Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1) (11 page)

Eldrin sang with the rest of them, comforted by the familiar stirring of his
emotions, the familiar certainty that this was right and true and good. When
the first ray of sun caught on the mirrored glass of the high, domed window,
igniting it in a blaze of white fire, his heart soared, and he threw up his hands
with the others, offering his praise to the Creator. Whatever spell the Terstan
had worked upon him, the service and the morning light banished it. He
could see clearly again. The Terstan had lied. There was no mysterious room;
he had been touched by Eidon, and all was well.

The day proceeded quietly, through the morning meal of biscuit and tea,
the Initiates’ choir practice, and several hours spent studying the Books of
Rule and copying out that portion of the Law he had most recently learned.
Even to write the holy statutes, St. Haverall had said, was to smite the darkness. And writing was particularly pleasurable to Eldrin-the stroke of the
pen, the mindless movements of the arm, the way the ink flowed in dark, wet
lines, thick and thin, swooping gracefully across the page. The words sprang
from his head, ran down his arm, to return to him through his eyes, a circle
that ran upon itself, burning truth into his recalcitrant soul, chasing away the
doubts and confusions.

He first heard about the body in the garden just before midmeal, the
incredible rumor relayed softly by a fellow Initiate as they stepped through
the door of the dining hall. Forbidden to talk once over that threshold, he
could not ask for details, and the elders who oversaw the noon repast made
no mention of it.

The dark bread and vegetable soup was served out in a customary silence,
broken only by the reading of the Praises. But midway through the meal a
Haverallan hurried in, spoke quietly into the ear of one of the elders at the
head table, and unleashed a relay of whispering that resulted in fully half the
elders leaving the room.

Those who remained ensured that the reading of the chapter continued
undisturbed, though there were many exchanged glances and lifted brows
among those of lower ranks, and concentration upon the Praises was poor.

Finally they were dismissed into the halls, and the rumor mill exploded. No one seemed to know much, and the tales all contradicted one another. An
Initiate/elderly Brother/lesser Haverallan had died in the garden by the back
wall-burned to a crisp/frozen stiff/stabbed through the heart. All agreed the
man had been the victim of the king’s evil henchman, Captain Meridon.

It was said he had flown over the wall on the back of a great feyna and
done the deed early this morning. The plants surrounding the scene had been
scorched by his power, and the wall as well. Several claimed to know others
who had seen him do it, but nobody among the rumormongers in the hall
had actually seen anything themselves.

An hour later Eldrin was summoned to a private cubicle on the library’s
fifth floor, where Belmir told him the full story. Saeral, Belmir explained, was
at the palace even then, seeing that justice was done. There had indeed been
a murder-a young Initiate, Brother Damon-and Captain Meridon was the
primary suspect. His distinctive ram-headed dirk had been found in the victim’s chest, and footprints by the garden wall exactly matched Meridon’s
boots.

The captain was, of course, already in irons, and the High Father meant
to petition the king for a speedy trial. Raynen would no doubt try to free his
friend from judgment, but both enemies and supporters were already warning him off that tack. The court was in turmoil; a special meeting of the Table
of Lords had been called, and the trial would probably be held tomorrow.

The old man shook his head wearily. “It’s a grand mess.”

Eldrin had listened to his report in thoughtful silence, and now, at Belmir’s leave, he spoke. “But why would Meridon murder Brother Damon?”

“You do not know Damon, I take it?”

“No, sir.”

“He hails from Fairfield Watch, a slender man, tallish, with hair the same
color as yours. Not as long, but he could be taken for you in the darkness, I
think.” He eyed Eldrin expectantly from behind his round spectacles, waiting
for the meaning of his words to sink in.

“You mean they think Meridon was trying to kill me and got Damon
instead?”

“That seems the likeliest scenario.”

“Not if you know Meridon.”

Belmir arched a bushy brow at him. `And do you know him, son?”

“Enough to know he’s not the kind of man to leap over the garden wall and kill the first initiate with blond hair he comes upon. He knows very well
what I look like. And I can’t imagine him leaving his personal dagger behind
as evidence. He may be evil, but he’s not stupid.”

“He’s a Terstan, Eldrin. A fanatic, subject to madness. You have no idea
what he’s capable of. And his loyalty to the king is well-known.”

“You’re saying Raynen is behind this?”

“Lad, he cannot help but see you as a threat. And they say he’s been
distraught of late-unbalanced.” He shook his head. “I cannot believe all the
problems this Initiation has had. I’m beginning to think it will take a miracle
to pull it off. In any case, Saeral does not believe your brother will try anything else-it would be political suicide. You can relax.” He smiled, sat back,
opened the big book lying on the table before him, and suggested Eldrin
might want to review the last batch of codices.

Two hours later, Eldrin returned to his cell for afternoon meditation and
found that while the surface of his mind had been engaged in the repetition
of the codices, the old doubts had been busy underneath it, kindling themselves to new life.

No matter how facilely Belmir might blame it all on Terstan madness,
Eldrin could not believe Meridon had murdered that initiate. Not because of
any delusions that the man was above murder, but for the simple fact that
Eldrin was certain if Meridon had come after him, Eldrin would now be dead.
Besides, he carried no trace of the sarotis that always accompanied Terstan
madness and had exhibited, in all Eldrin’s dealings with him, not the least
hint of insanity.

But if Meridon hadn’t done it, who had? And why? And how had Meridon’s dagger ended up in the body?

For that matter, why was Damon walking in the garden before dawn? He
should have been asleep. Or at least on his way to Sunpraise.

None of it made any sense.

He thought again of Brother Rhiad raving last night in the coach about
what a dangerous heretic Meridon was and how he needed to be stopped.

Well, he’d been stopped.

And the king had been deprived of his most loyal supporter, was
suspected of having orchestrated an assassination attempt, and was now
exquisitely vulnerable to censure, perhaps even to forced abdication should his religious views be made public. It certainly made a convenient route for
Eldrin to take the throne.

He sat very still, staring blindly at the open Book of Rule on the desk
before him. His chest had grown so tight he could hardly breathe, and his
heart thumped a frantic tattoo against his rib cage.

“How can you even think this?” he murmured. “It’s heresy.” And if it was
hard to believe in Meridon’s guilt, how much harder was it to believe the
theory now presenting itself for his consideration? He dashed the gathering
pattern apart, unwilling to consider it further. There had to be another explanation.

Maybe someone who hated the Guardians had jumped over the wall in a
drunken fit and murdered Damon.

With Meridon’s dagger? Stealing that was a feat not likely pulled off by
just anyone. Certainly not a drunken hater of Guardians.

Maybe Gillard did it, trying to derail his chief competitor in the upcoming
Festival of Arms.

But the image of Gillard leaping over the wall to murder the unsuspecting
Initiate was even less credible than the one of Meridon. Besides, Gillard’s feet
were too big for the prints.

One of Gillard’s retainers, then, or maybe one of Beltha’adi’s, a southlander spy seeking to create turmoil in the city?

Each suggestion seemed to grow more fantastic, more improbable. There
was no answer. Or rather, the one that fit the most pieces was totally unacceptable.

He clenched his hands atop the open, musty pages, dropped his head onto
them, and squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh, Eidon, my Lord. Forgive me, forgive
these awful suspicions. I know they are untrue and shamefully disloyal.
Please, drive them from my mind.”

He repeated his plea several times and finally opened his eyes to focus
upon the words beneath his hands, determined to concentrate upon them
and nothing else. But he had only read a few lines before another memory
assailed him.

“Do you really believe revulsion and terror would be your strongest feelings if
you were truly meeting him?”

He closed his eyes, moaning slightly as his thoughts tangled all over again.
Finally he closed the book, shrugged on his mantle, and left. He did not know where he intended to go until he ended up in the garden, edging up to the
place where the body had been found.

The plants were not scorched, nor was the wall, but the gravel had been
disturbed, shoved up in little piles like a stormy sea. Probably the result of
the king’s guardsmen who’d been out here investigating, taking up the body
and all. There was blood, too, a small patch of it on the gray crumble. The
footprints Belmir had mentioned lay in the soft earth in the bed of hockspur
at the base of the wall, the stems and white blossoms crushed and flattened.
Only two prints, and then whoever it was had leapt for the wall and climbed
over it.

He turned back to the bloodstain. It wasn’t very big, but with the heart
stopped and the dirk still in the wound, the blood would remain mostly in
the body. On the other hand, was it possible Damon hadn’t been killed here?
Maybe someone stole Meridon’s dagger, killed this Initiate, and left his body
here to frame the Terstan.

Who? Who would do such a thing?

“He will kill him, Abramm. Just like he killed the others.”

“He’s using you.”

“Go to the room, my lord. Then you’ll know for sure, one way or the other.”

He stared at the blood, pulse pounding in his ears, sweat trickling down
his chest.

If he did this he could be ruined. He could be … He didn’t even know
what the punishment was for a violation of this magnitude. Expulsion?
Excommunication? He could even be killed or driven mad by the power of
the Flames themselves, angry that he had violated their perfect purity with
his wretched unbelief.

But if he backed off, tried to shove this all down into his soul, his faith
would always have worms at its core. Doubt would weaken his conviction,
sully his purity, compromise his service. And if it could be expunged no other
way…

Oh, Eidon, if this is wrong, please, show me, stop me. Don’t let me do this!

As always, his plea received no answer.

Half an hour later he entered the Great Sanctum. Cloaked and cowled as
was always a penitent’s right, he made his way slowly to the bottom. A handful of others knelt along the railing, deep in prayer or meditation. He walked
around to the south, then joined the others-on his knees, pressing his fore head to the rail, his eyes clenched shut. His heart knocked against his chest,
and his palms were slick against the brass. His stomach had curled into a
tight, hard knot.

He could hardly believe he was doing this. He who rarely violated even
the smallest stricture of the codes, who was vaunted for his personal discipline and attention to detail, whom Belmir had pronounced the most obedient Novice he had ever discipled-he stood now on the verge of committing
an unthinkable transgression.

But he had to know the truth. Over and over in his Holy Word, Eidon
promised his disciples that anyone who sincerely sought the truth would find
it. And Eidon must know his heart, must know he meant no harm, that he
sought only to prove there was no passage and no secret chamber so he could
slay these awful doubts once and for all. Meridon probably did not expect
him to seek the place out anyway, had only told him about it to confuse and
unsettle him, to birth the very doubts that had been birthed. The sooner
Eldrin proved him wrong, the better.

Lord Eidon, forgive me, preserve me, show me your truth….

He stood and stepped back, hands clasped beneath the folds of his robe,
his head down. Covertly he scanned the Guardians and initiates in prayer
around him, the dancing tumble of the Flames, hissing and moaning in the
silence. No one seemed to notice him, but many faces were hidden in the
shadows of a cowl, just like his. They could be watching him, and he would
never know. He backed another step and let his hands fall beside him. Air
stirred around the backs of his ankles, a draft from the corridor behind the
curtain. His heart beat so hard he thought it might burst from his chest.
Again he scanned his companions. Then he drew a breath, turned purposefully, and stepped through the curtain.

He had gone several strides before he knew it-so focused on the expectation of the outcry his violation would ignite, he had no eyes for his surroundings. But no outcry arose, and no one came after him. Finally he
stopped to get his bearings.

A stubby candle in a wall sconce on the curving corridor ahead provided
faint illumination. The scents of oil and wood and incense filled his nostrils.
Silence pressed upon him, amplifying his breathing into a loud, obtrusive
rasp.

Three doors down, Meridon had said. He stepped quietly past the first two, entered the third. The room beyond was pitch black, so he backed out
and got a candle from its sconce. The light revealed a small vesting chamber
with a lampstand, a bench and basin, and a tall wardrobe carved of dark wood
looming against the back wall. And no other door or passageway save the one
he had come in through. He searched the room twice, rubbing his fingers
over the walls to be sure. There was nothing.