Shadow Over Kiriath by Karen Hancock Read Free Book Online Page A

own Light, and it was coming only from Abramm, from the regalia that he wore.
    And as he watched in wonder, all the hundreds in that vast audience dropped to their knees before him.

CHAPTER
    4
    As the brilliance of the Light dimmed, Captain Eltrap Meridon stared up in wonder at his king, chills zinging over his body. The robe shimmered like water around Abramm’s tall, straight form, the crown afire on his brow, its light bleaching the scars on his face so they almost disappeared. His lips were firm, his jaw resolute as his gaze swept the crowd of stunned onlookers.
    Eidon had revealed his choice. Whatever doubts people had regarding Abramm’s kingship earlier, they were gone. The Mataians’ empty bench stood in powerful refutation of their vicious claims, and Trap would forever cherish the memory of them fleeing up the aisle in screaming disarray. He loved knowing that after all the rhu’ema had done to make this day a disaster, they had been chased off as ignominiously as their human puppets.
    As for himself, he could only laugh at his foolishness for indulging in that torment of guilt and worry last night over his dire words to Abramm. Foolish words they were, for he did not know if they were even true, and it would have been better never to have uttered them, but hindsight always trumped foresight.
    The crown continued to dim, gradually revealing its changed shape. Only a few charred strips remained of the ermine-trimmed cap, while the heavy gold base with its two transverse arches had been reduced to sagging silver filigree. The massive pearl listed dully atop them, the gemstones faded and opaque, rendered insignificant against the plaited circlet—the original crown, perhaps?—shimmering beneath the ruined base.
    At last the herald recalled his job. With a gasp, he stiffened his spine, threw back his shoulders, and let his clarion voice ring out in the silence, formally introducing Abramm as the thirty-sixth king of Kiriath, “confirmed before us this day by Eidon’s own hand.”
    As if to make up for their former reluctance, the people bounded to their feet, shouting acclamation in a tumult of sound that drowned both trumpets and choir. Numerous calls of “Long live King Abramm!” raised themselves above the din, and Abramm stood there, letting it all roll over him, a half smile touching his lips.
    Philip leaned against Trap and shouted into his ear, “You still think that arm won’t come back, brother?”
    He’d been furious with Trap for telling Abramm he was crippled, vigorously taking his older brother to task for making predictions he had no business making.
    Now Trap could only smile and shrug in reply. Whether Abramm recovered use of his arm or not was up to Eidon. But if he didn’t, it wouldn’t matter, for his true strength had always lain with Eidon. This just made it more obvious.
    The cheering went on and on until Abramm gave up waiting for it to stop. Indeed, the cries intensified as he strode to the side of the stage and down the stair, then back across the forestage to climb the five-step dais of the receiving throne. His limp was barely noticeable, his shoulders straight, chin high, just as a king’s should be.
    As he settled onto the throne, Trap’s eye caught on sudden activity in the royal box beyond him. In the second row, Lords Foxton and Whitethorne were discreetly hauling a dazed and disheveled Byron Blackwell back to his feet. Nor was he the only one. Several of the ladies farther up in the box were also being fanned back to consciousness, and even Lady Madeleine, standing in the front row with her brother, seemed to have succumbed. Knowing her link with Abramm through the Light, Trap wasn’t too surprised. She did not, however, seem terribly debilitated, pushing away from Prince Leyton’s supporting arm as Simon now stepped past them to begin the offering of public fealty.
    As the others in the box jostled into line at his back, Simon descended the stair to the forestage,