Shadow Over Kiriath (31 page)

He pulled a bare hand along the water-beaded balustrade, clearing away the condensation before bracing folded forearms on the damp marble. Leaning over them, he stared thoughtfully southeastward in the direction of the Gull Islands out there far beyond the fog, but near enough a galley could reach Springerlan in three days if the seas were calm. As they were today, and had been for the last week.

But not because the Shadow holds my shores. At least, not yet
.

He could feel it gathering, though, and reports said it now held most of the Sea of Sharss. Every morning he came out here to watch the mist, to check the moisture, to reassure himself it was not yet here. But he knew the time was coming. The darkness was inexorably approaching, and with it the invading armies. Would Kiriath be ready? And was this Chesedhan alliance he’d worked so hard to make what Kiriath truly needed to repel them after all?

He remembered vividly the night he’d met his bride. How he’d watched her come up the red runner in his throne room, as astonished by her beauty as everyone else. Indeed, the eyes of every man in the room had been fixed upon her, and he had sensed their admiration and desire—and their vicarious satisfaction that it was their king who’d won her. Yet even in his astonishment Abramm himself had felt a curious flatness. Amazing as Briellen’s beauty was, it seemed brittle and evanescent, a thin shroud of ice, easily shattered. And so it was.

As she came out of her curtsey and lifted her gaze to his, her eyes had fixed in startled horror upon his scars and she’d stiffened in obvious revulsion. Though it had to have been only a moment before she’d regained her poise and her calmness of expression, the damage was done. He had spoken the formal exchange of greetings by rote, the words hardly registering as he sought to wrestle down his panic and pain, and he thought perhaps she’d done the same.

To her credit, though she’d obviously not been prepared for his disfigurement, she’d adjusted to it quickly. Not once for the rest of the evening did she give any sign she found the scars disturbing. She’d been warm, witty, pleasant, interesting, and sweetly flattering. Everyone loved her, and he heard no more objections to his coming union with a Chesedhan princess, neither that night nor in the days to follow. The misgivings were now completely his own.

In the nearby oak, the sparrows erupted in a furious cacophony of chirping, drawing his eye to where they fluttered and jumped about a black, heron-shaped bird he recognized immediately as a feyna. Ignoring the sparrows, it flew out of the oak to the balustrade some ten strides down the balcony from him and stabbed its needlelike beak into one of the railing’s marble carvings. Which turned out to be a staffid’s carapace. Still sluggish from the cold, the staffid writhed in slow motion, its color shifting from ivory to its natural gray and blue. The feyna shook its head, then flipped its prize into the air to catch and swallow it whole, extending its slim, dark neck as it worked the resulting bulge downward.

Grimacing, Abramm returned his gaze to the terrace below him, and his thoughts to the mounting restlessness that had plagued him of late. Although he had tried hard to please and entertain his bride-to-be, as the days passed she had grown increasingly discontent. There was always something wrong: the entertainment was shoddily done, her seat was lumpy, the chamber drafty, the décor old-fashioned, the food bland, the servants rude. . . . She wanted to have a dance when they had a reception, a night of game playing when they had a dance, a symphony when the Table of Lords was to meet.

Worst of all, though she’d not yet said it to Abramm’s face, he’d heard she was growing increasingly frustrated with his “fanatical” insistence on attending Terstmeet every night—particularly one she didn’t even consider a proper Terstmeet. After the second day she had refused to continue attending until she was offered services to her liking. She wanted the glass paintings, the golden plates and sticks to hold the stars and sparklers, the incense, the multiple choirs, and all the other accoutrements typical of Chesedhan services. Since Kesrin had no intention of catering to her, Abramm either had to let her go unsatisfied, replace Kesrin with someone more amenable to her desires, or provide for her a separate service.

It had all blown up a few days ago when she had insisted he take her out to Two Hats Island, a trip he considered unacceptable on account of the fog and recent galley sightings. But when he’d refused, she’d only conspired with Darnley and Nott to arrange a voyage anyway. He’d stopped them—forcibly— right before they embarked. For two days afterward, she’d all but refused to speak to him, while at the same time flirting outrageously with the other men.

And then, in her volatile way, she changed, having either forgiven him or simply grown bored of being angry. Or maybe it was the picnic in the palace orchid house yesterday that had placated her. Or the evening performance of Maddie’s White Pretender song put to stylized actions which had amused her very much. Whatever the reason, suddenly she was all smiles again, plying him with flattery and shameless flirtations. All of which was much more pleasant than her earlier behavior, but made him uneasy, nevertheless. As much as he wanted to believe her affection was genuine, he sensed otherwise.

Now, with the wedding hardly more than a week away, he found himself battling an increasing aversion to marrying her.

The feyna had been walking toward him down the balustrade for some moments now. As Abramm watched it from the corner of his eye, it stopped within arm’s reach and turned its head to eye his left arm, angled to the right in front of him. The ovoid scar on his wrist, much smaller than in the days after he’d first received it, gleamed beyond the cuff of his shirt. The creature eased forward, and he felt the Shadow part of him stir with interest.

Suddenly the feyna drew back its head and jabbed its beak downward, only to be impaled by the spear of white light that leaped from Abramm’s hand. The spawn jerked backward, wings flapping wildly as it staggered on stilt legs, then toppled out of sight toward the fog-shrouded terrace below.

“Would that all your problems were dispatched so easily,” said a familiar voice from behind.

Abramm turned. Trap Meridon leaned against the doorframe, holding a cup of tea. “Too bad you can’t use that offense on your Chesedhan friend this morning,” he said with a lift of his cup.

He took a sip as Abramm turned back to the balustrade, frowning at the reminder that he’d be facing off with Leyton Donavan in fencing practice a couple of hours hence. The match was the direct result of the challenge issued and accepted the night of Abramm’s coronation—another burr among the irritations his betrothed had brought him. After Rennalf had rudely awakened him to the sorry state of his fencing skills during their face-off at Graymeer’s, Abramm had put off setting a date for his contest with Leyton. Every day he delayed, after all, meant one more day’s worth of improvement. But the Chesedhan had badgered him relentlessly, and when the man began to hint Abramm might be afraid to face him, pride had taken over and the meeting was scheduled. Even then Abramm had assumed it would be no more than a quick bout in the practice hall with only his trainers and regular fencing partners as audience.

Leyton had other plans, inviting all Briellen’s Chesedhan entourage, guards and ladies both, which had finally arrived last week. Even Briellen claimed an interest in the match. With so many Chesedhans planning to attend, Abramm’s nobles decided he would need supporters of his own, whereupon Blackwell suggested they might need a bigger venue. But Abramm did not want to confer on the affair more significance than it deserved—which a bigger venue would do. More than that, the likelihood was great he’d be humiliated, and that would be hard enough to swallow without having the whole city on hand to watch it.

Which raised the question of why Leyton was so intent upon it in the first place—and especially that so many of his countrymen see it. They’d both acknowledged Abramm’s skills had been lost to injury and that he was still in the process of regaining them. Both expected him to lose . . . so . . . did the prince desire only to discomfit him, then? And for what purpose?

Unless
they
didn’t want the treaty to occur, either . . . but then, why even go to all the trouble of coming here?

He didn’t much like the answer that came so quickly to his mind:
They didn’t come for the treaty. They came for the regalia
. Still, even that didn’t answer why Leyton would desire to deliberately humiliate him.

“I heard you had word from Ethan,” said Trap, drifting forward to stand at the balustrade and gaze off over the fogbound docks.

“Aye. The pigeon came in just at dusk last night.”

“And?”

“Not good. The barbarian warlord Aistulf visited Balmark Manor at least four times. And now Rennalf’s openly talking rebellion, using his outrage over what I did to the Hasmal’uk stone as his excuse. I doubt he’d be so bold if he hadn’t made some kind of an alliance.”

“At least we know he’s back north.”

“For however long that will last.” Abramm sighed. The barbarians, splintered by intertribal rivalries and warfare, were not a serious threat in themselves, particularly not when combined with the geography of the Kiriathan northland, whose passes had long been guarded by the border lords. It had always been as much for their own protection as for Kiriath’s. But if they had switched sides, it would not be a good thing.

“I was hoping they’d have sense enough to see they’d be better off aligned with me, but apparently not,” Abramm said.

“Oh, I don’t know. Ethan said most of them still favor you.”

“He said that before the business with the stone. And Balmark’s not the only one who’s irked with me for that. I probably shouldn’t have had it made into sovereigns.”

“You needed the money,” Trap said flatly. “And anyway, you couldn’t have turned it into sovereigns if you hadn’t turned it into gold first. The transformation works as much on your behalf as it does against you. Maybe more.” He paused and sipped his tea. “Eidon still has his hand on things, my lord.”

“That is my only comfort,” Abramm said grimly. “But this news does make me all the more eager to get this Chesedhan treaty finalized.” He sighed. “Even as I dread the final step.”

His friend made a face. “I tried to suggest an alternative to Leyton the other day, but he seems quite incapable of believing any man would not want to marry his sister. King Hadrich’s ‘most precious jewel,’ he called her.”

“Spoiled as she is,” Abramm said dryly, “I can believe that.”

“I feel sorry for her.”

Abramm looked at him sharply. “Don’t tell me
you’re
smitten, too?”

Trap smiled and shook his head. “Hardly. But if you look at it from Briellen’s point of view, it can hardly be easy. She’s had a rough month. Rousted out of her comfortable palace life to travel at top speed over mountain roads for days when she’s obviously not accustomed to that sort of thing. Worrying all the while that kidnappers might strike and spirit her away to Belthre’gar’s harem. And even if they don’t, at the end of the road waits a man she has to marry whether he’s to her taste or not. Or whether she’s to his . . .” Trap hesitated. “Which it’s obvious she’s not, I might add.”

Abramm grimaced his frustration. “You know I’ve done everything I can think to make her happy. If there’s something else—”

“Oh, you’ve been very proper, very polite. And as difficult as you are to read, most people probably have no idea you’re not utterly enchanted. But she knows.”

Abramm frowned into his friend’s eyes for a moment, feeling twinges of guilt mingled with irritation. Finally he returned to the view with another grimace. “Aye, well . . . the lack of feeling is certainly mutual.”

“True.” After a moment Trap loosed a long sigh. “Are you
sure
you want to go through with this, Abramm?”

“Not at all. I just don’t see that I have much choice.”

Trap had no response to that, and not long after, Philip Meridon joined them, a stack of books balanced up one arm.

“Lady Madeleine sent these over for you, sir.” He pulled a medium-sized, burgundy-colored book from the top of the stack and handed it to Abramm. “She’s put a note in this one and said you should read it before this morning’s match.”

Abramm took the book with a pang of disappointment, wishing more strongly than ever that she’d come herself, even as he understood why she hadn’t. Whatever was going wrong between him and Briellen, Maddie’s presence wouldn’t help. Still, he was getting very tired of this enforced separation. He wanted to
talk
to her, not read her notes.

Now he glanced at the book’s title—
Traditions of the Hill People
—then pulled the folded and wax-sealed paper from its leaves. “Do you know what this is about, Phil?”

“No, sir. She just now gave it to me as I was leaving to bring these other books back.”

Abramm gave him a nod and a dismissal, then opened the note and scanned its contents.

If there’s any way you can pull it off, you need to beat him today,
she’d written. Meaning Leyton, of course.
He’ll never respect you if you don’t. See the paragraphs I’ve marked in the book. Already, he’s been boasting of how quickly he plans to disarm you. The members of Briellen’s escort even have bets going as to how long it will take
.

He smiled down at the paper.
Trying to fire up my ego here, are you, my lady?

He’s very good,
the missive continued.
And he knows you can’t hold a dagger in that left hand, so he’ll work that to his advantage
.

“What’s it say?” Trap asked.

Abramm handed it over as he turned to where she’d placed a ribbon to mark the relevant passage. She hadn’t marked the specific paragraphs, but he found them easily enough: a description of a custom among the Chesedhan hill folk involving a trial by combat to determine a man’s worthiness as a bridegroom. In it, the suitor faced the potential bride’s brother or father in nonmortal combat wherein each would seek to disarm the other. If the suitor succeeded, he was counted worthy of the young lady’s hand and free to make her his wife.