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

where he was the first to kneel at the foot of the Receiving Throne dais and offer his public oath of fealty. Then he returned to his seat in the box as one by one the others did likewise, a process that took almost two hours to complete.
    Then it was time for the ceremonies of elevation. As the first name rang out, Trap’s stomach twisted itself into a hard and breathless knot. Suddenly he recalled just why he was sitting in this honored first space of the first bench, his brother and parents beside him, and all four of his sisters with their husbands on the bench behind: today the swordmaster’s son would be made a duke.
    He had not believed it would actually happen, despite the fact he had known Abramm’s intentions for months and had rehearsed this part of the ceremony for days. For one, he’d not been sure Abramm would make it through his coronation without disaster. For another, it was one of those unthinkable developments only Eidon could conceive and Trap himself had never quite been able to get his mind around. Even the act of arguing that it was far too high a rank to bestow on a commoner—and Trap had argued that—had seemed surreal.
    Now as the first man knelt on the upper levels of the receiving dais, Trap thought of the oath he’d sworn to Raynen more than six years ago to go with Abramm into exile. He’d believed it a death sentence for both of them. Instead, here they were, Abramm a king and Trap about to be elevated to the highest hereditary rank in the peerage. Not only was it unbelievable, he wasn’t sure he even wanted it.
    He watched as Abramm parceled out to his own men the lands he had confiscated from Gillard and his supporters. Then, before Trap knew it, the herald was calling his name and he was kneeling before his sovereign.
    What happened after that passed in a haze, blurred by the sudden intense self-consciousness Trap experienced at being the focus of hundreds of pairs of eyes. Abramm was thorough in enumerating his reasons for granting this exceptional degree of elevation, relating all the story of their journey together, and finally coming to the end.
    “If it weren’t for this man’s devotion, I would not be here today. If anyone deserves this highest accolade, it is Eltrap Meridon, son of Larrick, defender of Raynen, Captain of the King’s Guard, the White Pretender’s Infidel, the Dorsaddi’s Lord Deliverer, and henceforth, by my hand and sword”—he touched the tip of the Sword of State first to Trap’s right shoulder, then to his left—“Duke of Northille.”
    The sword tip touched the top of Trap’s head and released a burst of Light, its warmth shooting down through his bent knee and the soles of his feet.
    Only as it faded away and the sword’s touch withdrew did he breathe again. And then he was offering his own sworn oath of fealty, already given once in the stern cabin of Wanderer en route to Kiriath some nine months ago, now offered publicly, the oath of a duke and not a simple armsman. After that he stood, and the Officers of Ceremony came to lay across his chest the red ribbon and gold chains of his new rank. Then, at last, he turned to face the audience behind him as the herald called out his new name to the assembled multitude, and chills washed over his body yet again.
    I am a lord. I am a duke. . . . I am a swordmaster’s son, for pity’s sake!
    Philip was grinning up at him, looking ready to burst. His father was worse and his mother’s cheeks were wet. Behind them, in the second row, his sisters and their husbands sat gape-mouthed, for they had never believed he would amount to anything—he was still unmarried, was he not?
    After standing for what seemed far too long, he turned back to the king to drop a deep bow, then back-stepped to his seat. As he sat down, Philip punched his arm and Father reached across to take his hand and squeeze it, tears glittering in his eyes.
    Abramm retired briefly to a side chamber and reemerged in the long, purple Robe