Return of the Guardian-King (15 page)

Just saying it sent a current of foreboding through him.

“I happened to see it,” Laud said, “after I found the other. And, since the red dragon was a part of King Abramm’s coat of arms, and as I understand it, you wear the same mark on your own arm . . .” He shrugged and smiled again. “Looks like I guessed right.”

Having no idea what to say, Abramm turned his eyes to the book and paged through its yellowed leaves. As with the other, the text was inscrutable, but this one had pictures, rendered in multicolored inks: a scarlet dragon flying over pointy mountain peaks jabbing up through rolling waves; a cow staked out in a meadow, the dragon a silhouette over the trees; a page of varied designs involving dragons; a handsome, dark-eyed man cloaked in golden scales; a dragon soaring above a vast plain filled with armies. . . . Abramm closed the book, unable to breathe, fighting the roaring of his ears. The awareness of Eidon’s hand upon his life had never been stronger.

After a moment he realized Laud had spoken again. Abramm stared at him blankly. “I’m . . . sorry?”

The professor arched a smug brow. “I said, Rolland tells me it’s a slave’s brand. On your arm. That last night you admitted you once fought in the Esurhite games. He says you have the battle scars to prove it, too.”

Last night Abramm had, for the first time, been persuaded to visit the hot spring-fed baths up the hill while the others were there, too. Though all had seen his brand and scars, none had realized the truth, proving again the validity of Maddie’s claim that people most often saw only what they expected to see. The only thing to come of it was that Rolland, having established that Abramm had fought in the Games, asked if he’d teach them all to fight.

“So . . .” Laud continued. “Are you going to join the queen, then? In Fannath Rill?”

“Why would you think that?”

“That
is
where she’s fled, is it not? Along with the First Minister and the king’s sister and the little crown prince?” He smiled at Abramm’s look of shock. “You are not the first of Abramm’s guardsmen to come this way. Many passed through last summer, right after he fell. All of them hurrying to join with the queen and her sons in hopes of forming an army to retake the throne. Of course, there are others who say the sons did not survive. . . . Rumors, of course. But if not them, there is always Princess Carissa.”

His words were like fiery darts, each of them piercing Abramm’s heart with increasing horror, though, of course, Laud had no idea. What if his sons
were
dead? . . .

He wrenched his mind off that dark path and changed the subject, uncaring if it seemed rude or too revealing. He held up the gray book. “What do you know of this dragon?”

If Laud noted his evasion of the question, he did not pursue it. “The Words refer to the red dragon as one of Moroq’s two forms. The beautiful man, a creature of light and wonder, yet able to turn into the cruel and powerful dragon at will.”

“So why would
his
symbol be in Abramm’s coat of arms?”

The professor shrugged. “The symbol is ubiquitous in Kiriathan heraldry, dating back to the time of Avramm. In his day, it was common to put the sign of a defeated adversary on one’s shield. Avramm defeated the tribes of Hasmuluk in establishing his realm, and they worshiped the dragons—hence a dragon in his crest. Since Abramm was named for Avramm, it’s only logical his coat of arms would echo that of his namesake.”

“Aye, that’s the human explanation. But Eidon guided the crest maker in his choice, as he guided Abramm’s parents’ choice in naming him. Why? Even more, why did he allow Abramm himself to receive that very same mark on his own flesh?”

Laud looked at him oddly. “Is it Abramm you’re asking about here, son?

Or is it yourself?”

Abramm stared back at him, his thoughts arrested by the ironic ambiguity of that question.

“Abramm, after all,” said Laud, “is dead. So whatever meaning the mark had for him will have to be assessed within the boundaries of his life. And I think it’s pretty obvious that as Avramm was victorious over the beast’s followers and received its sign in his crest, so Abramm was victorious over them in refusing to renounce his shield, even to the point of death.”

Except that Abramm isn’t dead yet, professor,
Abramm thought wryly. He almost uttered the words aloud, but something held his tongue, and instead he found himself saying, “So you don’t believe Avramm might have fought a real creature, then?”

The question took Laud entirely aback. “A real dragon? You mean like Moroq himself?”

“The Words say Moroq is the enemy of all who wear the shield.”

“Aye, but you can’t think he personally confronts each of us. He has his underlings for that.” Laud leaned back in the chair, smiling at him in amusement now. “Do not think so highly of yourself, lad, as to concern yourself with having to battle a dragon. You’d do better focusing on the battles you’re facing with Oakes Trinley.”

And as swiftly as that he had turned the subject to the rift widening between Abramm and the other man, one he judged must be bridged before reconciliation became impossible. It was a familiar subject, and Abramm saw there would be no returning to the subject of the dragon. Likely Laud had given him all he knew, and Abramm doubted the man would agree to read the book aloud to him.

Trap Meridon, once the Duke of Northille, now the finance secretary to the Chesedhan First Daughter, strode through the cobbled street of the palace’s southeastern service gate, dodging carts, horsemen, and piles of manure as he fought his way upstream through the mass of humanity pouring through the gate. It was early morning, the first clear one in three weeks— and the servants, groundsmen, and guards were arriving for their shifts along with the service people bringing in their fruits and grains and milk. None gave him more than a passing glance, though his cloak and trousers were considerably finer than most and his boots much shinier.

In Kiriath, a duke would have traveled by horse or carriage. But here, as the finance secretary of a First Daughter out of favor with the ruling princess, and a Kiriathan exile out of favor with everyone, it was difficult to get the grooms at the royal stable to give him either. Even when they promised him something, they took all morning to deliver. It was easier to walk, since his errands were rarely far from the palace. Besides, he liked the exercise and the opportunity to be alone with his thoughts. And since he was no longer sharing cocoa with his wife in the mornings, he certainly had time for it.

He’d taken to living in his office, which was across the palace from the quarters he’d shared with Carissa. Yesterday he’d moved most of his clothing there. It was easier that way. For both of them.

He had thought when he married her he’d be content just to be near her, to give her his name and his protection, and provide for her needs. After all, he had loved her from afar all of his life, and even lived in her house those last three months of her pregnancy. What difference would a public vowtaking and her wearing of a gold ring make?

At first it hadn’t. Conal’s birth and the journey from Kiriath hadn’t left them much time for intimate moments. Moreover, she was a new mother, grieving the loss of her brother, her position, and her land—and was seasick on top of it all. Even had it entered his mind he might eventually want more than simply to provide for her, he would have considered the desire base, selfish, and demeaning to both of them.

At Fannath Rill they’d settled into their apartments and the routine of living as man and wife, and for a time all was well. Then something had changed. Somehow friendship and quiet conversation were no longer enough. Suddenly he could not keep his eyes or his mind from straying places they had no business straying. Erotic dreams jerked him awake in the night, sweat-sheathed and battling a nearly overwhelming desire to go to her room on the opposite side of their apartments and take what was rightfully his as her husband. The only thing that stopped him was the certainty she would be horrified by it, seeing him as no better than Rennalf, who some would argue had also taken only what was rightfully his. . . .

That last morning he’d spent with her was now burned into his memory. How he’d stood before the bay window, staring blindly at the promenade with its flanking rows of date palms, hearing the susurrus of fabric and the creak of a step that told him Carissa was handing Conal off to Prisina. He’d given her a few moments to get her clothing back in order, listening to Prisina’s footsteps as she carried the baby away. Then, finally, he heard the sigh that was his signal and turned from the window, catching her looking at him with an expression so sorrowful it tore at his heart. She veiled it swiftly, but not soon enough.

Trapped,
he’d realized with profound dismay.
That’s how she must feel.
Trapped in this marriage she never would have sought had I not pushed it upon
her
.

She’d confirmed it soon after with those dreadful words:
“You needn’t pretend
what we have is anything more than duty.”
They still made him shiver with horror.
“I would feel more comfortable, in fact, if you didn’t.”

He’d felt as if he’d fallen flat on his face, all the wind knocked out of him.

Later he’d berated himself for not protesting right then and there.
“No,”
he should have said.
“I am not pretending.”
He should have told her how he felt, how much he wanted her. . . . But that only brought him to the horrified realization that, on account of all he’d done for her, she might feel obliged to service him. Which appalled him even more than his traitorous feelings.

Weirdly it had all boiled up into a bitter anger directed toward Abramm. Why did he have to write those letters? Did he have so little respect for his liegeman that he thought Trap would not see the need himself, not be able to do what needed doing without being told? Worse, did Abramm know his friend so poorly he did not realize Trap would leap at the opportunity to marry Carissa and it would be of his own choice whether she was crown princess or fishmonger, pregnant with another man’s bastard or a virgin? It didn’t matter to him. It had never mattered.

The only things that had ever stood in his way were her lack of relationship with Eidon and the fact she was a king’s daughter and Trap a swordmaster’s son. Then she’d taken the Star and had thrown herself into learning of Eidon, living in that knowledge as best as her naturally morose personality allowed. She had made tremendous gains in the face of incredibly difficult pressures. He had stood in awe of her tenacity. No matter what crushing disappointments she faced, or what inner battles raged with a spirit far too inclined toward pessimism and self-pity, she had not given up on Eidon— even in those dark days when Conal still slept in her womb and none of them knew what would come of it all.

Suddenly in the midst of terrible tragedy, the doors had opened and it only made sense that he should marry her. She saw it . . . he did . . . all of them did. But thanks to Abramm’s meddling, he’d never had the chance to show her that he asked from his own heart.

Not that it mattered anymore. She’d made her feelings plain enough.

He stepped off the curb, then jerked back to avoid being run over by a horse and carriage barreling down the street. People poured past him into the wake created by its passage, jostling him as he regained his bearings. Then he scowled, realizing he was back in the same thought cycle he’d indulged in for the last three weeks. One he’d sworn he’d not return to.

He stopped at the bakery to buy a nutty bun, refusing the baker’s attempt to engage him with the latest gossip about Draek Tiris’s obvious interest in Maddie. Their luncheon meeting three days ago had been the talk of the town for two weeks prior—all the speculation as to whether it would happen at all—and now, in its aftermath, the endless analysis of what it meant, even though she was leaving for Deveren Dol tomorrow.

That she was going on a “spiritual retreat” had fooled no one, but even the baker agreed she was better off not bringing her child to term where everyone could see. “Makes it easier for everyone to forget it ever existed.”

The man hoped that Tiris would marry her in spite of it, and might even take the jailer’s bastard off to his orphanage to free her completely of her shame. “She’d be respectable again,” he’d added. “And rich, too. . . .”

Trap left before he throttled the man, his frustration intensified by the fact that the baker was only repeating what everyone else was saying. They were all eager to forget she’d ever been to Kiriath, ever married Abramm, ever been anything but their First Daughter. It was as if all Chesedh was trying to reabsorb her as swiftly as they could, desperate to get her married off to some respectable house and erase the shame she’d brought them.

Which was why her forthcoming trip to Deveren Dol filled him with such dread. Especially since he wouldn’t be able to go with her. Her finances were in such straits, he feared if he left them to themselves, there might be nothing when they returned. And though it wasn’t his fault—he’d been routinely cheated by Chesedhan merchants, and his every attempt to purchase property on her behalf had ended with the seller’s sudden, unexplained withdrawal of the property—he still felt responsible.