The Shadow Within (38 page)
“I don’t believe that.”
Ethan looked at him askance. “You think I’m lying?”
“I think you may have been told that. I don’t believe he refused.”
The other man turned with a sigh to face the terrace, squinting out over its brightness, then shutting his eyes and massaging his temples as if his head hurt. It was some time before he spoke. “I was told he was angry with me because of Carissa.”
“
Carissa?
You had nothing to do with that mess! Besides, everyone
knows
you and Rennalf are practically in a blood feud.” Sudden suspicion hummed like a hive of stirred bees. Could someone in the palace be deliberately driving a wedge between Laramor and the new king? Gillard, perhaps? It seemed a bit subtle for him, but he surely stood to gain the most.
“Talk to him, Ethan. If they refuse to admit you,
demand
to see him. Prittleman does it all the time. Go and see him
today
. Before you go too far to back out.”
Laramor had gone back to his ring, not twisting it now, just rubbing his fingers along its coils while the sea gulls wheeled overhead, their raucous cries sharp in the still, hot silence. Finally he looked up. “No, Simon. It’s you who’s wrong. In the end, perhaps you’ll see that. I just hope it comes before you lose everything you really care about.”
He pushed off the balustrade and strode away. Simon followed slowly after him, frustration bitter on his tongue.
As Simon was leaving the Hall of Fence, Abramm stood at the largest of the three desks in the royal study and let a gray-green bracelet slide off the tip of his dagger into a narrow-necked flower bowl. The flowers it had recently held lay piled in disarray upon the desk, their wet stems spreading a wrinkled stain of moisture across the papers scattered beneath them. The water he had dumped into the mostly empty ash pail and sent off with Jared to be disposed of.
The bracelet hit the bottom of the bowl with more of a click than the clank it should have made, were it really metal. But it lay there all the same, unchanged and benign, trapped without knowing it. Or at least Abramm hoped it was, counting on those still-wet glass walls to prove too steep and slippery to climb. He set aside the dagger and glanced up. After sending Jared away, he’d dismissed the other servants and told them to close the doors behind them, that he did not wish to be disturbed for a time. He was alone.
Returning to the palace from his meeting with Everitt Kesrin shortly before dawn, he’d skipped his usual morning routine for the sake of a few hours’ sleep. The fact that he was keeping his courtiers waiting, that a nearly hysterical Darak Prittleman was terrorizing everyone out in the antechamber, had disturbed him—until he remembered he was king and could elect to see supplicants or not, as he chose, regardless of the fits they threw. And at the moment, he had no desire to face Prittleman and his demands. After last night, he was more inclined to throw the man into the royal dungeons and lose the key. Nor was that his only reason for delay. Kesrin had provided him a portfolio of notes, which he had started reading as soon as he had awakened. In them was a brief discussion of the technique for striking shadowspawn with the Light from a distance.
Now he eyed the creature in the bowl, still looking like a harmless heavy bracelet rimmed with gold scallops, a piece more suited for a man than a woman. Which made sense seeing as it had taken on the guise in a man’s quarters. To see it in its true form, he had to see it through the Light, a concept he still didn’t entirely understand. Trying to apply it, though, even if he failed, would surely teach him something.
He drew a deep breath and laid his hands flat around the belly of the bowl, cradling it between them, the nearly healed cut on his left palm still tender at the contact. Kesrin’s notes said it was a matter of perception. A matter of recognizing the fabric of deceit, for it was the same pattern with all things born of Shadow. Recognizing it with hand and eye and soul and spirit, all of them. There should be a slight pressure, a sense of vibration—yes! He did feel that, though so faint it might be only imagination. Except now, knowing how to look, he also saw the shivers of the illusive cloak the staffid had wrapped around itself, the sickly throbbing luminescence of the green. He felt a strong wave of revulsion, and suddenly the lines and shadows came together in a new way—like the old vase/face puzzle—and he
saw
the staffid in the bracelet. At the same moment a thread of light shot from the index finger of his right hand, penetrated the glass, and struck the creature in the center of its back.
Immediately it whipped out of its curl, arching back as if in pain, its many legs wriggling into view. He zapped it again without even thinking to do it, and the thing flashed up the side of the bowl, undulating like something that should be under water. But the slick glass sides defeated it, and it fell back, rolling and arching and writhing about the bottom.
“Your pardon, sir,” came a familiar feminine voice from the doorway behind from him. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
He jerked around in horror. “Lady Madeleine! What are you doing here?”
“Oh, Jared let me in the back way.” She swept toward him, as if completely unaware both of his horror and the fact she should not be here. “Lord Prittleman is making such a scene in the antechamber, I knew if I wanted to see you before tomorrow, I’d better go around.”
“And did it happen to occur to you that the reason for Prittleman’s distress was that I am not receiving visitors?”
“Jared said you’d been up for a while. I only wanted to make a quick check of your titles here.” She gestured at the book-lined shelves around them. “And Master Getty sent me with a message. I promise not to bother you. How is your hand, by the way?”
“My hand? It’s fine. Why would it not be?”
“I was afraid you might have reopened that cut on it,” she said, looking around. “It’s awfully dark in here. You’ll ruin your eyes trying to read like this, you know.” Her own eyes fell upon the staffid, quivering now on its back in the glass bowl. “What happened to that?”
“It, uh . . . seems to be injured.”
Her gaze climbed to meet his, one brow lifted. “Injured?”
“I think someone might have stepped on it.”
“So you scooped it up in a vase and set it here? For what purpose? A desk ornament? I think the flowers were more attractive.”
He frowned, giving up the contest in a wash of annoyance. “I don’t see that it concerns you, my lady. You said you have a message from Master Getty?”
She shook her head, half smiling. “You are a terrible liar, my lord.”
“I beg your pardon?!”
“Never mind. Yes, Master Getty sent me to tell you he doesn’t have the book you asked for.”
He frowned at her, suspecting a deeper story here. She was not, after all, the lackey of the royal library. “The university said he does.”
“And he says the university has it.” She paused. “It is not the first book to go missing in this way. And I’ve been through both libraries, top to bottom.
The Histories of the Hollyhock, The Journals of Ravelin, The Records and Forthtellings
of the Kings of Light—”
“Kings of Light?” Abramm asked, startled out of his annoyance.
“That’s what they called your ancestors in the early days of your family’s reign. You didn’t know that?”
“No.”
“I think it’s because they were Terstan, though that’s not widely known anymore, either. Back then it was the
Terstans
who were called Guardians. And Guardian-Kings, if you can believe that. Unfortunately, all records that would confirm that have gone missing in this ridiculous back and forth between Masters Getty and Dewes. They have no love for one another, you know. Each believes
he
should be the sole custodian of historical texts.” She paused, her gaze shifting around the room again. “So I thought I’d have a look at your personal library and see if the books got moved here.”
He recoiled, taken aback once more by her forwardness. “I think I can look through my personal library myself, Lady Madeleine.”
“Yes, but you are so busy, sir. And there appear to be a number of fascinating volumes here.” She was already moving toward the nearest wall of books.
He stepped to cut her off. “Undoubtedly there are. If you give me a list of the titles you require I’ll let you know if they’re here.”
“I’m sure I could see it for myself if there was more light in here—”
And suddenly, right in front of his face hovered a grapefruit-sized orb, fragile as a soap bubble, filled with glowing threads of gold that swirled around coruscations of white. Its soft illumination spilled out across the darkened room, over the paper-littered desk, the tumbled flowers, the book-lined shelves, and the amused and freckle-spattered face of Lady Madeleine, whose gray-blue eyes were sharp upon his own.
He stared back at her, shocked beyond hope of concealing it, and it seemed as if his heart had jumped into his throat where it was all but choking him. It wasn’t just that she wore a shield herself, but that she had revealed it to him, and so casually. Before he could follow the implications of it all, however, her eyes flicked to the side of his face, and the dove-wing brow lifted. “You have three holes in your ear, Sire.”
He just concealed his start of surprise, put off balance yet again. Was the woman unable ever to follow a single train of thought to its end? “Yes. I am aware of that.”
“The Pretender wore three rings in his left ear. Esurhite honor rings, the third gained within his second year of combat, though a third ring isn’t usually given until at least the fifth year.”
“It was no doubt done for the notoriety,” he said, feigning unconcern, wondering—hoping—she had not guessed as much as he had feared, her orbmaking but a ploy to win more information on the Pretender. “His master would make more money that way.”
“Mmm. They say it so enraged his master’s son, Regar, who had only two rings, that it drove him into the priesthood. They say it’s the reason for his all-consuming hatred for the Pretender.”
“Your knowledge is considerable, my lady. So great it makes me wonder why you even asked to interview me on the subject.”
“There is still much I do not know. And as I told you—I always go to original sources, if possible.”
Original sources. Back on that, are we?
Abramm grimaced. “Well, if you know anything, you must know my reputation here. And surely it is obvious from that that I cannot be your White Pretender.”
She smiled. “Your reputation is six years old, sir. And sadly out of date, I fear. Katahn ul Manus was famous for his ability to develop his fighters. From the way you ride, you obviously carry the Kalladorne athletic skills as much as their looks. Besides, I saw how you conducted yourself last night after Terstmeet . . .
Alaric
.”
He gaped at her, and she grinned back, an expression that might have been endearing in its impishness had he not been so aghast. “I don’t know who you thought to fool with that ridiculous disguise,” she went on. “Your eyes are a dead giveaway to anyone who’s seen you as Abramm.”
It came to him in a stunning rush:
She
was the serving maid for Kesrin! The girl who’d brought the tea and couldn’t keep her eyes off Abramm. No wonder she’d seemed so familiar. Nor was it surprising he hadn’t recognized her—what was the Second Daughter of the Chesedhan king doing in Southdock waiting tables? The answer came immediately: looking for original sources.
“Fire and Torment, woman!” he burst out. “Are no secrets safe from you?” His mind tumbled with revelation upon revelation of what this would mean and what he must do.
“None that I want as badly as I’ve wanted yours,” she said, picking up one of the roses and sniffing it. “Don’t worry, though. Your secret is safe with me.”
He snorted. “Whyever should I believe that, Lady Madeleine?”
“I suppose you shouldn’t.” She returned the rose to the pile and looked up at him. “Shall I pack my bags and return to Chesedh, then? Or perhaps you mean to throw me in the Chancellor’s Tower.”
“I doubt you’d stay there long if I did. And it would ruin all chance of an alliance with our countries, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“So you admit it—I have you.”
“I admit I don’t know what to do about you.”
“Tell me your story and you shall have no fear.”
“On the contrary, my fears would only grow worse.”
He turned away from her, ready to pace, and stopped himself, lest he look more agitated than he already looked. He had no idea what to do, and all he kept hearing was Byron Blackwell’s warning.
“She’ll promise you discretion one
day and the very next be trumpeting the matter to the world.”
Maybe Blackwell would know what to do.
“Oh look,” she said from behind him. “It’s died at last. Now you can put the flowers back.”
He came over and peered into the bowl where the staffid lay stretched out, motionless, its colors drained to lifeless gray. He poked it with the dagger, eliciting no response.
She was looking at him again with that keen expression he’d come to dread. “You struck it with the Light, didn’t you?”
He sighed and surrendered. “Tried.”
“Succeeded I should say.”
“It took an awful long time for it to die.” He frowned. “Are you trying to distract me, my lady?”
“Believe me, sir, I have no intention of it.” She picked up the bowl and gestured at the fireplace. “Do you mind if I get rid of the evidence, though? I’ve never been able to abide these things.”
At his acquiescence, she carried the vessel to the fire and dumped the dead staffid into the flames.
“How long have you been marked?” she asked, setting the bowl back on the desk and beginning to replace the flowers, one by one.
“Four years,” he said testily, annoyed anew at the way she had taken command of the conversation.
But now she looked up at him in surprise. “Four years?! I’d have thought surely it had been longer. After all, you slew Beltha’adi—”
“That was Eidon’s doing. And not at issue here—”
“So you
do
admit it. You
were
the White Pretender!”
