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Authors: Karen Hancock
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his side, Belmir smiled with calm assurance. Bonafil’s gaze returned to Abramm. “Are you indeed responsible for the monster’s death, then?”
“I and the men with me, yes.”
“ ’Tis a remarkable feat you have accomplished, then.”
“ ’Twas by the power and mercy of Eidon.”
Light flickered in Bonafil’s eyes and simultaneously in the amulet at his throat, raising the hairs on Abramm’s nape. “And now you come to claim the Crown.”
Not Saeral . Abramm thought. Another .
“You will need Eidon’s help, I think,” remarked Bonafil.
“I will indeed, Father.”
Again the silence and the thoughtful regard. Then Bonafil nodded as if Abramm had passed some unspoken test. “You will have the Brotherhood’s full support.”
And here it was: the moment to speak or keep silent. Abramm spoke: “I appreciate your generosity, sir, but as I told Master Belmir, I no longer hold with Mataian teachings.”
Bonafil nodded. “Nevertheless, you have our support.”
It was on the tip of Abramm’s tongue to declare he neither wanted nor needed their support when suddenly he understood. No one knew he had become the White Pretender, or that he had spent the last four years as the close friend, confidant, and advisor to King Shemm of the Dorsaddi. High Father Bonafil no doubt saw him as a simple scribe fresh out of slavery and easily manipulated. This was a bid for power. Abramm could probably offer any insult short of revealing the shield on his chest, and Bonafil would bear it.
“I fear I will disappoint you in the end,” Abramm said finally, glancing at Channon. His lieutenant had been waiting for that sign and now turned to give Wanderer a casual salute. On deck, Captain Kinlock should have them centered in his spyglass and—yes. Here came the flash that showed he had received the signal.
Abramm turned back to Bonafil, pulling the thick queue of his hair over one shoulder and drawing up the hood of his robe. He lifted a hand in casual salute of his own. “Good day, sir.”
Bonafil’s soft mouth dropped open as Abramm pulled his horse back and around. It was a borderline breach of etiquette and a calculated risk, but as heir to the throne he was justified in not waiting for dismissal. It was also a clear indication that he had turned from Mataian persuasions.
Before anyone could protest, though, a mighty squeal of wood and metal erupted from out on the bay, drawing the throng’s attention. Abramm glanced again over his shoulder as the kraggin’s corpse was hauled from the water by cranes set up aboard both Wanderer and the whaler that had accompanied her. As the great gray-and-ivory carcass slithered upright into view, the crowd exclaimed in muted susurration. Among them only one kept his attention on Abramm: a figure in Guardian gray standing at the junction of pier and dock, a man whose ruined face and barren scalp only accentuated the fire of hatred burning in his one good eye.
Have you remembered me yet? Abramm thought at him. With a shudder of foreboding he settled himself forward in the saddle, urging his horse after Channon’s. Leaving the now-distracted crowd, they trotted into the back ways of Portside, which Channon’s men had earlier cleared of spectators, and rode on toward the palace.
CHAPTER
5
They rode through the Portside sector and into the hilly city beyond, where a busy service road switchbacked up the steep face of the long escarpment from whose seaward-most point the palace overlooked the bay. Pedestrians and delivery wagon drivers automatically made way for the detachment of Royal Guard as it headed for the southern service gate, eyeing the cloaked figure it escorted with interest. If they guessed who he was, Abramm did not know, for he was paying little attention.
His headache and nausea had worsened dramatically, his middle cramping so violently at one point it doubled him over. With that, it dawned on him that this wasn’t just a case of jitters or a bad smell or not
“I and the men with me, yes.”
“ ’Tis a remarkable feat you have accomplished, then.”
“ ’Twas by the power and mercy of Eidon.”
Light flickered in Bonafil’s eyes and simultaneously in the amulet at his throat, raising the hairs on Abramm’s nape. “And now you come to claim the Crown.”
Not Saeral . Abramm thought. Another .
“You will need Eidon’s help, I think,” remarked Bonafil.
“I will indeed, Father.”
Again the silence and the thoughtful regard. Then Bonafil nodded as if Abramm had passed some unspoken test. “You will have the Brotherhood’s full support.”
And here it was: the moment to speak or keep silent. Abramm spoke: “I appreciate your generosity, sir, but as I told Master Belmir, I no longer hold with Mataian teachings.”
Bonafil nodded. “Nevertheless, you have our support.”
It was on the tip of Abramm’s tongue to declare he neither wanted nor needed their support when suddenly he understood. No one knew he had become the White Pretender, or that he had spent the last four years as the close friend, confidant, and advisor to King Shemm of the Dorsaddi. High Father Bonafil no doubt saw him as a simple scribe fresh out of slavery and easily manipulated. This was a bid for power. Abramm could probably offer any insult short of revealing the shield on his chest, and Bonafil would bear it.
“I fear I will disappoint you in the end,” Abramm said finally, glancing at Channon. His lieutenant had been waiting for that sign and now turned to give Wanderer a casual salute. On deck, Captain Kinlock should have them centered in his spyglass and—yes. Here came the flash that showed he had received the signal.
Abramm turned back to Bonafil, pulling the thick queue of his hair over one shoulder and drawing up the hood of his robe. He lifted a hand in casual salute of his own. “Good day, sir.”
Bonafil’s soft mouth dropped open as Abramm pulled his horse back and around. It was a borderline breach of etiquette and a calculated risk, but as heir to the throne he was justified in not waiting for dismissal. It was also a clear indication that he had turned from Mataian persuasions.
Before anyone could protest, though, a mighty squeal of wood and metal erupted from out on the bay, drawing the throng’s attention. Abramm glanced again over his shoulder as the kraggin’s corpse was hauled from the water by cranes set up aboard both Wanderer and the whaler that had accompanied her. As the great gray-and-ivory carcass slithered upright into view, the crowd exclaimed in muted susurration. Among them only one kept his attention on Abramm: a figure in Guardian gray standing at the junction of pier and dock, a man whose ruined face and barren scalp only accentuated the fire of hatred burning in his one good eye.
Have you remembered me yet? Abramm thought at him. With a shudder of foreboding he settled himself forward in the saddle, urging his horse after Channon’s. Leaving the now-distracted crowd, they trotted into the back ways of Portside, which Channon’s men had earlier cleared of spectators, and rode on toward the palace.
CHAPTER
5
They rode through the Portside sector and into the hilly city beyond, where a busy service road switchbacked up the steep face of the long escarpment from whose seaward-most point the palace overlooked the bay. Pedestrians and delivery wagon drivers automatically made way for the detachment of Royal Guard as it headed for the southern service gate, eyeing the cloaked figure it escorted with interest. If they guessed who he was, Abramm did not know, for he was paying little attention.
His headache and nausea had worsened dramatically, his middle cramping so violently at one point it doubled him over. With that, it dawned on him that this wasn’t just a case of jitters or a bad smell or not
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