Shadow Over Kiriath by Karen Hancock

legends have been concocted, exaggerations based on a kernel of truth.”
    “Rather like your own tale of having faced a morwhol.”
    Abramm lowered his fork with its uneaten mouthful back to his plate and turned to his Chesedhan guest, regarding him steadily for a long moment. Madeleine sat motionless between them, her gaze fixed upon her salad. Abramm was trying hard not to admit he disliked this man—he was about to marry his sister, after all, a decision the Chesedhan banners he’d seen in that Light-given vision had confirmed. But Leyton reminded him far too much of Gillard: the condescension in his tone, the half-lidded manner he had of looking at a man, the way he always seemed to be playing some mental game.
    Unable to decide if Leyton truly believed he had made up the tale of the morwhol or was just trying to bait him, Abramm decided to let it go and kept to the subject at hand. “Your people have long held our regalia to be more than they are, I fear,” he said quietly.
    Leyton’s bushy blond brows shot up. “How can you even say that, sir? When everything that’s happened today has only proven you have no idea what you have. Did any of you expect the regalia to manifest as they did? You didn’t even know what your crown really was, hidden beneath the gold and jewels your ancestors laid over top of it! How can you accuse us of making your artifacts more than they are when you obviously have no idea what they are to begin with?”
    Abramm’s irritation spiked, fueled as much by Leyton’s audacity as from the humbling recognition that he was right. Abramm had had no idea the orb was a purveyor of kelistars, hadn’t known the true crown was the simple plaiting he now wore—hadn’t known that all of it would produce a grand vision he still did not know how to interpret. That he’d seen the Esurhites heading into Graymeer’s just about the time they’d actually done it still astonished him. And at the same time did not help him understand the rest of what he’d seen, since save for the stream of galleys leaving what looked like the Gull Islands, none clearly unfolded in present time. He wondered again if Maddie had participated in any of it, if she might be able to help him figure it out, and then—suddenly and stunningly—he considered whether she might have told Leyton what she’d seen.
    Something in Abramm’s expression must’ve communicated his displeasure, for Leyton looked suddenly chagrined. “Your pardon, sir,” he murmured, the intensity leaking out of his manner. “I fear I have been overbold.”
    “Indeed,” Abramm agreed. He thought of asking the man flat out if he’d come to steal the regalia—just to get his reaction—then decided there’d be no point in deliberately provoking him.
    “I get excited when I think about the possibilities,” the prince said.
    “Perhaps, then, you would do well not to think in that vein,” Abramm advised. “Whatever they are meant to do or be, they belong to Kiriath, not Chesedh, to be used by Eidon to confirm the man he chooses as king. Which he has done.”
    For a moment the amused light in Leyton’s eye flickered out, replaced by a flat expression impossible to read. Irritation? A grudging respect where none had been before? Or a cool calculation that was not at all friendly?
    Abruptly Leyton’s half smile returned. “Well, Your Majesty, there’s certainly no question he’s demonstrated your place here.” And, bushy brows lifting in concert with his arm, he raised his goblet in toast, then took a second, longer draught from the vessel.
    Abramm turned his attention to his food as Leyton did likewise, utensils clinking against the fine porcelain. He hadn’t accused the Chesedhan of coveting outright, but he thought Leyton had gotten the message. Abramm truly hoped this treaty wasn’t a sham. Kiriath sorely needed the Chesedhans’ help. And if Chesedh was truly facing Belthre’gar and his armies, as rumors indicated, King Hadrich