Shadow Over Kiriath Read Online Free PDF Page B

aisle drew near, white-robed Mataians on his right in the front row, Trap Meridon in the aisle seat across from them: the place of honor for a man who had stood by his king through betrayal, slavery, and civil war, and would for that service be elevated to the peerage today. He met Abramm’s glance evenly, no sign of guilt or wavering, despite the rift between them. But that had always been Trap’s way.
    Abramm angled past the Receiving Throne and on toward the granite mount, noting the Mataians’ glares as he passed them. That they were present and so openly hostile gave credence to his fear Bonafil meant to challenge him today. Might as well prepare himself to meet it, for all the ugly marring of this ceremony that would produce.
    With the royal box looming ahead to his right, he climbed the short stair and stepped onto the ancient granite stage. The moment he did, he felt the unmistakable sense of unseen, malevolent eyes opening in grim welcome. His Terstan advisors were right: it wasn’t only the Orb and Bonafil he’d have to deal with today. . . .
    At the mount’s edge, he turned back to face the great hall, his gaze flicking up to the shadowy network of beams overhead as the chief herald’s voice boomed through the heights, announcing his arrival and asking if the people would accept him.
    They were supposed to burst out with a cheer of acclamation at this point. Instead, the herald’s voice faded into an accusatory silence that instantly returned Abramm’s attention to the crowd. The Mataians stood in the first rank across the forestage from him, closed-mouthed and smirking, their arms crossed upon their chests. His gaze drifted to the people beyond them, shock stealing his breath. Would they refuse to accept him? Would this crowning be over before it even started?
    Then a single voice rang out: “I accept him.” A few echoed it, then more, the numbers gradually increasing until the majority of those present had approved. But it was a lukewarm acclamation, more dutiful than heartfelt, and it left him profoundly shaken. He turned to cross the granite toward the Robing Station just below the royal box, where the Keeper of the Regalia and his deputies waited. His train hissed loudly in the silence, and hostility pressed at him from every quarter, so that his stomach churned and his scars burned hotter than ever.
    As he drew up before the Keeper of the Regalia, Lord Fortesque, the two deputies came round behind him to remove his scarlet cloak. Fortesque held a stiff floor-length garment supposed to represent Eidon’s Light, though it looked more like the wire mesh garment Abramm had suffered through the rehearsals with this last week. His cloak removed, Abramm turned toward the Robing Chair, seeing peripherally the nobles still standing in the royal box behind it. Muffled coughs and low creaks occasionally broke the silence as Fortesque slid the robe’s stiff sleeves up Abramm’s left arm first, then his right. At last it settled onto his shoulders, suddenly fluid and supple as if it were made of heavy silk. Startled and a little irked they’d made him use the awkward and uncomfortable practice garment, he turned his back to the chair and saw all three of the officials staring at the robe in open-mouthed surprise. Only then did he realize the wire practice robe really had borne a close approximation to the original. Until today.
    He sat in the simple wooden chair and the robe swirled like water around him, sending a chill of wonder up his spine. Meanwhile those in the royal gallery sat down in a symphony of creaking and rustling, followed by the rest of the audience in a vast, extended susurration. Abramm did not think that any in the audience, save perhaps those nobles closest to the front of the box, had noticed the robe’s change.
    He eyed the white gold weave draped over his thighs. What did it mean? Would he have Eidon’s special protection today?
    Laughter erupted in his skull, high-pitched and