The Shadow Within (33 page)

“So”—Tarker squinted at him—“did he do it? Did he really kill that monster?”

“It wasn’t exactly a sporting event with everyone standing alongside the gunwale watching.”

“So you didn’t actually see him do it.”

“No.” Was it lying to speak the literal truth and still give a false impression?

The answer served him well, though, for immediately the others went back to their own conversations and the energy drained from Tarker like water from a broken jug. He asked where they were staying, more for something to say than for interest, and then one of his fellows approached to mutter something about Gadrielites and both went off to confer with their confederates at the back of the stable. After that the newcomers were left alone, save for occasional furtive looks darted their way. New arrivals continued to pour in, among whom the topics of conversation centered still on the unjust imprisonment of the rioters last week and the fiasco of the king’s project up at Graymeer’s.

“The mist’s gotten thicker up there since his visit, have ye noticed?” a woman sitting in front of them remarked. “Spilling out the gate and down the walls. Those as live closest say they’ve got more spawn than ever before.”

“Aye,” said her companion. “Vermin’ll be all over the headland afore long cause o’ him. Mark me on it.”

It went without saying that Abramm was evil. Just as with Belmir, it didn’t matter that he’d renounced his vows, refused to attend Mataian services, and been about as cool toward Mataian leaders as protocol allowed. The Terstans considered it all an act, and had the stories to prove it, all passed on from “a friend” or “my brother,” who had gotten the tale from someone else, who’d heard the tale from someone else. And none of the reports were even questioned, no matter how absurd, preposterous, or downright impossible the stories were.

He’d known he wasn’t popular with these people, but seeing the antagonism, hearing it on every side, so dogmatic, so imbued with the passion born of wrongs suffered over years, brought it home in a profoundly discouraging way.
Trap’s right,
he thought.
Even if I stood up right now and told them everything,
they would think it a trick
.

At length the rumble of conversation quieted as a grizzled older man in a leather jerkin and dark woolen breeches stepped out of the shadows into the center of the gathering. His steel gray hair was cropped close around craggy, coarse features, pale and age-wrinkled, though his brown eyes snapped with life, piercing as crossbolts. Abramm recognized him with a jolt: Everitt Kesrin, the Terstan he had met when he’d first arrived in Springerlan. The man who owned the Westland Shipping Company and strode about with his mark bared and had a penchant for baiting high-ranking Mataians.

Kesrin welcomed them all, made some announcements regarding the apparently safe escape of some of their number to Chesedh, then paused, sweeping the audience with his gaze. “Many of you have been asking me a question over the last few days that I have been reluctant to answer. A question I remain reluctant to answer, not only because I do not have all the facts, but because I feel it borders on slander and violates the admonition that we respect those whom Eidon has put into authority over us.”

With that sentence he had Abramm’s full attention.

“Yes. King Abramm rules at
Eidon’s
behest and we must not forget that. But if it is for the cursing or blessing of our people, I cannot say. Abramm may well be what we all suspect—a spineless puppet of the Mataio, possessed by a servant of Moroq. Then again, he may not. After all, when Master Rhiad accused him of wearing a shield, he could have bared his chest as demanded and proven the charge false then and there. But he did not.”

His audience erupted into a paroxysm of muttering as Abramm kept his face expressionless and flicked a glance at Trap. When the outburst died away, Kesrin continued. “I know half of you are ready to lynch him. Yet for every alleged grievance he’s committed, I could offer a reasonable explanation in support of his innocence.” He held out his hands to stay another outburst. “I’m not saying he
is
innocent, only that we don’t know for sure. Since we have no real information, we have no business making any judgments about the matter. And to take action based on mere speculation is completely out of line.

“Worse, in all this worry about where this man’s loyalties lie, we’ve forgotten he
is
the man Eidon has given to rule over us and that through him we’ve been delivered from the kraggin. We should be grateful for that above all else.” He paused, raking them with a gaze that snagged briefly on the two Esurhites at the back before going on. “That is all I have to say on the matter for now, so please don’t ask me any more.”

With that, he changed the subject, pointing out the various exits to the newcomers and assuring them that should the meeting be interrupted, the Terst had men assigned to stand in the gap while the others slipped away. Then he surveyed them all in silence, and when they had settled, said, “Let us seek the Light.”

It took Abramm but a moment’s reflection to realize Kesrin’s recent speech had provoked the Shadow within him to project a fog of fear, worry, and discouragement into his soul, none of them compatible with the fact that he bore the very Light of Eidon in his flesh. But it was hard to let them go all the same. Still, even if he couldn’t quite dismiss them as irrelevant falsehoods, he could refuse to consider them further, especially when he had something else to concentrate on. And thankfully, Kesrin was soon speaking again, asking the One who’d given them the Light for guidance and understanding and protection during their meeting.

“Now, to return to where we left off last night.” He pointed casually at the empty air to his left and a crystal tablet formed out of nothing, floating shoulder height above the straw. Trap, who’d been the Dorsaddi’s primary teacher, and thus Abramm’s, as well, had told him of kohali who possessed this skill but that he had never seen one. Now he was surprised and fascinated by the tablet, which seemed to project the kohal’s thoughts as either images or words as he progressed through his lesson.

The lesson itself was on a passage he had apparently been teaching for some days, which told the story of Shadiel and the Black Heron. Abramm had memorized it as an acolyte of the Mataio, though he had never heard it taught in the context Kesrin was now teaching it—that is, that Shadiel was a Light bearer and the heron a feyna. It made a good deal more sense than it ever had when Brother Belmir had taught it. Even so, Abramm found his mind straying back to his troubles.

He had hoped to find a way to connect with someone here, preferably the kohal of the Terst. That was before he learned it was Everitt Kesrin, however, who he recalled all too vividly from the night of the reception when Prittleman pronounced the need for a Terstan purge, and Abramm had been too wool-witted to call him on it. Thus giving Kesrin more reason than most to be suspicious, no matter how convincingly Abramm might plead the case of his break with the Mataio. Even the sight of the shield on his chest might not do it, and Abramm had heard some rhu’ema would even counterfeit kelistars, which was at this point about the only Lightskill he possessed.

The whole thing looked hopeless. Unless he meant to announce the truth to the entire realm and stand by it, he didn’t see how he could convince any of these people he was actually on their side.

Kesrin had been teaching for about half an hour, when Abramm finally put aside his fears and frustrations and forced himself to attend to the man’s words, surprised to find he had gone from the subject of the feyna, to the system that produced them. And the enemy that had devised that system: Moroq and his rhu’ema minions.

“They will hide in the shadows and the darkness, hoping you will forget they exist. Hoping you will focus on the pawns they send against you, instead. They will seek to wear you down, to fill you with fear, to get you to doubt your ability, your destiny, your very place in the Light.”

Abramm sat rigidly, his eyes locked upon the kohal. Chills crawled over his flesh as memories of his struggle over the last few days paraded through his mind. It was as if the man were speaking directly to him. No. Not the man. Eidon himself.

“They will seek to keep you from using the power that is your heritage and rely instead upon human power. And they have myriad ways of doing that, starting with their inside ally—the Shadow that dwells within us. Never think you have conquered it, for you won’t. Never think you will escape it, for you will fight it until the day that you die. Constantly it will project its selfish and arrogant desires into your soul, seeking to turn you back to the self-dependence you lived in before you took the Star. And living in the Shadow’s power always brings one back to fear.

“You have a destiny. Do you know what it is? Are you willing to embrace it? Lay down your very life in its service? Or will you let your enemy hold you back with fears and illusions, keep you from trusting him whom you should trust above all others? He knows exactly what he is doing in your life, and he has everything under control. You know that, but do you
believe
it? Will you go forward in the direction he has led you and rest in the knowledge that he’ll see you through it? Or will you back away?”

He fell silent, leaving the words to echo in Abramm’s hearing, igniting a fire of wonder in his soul. For it was as if Eidon himself had stood before him, and he knew without doubt that he was being told in no uncertain terms what to do.
Trust me, Abramm. Carry on with the plan. Let me take care of the
details
.

Abramm frowned at the gray-haired man standing at the head of the group beside the glowing tablet. Nothing about him looked any softer, any more inviting than before. He could not imagine how he could be persuaded.

Leave that to me
.

Very well, my Lord Eidon. I will speak to him and see how you do it
.

“Know that the Light within you is greater than anything the enemy possesses,” Kesrin said. “And that
they
are afraid of
you
going forward in it. Know that. Believe that and you will be—”

There was a bang, a rapid thumping of footfalls, and one of the men who had stood guard at the door burst into the main room. “Gadrielites!” he cried in a low voice.

The kohal flicked his crystal tablet into oblivion as the gathering arose en masse, hastening to their chosen exits with well-practiced silence. A whip skirled to the ceiling and with a single crack extinguished all the orblights, shrouding the stable in darkness. Someone grabbed Abramm’s arm and pulled him to the side of the room opposite the entrance. He heard the soft hiss of others’ breathing, the shuffle of feet, the jingle and rustle of clothing, and his main reaction was not fear, but intense irritation. Why did they have to be raided
now,
just when he’d decided to release his secret? Now he’d surely have to wait, and who knew what might happen in the interim?

Before he had reached the safety of the exit, he heard a faint, brief staccato of clinking that was the strangely benign sound of clashing rapiers. More bangs and thumps preceded the invasion of new light, murky and flickering, as four gray-cloaked figures burst into the main room, armed with chains and sandclubs. One of them carried a lantern, which he hung immediately on a wall peg as the others fanned out.

At that moment all thought of fleeing passed from Abramm’s mind, and he turned, his rapier leaping from its sheath. It was not anything consciously thought out, indeed was in violation of all the plans he had agreed to, all the warnings he had heard. But these were his people, and just like with the kraggin, he would not stand by and allow them to be violated.

He flicked a score of kelistars into the air for light, wrapped the cloak around his left arm, and stepped forward, the long blade of his sword advancing before him. Beside him, Trap had done the same, but their adversaries seemed not to have divined their danger. Within their cowls they only chuckled and kept coming.

The leader, a stocky, muscular man, swung his heavy chain once over his head, then let the end fly. Abramm blocked it with his padded left arm, twisted his wrist to grab the heavy links, and drove his rapier into the man’s shoulder, piercing muscle, bone, and ligament. As the man staggered back howling, Abramm jerked the chain free of his assailant’s grip, then snapped it back against the side of his opposite, uninjured shoulder. He staggered away and Abramm switched focus, slashing at the sandclub that was tumbling toward his head and dissolving it in a spray of sand and an empty fabric tube, fluttering downward. Snapping the chain again, he caught the sandclub wielder at the hip, knocking him to the ground.

Trap was meanwhile disarming his opponents with equal ease, and soon all six were scrambling for the door. Abramm dashed after them, taking the original man down with his chain and leaping upon him, knee driving into the broad back. The ruffian had come prepared with binding cords, which he’d looped around his waistbelt under his cloak, and now Abramm plucked them free and used them on their bearer. Then he rolled the man over and pulled back his cowl.

The face beneath was broad, bearded, and pocked beneath a receding hairline of curly brown hair. It looked vaguely familiar. The black eyes slitted with fury. “You’ll pay for this, filthy Shadow lover!” the graycloak hissed. “No one touches Eidon’s chosen and gets away with it.”

“A warning you’d do well to heed, friend,” Abramm retorted mildly, standing upright. By then, Trap had secured another of them, but the other four were gone.

As they pulled both men to their feet, Abramm grew aware of the audience that had gathered in the shadows beneath the rear loft: Seth Tarker and four of his fellows stood frozen, watching the proceedings in horror.

Now Abramm addressed him, remembering his Tahg lilt only at the last minute. “Ah, Mr. Tarker. Sorry we didn’t get all of ’em. Maybe next time we’ll do better.”

Tarker stepped out of the shadow, his face twisting with some intense emotion. “Are you
insane,
man? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” He stepped forward and pulled the Gadrielite from Abramm’s grasp. “What did you think to do with them? Take them to the borough magistrate? They’ll be let go before you can leave the jail. And then they’ll be back, angrier than ever.”