Free Return of the Guardian-King by Karen Hancock Page B

stone-floored chamber before him.
    He’d dreamt of Maddie again last night. The details were lost to sleep, but her essence lingered strongly, feeding his sense of loss.
    Outside, upward of ten feet of snow had already accumulated, through which they’d had to shovel tunnels just to get to the covered walkways leading to the woodpile, well, stables, and sheepcotes. For several days now he had joined Rolland, Cedric, and Oakes Trinley up on the roofs, battling freezing wind and biting snow to shovel off the new accumulations—a task they’d soon have to repeat for the kitchen, sheepcote, and hay barn. In fact, the latter was so close to collapse they would be shoring up its beams from the inside before anyone would risk stepping onto its outside.
    Despite Tapheina’s prediction to the contrary, Abramm had for days clung to the hope this was only an early winter flurry and that the mild weather would soon return. Yesterday was the first time he’d seriously considered the possibility he might actually have to spend the winter here. Today, possibility had become certainty, the contemplation of which produced a twisting pain in his chest so sharp he could hardly breathe.
    His hope of reuniting with his wife and sons within the month was dead, and Tapheina’s parting words haunted him: “It’s already been six months. How long do you think she can wait for you?”
    Bitter frustration tightened his throat. To have come all this way only to have their reunion ripped away from him? How could Eidon do this to him?
    It made no sense. With Chesedhan shores under attack by an evil horde bent on eradicating all traces of Eidon’s Light and those who worshipped him, Abramm should be down there, helping with the defense. Not up here in the middle of nowhere shoring up beams, shoveling snow, and hauling wood and water. Where even his skills of leadership and decision making were rejected—seen as threatening, in fact—by the people he now lived with. People who disliked him enough as Alaric but would loathe him if they knew who he really was.
    Beyond his door the distant clang of the breakfast bell echoed through the monastery: two strikes, a pause, then two more. It was the second bell of the morning, the final call to breakfast. He’d wait a little longer before going down, to give the others time to clear out of the dining hall. He’d listened to quite enough of their insults and, in his present mood, had no desire for more. It would be bad enough working with them in the barn.
    He rolled onto his back and stared at the rafters. Had he not suffered enough already? How much more did Eidon intend for him to take? He had given up everything for him, and this was his repayment? Better he should have burned on that stake they’d planned for him in Kiriath. Better maybe he should have just let them cover his stupid mark and renounce his identity as a Terstan.
    He wished he had now. If he’d known how things would turn out, he would have.
    Moroq’s thinking . . .
    Suddenly as irritated with himself as he was with everything else, he sat up, gasping at the shock of the cold air on his back, even though he’d slept fully clothed. Shivering violently, his breath pluming about him, he slipped a woolen sweater over his tunic and undershirt, then jammed his feet into his frozen boots. Snatching up the cloak of long-haired fleece he’d used as a supplemental blanket, he stepped from his room into a crooked hall lined with doors and started down the narrow stairway that led to the ground floor.
    Like the dormitory, the dining hall had been built to accommodate a crowd. Three long tables ran the chamber’s length, a handful of people gathered in small clusters at their far ends near the fire crackling in the great stone hearth. Children raced around playing tag, while a few chickens and dogs foraged for scraps under the tables. As Abramm approached, Rolland’s oldest boy, Rollie Jr, came running. The blond-headed lad had taken an