Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1) (28 page)

Katahn burst into laughter, and Shettai cocked her head at him saucily so
that Abramm gulped again, shaken anew by the power of his attraction to
her. He was close enough to smell her spicy scent, to reach out, if he dared,
and touch her. The thought made his flesh grow warm and his heart pound.
For the first time in his life he found himself longing to bury his hands in a
woman’s hair, to stroke her skin, caress her curves….

He realized suddenly that Katahn had spoken to him and struggled to put
these unfamiliar-and dangerous-desires back into the place from which
they’d sprung. “Your pardon, sir?”

The man’s dark eyes laughed at him. But he only said, “I was merely
remarking on the fact that many believe it was the fall of Hur that unleashed
the power of Khrell. That soon all the world will be under his dominion.”

Abramm shrugged, feigning indifference, though he was glad for the change in subject. “I know too little about your Khrell to comment.” Shettai,
he noted to himself, was more interested in the potted fern at his side than
she would ever be in him.

“Come, come, my prince,” Katahn persisted. “Surely you have an opinion.
Your sister said you’ve taken religious vows.”

“Vows to a god who, as you have just pointed out, abandoned me.” Perhaps he was not so happy with this subject change as he had thought. “They
are nothing to me now, sir. Thus I have nothing to say.”

“You have abandoned him as he has abandoned you, eh? But still you
must believe something. When you die in that arena a few months from now,
where will you go? To the Dark Abode? To the Eternal Plain? To that dreadfully boring Garden of Light you northerners anticipate? I’ve never understood the draw of that one…. But then, your Tormenting Fires hold even
less appeal, so perhaps it’s all relative. But how will it be decided where you
go? I know you have opinions, my prince. Tell me what they are. Tell me
what you think.”

He leaned forward eagerly, like a glutton might approach a favorite dessert. Abramm frowned in distaste, sensing in the man the sort of person who
merely enjoyed the intellectual exercise of debate but believed nothing himself. A man who had never known the ecstasy in devotion and surrender nor
the agony of betrayal and disillusion.

“I think I am a slave,” Abramm said finally. And that my life resides
wholly and completely in that sword you’ve given me. If I learn to use it well,
if I learn to win with it, I won’t die in that arena.” He was suddenly angrywith himself for the weaknesses that had brought him here, with Katahn for
his intrusive, cold-blooded interest in it all, with the entire hopeless,
wretched situation that, despite his determination to survive, would likely see
him dead, and then … But no, he did not want to think about that, which
made him angrier than ever. So now he glared at the man, defying him to
probe further.

Katahn’s expression had gone curiously blank. Finally he smiled, a slow,
knowing smirk. “There is fire in you, my prince. And steel, I think, even
though you’ve descended from a race of pigeons. I begin to see how you survived the galley ship. And why your handlers have been so surprised….”

His handlers were surprised? That was news. As far as Abramm could tell,
he was little more than a dog to them, worthy only of beating, taunting, and torturing. His thoughts drawn back to his arm, he realized its throbbing had
worsened and would likely worsen more before it improved. He hoped he
could complete the rest of his training routine today without mishap.

With a sigh Katahn shook off his reverie. “I confess you have disappointed
me, my prince, for I was looking forward to a lively debate…. But perhaps
you can indulge me my other passion.” He drained his cup and set it on the
table, then drew his legs beneath him and sat upright. “You do play uurka,
don’t you?”

Abramm blinked and lifted his gaze. “Not since I was twelve. It was forbidden in the Mataio.”

Ah yes, the religious vows. But why forbidden?”

Shettai began to remove the tea service.

“It’s a game of warfare, sir,” Abramm said, keeping his eyes away from
her. “Capturing territory, sacrificing men … strategy, tactics. Not at all suitable for those who would pursue peace.”

“Peace.” Katahn made a face. “Were you any good?”

“I held my own. I was only a child, though.”

“Mmm. It seems I will face yet another disappointment. I was so hoping,
as royalty, you might give me a fair challenge. Few of your subjects seem to
know how to play properly.”

The table cleared, Shettai brought out the uurka game board, the carved
white and black pieces stored in its deep central pit. As she attached the
supports to each of the four corners, Abramm remarked that it was a fine set.

“I gave up two fine fighters for it. It better be.”

Thankfully Shettai withdrew to a respectful distance as Katahn arranged
the game pieces. “I spent some years in your land,” he explained, “so I know
your people and customs well. Most of it I disdain, of course, but the game
caught me. It is obviously a corruption of our jackal and crow, but I like the
elegance and trickery you have introduced into it.”

“It is an old, old game.”

“Esurhite to be sure.” He set the last game piece into place and looked up.
`Are you ready?”

“Whenever you wish.”

“You may go first, then.”

They fell silent, concentrating on the board between them. It soon
became apparent to Abramm that his opponent played like no one he had faced before-not ineptly nor stupidly, but with the flavor of a very different
mind. His plays were unexpected, at times foolishly daring, yet effective. In
the end, however, several moves before it became obvious, Abramm realized
he had won.

Which forced him into an all-too-familiar dilemma. Should he go ahead
and play it out honestly or make a faulty move? The price for defeating
Gillard when they had played as boys had been a pummeling. But if his
brother caught him deliberately throwing the game, the abuse only worsened.
To be pacified, Gillard had to think he had won fairly. And Katahn, in many
ways, reminded him of Gillard.

If Abramm won now, would the man fly into a rage? He could not help
but think of Zamath’s ear medallion, the brace of fingers collected by some
of the other guards. He tugged at the whiskers beneath his lower lip, considering. What was to be gained in his winning? Only the solace of his own
pride, perhaps. But-blast it all?-he didn’t want to lose to this cunning weasel. And since Katahn would surely demand a rematch, Abramm could
always lose to him then.

Thus he played the match out to win, struggling to conceal his satisfaction-until it struck him that he had forgotten the range of attack Katahn’s
archer commanded from its current position. True, Katahn had done everything to disguise it, had executed a laudable campaign of deception, in fact,
but his skill was no excuse. Abramm should have seen it.

He watched Katahn take the field and end the game, feeling annoyed now
that the initial shock had worn off. The Esurhite sat back, grinning. “Excellent!” he exclaimed. “You have the makings of a formidable opponent. In
fact, had you not fallen victim to overconfidence, you would have won today.
Let that be a lesson for you in the-“

He was cut off by an outcry at one of the doorways below, and they
turned to see a shaven-headed man in scarlet robes stalking across the lower
level toward them. His ancient, weathered face was a storm cloud of concern,
and a young man in Brogai black-Katahn’s son-followed in his wake, mirroring his agitation.

The bald man-Abramm guessed he was a priest from the filigreed
medallion he wore on his chest-stopped beside the low table, eyes widening
at the sight of Abramm. Then he whirled to face Katahn, fell to his knees,
and burst into a torrent of agitated Tahg.

That Abramm was the subject of this outburst was evident from the way
the stranger repeatedly gestured at him. Unfortunately, he understood only a
few of the man’s words. Words like “kill him,” and “Khrell,” and “lose all.”

When he had finished, Katahn continued to regard him with a mask of
imperturbability, but Shettai released a soft, scornful laugh.

The priest made an emphatic gesture, glaring first at her, then at Abramm.
He launched into another diatribe, but Katahn lifted a hand, silencing him.
Summoning one of the guards, he arched his brows at Abramm and said, “We
will play again, my prince.”

There was nothing for Abramm to do but follow his guard from the room,
the priest’s renewed efforts at persuasion pursuing them onto the balcony-
“Meraka nae do!”

Kill him now

Abramm returned to his routine, fearing every moment might be his last.
So far as he knew, he’d never seen that priest before, could not imagine what
he’d done to provoke him. Had the man received some sort of vision? Was
he even a priest, or something else entirely? And how much influence did he
have over Katahn? Clearly some, or he could not have marched into the Brogai’s private chambers unannounced and unimpeded. But Katahn had not
seemed intimidated, and Shettai had laughed outright.

At length he forced himself to put it all aside, resigned to yet another
infuriating aspect of being a slave-that of having to live in ignorance while
others decided one’s fate.

In any case, he had more immediate concerns facing him. His arm, as
expected, grew worse through the remainder of the afternoon, and by his last
match he could hardly grip the dagger with which he parried his opponent’s
blows. He prevailed, but his win was not clean, the deciding stroke powered
by desperation not skill.

By the time he was returned to his cell, all he wanted was to collapse and
be left in his misery. Unfortunately, during the day someone had brought in
an additional straw-filled sleeping pallet, the sight of which made him groan
with dismay.

He’d been through three cellmates already, not knowing what became of
them, and not caring. They were always surly, always bigger than him, always
perversely determined to make his life miserable until he finally stood up to
them and put an end to it. He’d realized after the last one that he’d save himself a lot of grief if he put them in their place at the start, but that was
the last thing he wanted to do now.

The new man had not arrived yet, so perhaps someone had miscounted
and the sack would not be used after all. But when the dinner detail shoved
two portions of pork-lentil stew and bread under the railed door he knew
there was no mistake.

The sight and oniony smell of food made his gorge rise, so he merely
drank the water and settled back against the wall, eyes closed, willing himself
to sleep. A key grating in the lock jerked him from a half doze, and he sat
forward to meet the new man-someone shorter than Abramm for once,
though well muscled, with curly red hair and beard, and a golden shield glinting on his bare chest. Abramm’s jaw dropped. “Meridon?”

As the door clanged shut, the Terstan looked even more astonished than
Abramm. Then he grinned sheepishly and dropped onto his pallet. “Well, this
is a pleasant surprise,” he said. “I was all set to fight for my dinner.”

Abramm shoved the tray toward him with a foot. “You can have all of it
as far as I’m concerned.”

Meridon glanced at the two full bowls and hunks of bread, then regarded
Abramm more closely. `Are you ill?”

“They put the griiswurm on me today. It always makes me sick. Go
ahead.” He gestured at the food.

Clearly uncomfortable, Meridon pulled the tray toward him. “I thought
you won all day,” he said. “Word is you gave old Brugal his first taste of the
wurm.”

“I did. But you know how the heathen like to play.” He frowned as he
caught another whiff of the familiar but out-of-place scent Meridon had
brought in with him. Incense, maybe? But what… ? And then he understood. “You’ve been with Katahn.”

“I have indeed.” Meridon spooned stew into his mouth. `All afternoon, in
fact, no thanks to you. He fancies himself quite the religious scholar.”

Abramm dropped his head back against the wall and smiled at the ceiling.
“So he got his debate after all. And did you make a Terstan of him?”

Trap snorted. `All he wanted was the debate. He was quite disappointed
with your failure to cooperate, I might add.”

“So he said.” Abramm shifted into the corner, his throbbing arm cradled
in the bend between hip and thigh. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore his discomfort. And then a startling thought made him stiffen and look around.
“Was the priest still there when you arrived?”

He wasn’t, nor, after Abramm related the incident, could Meridon make
any more sense of it than Abramm had.

“You needn’t worry, though,” he added. “Katahn has no plans to eliminate
you. In fact, he told me he’s thinking of working us together-as the Kiriathan
Prince and his Faithful Retainer. Supposed to contribute a `highly desirable
dramatic element’ to our performance.”