath shaggy brows. “It will be far too late by then, my friend.”

  Simon shifted uneasily. “All I’m saying is, give it a little more time. See how things settle out. You of all men know I’ve given my life for the good of this land, and I’m not about to let the Mataians have it. But neither will I run off willy-nilly. I want to get the lay of the land, if you take my meaning.”

  Laramor had no response to that, and Simon’s glance dropped again to his friend’s hands, where he was back at that habit of twisting the coil ring. That really is a
n ugly piece of jewelry.

  “Where did you get that thing, anyway?”

  Laramor followed the direction of Simon’s gaze. “The ring? It’s a family heirloom. Why?”

  “I’ve never seen you wear it before. And it’s—unusual.”

  “Aye.”

  Gillard’s game broke up then, accompanied by much laughing and jesting as the players said their good-byes. Finally the prince appeared in the doorway.

  Besides not slurring when drunk, Gillard rarely swayed or stumbled, either. But it did take him a moment to focus on Simon, another to recognize him, and a third to realize why he was there. A hard, desperate light flashed in his eyes. His lips tightened and he moved on without greeting or comment.

  With a sigh, the older man followed him, feeling the twinge in his hip again and fearing Ethan was right—that this would do no good. He followed him all the way back to the Gallery’s main rotunda before Gillard finally stopped and said without turning around, “I have nothing to say to you, Uncle, and wish less to hear what you have to say to me, so please stop following me.”

  His voice echoed across the hardwood floor and plastered walls, their ornately framed paintings hooded now in shadow. Lantern light shone dimly through the windows that lined the rotunda’s outside wall, where the trees tossed in the breeze and scraped against the roof. Somewhere back along the corridors a door closed and voices echoed in indiscernible conversation.

  Simon sighed wearily. “You’re making this too personal, Gillard. And tormenting yourself over nothing.”

  Now, finally, the young man wheeled and stepped toward him. “Nothing? You said I was the son you never had. That I was more important to you than anything in life. That you would always stand by me no matter what. And there you were tonight, in front of Harrady and Foxton and all the rest of them, supporting him over me! Do you now intend to deny what I heard with my own ears?”