Return of the Guardian-King by Karen Hancock
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.
From the baker’s he walked down to the clearinghouse on the river to get his bales of wool entered in the sale roster today—fine Kiriathan wool, straight from the Heartland, his last bit of treasure—and then on to his appointment with the young son of the shipping magnate whom he was training in the art of the sword. The morning was completed with a frustrating and futile half hour at the Exchange attempting to collect the payment due him from his auction sale of the week before. Then it was off to Arvill Ang’s Tavern, where Kiriathan exiles gathered every noonday to exchange the latest gossip and news about Kiriath.
As Trap entered, he nodded to Oswain Nott and his cronies, sitting at his table by the front bay window. The man scowled in response, but Trap only smiled and walked on to his own table, where Temas Darnley, Wade Callums, and Walter Hamilton awaited him, nursing mugs of ale. Respectively an earl, a general, and an admiral, they had become his closest friends among the exiles. While rank-and-file military were welcomed into the Chesedhan army, their leaders were not. Thus the pair had been relegated to business pursuits. Callums played whist for money every night at one of the card houses and lived in a tiny attic on Cheapstreet, and Hamilton worked afternoons as a clerk in a printing house. Darnley, hardly recognizable as the foppish lord he’d once been, had arrived without a stitch of his once renowned wardrobe. Now he tutored a lesser nobleman’s children. All three men’s clothing was growing undeniably threadbare, and thoug
In the beginning he’d come here hoping to hear news of Channon and the princes, but after more than six months with no word and no sign, he’d finally accepted the fact that Channon was probably dead. Now he wasn’t sure why he came.
He’d not been there long when the innkeeper called their attention to a newcomer, Roy Thornycroft, recently arrived from Kiriath with no more than the shirt on his back. He’d been a merchant and a secret Terstan who, upon learning his Mataian wife meant to turn him in, had sailed for Mareis on a business trip and never returned. Living on what he’d been able to sell off in port—including the vessel he’d come on—he’d made his way north to Fannath Rill much the same as the rest of them. And like the rest of them, his once-fine clothes were worn and shabby, his hands stained with the grime of travel and hard living.
The others received him warmly, eager for news of their homeland. The new Keep of the Heartland, he told them, had added yet another wing, the economy was in the gutter, there’d been terrible flooding, and the silt-heavy river emptying into the harbor at Springerlan had made the port too shallow for the big ships to come in very close at all, which everyone was grumbling about. There were rumors that Esurhites had already shown up at the palace to offer terms, but so far as he knew that was only rumor. The one thing for sure was that Gillard—or Makepeace, as he was now known—had issued an edict demanding all attend Mataian services and wear a red tongue of flame on their lapel in sign of their allegiance. And it was still illegal to speak Abramm’s name. A man had had his tongue cut out for it shortly before Thornycroft left.
He also echoed other reports that Makepeace had regained his former size and strength, allegedly the blessing of Eidon for purging his realm of Terstan apostasy.
When finally the merchant had wound down, the innkeeper prodded him to tell them the latest about Abramm. “It’s only rumor,” Thornycroft qualified, “but some say he was rescued the night before his execution . . . that it wasn’t him they burned but another.”
His words died into a silence so profound Trap heard the crack of the fire, the creak of the sign in the wind outside, and the muffled voices of the kitchen help. Then like the bursting of an invisible dam, sound flooded the room, everyone trying to out-shout one another with questions and comments and declarations of disbelief.
When the ruckus had settled enough that one voice could be discerned from another, Hamilton demanded, “Where is he, then? Still in Kiriath plotting his return?”
“I don’t know,” Thornycroft replied. “Some say he was so badly injured he can no longer walk. Others that he was spirited away to Thilos.”
“Why would he go to Thilos?”
“Well, it’s not exactly something that can be spoken of freely.”
“Where did you hear all this, Master Thornycroft?” asked Nott. “From a tavern drunk?”
The man looked so sheepish, Trap guessed that was exactly where he’d heard it. He felt the group’s enthusiasm deflate and took advantage of the lull to ask if Thornycroft had heard anything about the princes. He hadn’t. In fact, he seemed surprised to be asked. “They’re both dead, aren’t they? That’s the official report.”
“Yes, but Abramm was officially reported dead, too, yet you’ve come here saying otherwise. Ever see any bodies?”
“No, but . . . I can’t see them doing that. The Mataians would call it evil and barbaric.”
“They’ll torture ’em and kill ’em, but they won’t stake out the bodies,” Callums said. “Aye, they’d not want to be like the barbarians, that’s sure.”
That led Thornycroft off onto other topics as Trap sagged back into his chair, pushing his empty mug around on the table. He glanced at Darnley, Callums, and Hamilton, all of whom were staring at him thoughtfully. “Do you think, maybe—” Hamilton began.
“No,” Trap said flatly. “He’s dead, and we do ourselves no favors hoping otherwise.”
He stared at the half-eaten food on his plate but found himself suddenly without appetite. “Well, I have books to do this afternoon, so I’d best be off.”
As he left, the daily arguments over how they should retake Kiriath were just heating up. Should they use Maddie’s unborn child as a claim to the throne? It shouldn’t be hard now to build a good army—if she married Tiris, could they count on him to fund it?
Trap moved out of earshot, grateful to leave it all behind. As he walked back to the palace he reflected on the unexpected strength of his reaction to Thornycroft’s suggestion that Abramm still lived. Hope had soared within his breast, hot and eager, a wild joy fighting to express itself, even as caution held it in. He of all people understood how one might be delivered from an execution. But common sense argued otherwise. If Abramm lived, surely Trap would know. More than that, Maddie would know. Abramm would never have let things go this long without contacting her.
Besides, Trap had it on good authority that Gillard himself had attended the execution, and Gillard would certainly have known if it weren’t Abramm.
No. It was a false alarm, and the reaffirmation of that fact triggered a grief that cut so deeply he could hardly breathe. As his throat seized up in a hard and painful knot, he staggered to a stop, leaning against the brick wall of some building and blinking back the tears as people passed him to and fro, bumping his shoulder erratically. Despair swooped upon him like a curling black breaker.
Why did you take him and leave me here alone? he wailed. I am little help to his widow, and I’ve only made a mess of things with his sister. She’d have been better off with a Chesedhan. . . .
The black wave receded and he came back to himself, struggling to find Eidon’s peace as he had never struggled in his life. More and more of late he felt he was losing his way, and repeated pleas for some glimmer of something to reach for were always denied.
“Serr?” A hand clutched his arm, and he opened his eyes to peer into an old woman’s wrinkled face.
“Are ya alright, serr?”
“Aye. Thank you.” He pushed away from the wall and continued on his way.
Back in his study, he went through the latest receipts, entering them into the account books before turning his attention to the various properties and businesses he was considering for purchase. But he couldn’t make himself concentrate. His mind had turned to a block of wood. He read the words and numbers as if they were meaningless symbols, and the sense of depression grew heavier. He knew Eidon had his hand on all of it, knew there would be times of hopelessness, recalled the stories in the FirstWord, where the people of the shield were over and over led to what seemed a last stand, a dead end, no opening, no hope in sight. And then it came. The mountain opened, the water parted. The winds came and shredded the rocks. . . .
My Lord, I know all this. But my feelings are so dead. What is there for me to do now? With Abramm gone, his sons killed, his wife soon to be taken by another . . . his sister . . . But that thought only made it all a hundredfold worse. What place for me, Lord?
The question he’d uttered mentally dissipated into that same old blankness. For a moment there was nothing at all. And then a single thought answered it, a line from the Second Word.
“I see your deeds. I know the heart with which you do them, my son. And I do not forget, nor overlook your faithfulness. Hold fast. Do not grow weary. Your reward is coming.”
Do not grow weary. He felt incredibly weary. More weary than he’d ever felt in his life. But he knew that how he felt made no difference. He would claim that promise. No matter how hopeless it all looked, it would all come out right. He would believe.
Sighing, he turned back to his accounts.
Less than half an hour later his assistant stuck his head round the door to inform him he had a visitor, and a moment later, in walked Shale Channon.
Trap stared at him, mouth agape. Had he fallen asleep and this a dream?
The man stiffened to mili
Trap leaped up and skirted the desk to embrace his old friend, the man solid and warm and smelling too much of dust and old sweat to be a dream. “Eidon’s mercy, Shale!” he exclaimed. “I thought you must be dead! Where have you been?”
“I figured ye wouldna hold out much hope fer us, odds bein’ what they were. We tried t’ see the queen, or princess or whatever she is here, but they been puttin’ us off, sendin’ us here and there all day. Finally someone mentioned ye were here, and . . . I knew I couldna wait. She’d kill me if I did.” He cracked a lopsided smile.
Trap stared at him, listening to the soft rhythm of his own breathing. We? Us? The floor rocked beneath his feet. “Light’s grace, man,” he whispered. “You mean to tell me you’ve not come here alone?”
The smile became an open grin. “Yessir. That’s exactly what I mean to tell ye.”
CHAPTER
9
While Trap was going about his errands in the city, Maddie had spent the morning preparing for her journey to Deveren Dol. Jeyanne helped her, though there really wasn’t all that much to pack. She needn’t worry about social appearances, and the convent had everything else. Mostly she was bringing warm and comfortable clothes, her books, lirret, and musical compositions in progress.
Ronesca had invited her to lunch, a two-hour ordeal during which the older woman interrogated her about her luncheon with Draek Tiris ul Sadek three days before. Tiris had contrived to present the invitation at the very end of the week, just when Maddie should have been leaving for Deveren Dol and then conveniently—for Maddie, anyway—postponed it to several days later. By now there was no doubt about her pregnancy in the mind of anyone who looked at her, and ul Sadek had definitely looked at her. She pointed this out to Ronesca, arguing that since he was obviously the one Ronesca had her sights set upon as Maddie’s future husband, why should Maddie flee to Deveren Dol to hide from him what he already knew? The trip would take over a week, in the cold. . . . She could even go into early labor on the trail.