Return of the Guardian-King (60 page)
He turned toward her and pushed up onto one elbow as he reached out to toy with the heavy lock of golden hair trailing across her shoulder. “I told you,” he said, bringing the lock of hair up to his nose and lips, “it’ll be a long time before I get my fill of you. Probably take all of my life.”
“But I am morose. Melancholic. The woman full of blackness, as they say.”
He nodded soberly, though his eyes twinkled. “Yes. You are.”
“How can you stand it?”
“I see around it. I know it is your curse. But the Light can overcome it. I’ve seen that, as well.”
“And now it is your curse.”
“I knew what I was getting into.”
“Did you, truly?”
“No.” He sobered then, dropping her hair to trail his fingers softly along the side of her face, and over to her lips. “It’s been far more wonderful than I ever imagined.”
She shook her head and laid a hand to the side of his face, tears of gratitude pricking her eyes. “I swear, Trap Meridon, you are the living proof of Eidon’s grace! How you can say such things, after all I—wait!” She giggled and captured his hand, which had wandered downward from her face. “We can’t . . . we’ll be late as it is.”
“Mmm.” He rocked away from her, then flopped onto his back. “I’d rather stay here.”
But they were part of the wedding party and could not stay. Even so, they lay there, staring at the ceiling. After a time his hand crept over to take hold of hers.
The thought came to her out of the blue: “He told her she was attending Terstmeet too much,” she said. “Did you know that?”
A stillness came over the bed. “Tiris said that?” he asked quietly.
“He said her first duty was to attend the Kirikhal, where the people could be comforted and strengthened by her presence. That the Terstmeets were an unnecessary drain on her time and resources.”
“What did she say to that?”
“That she didn’t consider them unnecessary, nor a drain.”
“And he said no more about it?”
“I guess not.”
He was silent for a long time. Finally she asked, “So what are you thinking now?”
“That I wish we didn’t have a hundred thousand Sorite soldiers on our soil, and one hundred of their galleys in the Peregris harbor. . . .”
Abramm heard the Taleteller’s booming voice resound through the heavy doors separating his cell from the arena outside. At the crowd’s answering roar, he stood up, adjusting the dark ankle-length cloak that hid his costume—provided once again by Katahn—and checked the draw of his rapier from its scabbard, glad the moment of action was finally upon him.
The past eight hours had been horrendous. He’d spent a sleepless night on the couch Katahn had provided him in the villa, tossing and turning as the horrible images of Maddie married to Moroq himself assailed him. He knew it couldn’t be true, but the doubts had grown too thick and thorny to be ignored, or pushed free of. They tormented him all night, and on into the day after they’d come to the arena and he’d been left here alone to await his contest.
For a while he’d run through the old sword forms, so ingrained he’d never forget them, so demanding of mental discipline, he could not think of anything else while he performed them. . . . But when he finished, the evil thoughts came rushing back. Finally, just as when he’d walked the dragon gauntlet, he was reduced to repeating passages from the Words of Revelation, memorized in his youth. The only difference now was that he wasn’t moving. Which made it harder.
But finally, at last, the waiting was over. He gave thanks he wasn’t facing a real match, though, for he felt as tired as if he’d already fought ten of them, and about as mentally unfocused as he’d ever been in his life. He could only cast it all on Eidon and go forward. Again.
The Taleteller’s voice boomed once more, and he recognized his name, the Kiriathan form of it twisted and warped by the Tahg accent, the Esurhite moniker clear and compelling:
“Rashawin!”
The Pretender.
The gate rumbled back on its track, generating another spate of memories, just as his initial entrance into the warrens had done hours ago. The sound alone triggered the wild rush of adrenaline he had so often known in these contests. Waiting for his next cue, he stood on the threshold, still out of the lights, and gazed about the arena, its multitude of faces steeped in darkness. To his right, Belthre’gar sat in his red ringside box, talking with one of his attendants, his disinterest obvious. And rightly so, Abramm supposed. The Supreme Commander had no doubt seen this contest many times.
Abramm turned his gaze to the arena itself, its sandy floor mostly hidden beneath the bright image of a northern palace’s throne room—the gleaming stretch of marble floor, the gilded walls, the blazing chandelier, the tall golden throne atop its dais on the far side. Leyton stood at its foot—alone, dressed in kingly finery, the sword in his hand. He didn’t appear to have the scepter, but the moment Abramm saw the wreath of plaited metal on his brow, he knew it was his crown.
And that surprised him, for he’d not thought they’d let Leyton fight with the real thing. Then again, why not, if they believed the man it belonged to— the only one who could really use it—was dead?
The Taleteller came to the end of his introduction and presented Leyton, King of Chesedh, keeper of the Kiriathan crown by reason of his superior skill at the sword, and challenged anew by the man who’d lost them to him, King Abramm of Kiriath, returned from the grave to win them back. The audience did not roar as it had in the heyday of the Pretender, but at least a good percentage of it cheered.
He drew a deep breath to calm the wild energy surging through him, pulled his sword from its sheath, and stepped from the metal-and-wood track onto the soft sand advancing upon his opponent. As he walked, he untied the dark cloak and pulled it off with his left hand, revealing the white of his garments underneath, exactly as the ringmaster had instructed. The crowd remained distracted and indifferent—
Until he stepped upon the illusory marble floor and all of it—floor, walls, throne, chandelier—vanished in an eyeblink. Suddenly silence filled the arena as every eye fixed upon the two men within it. Leyton, who had jumped the moment the tile turned to sand beneath his boots, now looked up at Abramm, frowning. Abramm hadn’t expected that to happen, either, but he advanced without missing a beat, his sword glimmering with just a bit more light than was natural. Abruptly Leyton’s frown gave way to wide-eyed astonishment, his mouth falling open, the tip of his sword dropping to the sand.
And then, over in the stands, Belthre’gar erupted in outraged alarm, as Abramm had predicted, leaping and gesticulating wildly. “Who let
him
in here?” he shouted. “Why wasn’t I informed! It’s the Pretender, you fools!” The man beside him must have said something, for a moment of silence ensued before the Supreme Commander bellowed, “Of course it’s the real one! You think I wouldn’t know? Kill him! Kill him
now
!”
A bolt of purple fire flashed out of the stands and crashed into Abramm’s shoulder, the Light in him flaring toward it as instinctively as if he’d parried an incoming sword thrust. He had no idea how he did it, only that he did. The need was there, and somehow it was met. And he wasn’t going to worry about it anymore.
It happened several more times, always with the same result, until the purple bolts switched targets, converging on the ground at Leyton’s feet and tumbling him backward in a fountain of sand. The next bolt landed behind him, sending him skittering forward for the sword he’d dropped.
Desperate to live, he seized the blade and leaped up as Abramm reached him, his eyes betraying his certainty that Abramm meant to kill him as surely as his Esurhite masters did.
But instead of striking, Abramm cried, “I’m here to rescue you, Leyton. Don’t fight me!”
Leyton either wasn’t listening or didn’t believe him. Abramm saw the decision to attack an instant before Leyton lunged at him, the movement strong but reckless, driven by fear and desperation. Abramm parried, and the man struck again, then came in with the dagger. Catching and entangling the short blade in his cloak, Abramm jerked it free of Leyton’s hand and cast both across the sand. The Chesedhan lunged again; Abramm parried again, then drove the point of his own blade into the other man’s exposed thigh, sliding it into the muscle alongside the kneecap.
Bright blood bloomed on his pale trousers, as Leyton staggered back with a gasp, then regrouped to strike again. And again, Abramm knocked the descending blade aside, yelling at Leyton to desist and wondering irritably why their rescuers hadn’t yet entered the arena. A third lunge from the Chesedhan caught Abramm’s sleeve and etched a cut along his forearm as another flurry of purple bolts rained around them. In dodging that, Leyton’s injured knee suddenly buckled and he went down, turning as he did so to keep his front toward Abramm. A futile attempt to prolong the conflict, which Abramm ended decisively a moment later by driving the point of his rapier through the hilt of the other man’s sword and flicking it out of his hand.
When Leyton looked up at him, Abramm was shocked to find tears streaking his face. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, shaking his head. “I never should’ve taken it.”
Abramm said nothing. Reaching forward, he lifted the crown one-handed from the other’s head. Leyton didn’t even try to stop him.
“I never dreamed you would have such need of it,” Leyton continued, speaking of the scepter. “That things would end as they did.”
“They haven’t ended,” Abramm said grimly.
Finally the doors in the arena wall nearest them trundled open and a group of armored men raced out. Abramm stepped again toward the fallen man. “Come on. We’re going.”
“What?”
Abramm clapped the crown onto his own head, then leaned forward to take Leyton’s arm and drag him upright. As they turned, another purple bolt sizzled in, and the Light flared, shattering it into a cloud of purple droplets. The audience was roaring, Belthre’gar was still screaming and waving his arms, and now, lined up at the front of his box, a rank of soldiers raised their bows. Among them, his black longbow at full draw, arrow nocked and aimed at Abramm, stood the Sorite warrior. Moroq.
“You’re too late, little man,”
the familiar voice whispered in his head.
The dark eyes drew him in, and the arena vanished. Maddie stood before him without seeing him, gowned in bridal white and crowned with flowers, her face aglow with love and excitement. The great Kirikhal in Fannath Rill eclipsed her, its arched entranceway decorated with white ribbons and white flowers, surrounded by a roaring crowd. A couple in white stood at the top of the steps, facing them. . . . And then the images shifted again, and he saw the dark-haired Sorite take Maddie into his arms and kiss her hungrily.
No!
The pain was monumental.
It’s not true. . . . It can’t be true!
Suddenly the arena enfolded him again as the Sorite warrior loosed his arrow. Surrounded by a well of perfect, preternatural silence, Abramm watched the arrow approach in slow motion, a sliver of night, fletched in Shadow. Saw it slam into his side and dissolve as it slid into his flesh, extending outward from the point of entry like a black-tentacled griiswurm. The headache was blinding, the nausea violent. The world spun as the spore raced through his veins, black and hot and more virulent than any he’d ever known. He’d touched it once before in Maddie, but that was third-hand and nothing like this. It residualized with startling speed, even as it spun the images through his mind—Maddie in her wedding dress, the dark-haired Sorite taking her into his arms. . . .
“It is true and now you have seen it for yourself, little man. I told you I would
take everything.”
Oh, Maddie . . . why didn’t you wait?
The grief was suffocating. There were men all around him now, tugging at his arm, yelling things at him he could not hear.
Why didn’t you wait. . . ? I was coming. . . .
He glimpsed Leyton kneeling in the sand, a red-fletched shaft protruding from his midsection, looking up at him with a puzzled expression. A darkarmored man bent over him, hauling him to his feet as a second arrow sprouted from his chest.
A purge . . . I have to do a purge
. Leyton spun away as Abramm toppled. A huge man helmed and armored in black grabbed his arm before he fell, nearly pulling his arm from its socket. Then he was flipped over the giant’s shoulder like a sack of grain as the Light finally took him.
Abramm did not regain consciousness until that evening, long after all the excitement was over. He awoke to find himself lying in the bunk of the captain’s cabin in Katahn’s galley ship, attended by Rolland. A kelistar rolled back and forth in its glassed holder on the desk. From the thump of the drum and the oars’ corresponding squeak, drip, and splash, as well as the slight rhythmic forward surging of the ship, he judged they were at sea. The portholes were open wide, as was the ceiling hatch, but the room still reeked of vomit and something rotten.
He didn’t feel too badly himself. His side ached, and he had a bit of a headache, but overall, considering what happened . . . He frowned as he realized he didn’t recall what had happened. They’d entered the arena to rescue Leyton and something had gone wrong.