Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1) (20 page)

“If you’re going to make me stay in this cabin, I need something to do.
And I’ve read everything I have.”

For a moment he hesitated, then sighed. “Very well. I’ll have one of the
men-“

“No, no, no? I don’t want those cretins going through my things? You
know which crate it’s in, and you know what I’m looking for. I want you to
do it.”

He fixed her with a dark, suspicious gaze, reminding her just how well he
knew her. “You’ll not be using this as an excuse to roam the decks, lass,” he
warned.

She returned her attention to the now cold food on her plate. “I’ll do
whatever I wish, Cooper, and thank you to stop ordering me around. Now,
please get the books.”

She felt his scowl, but in a moment he was gone, closing the door quietly
behind him.

With a sigh she sat back from the table, dropping the fork and pushing
the plate away.

Cooper was a dear-far more a father than the king had been-and his
strong arms had ever been available to a little girl in need of comfort. To the
young woman, as well. She truly did not know what she would do without
him.

But his idiotic sulk was growing intolerable.

She got up and went to the stern window, watching the ships bob and
careen about the gray waves, wishing she might at least have a view of the
shore. Nothing was going as she’d hoped, and she thought this waiting might
drive her mad if it didn’t end soon. Where was Kinlock? He could’ve at least
had the decency to send someone back with word. But, of course, that would mean one less man looking for Abramm.

With a sigh she pushed off the bulkhead and flounced onto the narrow
bench, depression seeping into her. It was Cooper’s talk of Rennalf, of course.
Any reminder of that unhappy time awakened the old feelings of sorrow and
shame and despair. Truly she had come here to rescue Abramm, but she
couldn’t deny there were other, more complicated, motives at work.

After all, the trip to Thilos was supposed to have solved all her problems-her womb made fertile and strong, her husband’s affections restored,
the mistresses with their hateful bastards evicted from her home, the nasty
whispers of unclean blood at long last silenced-yet she had abandoned it in
a heartbeat when the opportunity arose. Yes, what she was doing was important-vital, even-but underneath it lay something darker, something Cooper
had very nearly nailed.

She’d spent seven years in the barren, windswept reaches of Balmark.
Seven years rubbing shoulders with a people as cold as the land they inhabited. Perhaps, had she produced the expected heir in that first year, things
would have been different. But she had not.

In fact, during the entire seven years, she’d conceived only twice, and neither child survived to term. After each loss her husband took a mistress. The
first gave him an unwanted daughter, the second, ten months after Carissa’s
most recent loss, a son. The precious, long-awaited, first-born son of Rennalf,
Earl of Balmark. Never mind he wasn’t legitimate. A son was a son, and what
a celebration there’d been-bells tolling, horns blasting, people cheering. The
dancing and singing and feasting lasted nearly a week….

Meanwhile, Carissa found herself shunned, disdained, answering to the
now revered mistress, and caring for the bastard son like a common nanny.

No one back in Springerlan knew the whole of it. It would have started a
war. More than that, it was all too … humiliating. Besides, Raynen’s similar
troubles producing an heir made her wonder if the gossips weren’t right, if
maybe the House of Kalladorne was cursed.

She had contemplated suicide in the dark days after that birth-thought
of walking out into the wasteland surrounding the castle and letting it suck
the life from her. She could have become one of the lost souls searching the
barrens for victims to haunt. Certainly she had enough sorrow to qualify, and
it would be no struggle to find a candidate worthy of her attention.

Returning to Springerlan had been a last grab at life. And when she’d arrived, when Raynen had approached her with his plans for Abramm, it was
like being reborn. She had not known till then how deeply she mournedand resented-losing Abramm to the holy men, how fiercely she’d come to
hate the Mataio for what it had done to her family, and especially what it had
made of her twin. More than life itself, she’d wanted him to see its hypocrisy
and evil.

Yet nothing had gone as she’d hoped. And though the decision to rescue
him had been largely impulse at the time, she saw now the deeper, darker
reasons. Balmark held nothing for her; she did not believe even a son would
change that. And with Raynen on the road to madness, Kiriath offered precious little, either. The only person she really cared about and who-she
hoped-still cared about her was headed for a life of slavery in Qarkeshan. A
pawn, like her, to be used and cast aside at the whims of others.

Well, she wanted no more of being a pawn. Perhaps the plan was mad,
but it was her plan. And when they found Abramm, she would make him see
the truth, make him see that neither the Mataio nor Kiriath held anything for
him. Together they would mold new lives for themselves, unshackled from
duty and politics and scheming monarchs, free at last to choose their own
fates instead of bowing to those chosen by others?

Galvanized by the vision welling within her, she leapt up and began pacing, restless and impatient as never before. When the knock came, she was so
certain it was Kinlock back with news of Abramm, so beside herself with
eagerness, she flung the door open without a thought.

Danarin stood on the threshold, looming over her, his face fixed with a
cold, hard look that sent an icicle of fear jabbing through her excitement.

“Milady,” he said, “you have a visitor.”

He moved into the room, forcing her to step back. A broad-chested figure
in purple followed him. As the stranger entered, Carissa recognized the
hatchet-faced Esurhite from the galley anchored beside them and nearly
choked.

The Brogai crescent scar gleamed on his pockmarked cheek and gold
honor rings ran up the side of his left ear in number too great to count.
Though he stood no taller than she, he bristled with aggression and confidence, and she saw in him a man accustomed to having what he wanted.

She turned to Danarin, aghast. Why had he let this man aboard? Why
had he brought him to her very cabin?

Danarin wore no expression. “This is Katahn,” he said. “He is a dealer in
fabrics and jewels.”

The newcomer smiled, but the expression did not ease her. “I understand,” he said in flawless Kiriathan, “that you are seeking a man who may
have been recently auctioned-tall, blond, aristocratic. With very blue eyes.”

Sudden interest eclipsed her fear. “You’ve seen him?”

The Esurhite shrugged. “The description fits many who come through
this market, but I think perhaps I have. In fact, I nearly bought him myself
for a scribe.”

Wariness tempered her hope. She withdrew to the sectioned table, then
turned to him, fingers resting lightly on the waxed wood. “How can you be
sure, if the description of him was so common?”

Katahn laughed. “Because I have looked upon your face, my lady, and the
resemblance is plain. What is he to you? Brother?”

“What he is to me is none of your affair?” she snapped. Then, in a
smoother voice, “What do you know of him?”

“I know where he is, for one.”

When he did not go on, Carissa cocked a brow. “Well?”

“In Qarkeshan, information is a valuable commodity.”

“I see.” She considered a moment, then went to her sea chest and drew
out a blue purse. “I’ll give you twenty Kiriathan sovereigns.”

“Thirty.”

She studied him, annoyed, but reminding herself it was the way of these
southlanders ever to bargain. “Twenty-five.”

He grinned and held out his hand. As she clinked the coins into his palm,
he said, “Your brother was given to Ekonissima.”

`And who is that?”

“The Goddess of the Sea, my lady, patron goddess of Qarkeshan. The
slaver was in need of a blessing, so he gave him to her temple.” Katahn hesitated, studying her keenly. “It doesn’t happen often, but they do make dalloi
of grown men. Or he could function as a consort.”

“Consort? You mean…” Carissa shook her head. “No. Abramm would
never do that. He’s taken vows of celibacy.”

“Abramm, is it?” Katahn’s dark eyes glittered. He looked like a snake in a
quail’s nest, and Carissa cursed her wagging tongue. “He’s the fifth son, is he not? A long way from the throne. No wonder he entered your religious
orders.” His eyes bored into her own.

Aghast and alarmed to realize how much she’d just revealed, she turned
from him and walked to the table. “We were discussing the Temple of Ekonissima?”

`Ah yes. If he refuses the position of consort, they will undoubtedly make
him dalloi.”

“Which is?”

“One of the temple eunuchs, my lady.”

She choked and swayed against the table.

“If I act quickly, I might free him unharmed, however,” Katahn said. “For
a fee, of course.”

“We can free him ourselves, thank you,” said Danarin, with a sternness
that untracked Carissa from her thoughts of Abramm and sent them back to
her suspicions regarding the Thilosian.

The jewel trader smiled. “I doubt that, sir. I intend no offense, but the
goddess does not sell back gifts. You will have to steal him. It would take time
for you to learn the layout of the temple, where he is being kept, the arcane
safeguards, of which there are many. By that time-“

“How much do you want?” Carissa interrupted.

Danarin gaped at her.

“A thousand of your sovereigns now,” Katahn said. “Two thousand when
I return with him.”

“Three thousand sovereigns?” cried Danarin. “You’re a thief and nothing
more. I say you haven’t seen him at all and only mean to trick us.”

Katahn glanced at Carissa. “He has a mole on his … uh. Hmph. You
probably haven’t seen that one. How about the scar that angles across his left
shoulder, like so.” He moved a hand in demonstration.

Carissa frowned. “Gillard gave him that when he was ten.”

Katahn favored her with a courtly nod, his eyes flickering with odd intensity.

Danarin turned to her in protest. “Milady, we needn’t give in to this robber’s wiles. We can free the prince ourselves.”

“He was taken yesterday afternoon,” Katahn warned. “They may have
already determined he is not suitable consort material. You really haven’t
much time.”

A classic trick, that,” Danarin sneered. “Giving us no time to think or
confirm the truth of what you say? Milady, wait for Kinlock. He’ll know best.
Don’t let this scoundrel take your gold.”

Carissa looked from one to the other of them, torn. She did not trust
Katahn, though his claim was supported by his knowledge of Abramm’s scar.
And if he spoke the truth, they had no time to spare in dispatching a rescue.
But with only Danarin available to command it …

No, if she had to choose between these two, she would pick the Esurhite.
Already he had passed up the chance to buy Abramm. If she made this rescue
worth his while, she saw no reason why he wouldn’t deliver.

She exhaled sharply and turned to Katahn, fighting to keep the tremor
out of her voice. “Very well. But don’t think I am so stupid as to give you one
thousand sovereigns unearned. I’ll pay you four thousand-but only after you
bring me my brother.”

“How do I know if I can trust you?” Katahn countered.

She smiled. “I suppose you don’t. But you came to me, after all. And you
do have twenty-five pieces of my gold already.”

His brows narrowed. “It will be dangerous.”

“My paying you now would hardly make it less so.”

He blinked. She saw acceptance come into his face. “You drive a hard
bargain, my lady. I’ll need something to convince him I really do come at your
behest, however. A ring perhaps?” He gestured at her signet, sparkling on her
right hand.

“Certainly not! You may take my earrings.” She unfastened the sapphire
teardrops. Abramm gave them to me years ago. He should remember them.”

Katahn continued to frown, looking hard at the earrings. Finally he
opened his hand and took them from her. “We should be back around dawn.
You must be ready to flee the moment you have him. Ekonissima does not
look kindly upon thieves.”

“We’ll be ready, sir.”

On hands and knees, Eldrin scrubbed the tiled floor of the villa’s sacred
teppuh, his back a fire of throbbing welts and bruises that made any movement difficult. They came courtesy of the majordomo’s bundled rattan, a
double measure of strokes today-one for the error he had supposedly made
in his copy work, one for protesting he’d made no error. And he hadn’t. He
was sure of it.

Nor would Ghoyel show him the mistake-which testified as convincingly as anything of the fact the hard-faced man was merely using it as an
excuse to ply his rattan. He was still angry about the bowing incident, no
doubt. Or perhaps he thought new slaves needed frequent beatings just to
get it into their heads that they were indeed slaves.