Hero in the Shadows (34 page)

The guard shook his head. “You are in my charge, young lord. I will wait outside.”

“I thought you said there was no danger.”

The man stood his ground for a moment, then nodded. “It will be as you say,” he replied at last, “but I will watch for you. Do not be too long, sir.”

Alone now in the sanctuary of his rooms, Niall felt the panic building. It was not even that he expected to be attacked. His mind knew it was entirely improbable. And yet he could not suppress the fear. His uncle had been in his own garden when the assassin Waylander had shot him in the
back. His own garden! With the king murdered and the country in a state of near anarchy, the Vagrian army had poured across the border, burning towns and cities and butchering thousands.

Niall sat down on the bed, closed his eyes, and took several deep, calming breaths. I will stand up, he thought, and walk slowly out onto the gallery. I will not look down at the mass of people. I will turn left and descend the stairs …

 … into the heaving mass.

His heartbeat quickened once more. This time it was accompanied by anger. I will not be cowed by this fear, he promised himself. Rising, he marched across the room and pulled open the door. Immediately he heard the noise from below, the chattering, the laughter, the sounds of cutlery on dishes, all mixed together, creating a discordant and vaguely threatening hum. Niall walked to the banister rail at the edge of the gallery and looked down. At least 150 people were already present. His father and mother were seated almost exactly below him, their chairs raised on a circular dais. Lord Aric was standing close by, as was the magicker Eldicar Manushan and little Beric. The boy looked up and saw him. Beric smiled and waved. The men around the duke also glanced up. Niall nodded to them and stepped back from the edge. In the far corner he saw the portly priest Chardyn talking to a group of women. And there, by the terrace arch, was the Gray Man, standing alone. He was wearing a sleeveless jerkin of brushed gray silk over a black shirt and leggings. His long black and silver hair was held back from his face by a slender black headband. He wore no ornaments or jewelry. No rings adorned his fingers. As if sensing eyes upon him, the Gray Man glanced up, saw Niall, and raised his goblet. Niall walked down the stairs toward him. He did not know the man well, but there was space around him and the beckoning safety of the terrace beyond.

The bottom of the stairwell recently had been closed off by
an archway and two doors. A guard stood inside the porch. He bowed as Niall approached the door. The porchway blocked much of the sound from the hall, and Niall toyed with the thought of engaging the guard in conversation for a while, putting off the dreaded moment when he had to step through and face the throng. But the man lifted the lock bar and pushed open the doors. Niall stepped through and walked across to where the Gray Man stood.

“Good evening to you, sir,” Niall said politely. “I trust you are enjoying my father’s celebration.”

“It was courteous of him to invite me,” said the Gray Man, extending his hand.

Niall shook it. Up close he saw that the Gray Man’s clothes were not entirely free of adornment. His belt had a beautiful and unusual buckle of polished iron shaped like an arrowhead. The same design had been used on the outer rim of his calf-length boots.

The sound of rasping metal from behind caused Niall to spin around. At a nearby table a chef was sharpening his carving knife. Niall felt panic looming.

The Gray Man spoke. “I do not like crowds,” he said softly. “They make me uneasy.”

Niall struggled for calm. Was the man mocking him? “Why is that?” he heard himself say.

“Probably because I’ve spent too long in my own company, riding the high country. I like the peace I find there. The meaningless chatter of these events grates on my nerves. Would you like to take some air with me on the terrace?”

“Yes, of course,” Niall said gratefully. They stepped out through the archway and onto the paved stone beyond. The night was cool, the sky clear. Niall could smell the sea. He felt himself becoming calmer.

“I suppose,” he said, “that such problems with crowds dissipate after a while as one becomes more accustomed to them.”

“That is mostly the way with problems of this nature,” agreed the Gray Man. “The trick is to allow oneself to
become
accustomed.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“If you were faced with a snarling dog, what would you do?”

“Stand very still,” said Niall. “And if it attacked?”

“If I were armed, I would try to kill it. If not, I would shout loudly and kick at it.”

“What would happen were you to run from it?”

“It would chase and bite me. That is the way with dogs.”

“That is also the way with fear,” said the Gray Man. “You can’t run from it. It will follow, snapping at your heels. Most fears recede if you face them down.”

A servant came out onto the terrace, bearing a tray on which were crystal goblets filled with watered wine. Niall took one and thanked the man, who bowed and departed.

“Rare to see a nobleman thank a servant,” said the Gray Man.

“Is that a criticism?”

“No. A compliment. Are you staying long in Carlis?”

“A few weeks only. My father wanted to meet with the lords of the four houses. He is trying to avert another war.”

“Let us hope he succeeds.”

At that moment Gaspir strode out onto the terrace. He bowed. “Your father is asking for you, young lord,” he said.

Niall offered his hand to the Gray Man, who shook it. “Thank you for your company, sir,” he said. The Gray Man bowed.

Niall strolled away. Somehow the conversation with the Gray Man had settled his nerves, but his heart began to beat faster as he entered the throng.

Face it down, he told himself. It is merely a growling dog, and you are a man. You have to be here only for a while, then you can return to the sanctuary of your room.

Niall walked on, his expression grim and determined.

Waylander watched the youth make his way across the hall. The bodyguard Gaspir was following him closely. Elsewhere he saw Eldicar Manushan moving among the crowds, smiling and chatting with people. Waylander saw that his long robe seemed to shimmer and change color as he moved. At first sight it was silver gray, but the folds glinted at times with subtle shades of pink and red, lemon yellow and gold. Waylander’s gaze flowed over the hall. There had been changes since last he had been there. The stairwells were now closed off, and the arches leading to the library boasted heavy doors of oak. He preferred the previous style. It was more open and inviting.

A servant offered him a drink, but he refused and strolled into the hall. He could see the boy Niallad talking with his father and the tall, slim Lord Ruall. The lad seemed ill at ease once more, and Waylander could see the gleam of sweat on his face.

Reaching the new door to the library, Waylander tried to open it, but it was locked from the other side.

Eldicar Manushan strolled over to him. “Your garb is most elegant, sir,” he said. “Your lack of adornment makes most men here look like peacocks. Including me,” he added with a grin.

“An unusual robe,” observed Waylander.

“It is my favorite,” said Eldicar. “It is woven from the silk of a rare worm. Heat and light bring about changes in color. In bright sunshine the robe becomes golden. It is a delightful piece.” Stepping in close, the magicker lowered his voice. “Have you considered what we spoke about?”

“I have thought on it.”

“Will you be a friend to Kuan Hador?”

“I think not.”

“Ah, that is a shame. But it is also a worry for another day. Enjoy your evening.” The magicker’s hand tapped lightly on Waylander’s back. In that moment Waylander felt a sudden
chill. His senses sharpened, and his heartbeat quickened. Eldicar moved away back into the crowd.

The thought came to Waylander that he should leave this place.

He walked back toward the terrace. He saw Niallad climbing the stairs. He was moving slowly, as if at ease, but Waylander could sense the tension in him. Niallad reached the gallery, then turned to his right, entering his room. Sadness touched Waylander.

“Such a grim face for so lively an evening,” said the priest Chardyn.

“I was thinking of the past,” Waylander told him.

“Not a pleasant past, it seems.”

Waylander shrugged. “If a man lives long enough, he will gather bad memories among the good.”

“That is true, my friend. Though some are worse than others. It is worth remembering that the Source is ever forgiving.”

Waylander laughed. “We are alone here, priest. No one else can hear us. You do not believe in the Source.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Chardyn, dropping his voice.

“You stood your ground against the demons, and that makes you a brave man, but you had no spells, no belief that your god was stronger than the evil to come. I knew a Source priest once. He had faith. I know it when I see it.”

“And you, sir?” queried Chardyn. “Do you have faith?”

“Oh, I believe, priest. I do not want to, but I believe.”

“Then why did the Source not strike down the demons as I prayed he would?”

Waylander shook his head and smiled. “Who is to say he did not?”

“Eldicar Manushan destroyed them, and though I may not be holy myself, I also know holiness when I see it.”

“You think the Source uses only good men for his purposes? I have seen different. I knew a man once, a killer and a
robber. He had for all intents and purposes the morals of a gutter rat. This man gave his life for me and before that had helped save a nation.”

Chardyn smiled. “Who can say for certain that it was the Source who inspired him? Where were the miracles, the light in the sky, the glowing angels?”

Waylander shrugged. “My father told me a story once about a man who lived in a valley. A great storm rose up, and the river overflowed. The valley began to flood. A horseman rode by the man’s small house and said to him, ‘Come, ride with me, for your house will soon be under water.’ The man told him that he needed no help, for the Source would save him. As the waters rose, the man took refuge on his roof. Two swimmers came by and called out to him. ‘Jump into the water. We will help you reach dry land.’ Again he waved them away, saying that the Source would protect him. As he sat perched on his chimney, thunder filling the sky, a boat came by. ‘Jump in,’ called the boatman. Again the man refused. Moments later the water swept him away, and he drowned.”

“What is the point of this story?” asked Chardyn.

“The man’s spirit appeared before the Source. The man was angry. ‘I believed in you,’ he said. ‘And you failed me.’ The Source looked at him and said: ‘But my son, I sent a rider, two swimmers, and a boat. What more did you want?’ ”

Chardyn smiled. “I like that. I shall use it in one of my sermons.” Then he fell silent.

Within the hall, Eldicar Manushan, Lord Aric, and Lord Panagyn had moved to the stair doors. A guard opened them, and they moved through. Elsewhere Waylander saw other guests quietly leaving the hall. Most were followers of Panagyn. His expression hardened. His heart began to beat faster, and a sense of danger rose in him. Moving to the terrace doors, he saw a squad of soldiers marching through the gardens.

The five-man squad climbed the steps to the terrace. Waylander took the priest by the arm and drew the surprised man
out into the night. The guards ignored them and pushed shut the heavy doors, dropping a crossbar into place before marching off.

“What are you doing?” asked Chardyn. “How will we get back in?”

“Trust me, priest, you do not
want
to go back in.” Waylander leaned in close. “I don’t often offer advice,” he said, “but were I you, I would leave this place
now.
”

“I don’t understand.”

“All exits from the hall have been blocked. The stairs are sealed off. That is no longer a banquetting hall, priest. It is a killing ground.”

Without another word Waylander walked away into the night.

Reaching the western postern gate, he paused and glanced back at the palace, which was silhouetted against the night sky. Anger flared in him, but he quelled it. Everyone in that lower hall was destined for death. They would be slaughtered like cattle.

Is that why you wanted me there, Orien? he wondered. So that I could die for killing your son?

He dismissed the thought even as it came to him. There was no malice in the old king. Waylander had murdered his son, yet the old man had given him a chance to find the Armor of Bronze and, at least in part, redeem himself for his past sins. So why had he come to Ustarte? There was no mystical armor to find, no great and perilous quest to undertake. Waylander had attended the gathering, which was all that had been asked of him.

Then why did you want me here?

Into his mind came the face of a frightened youth, a boy who feared crowds and lived in terror of assassination. Orien’s grandson.

With a soft curse Waylander turned and ran back toward the palace.