The Shadow Within (23 page)

Silence stretched between them as she worked, gradually shortening her stitches to draw the petal to a point, then securing it with a couple of backstitches before starting on its neighbor.

“I want to see him, my lady,” Cooper said finally.

Even the veiled reference pierced her like an arrow.

When she kept silent, he added, “I should think you would, too.”

“Well, I don’t!” She worked the needle rapidly in close, steadily lengthening stitches, then realized she had pulled them all too tight.

Cooper finally lost patience. “He’s killed the kraggin, my lady! Challenged Gillard for the throne and won it! Do you realize what that means?”

“That Springerlan is free. That the people are pleased.” She slid her needle under the last stitch she had taken and loosened it. “That Gillard is not.”

Outside a gust of wind rushed against the glass. Voices drifted up from the kitchen as the front door opened and someone stumped across the Great Room. Moments later they dumped a load of wood into the hearth box, then stumped out.

As the front door closed again, Cooper sighed. “I thought this was what you wanted, lass,” he murmured. “For him to come back and take up the royal scepter.”

“I couldn’t care less what he does.”

“You hate him that much now? Him whom you went to the ends of the world to free?”

“I—” But her voice failed, and she had to pause in her needlework, blinking away the tears until she could see again. She resumed tight-lipped, her heart feeling like a knot of wood against her breastbone. “He made it plain back in Jarnek what was important to him,” she whispered. “And it wasn’t me.”

Cooper’s callused fingers tapped against the sides of his legs. Then, “You know that’s not true, lass. Those last weeks he sought with all his might to reconcile. It was
you
who refused to talk.”

The thread’s tension finally to her liking, she started stitching again, the petal swelling outward from its origin. “I don’t want to see him,” she said finally. “Please don’t ask again. I want you to stay here, as well. Send the pigeons down with someone else.”

His reply was delayed, his tone carefully neutral. “As you wish, my lady.” He started to go, then turned back at the door. “Would you send him a letter, at least? To let him know we are here?”

“No.”

He stood in silence as she continued to ignore him. Finally, he sighed and departed. She was pulling the thread too tightly again and stopped once more to adjust it. But she’d barely begun anew when the thread snarled, and she tossed the hoop irritably into the basket at her side. She sagged back in the chair and stared at the window’s clouded glass, blazing before her like a doorway of light. If only it really was a door and she could walk through it into another life, where threads didn’t snarl and stitches didn’t go all tight and tiny. Where people you loved didn’t leave you for someone else.

Cooper was right. Abramm’s return had been all that she had hoped for— the heroic slaying of the kraggin, the startling change in appearance and manner that had taken all the peers aback and set them wondering what would happen next. A post rider had reached Highmount Holding late last night with the full story—how Abramm had burst in on the Table looking like old Ravelin Kalladorne to face down Gillard himself and even the Mataian Master Rhiad—
Rhiad’s still alive!
—who’d challenged him to bare his chest and prove himself not Terstan. And him fully willing to comply, halfway down the line of his doublet’s buttons before someone finally stopped him!

It was a glorious tale, one that should have made her heart sing, yet she felt only cold indifference. And not even a reliable indifference, for she never knew when some random word or thought might churn up sudden tears or bitter, seething anger.

Down in the Great Room, she heard Cooper’s low voice interspersed with his wife’s higher tones. Discussing his conversation with Carissa no doubt, and lamenting her Kalladorne stubbornness. Well, he could just lament. She wasn’t going south.

__________

Abramm arose at dawn the morning after the reception and, still wrestling with the prospect of telling Simon about his shieldmark, went down to row around the lake, then take Warbanner for a ride. He returned an hour and a half later by way of the back corridors, avoiding the courtiers already gathered in the King’s Court and Gallery in hopes of a glimpse of him. Or a word. Or a private meeting. As the Lord Pretender, he’d been something of a public figure back in Hur, but not even King Shemm had been the focus of as much attention as Abramm was now.

In the bedchamber he let Haldon and Jared dress him in silence, staring at his stranger’s reflection as if it might provide him the answers he sought to all the questions that would face him this day. Afterward, he took a cup of heated cocoa and some cheese twistbreads into the study where he planned to eat while trying to go through those Table Records he’d eschewed last night. As he did, he spied a young woman perched on a white satin divan in the sitting chamber that opened off the study. Her skin touched with a swarthiness that said she saw more sun than was proper for a noble lady, she wore a scoop-necked gown of gray-blue silk and a strand of silver with a single Tortusan sapphire around her neck. No ribbons, no bows, no frills of lace, and her light brown hair was caught up in the distinctive braiding of the Chesedhan style.

He stopped at the sight of her, recognizing her at once and wondering if he might duck back into the bedchamber before she saw him. Too late. Even as he thought it she leaped up, her eyes widening like one who’d long sat on a riverbank and finally caught a fish.

“Lady Madeleine,” he said as she swept into the study. “You certainly are up and about early this morning.”

“But not so early as you, I see.” She stopped about six feet away and dropped a belated curtsey, then stood with fingers interlaced before her waist. “Master Haldon let me in to wait for you. I hope you don’t mind.”

“It is a bit of a surprise,” Abramm allowed. He set his cup on the nearest of the three desks and considered inviting her to join him for breakfast, then discarded the idea at the memory of Blackwell’s warning.

He looked at her expectantly. She returned his gaze for a moment, then glanced about, her interlaced fingers working slowly back and forth. A flush crept into her freckled face. “I suppose I’ve broken protocol again, haven’t I? It’s just that I knew if I didn’t see you now, there’d be no other time, and I wanted to apologize for my forwardness last night.”

Abramm could not control the chuckle that escaped him. Her face flushed even more, and now she couldn’t look at him at all. “And I suppose now I should apologize for my forwardness this morning. I fear I am not well suited to all this womanly reticence you Kiriathans find so attractive.” She fell silent, her fingers working back and forth. Then she pulled them apart and let them drop to her sides.

“I wanted to apologize for my song, as well,” she said firmly, lifting her gaze to his. “It was my intent to honor you, sir, not to offend you.”

There was pain in her gray-blue eyes, and a vulnerability he would never have guessed to see. In that moment he knew, suddenly and sharply, just how she felt, for he had been there himself, far too many times. His annoyance and aversion turned to regret; sighing, he set down the pastry.

“No, it is I who should apologize, my lady. I had no call to be so harsh last night.”

Her chin came up just a bit. “Actually, I prefer the honesty,” she said. “As a king’s daughter, I don’t get it very often.”

“I can understand that.” He gestured at a nearby chair. “Please have a seat. Would you like some cocoa?”

“Oh no, Sire. I have said what I came to say and . . .” She trailed off, then drew a breath and blurted, “I was also hoping you might enlighten me as to how the song could be improved.”

He blinked and almost chuckled again. She seemed heedless of the inconsistencies of her behavior. Or maybe she was just intent on getting what she wanted. He made a wry face. “I really don’t think I’m the man to ask, my lady. In fact, I rather doubt there’s any way you could rewrite it to suit me. Except perhaps to write it about someone else.”

“Still . . . as you pointed out last night, I wasn’t there. I had only what others told me.”

“It wasn’t an experience you’d want to write a song about, anyway.”

“Why not? It’s a wonderful story.”

“It was a nightmare. Dark and wet and cold. The waves like mountains, the stench so bad you could hardly see for the tears in your eyes. The mast raining down, men screaming . . . and I assure you I had no such noble sentiments as duty and sacrifice. I was angry and more scared than I’ve ever been in my life. All I wanted was to see it dead.”

She was staring at him wide-eyed. “You
did
hold on to that spear, didn’t you?”

“It would definitely improve the song if you left that part out. It’s just too . . .” He trailed off, searching for a word that would not offend.

“Heroic?” she supplied.

He felt his face go hot and she smiled. “Why, sir, now
you’re
blushing!”

He scowled at her, and her smile vanished as she pressed her lips together and laced her fingers once more. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean—”

“Never mind,” Abramm said. “And yes, it is too heroic.”

He would have elaborated but at that moment a quartet of servants arrived bearing a ladder and a rolled tapestry. The roll they laid on the floor while they set up the ladder and removed the existing tapestry hanging between the shelves of books that lined the walls of the high-ceilinged study. It was Gillard’s coat of arms, which presumably would be delivered to his new quarters. That meant the roll they’d brought to replace it must be Abramm’s. He stepped toward them, watching with interest as together they hung it from its hooks and carefully unrolled it down the wall.

Like all the Kalladorne arms, its overall shape was that of a shield, divided into quarters, white for the upper left and lower right, royal blue for the others. Against the white in the upper left flew the black hawk of the House of Kalladorne and in the lower right, the devices specific to the king in question. Abramm’s consisted of a shield of gold bearing a red dragon rampant at its midst. Gold shield and red dragon. The sight of them drove the breath from his lungs, and for a moment he could only stare in astonishment.

Then he turned to the servant. “What is this?”

“Why it’s your coat of arms, sir.”

“
My
coat of arms.” Abramm stared at the panel as anger chilled his belly. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.” He bowed and, when Abramm said no more, turned to helping his companions roll up the tapestry they’d removed, then fold up the ladder. In moments they were gone, and silence filled the chamber, Abramm, Madeleine, Haldon, and now Jared staring at the tapestry.

Then Jared burst out, “It’s exactly like the brand on your arm, sir!”

Abramm turned to Haldon. “Is this some sort of jest? Because I’ll tell you right now, I don’t find it amusing.”

But Haldon was staring at the device with as much apparent surprise as Abramm. “It’s no jest, sir.”

“You did not choose this design, then?”

“Of course not. It was created by Master Eckleston.”

“Summon him at once.”

Haldon’s bushy brows flew up. “He’s been dead ten years, sir.”

“Well, then, how—?”

“This was designed when you were born. Held in reserve until you came to your majority.”

The chill of anger became one of shock. Abramm stared at him openmouthed, his flesh prickling.

Beside him, Lady Madeleine, whose presence he’d entirely forgotten, whispered, “Amazing.”

Both men turned to her, for she had expressed the very sentiments they were feeling, though she’d been paying no attention to their conversation. Feeling their eyes upon her, she glanced at them, then pointed at the panel. “The dragon part of this device is very much like the brand of Katahn ul Manus.”

Abramm went dead still, his heart thundering in his chest.
Khrell’s Fire! If
she guesses the truth, things will get very messy
.

“Who?” Haldon asked.

“Katahn ul Manus,” she repeated. “A prominent Gamer in Esurh, until a few years ago.” Her gray-blue eyes flicked to Abramm. “Surely you’ve heard of him, sir. You couldn’t have lived down there any length of time and not. He was the one who owned the White Pretender.”

“I’ve heard of him,” Abramm said warily.

But already the wheels of that quick mind were turning. He could almost see it happen, see her backtracking, glancing at Jared, that little crease appearing between her slender brows. “Did I hear him say
you
wear this brand, sir?”

“It is not a thing I am proud of.”

Understanding came to her in bursts. “Then you
must
have known—” She stopped, her glance flicking to his ear with its three tiny holes left over from the honor rings, to his arm where the brand hid beneath the silk and velvet sleeves, across his shoulders and chest—far too broad for a scribe’s—and finally up to meet his gaze. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. Then her face paled beneath its scattering of freckles and she swayed so that Abramm leaped to catch her before her knees buckled.

He helped her into the nearest chair, and as the servants cried and chattered she looked into his eyes and whispered, “You’re
him
!”

“Frighteningly quick,”
Byron had said.

“Katahn owned many slaves besides the White Pretender, my lady,” he insisted.

“They said he really
was
a Kiriathan prince,” she countered in kind.

“He was always seen painted and wigged. Rumor held it was because he
wasn’t
Kiriathan and Katahn sought to cover the truth.”

“But Beltha’adi offered him amnesty and a chance to wear the uniform of the Black Moon, the first among the northern peoples ever to be so honored.”

“A political ploy. Nothing more. By then the Pretender was equated with Kiriath in everyone’s mind.”

The color had come back into her face, and her eyes blazed. “You’re him,” she said with quiet ferocity. “I see the truth in your eyes!”