Shadow Over Kiriath (45 page)

He’d offered his new home, of course, and then his other sister had found out and sent him her own notice—not request, but notice—that they’d be arriving on the eve of the wedding. So now, in addition to having his father, mother, and Philip on hand for the many gatherings he had slated for the next week, he would also have to contend with his two sisters and their children. At least his other two sisters were likely to remain in the Heartland, where they lived with their very large families. Should they somehow manage to arrive for the wedding, he would certainly have a houseful.

Which both irritated him and pummeled him with guilt for not feeling more generous about it all. It wasn’t as if he deserved any of what he had, so why shouldn’t he share it with them, his blood relatives? They were sisters to a duke now, and from the look of things, they were reveling in his change of station even more than he was.

He gave a time to the doorman, then went into the dining room to eat his breakfast. He was nearly finished when his secretary poked his head around the dining room door. “The Princess Carissa is here, sir. She was out and about and decided to drop by with a housewarming gift. Vernault has taken her to the drawing room.”

A housewarming gift?

Carissa had, in fact, been the one to find him this house. Simon had helped him with recommendations of secretary and accountant, both of whom had seen to the rest. Within two weeks of his being elevated to the peerage, he’d acquired a veritable retinue of employees and he’d hardly had to do a thing.

She stood in the sparsely furnished drawing room supervising the unwrapping of the very large painting she had brought. Though he’d only moved in yesterday, already the still-uncarpeted room held two divans, three chairs, a sideboard, and a small table. Lace sheers hung at tall, eight-paned windows in the front and side walls, the trees that surrounded his house showing as dark ghostly forms through the fabric. A clock already stood on the elaborately carved mantel above the fireplace, where the servants had kindled a blaze for his unexpected guest.

She turned to him the moment he entered, lighting up his day with her smile. “Ah, Duke Eltrap. Good morning to you, sir.”

At least Trap was getting used to that moniker and no longer felt the urge to turn and look for someone standing behind him. “Good morning, Your Highness.”

“Don’t worry. I know about your meeting with the Heartlanders from your duchy this morning, so I’ll not keep you long.”

He cocked a brow at her. “You are certainly following my affairs with a close eye, Highness.”

She smiled. “Have to keep track of our up-and-coming young statesman. And you are quite the talk of the town these days, you know. Even Oswain Nott managed to parcel you a grudging bit of praise for your diplomatic ways.”

Trap grunted and turned his attention to the huge canvas emerging from its wrappings. He felt his eyebrows lift with surprise. It was a storm-swept scene of two armies faced off in a field by the sea. “
Prelude to the Hollyhock,
” he said, looking up at her in astonishment.

Her smiled broadened. “I’ve watched you eyeing it for months.”

“But it was hanging in your own drawing room—”

“I’ve already put up its replacement. Young Nash has finished the consignment piece I ordered. Did a fabulous job, too.”

“But . . . you said you loved this one.”

“Aye, and I expect you to hang it over your mantel so I can see it every time I come to visit.” Her eyes twinkled.

“Well, then, by all means, that’s where it will hang.” He gestured for the servants to see to it, then said, “You didn’t have to deliver this personally, Your Highness.”

“I wanted to enjoy your expression. And also to get it to you before your evening soirees start in earnest next week. I do believe you’ve scheduled one nearly every night.”

He released a deep breath. “Yes. I’m afraid I have.” With men coming down from all over the realm to attend the wedding, he’d set himself the goal of meeting and conversing with as many of them as he could—and already was beginning to think it was a task beyond his ability to execute.

The servants had pulled over a step stool, and one climbed it to hammer in a nail and lift the painting into place. He then stepped down and they all stood back to assess it.

“So,” Carissa said. “What do you think?”

And standing there in the middle of his new drawing room, with its gleaming parquet floors, fancy wallpaper, fine furnishings, and now this incredible piece of art, Trap was beset with another of those disorienting moments when it felt as if he’d somehow fallen into another man’s life. Tailors and secretaries, new suits and feather beds, paintings that belonged in the royal gallery. . . . None of it seemed real.

She was regarding him quizzically. “What?”

He shook his head. “Sometimes I just get overwhelmed with how my life has changed. I know Eidon’s promised to reward those who honor him, but seeing it fulfilled like this . . . I guess I never really thought it could happen to me.”

“You are living most men’s dreams, sir. And you give the rest of us hope that—” she smiled almost sadly, then looked down at her hands—“maybe someday our dreams will be realized, too.”

After six months of getting to know her, he understood how much she longed for a husband and children, and also just how dim the prospect of having either looked to her. Oswain Nott held sufficient rank to go with his obvious desire to fill the role, but Carissa continued to keep him at arm’s length. Simon Kalladorne, also a duke, was her uncle, and Crown Prince Leyton was too distasteful, even assuming anyone would countenance a second Kiriathan-Chesedhan union. Beyond that there was no one else.

Except himself. When Nott had suggested it last week, he’d laughed it off. But somehow the notion had stayed on at the back of his mind. For he couldn’t deny his own interest in her—one birthed and discarded over seventeen years ago when, as a young squire to Prince Raynen, he’d first met her, a fairy princess far out of the reach of a swordmaster’s son. . . .

Seeing that the painting was satisfactory, the servants left the two of them staring up at the work. “It reminds me of the tale you and Abramm fought in the Val’Orda that last time,” she said presently.

“That’s why I like it. Reminds
me
of Eidon’s power to deliver.”

They stood there a moment more, and then she sighed and sank into one of the chairs. “I wish he’d deliver Abramm from this marriage,” she said sourly.

“Well, at least his bride’s been acting better this week.” In fact, the day after Madeleine left, Briellen had apologized—publicly and very prettily—for her dreadful behavior the night of Katahn’s reception and ever after had been excruciatingly sweet and biddable. It seemed not to matter one whit that Abramm wasn’t responding. Though to be fair, Abramm had been very attentive and kind to her, not blunt and rude as he was with those closest to him.

“He doesn’t love her, Trap,” Carissa said.

“They can still make a marriage of it.” Trap settled into the chair beside her.

“Not when she knows he’s in love with her sister. She may resign herself to it, but she’ll never forgive him.” Carissa shook her head. “There’s something dark in her. It’s scary. And she’s so emotional—you never know what she’ll do. He’s a fool if he goes through with this.”

Trap frowned, for he’d thought many of the same things.

“Have you
ever
seen him more miserable?” Carissa asked.

“Not since he was a slave . . . though that was such a torment for the body, it left little room for torments of the soul. I thought he was going to die then, though. I don’t think he’s going to do that now.”

“Except on the inside.”

He sighed and looked at the painting again. “He has Eidon.”

“Does he?” She leaned toward him, drawing his attention back to herself. “Do you really think this is what Eidon would have him do? Because, to me, it seems more like he’s trying to punish himself. He seemed almost happy when I told him Briellen hated him. And even he’s got to see that the Chesedhans need this alliance much more than we do.
We
should be the angry ones threatening to break it off. Yet he won’t even consider asking them to bend on this.” She hesitated. “I’d talk to him myself, but since he didn’t listen to me the first time, I can’t see why he would now.”

Her unspoken request hung in the air between them. Trap shifted uncomfortably, the chair squeaking with his movement.

“Isn’t that why he made you First Minister?” she prodded when he didn’t speak. “So you could tell him things like this?”

She was right. More than that, he was Abramm’s closest friend. That standing alone demanded he speak. For while Carissa had no idea why Abramm might be trying to punish himself, Trap did. In fact, she’d just voiced one side of an argument Trap had been having with himself since the night he’d escorted Briellen back to her chambers. He was just afraid to broach the subject. Given the response he’d gotten to his opinion regarding Abramm’s crippled arm, he didn’t look forward to what would come his way should he challenge Abramm on a matter about which he’d be even more sensitive.

Still, he had to say something.

“I’ll try,” he told her softly. “But don’t expect anything to change.”

————

At two o’clock that afternoon, Trap arrived at the palace for the meeting of the king’s war council, overtaking Simon Kalladorne as he ascended the east-wing stairway.

“So how is he today?” he asked as he came abreast of the man.

The Duke of Waverlan grimaced. “He went rowing again this morning. Four times around. Already chewed out Haldon and Channon and Mason Crull, I hear.”

Which did not bode well for Trap. He shot up another prayer, then shook his head. “I wish I could get him out riding.”

Simon snorted. “Not much chance of that. Full rehearsal’s tomorrow. Wedding guests pouring in. The final fittings. The service tomorrow night . . .” He paused. “How’d your meeting with the Heartlanders go, by the way?”

“Not bad.” He smiled. “I couldn’t persuade them to promise they’d try to find out where Gillard’s hiding, but at least they have a new and clearer understanding of Abramm’s views on governance. And hopefully a new respect for the restraint and generosity he’s shown toward those not of like mind.”

Most of the other council members were already in the War Room when they arrived, and shortly thereafter Abramm joined them. He had taken to wearing black of late and was growing his beard again. Five days’ worth of unshaped honey-colored stubble covered his jaw—despite the fact that Briellen hated beards. But since with her own mouth she’d also very publicly expressed her horror for his “hideous scars,” perhaps it didn’t matter.

The meeting had barely gotten underway before Abramm was berating a servant for slamming the door and complaining that he didn’t have enough weights to hold his maps in place. But finally they got down to business, discussing plans for the expedition to the Gull Islands, the continuing preparations for defense at home, and an update on the search for Gillard, which was turning out to be harder than expected. Trap noted the concerns of his Heartlanders over losing their trained bands in the face of Rennalf’s rising bluster, which sparked a lengthy discussion of the potential for a militia army to be co-opted by the Mataio if they settled in the Heartland, as they were talking of doing.

They were wrapping things up, and Abramm was rattling off a series of new instructions to his ministers, when Arik Foxton had the bad sense to ask for a clarification:

“Did you say you wanted that five thousand sovereigns deposited to the Ministry account, sir?”

“I
said
the Military account, Foxton,” Abramm said.

“Of course.” Foxton shifted uncomfortably. “I was wondering why you would want them put in Ministry.”

Abramm skewered him with a disdainful glance. “Yes, I would wonder that, too, Arik.” His voice dripped sarcasm. “Why
would
I say such a thing? And why would you even
think
I would?”

“Obviously I was confused, sir.”

“Obviously.”

Foxton hid his annoyance and glanced at Trap, whom everyone seemed to regard as official keeper of Abramm’s mood and tongue. Actually, Abramm
had
said Ministry not Military, but noting that aloud would be in no one’s best interest. Abramm continued with his instructions, and shortly the men were filing from the room. All except Trap, who stayed behind, still seated at the table, watching Abramm as he turned his attention to the maps laid out before him.

When after a long moment Trap had still not spoken, the king looked up. “Why are you still here, Duke Eltrap?”

“You are aware, I presume, of just how insufferable you’ve been lately.”

“I’m king. I get to be insufferable if I feel like it.” He returned his attention to the topmost map, trailing his finger along the Kiriathan shoreline, then reaching for the straightedge and laying it onto the parchment. After a moment he left off with that and leaned back in the chair, rubbing his temples with thumb and forefinger. “All right. No I don’t. And I thank you for pointing it out.” He let his hand fall onto the chair’s armrest and, after a moment, when Trap still hadn’t left, “Was there something else?”

Trap sat with hands folded, rubbing a freckled knuckle with his thumb. Finally he said quietly, “Why are you going through with this, sir? When no one in the realm really wants it and you yourself are so obviously appalled by it? And when . . .” He hesitated to add the rest, then went ahead, as gently as he could, “. . . it’s obvious your heart and soul belong to another.”

Abramm returned to his maps, shuffling through them now in a display of impassive disinterest that didn’t fool Trap for a moment. “Maddie is no longer part of the situation,” he said curtly.

But the fact he’d not even bothered to pretend Trap’s claim was untrue spoke volumes. “Are you sure?”

Abramm slid a new map to the top and replaced the weights that held it flat. “I can learn to love Briellen,” he said. “We’re charged to love all those who wear the shield, after all, and she’s very pleasant to look at. There is that, at least. She hasn’t even been that badly behaved since . . .” But he was unable to finish that thought.