Shadow Over Kiriath by Karen Hancock Page B

didn’t expect was the way Leyton suddenly related his own experiences to Abramm’s recent encounter with the morwhol. Incredibly, he truly did seem to believe it had actually been a bear and that Abramm was allowing the exaggerated tale to circulate unrefuted for the sake of winning his people’s support.
    “Bruin are fearsome enough predators in their own right, as I well know,” Donavan said. “Myself, I think I might rather face a morwhol than the big boar that just about nailed me up in the Laagernath five years ago.”
    And now, Prince, another big bore is about to nail me, right here in my very own banquet hall. . . .
    “Grizzle-backed, head large as wine keg, paws like dinner plates . . .”
    He waxed enthusiastically in the telling of his tale, as beside him, Madeleine loosed a quiet sigh of resignation. It wasn’t a bad story—save for wondering how much of it was true—until, incredibly, the man had the gall to suggest that had Abramm used the techniques just described he’d have escaped the grievous injuries he had sustained in his own battle.
    Leyton’s eyes darted briefly to the scars on Abramm’s face as he said this, and it took the king a moment to recover his poise enough to speak. “I’ll have to remember that the next time I find myself facing a bruin of that size, sir.”
    Between them, Madeleine was cutting another thin slice of meat, her expression grim, teeth clenched.
    “I think you will find it most helpful,” Leyton said smoothly. He paused to finish up his last bite of beef, then embarked on a new and even more tactless subject. “I understand you were quite the swordsman before your accident, sir.”
    Maddie’s fork twisted from her fingers and fell to her plate with a loud clank as she looked round at her brother in apparent astonishment—Abramm couldn’t see her face, only the tension in her shoulders.
    As always, Leyton seemed unaware of the clumsiness of his conversation and the offense it had given. “A pity,” he continued, shaking his head sadly. “I was hoping to cross blades with you sometime. When a man reaches a certain level of expertise, as I’m sure you know, it becomes difficult to find an opponent who can give you any kind of a contest at all.”
    Abramm shrugged. “Well, I haven’t given it up entirely. I’m sure a match could be arranged.”
    “Oh no, sir. I wouldn’t want to—” Leyton broke off.
    You wouldn’t want to embarrass me? “I practice daily, sir. It would be no problem. Besides, how could I let such a challenge pass unmet?”
    “Well, then . . . excellent! Perhaps I can even be of help in your rehabilitation. Whenever you wish to set it up, I’ll be happy to oblige.”
    Between them, Maddie loosed another sigh and picked up her fork.
    They were just finishing dessert when Ethan Laramor led a cadre of armsmen into the room—those in the lead carrying sturdy trestles, the six bringing up the rear bearing a platform with a large, lumpy burden covered with a linen sheet. Once the trestles were set up and the platform slid onto them, Abramm stood and the room fell into silence.
    He turned to the small group of border lords clustered at the front of the table farthest to his left, lamenting anew that more of their fellows weren’t in attendance. With the passes still closed, he’d known most would be unable to leave the highlands for his coronation, but in the end he’d traded the need to get it done before the Esurhites attacked against the need to bind the border lords to him. Now he half wished he’d waited. It would have been good if more of them could experience the coming revelation personally.
    “It has come to my attention,” he announced, “that when the workmen removed the Hasmal’uk stone from the Coronation Chair to transport it back to the vault after the ceremony, they found it had undergone a transformation.” He returned his gaze to the border lord. “Lord Ethan?”
    Laramor tugged the sheeting aside to reveal