Free The Shadow Within by Karen Hancock Page B

brocade trimmed with gold piping and amethyst. A cravat of white lace frothed at his throat, and more peeked from under his cuffs. Rubies and sapphires glittered on his fingers, in the lace at his throat, and off the gold circlet on his head. In deference to feminine persuasion, he had grown his white-blond hair into a thick, shiny mane that curled to his shoulders. He went clean-shaven for the same reason, displaying the slender jagged scar on his chin that was his trophy from the first realm-wide fencing championship he had ever won. Though his appearance was not to Simon’s taste, the old duke knew it was admired by all the court ladies and emulated by many of the men.
    “Come to accompany me to the docks, have you, Uncle?” Gillard asked, turning to the full-length mirror beside him.
    “I’ve already been down and back, Your Majesty,” Simon said brusquely. “And I strongly suggest you forgo that trip just now. It will not help your cause.”
    Gillard froze in the act of straightening the ruffles at the end of his sleeve, glancing at Simon by way of the mirror. When the latter said nothing, Gillard dropped his gaze and finished with his ruffle, his expression closed and blank. Finally he turned to face his uncle. “So. You’ve seen him, then.”
    No need to say who he meant. There was but one “him” of significance at the moment. “Only from a distance, Sire. I thought it best to confront him while standing at your side.”
    Gillard nodded. “Let us go down, then, and confront him.”
    “You’d be better doing that here in the palace, sir.”
    His nephew raised a pale brow. “All these months you’ve harped at me about giving the people the impression I don’t care, and now that I’m ready to share in their jubilation, you tell me to stay home? What impression will that give?”
    “One of a man who understands the graveness of his situation.”
    Gillard turned back to his reflection, fiddling with the lace at his throat. “So Abramm’s come back? What’s that to me?”
    There was that denial again, that façade of maddening indifference. Simon held his temper and grated out, “They’re saying he killed the kraggin, boy! With his own hand!”
    “That’s ridiculous. You know how tales fly at times like these.”
    “True or not, the point is, many do believe it, and they’re lauding him as a hero. I just now heard someone say he stabbed the monster with his own spear, then held on so fiercely it pulled him under! Ridiculous, yes, but they love it! They want to believe it. If you go down there, he’ll have the high ground, and all the people’s pleasure, and you’ll be the man who did nothing.”
    Gillard’s frown deepened into a scowl. “There was nothing I could’ve done except get people killed. It would have been stupid—”
    “Gillard, your brother killed the monster. With a spear apparently. If he could do it, you certainly could’ve. You didn’t even try.”
    Gillard absently tugged and pushed at the lace. “Did you talk to Channon, or any of the other men? Find out what really happened out there?”
    “They were escorting him off the launch. I’d have had to wade through the crowd to get to them.”
    “What of the Mataians? I saw them on the ship when it came in. I thought surely they’d claim victory.”
    “They have.” Simon scowled. “They’re saying Abramm is their prophesied Guardian-King.”
    Gillard’s face paled. “But . . . didn’t he run from the Flames? Physically attack High Father Saeral?”
    “I only know what Laramor told me. And what I saw with my own eyes. He was met at the dock by a bevy of high-ranking Mataians, including Bonafil himself.”
    Gillard stared at him again through the mirror’s reflection. Then he spat out a blasphemy and whirled to pace the length of the bedchamber. “He’ll never get it,” he growled. “He’s unfit!”
    “He may well get it.”
    “ NO! The crown is mine !” Gillard paced to the window and back, then stopped