Shadow Over Kiriath
Honors for the first books of
L
EGENDS OF THE
G
UARDIAN
-K
ING
The Light of Eidon
_______
Booklist
Top 10 Christian Novels 2004
ForeWord Magazine
2003 Book of the Year—Silver
Science Fiction
Christian Fiction Review
Best of 2003
Christy Award—2004
Fantasy
The Shadow Within
_______
Borders
Best of 2004
Religion and Spirituality
Romantic Times
Best of 2004 Finalist
Inspirational
Christian Fiction Review
Best of 2004
Christy Award—2005
Visionary
Books by Karen Hancock
___________________________________
Arena
L
EGENDS OF THE
G
UARDIAN
-K
ING
The Light of Eidon
The Shadow Within
Shadow Over Kiriath
Shadow Over Kiriath
Copyright © 2005
Karen Hancock
Cover illustration by Bill Graf
Cover design by Lookout Design Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the
publisher and copyright owners.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hancock, Karen.
Shadow over Kiriath / Karen Hancock.
p. cm. — (Legends of the guardian-king ; 3)
Summary: “Abramm’s coronation is still underway, and rival leaders are plotting
their return to power. Will Abramm hold onto victory, or will his enemies succeed in
destroying his beloved realm?”—Provided by publisher.
ISBN 0-7642-2796-3 (pbk.)
1. Kings and rulers—Fiction. 2. Power (Social sciences)—Fiction.
3. Coronations—Fiction. I.Title. II. Series.
PS3608.A698S537 2005
813'.6—dc22 2005020515
KAREN HANCOCK has won Christy Awards for each of her first three novels—
Arena
and the first two books in this series,
The Light of Eidon
and
The Shadow Within
. She graduated from the University of Arizona with bachelor’s degrees in biology and wildlife biology. Along with writing, she is a semi-professional watercolorist and has exhibited her work in a number of national juried shows. She and her family reside in Arizona.
For discussion and further information, Karen invites you to visit her Web site at
www.kmhancock.com
.
Do not fear the suffering that is to come. For some of you are about to be cast into prison by the Adversary, so that you may be tried. See it through for the time appointed, steadfast unto death, and I will grant you a crown of life. . . .
—From the
Second Word of Revelation
Second Scroll of Parthas
CONTENTS
“ABRAMM KALLADORNE
will fall, Vesprit.”
The rhu’eman warhast Hazmul did not speak the thought aloud, but the breath of his host body fogged the window glass before him anyway, blurring his view of the snow-dusted Grand Fountain courtyard below. In the gray light of the foggy early-spring morning, a lengthening line of gleaming carriages queued up at Whitehill’s front entrance to his left, preparing for the coronation procession.
“If all goes as planned, that fall will begin today.”
He sipped from his porcelain teacup, then added,
“All
is
going as planned, I trust?”
Though his rhu’eman underling, Vesprit, stood behind him, Hazmul didn’t need to see him to sense the pleased confidence rippling through the underwarhast’s essence.
“It is, sir,”
Vesprit replied.
“You’ve cracked the stone and awakened the miniol?”
“A couple of hours ago now.”
Servants’ voices drifted from the sitting room of Hazmul’s apartments. He ignored them. Human ears could not discern his conversation with Vesprit any more than human eyes could discern their bodies. The servants would see only the fleshly host in which Hazmul dwelt, standing at the window of his sumptuous east-wing bedchamber sipping morning tea. Underwarhast Vesprit would be a faint amber glow, unnoticed in the lamplight.
As the underwarhast began a recitation of all that had been attended to in preparation for this momentous day, Hazmul continued to sip his tea and watch the coaches gather, the end of their line soon disappearing into the fog. Down in the valley, the University clock tolled the half hour in a single deep tone. Hardly had it struck when the palace doors flew open and a party of nobles cloaked in furs and dark woolens emerged. They glided down the snow-dusted steps to the first carriage, head of the procession that would soon wind down to the Hall of Kings at Avramm’s Mount. As its doors slammed shut and the vehicle sped away, the next one rolled immediately into its place.
A momentous day this was indeed, the culmination of weeks of preparation among friends and foes alike. Today Abramm Kalladorne, whom some called king of Light and others deemed servant of Shadow, would be officially and ceremonially crowned the thirty-sixth king of Kiriath. Today he would move among his people as he had not in all the six months since he had slain the morwhol, would stand before them arrayed in the full splendor of the royal regalia and receive the crown in all the solemn ritual and majesty Kiriathan tradition could muster. And in so doing, would either convince the masses he was indeed Eidon’s choice or bitterly disappoint them with the proof that he was not.
It was Hazmul’s intent that bitter disappointment soundly edge out any thrills or encouragement—a goal he had worked toward for six months now. With four thousand years of experience, he was well versed in the ways of destroying a man and took particular pride in his ability to neutralize those servants of the Enemy who crossed into the battlefield of their so-called destiny.
It was a great and intricate dance, an effort that took time, patience, cunning, ruthlessness . . . and the ability to exploit a man’s weaknesses, day by day grinding away at his confidence. As king, Abramm had provided him many areas to exploit, but the richest had been the damage wrought by the morwhol. The day after its claws ripped through Abramm’s face and arm, Hazmul had teased to life the latent spore it had left behind. Before long, Abramm’s nearly-closed wounds had suppurated viciously, his natural spore-intolerance erupting into a raging defense that left him fevered and bedridden for almost a week. When it was over, his left arm was twisted with red, ropy scars, and the marks on his face were far from being the thin white lines his physician had predicted.
Now, after six months of living in denial, Abramm would face the reality of what he had become. Last night Hazmul had ignited his growing frustration with his arm into a confrontation with the one man able to really hurt him: his longtime friend and ally, Trap Meridon. Asked outright, Meridon had admitted he believed Abramm’s arm to be irredeemably crippled, an assessment Abramm had not received with good grace.
Today he would see the rest of what had been done to him— the facial scarring he pretended was inconsequential. Already struggling to escape the mental morass of bitterness and self-pity into which Meridon’s revelation had plunged him, Abramm’s shock at seeing his new face should push him in so deep he would be helpless against the attack Hazmul had planned for the final act of today’s little drama.
“His aura this morning has been consistently blue-black and murky,”
Vesprit reported now,
“and the frequency of coruscation has fallen off dramatically. I don’t see him recovering before the ceremony.”
Hazmul turned his attention briefly to the tendril he’d had on the king since early last evening, confirming Vesprit’s report. Abramm was still being dressed in the royal bedchamber. And while Hazmul could not read his thoughts at this distance—not an easy task even in the same room—Abramm’s emotional state came through clearly in the low, throbbing tones of despair.
“Probably not,”
he agreed,
“but I don’t want to take any chances. He’s surprised us too many times before.”
Below him the noblemen and their ladies flowed from the palace in an almost continuous stream to board their carriages and wheel away.
“What of Madeleine? Were you able to plant the images I suggested?”
