Shadow Over Kiriath (49 page)
Then she saw the Broho standing at the quarterdeck railing. The purple amulet flared as his deep voice bellowed through the din and all the flames went out at once. Simultaneously, every man froze and silence descended upon the ship. A dark mist mingled with the paler smoke, coiling round wreckage and men toward the foredeck. Maddie felt its pervasive chill settle around her, felt the pressure of fear start deep in her middle as images of death and torture filled her mind, and the Shadow within her panicked in response.
On the morning he was to have married the Chesedhan First Daughter in the ancient Hall of Kings, Abramm was instead seated on the King’s Bench in the High Court Chamber at the opposite end of the Mall of Government, presiding over her lover’s adultery trial. He had worn Avramm’s crown for the occasion, and wished that he had not. Everything he had seen that night in the bedchamber was now amplified. As the evidence was brought forth, the love letters read, the witnesses called, and Foxton’s own shaking, miserable confession of guilt heard, Briellen sat defiantly in the defendant’s box adjoining his, alternately smirking and glaring at Abramm.
Whether it was a result of his own sight being enhanced by the crown or recent events causing an acceleration of the process, the question of whether Briellen had developed the sarotis was no longer in doubt. Though he wasn’t sure whether anyone else could see it, for himself it was a thick line of curd, occluding the bottom half of her irises and creeping down toward her lower lids. Never had the juxtaposition between beauty and horror been so striking.
There was more: the staffid disguised as bracelet that she wore on her arm, the blue flicker of the spore dwelling and active in her flesh, and the hatred in her eyes. Hatred not primarily directed at him, but at Eidon himself, even though she wore his shieldmark over her heart. Hatred shared by the rhu’ema that lurked in the shadows of the great chamber’s nooks and corners, come here to watch their plans fulfilled.
That was the worst thing: knowing that both Briellen and Arik Foxton had been manipulated. The fact they had been found at all indicated someone had been watching them and more than likely had even set them up. They were little more than dupes, and now one of them would have to die.
Still they chose to act as they did. And choices have consequences
.
It would have been easier, though, if the choices had been of a different nature. To preside over a trial that would condemn a man to death for doing what Abramm himself had done and been forgiven for . . . was difficult. It roused up all the old guilt again, and he had to remind himself repeatedly that Foxton hadn’t just committed adultery, he’d committed treason. The court here wasn’t defending Abramm’s pride but the authority of his office.
Just as he had arrested High Father Bonafil for his disrespect of that office, so must Foxton be held accountable. And given the act’s potential to confuse the line of succession and perhaps one day spark a war that might lead to thousands of deaths . . . execution was not so severe a penalty.
Simon had been adamant in his support of that position. Blackwell had echoed it. As had Hamilton, Whitethorne, Nott, Trap . . . even Kohal Kesrin. And Abramm had received no indication from Eidon that he should offer this man clemency, though he had pled for it. Thus when the trial was concluded, and the judges returned after only an hour’s sequestering with their guilty verdict, Abramm said nothing. And when they pronounced their sentences of permanent deportation for the First Daughter and swift execution for Arik Foxton, he did not countermand them.
Far from laughing at him that morning, his people had sympathized, outraged by Briellen’s seamy and vicious betrayal. It was only through this that he realized many of his subjects saw his injuries in the same light as Maddie had—as badges of honor. For this Chesedhan vixen to snub him because of them was inexcusable. Not surprisingly, their antipathy toward Briellen had spread to Chesedhans in general, and if they had disliked the proposed alliance before, now they hated it.
Every way Abramm had sought to protect his realm lay in ruins, but even so, he knew Eidon was still at work. The most glaring evidence of that truth lay in the fact that mere hours after making the request, he had been suddenly and completely released from all obligations to marry Briellen. And with that had sprouted a seedling of hope that the remainder of what he had asked might be granted him, as well. . . .
You have only to wait
.
Ironically, it was this very kernel of hope that his inner Shadow used to accuse him of sacrificing Foxton to get Maddie back. Over and over he had to confront the notion, irrational and illogical as it was, and replace it with the truth. Foxton knew the penalty for his actions. He knew that, should he be found out, it would destroy him and his family.
Yet he’d chosen to do as he’d done. The responsibility lay with him. And he knew it, for he hadn’t looked Abramm in the eye one time during the entire wretched ordeal.
Neither had Leyton offered a word in his sister’s defense. In fact, he’d said very little. His face was hard, masked, and haggard. So far as Abramm knew he had spoken privately with Briellen only once, and her jailers said she’d sent him away with a barrage of words they’d rather not repeat.
Abramm had just exited the building that held the High Court Chamber and was descending the broad stair to his waiting carriage when he heard the distant boom of the guns at Kildar and Graymeer’s out at the mouth of the bay.
Noon already?
That was the moment Kesrin was supposed to have declared he and Briellen wed. Instead she was being escorted back to her chambers, where she would await Foxton’s execution tomorrow morning. After which she would be required to leave the city.
A second salvo of the guns brought him up short, his gaze turning southward, where a dark cloud bank churned at the mouth of his bay. A mist, he knew at once, that was not natural. Horrified, he watched as three Chesedhan merchantmen came plowing out of it, moving sluggishly as they fled beneath the covering fire of the fort at Graymeer’s, the cannon’s distant booming sounding with increasing frequency. Since by now the morning land breeze had died, there was no hope of any natural wind driving off that mist and little help for the frigates that were obviously being pursued.
All these thoughts and observations had barely registered when a brilliant purple light streaked out of the fog, heading straight for Springerlan. In barely a heartbeat it had flown the length of the bay, tracking low over the city’s roofs to slam into the Hall of Kings at the opposite end of the mall. The impact was followed by a moment of silence. Then a fountain of purple flame erupted from the ancient amphitheater, showering Abramm with pieces of rock and tile even so far away as on the steps of the High Court Chamber.
Those around him exclaimed in horror as purple flame turned to orange and the Hall’s great hammerbeam ceiling ignited. Black smoke poured skyward as men rushed out of nearby buildings. Southward on the bay, the Chesedhan vessels were heeling slowly around, their guns flashing as the dark, narrow shapes of far too many Esurhite galleys emerged from their covering veil of mist. Closer to the city, Katahn’s galleys were backing out of their docking slips as two naval frigates pulled anchor and set off for the front line, making scant progress in the feeble wind.
Abramm glanced again at the pillar of black smoke and realized with a chill that had the wedding gone as planned, he and Briellen—along with most of his court—would be dead.
As if reading his mind, Channon said, close at his side, “Sir, you need to get to safety.”
Abramm turned back toward the High Court Chamber and then, given the accuracy of the Esurhites’ aim, decided that might not be the best place to take shelter. Even as he thought it, Simon and Trap emerged from the doorway at the head of a stream of exiting nobles, all of whom stopped to stare at the burning Hall beyond the green.
He heard the clanging of the alarm bells that would call out the bucket brigades and pump wagons, men already beginning to converge upon the flaming Hall. The Hall itself was clearly past saving, but the sparks and flaming debris shooting out of it could easily ignite a secondary blaze among the surrounding sea of wooden roofs. He knew a plan for fighting fires was in place with chain of command already appointed, but he sent Trap down to help nonetheless, even as Simon ran off to direct the shoreline defenses.
Abramm himself joined Admiral Hamilton in his command-post bunker built up against the cliffs east of the city. Leyton Donavan went with him, each of them equipped with a telescope so they could keep an eye on the fire, the shoreline defense preparations, and the battle itself.
The same armada of civilian vessels that had turned out to stop Katahn soon pushed off from their moorings, many of them forming a blockade at the river’s broad mouth as others ferried soldiers out to engage the enemy. As with the firefighters, both Simon and Hamilton were carrying out plans Abramm had already set in place—which gave him little to do but watch, a role he found profoundly discomfiting.
Behind the forward line of twelve enemy galleys, two following vessels spewed smoke, obviously the source of the mist. They would be the ones the Kiriathans must attack most vigorously and sink, if possible. The Chesedhan frigates ceased firing now as Katahn’s galleys shot by them to ram the enemy ships. As the boats lurched and clung to each other, Katahn’s crewmen leaped over the locked gunwales to engage the Esurhites hand to hand. After that, the conflict was slow, virtually soundless, and obscured by shifting veils of shadow and smoke. Often Abramm glimpsed men struggling on the vessels’ decks, saw the flash of swords, sometimes a flare of white light or purple. . . .But then another vessel would drift into his line of sight and he’d see no more. At least two of the Esurhite ships were sunk by the ramming maneuver, and finally one galley broke through to attack the smoke ships. A furious firework of white and purple flared in the thickening mists, leaving one smoke-ship adrift and the other sinking. After that the invaders retreated until they had withdrawn from the bay.
By then the column of smoke from the Hall of Kings had been replaced by a pall of gray, and thankfully no more of the city had burned. Abramm was beginning to relax when Hamilton noted that the fog not only remained just at the mouth of the bay but had also reclaimed the two headland fortresses.
“They could be waiting for nightfall to attack,” he said worriedly. A concern that made so much sense Abramm took it to heart immediately, certain they were staging another attempt to take Graymeer’s.
Perhaps they believed their surprise attack on the Hall of Kings had been successful and Abramm was dead, leaving no one to ruin another corridor, or drive off the mist, or . . . use the guardstar. Suddenly he wondered if the whole conflict in the bay had been nothing more than a distraction from the real target: Graymeer’s itself.
I have to drive off that mist. Now
.
He turned to Leyton Donavan. “Didn’t you say there are tales claiming my scepter can conjure a wind?”
Leyton frowned at him. His eyes flicked to the burned-out hall at Abramm’s back, then returned to meet his gaze. “You think there’s any way the regalia survived that fire?”
“If they are what you think they are,” said Abramm. “Would you like to come with me and see?”
His carriage brought them around to the bottom of the hill upon which the Hall of Kings had been built, the ride giving them a thorough view of the damage. The Hall, still hot and smoldering, had been gutted. Nearby buildings had also suffered various amounts of damage, most of them saved from complete destruction because they were built with stone. The Jewel House was one of the latter.
Abramm leaped out of the carriage as soon as it pulled to a stop beside it. The house’s wooden roof sagged inward, still smoldering despite having been soaked by the bucket brigades. The structure’s windows had melted into slag, and even some of the stones in the walls were cracked.
Ducking beneath the charred, half-fallen lintel, Abramm picked his way through the rubble, avoiding the biggest and hottest beam and wondering how he was going to find anything beneath the wet jumble of ash, charred wood, and stone that layered the floor. Part of one wall had tumbled in, and all the furniture and cabinets had been reduced to charred sticks.
It must have been the crown, for he walked straight across the chamber as if he knew where he was going, the heat from the stones and beams searing his face and making the scars burn as if they were newly made. He stopped without knowing why—maybe it seemed like the place he recalled the regalia to have been kept—and bent to pull aside a soot-covered rock, glad he was wearing gloves. Even through them the heat was intense. His men entered behind him now, muttering among themselves.
He kicked away a wooden plank, unmindful of the soot that stained his woolen stockings and the ash that now coated his fine shoes. Before he could remove another, Channon and Will Ames were pulling it away for him—and there at his feet, gleaming white amidst all the black, lay the scepter. The rod showed no sign of char or soot or even tarnish, the great orb at its head flickering with a pale white light.
A slight shifting of the direction of his gaze revealed to him the Orb of Tersius, enfolded in a paper-thin shroud of ash—probably the remains of the velvet drapes that had hung in this room. He stepped toward it, bent, and pulled away the shroud. Behind him came the hissing of Leyton’s breath and a murmured exclamation of astonishment. Like the scepter, the orb had weathered the inferno untouched by the heat itself or by the ash and soot in which it lay.
He stepped back and bent to pick up the scepter, Channon’s instinctive warning smothered almost as soon as it began. Like the captain of his guard, Abramm expected it to be as hot as the other things he’d touched here and was surprised to find it was no warmer than on the day of his coronation.
“May I bring the orb?” asked Leyton, standing over the object in question.