The Broken Blade (45 page)

As the words sank into Eamon, he almost glanced back over his shoulder towards where Manners lay. He wondered just how long Lieutenant Manners had been a King's man.

“Well done, Mathaiah,” he whispered.

It was just after midday when they returned together to the palace. As they passed into the halls, weariness flooded through Eamon. He was overjoyed that Anderas and Manners both lived, but he knew that the King was right – there was still much to be done. The thought of it weighed strangely on him.

Hughan gazed at him. “Are you well, Eamon?”

Eamon blinked back an errant tear. “I am tired,” he answered. He could put no other words to what he felt, and knew that those he spoke could not describe it.

Hughan touched his shoulder. “You should rest for a while.”

“I promised that I would,” Eamon answered. “I will return to my chamber and do so.”

Hughan held his gaze for a moment. “Then I will send someone with food for you.”

“Thank you.”

They parted and Eamon made his way slowly to his room. To walk the corridors and see no flash of black, nor feel the creeping fear of the throned behind him, was strange. He walked lost in thought.

He was alive. It was the first thing he did not understand. He did not know how close to death he had come when Ladomer had struck him, or where he had wandered when the darkness fell over him. The thought of the silver river shivered through him and he tried to recapture the sounds of the songs that he had heard; they seemed beyond his grasp.

He had chosen to return from that place, and the King's grace
had undone all that had been done to his body. To a looking eye he had to seem whole and well, healed and graced, and yet he did not feel it.

Did it matter how he felt? The King walked in Dunthruik. Had that not always been what he had dreamed of seeing? He thought once more of the blue banner caught atop the palace tower and of the blue that he himself now wore. Had that not been what he had always wanted? Had he not achieved what had been asked of him?

He had. And yet in his heart a brooding disquiet lingered, and to it he could give no name.

Wearily he paused in the corridor, catching his breath by a window. The air was filled with the sounds of the city – sounds different from any that he had heard before. The smell of the sea wafted towards him.

Hughan had spoken of the long way that they had yet to go. Victory was short, and as Eamon thought on it – on the dead who lay upon the field and in the city, and on Ladomer's bloodless face – he wondered whether it could ever be sweet.

He sighed and let the air from the window pass over him. Perhaps it was not Hughan's victory that was bitter; perhaps it was his own heart. But should he not be content? What cause had he, First Knight to the King, for bitterness?

More, his burdened heart answered him, than he would like to confess.

He shook the burgeoning thoughts from himself as a man might ward away a chill. Coming to the last stretch of corridor he stopped again.

Why should he not go to her?

He found himself retracing his steps along palace corridors, threading his way past servants and King's men and towards those quarters where he knew the women would be. Surely, if Alessia was anywhere, then she would be near Aeryn?

He stepped out into the last hall separating him from the women's rooms. Then he froze, slipping back into the shadows of the doorway.

A group of women spoke quietly to each other, encased in light from the tall embrasures. He could not hear what they said. Their voices melted into the warm air.

She was there. She was smiling.

His body froze, turning his limbs to those of a statue. What could he possibly say to her? And…

How was it that she smiled?

A deep ache seized him. Weary beyond his years, he left the hall.

 

He returned to his room and sank onto the bed, dazed. He didn't know how to approach her. What if she spurned him? What if, even after hearing him, she still would not allow him to make amends?

What if all he brought her was pain – how could he do that to her again? The thoughts stoked his sorrow.

Not long later there was a knock at his door. Ma Mendel came in, bringing food on a small wooden tray.

“Am I disturbing your rest, sir?”

“No,” Eamon answered, grateful for the distraction. Ma Mendel set the tray down on the small table.

“It isn't much, I'm afraid.”

“I'm sure it will be more than adequate,” Eamon answered. He knew too well that the city's reserves were low following the blockade. He was impressed that Hughan had managed to get any kind of food distribution going at all.

“I'll leave you to eat and rest then,” Ma Mendel said.

Eamon nodded. “Thank you, Mrs Mendel.”

The smiling lady curtseyed to him and then left. Eamon gazed at the closed door for long moments in silence. He resolved that the best thing he could do was to press Alessia from his mind. He needed time to think.

It was when he looked down at the tray that he found that, in the silence, he had been rubbing the palm of his hand.

 

The palace halls were busy that afternoon when Eamon passed down them back towards the King's meeting room in the East Wing. He nervously resettled the cloak on his shoulders.

He was warmly greeted by the guards at the room's doors, and more heartily received by the men already gathered inside. The room was still in a state of movement as the King's advisors and allies arrived, a shifting sea of blue and orange and green, a universe of suns and stars. It stole his breath away.

As Eamon paused and looked at them, Ithel stepped over to him.

“It promises to be an interesting afternoon,” the Easter told him.

“How so?”

Ithel tilted his head. “There are some differences in opinion,” he answered, before excusing himself and going to take his place at the table.

Eamon frowned. Before he had time to ponder the Easter's words further, the King stood beside him. “Are you feeling better?”

“A little,” Eamon replied. “Where would you have me sit?”

“Next to me,” Hughan answered, gesturing to a place at the right of the table's head.

Eamon felt a terrible press in his heart as he looked at the empty seat. Part of him, being commanded by the King, would take it and sit for the sake of the command, without accepting the honour and love of him who gave it. Part of him looked at the place, and while asking whether he could dare sit in it, also asked another question: Was he now simply Hughan's right hand, to be used no differently to Edelred's?

“Eamon?” Hughan watched him intently.

He blinked and met the King's gaze.

“Are you well?”

“Sire,” Eamon answered uneasily, “I don't feel that I can…” he trailed off then shook his head angrily. “This is ridiculous, Hughan,” he whispered, turning so that the others in the room could not see the anguish on his face. “I have every reason for joy. Why is it that I am plagued with fear? How can I sit at your right hand when
these…” his words failed him and he spread his hands in frustration, “these
thoughts
will not permit me to do so with a clear heart?”

Hughan flinched neither from his tone nor his words. He touched his shoulder.

“The battle for the heart of Dunthruik begins here, in this room, on this day,” he said quietly. “It will be a more difficult battle than any fought upon a plain, or in a city, or in the passages of a darkened wing. When men march to battle on a field, they have swords in their hands and banners to fly above their heads; they know their enemy and they know what they must do. When the field becomes a room of men, when the banners are hung on the walls and the swords are sheathed, knowing what to do – having a clear heart – is more difficult. But, perhaps more than the first, it is also a place for courage.”

The King's gaze held Eamon. “First Knight,” Hughan told him, “the seat I offer you is a place of honour, but it is no place of rest. There may come times when speaking from it is more difficult than anything you have ever done for me. Yet be encouraged; there is no man more clear-hearted to whom I would rather entrust it.”

Eamon watched him for a long moment. To stand for Hughan had taken almost every part of his courage; to sit for him would take as much, and maybe more.

Nodding once, he quietly moved to take his place at the King's right, men watching him as he did. The other Easter lords and King's men stood behind their chairs. Five, set at the far end of the table, stood empty. Eamon realized that they were reserved for the Gauntlet's representatives.

Hughan lifted his voice towards the guards posted just inside the door. “Call in the Gauntlet speakers.”

Moments later they came. Eamon turned to see them – five men, each of them wearing the Gauntlet's full insignia. He recognized all of them. The five men stood behind the empty seats.

“Would you give your names?” Hughan asked. One of the notaries at the table began to write.

“Captain Andreas Anderas of the East Quarter,” said Anderas, the first in the line. “I speak for the East and for each regional division stationed in it prior to the battle.”

“Captain Tomas Longroad of the North Quarter,” spoke the second. Eamon was glad to see him alive. “I speak for the North and each regional division stationed in it prior to the battle.”

“First Lieutenant Ronnel Fletcher,” spoke the third, “former lieutenant to the Right Hand. I speak for the South Quarter, from which I came, for each division stationed there prior to the battle, and for those who served in the palace guard.” Eamon wondered whether the man had been promoted on the field. He remembered the way that Fletcher had armed him for battle. The man could never have imagined whom he armed, or for what purpose.

“General Sir Enbern Rocell,” spoke the fourth. “I speak for the knights and nobles at arms of this city.”

“General Alduin Waite,” spoke the last. He stood proudly, his head raised. His arm hung in a sling and his determined face looked pale. “I speak for the West Quarter, and for any division stationed there prior to the battle. As commander of the Gauntlet, I also speak for any divisions not present in the city at this time.” Waite did not meet Eamon's gaze. It turned his heart with sadness.

Hughan gestured to his own men: Alnos and Leon. Both men had several aides with them. The Easters were also a formidable presence at the table: Anastasius, Feltumadas, Ithel, and Ylonous. Last of all was Eamon himself. He tried to keep his voice steady as he gave his name:

“Eamon Goodman, First Knight to Hughan Brenuin.” The Gauntlet officers stared at him as he said it.

“Thank you all, and welcome,” Hughan said. He gestured to the chairs about the table. “Please be seated.”

As with one motion, all those in the room sat. A couple of the Easters – Feltumadas in particular – eyed the Gauntlet officers with distrust.

“Let the council be advised,” Hughan began, “that these officers have come on behalf of many, and that their surrenders have already
been accepted. As such, they will be treated with respect.” The King's gaze took in the whole table. “This meeting,” he added, “will discuss the expiating of guilt and disbanding of the Gauntlet.”

A heavy silence fell on the room. Disbanding the Gauntlet was necessary – Eamon knew that perhaps better than any of them – but as the words were spoken, he looked at the red uniforms that the officers bore, and the thought saddened him. In that moment the red jackets had about them a tragic grandeur.

“The Gauntlet is guilty of nothing more than following its orders,” Waite said. His voice was firm but tired.

“The Gauntlet was bound to Edelred in foul oaths,” Leon countered. “It bears his mark and his guilt, and killed all those who stood against it.”

“Haven't you done the same?” Waite asked, his eyes flashing angrily. “More men of ours than yours lie dead upon the field.”

“Any of your men would have been better left to the dogs than the earth's embraces,” Feltumadas retorted. “And so they would have been, had matters been left in my hands.”

“Then I thank the house of Brenuin that it saw fitter than to follow your suggestion,” Waite replied, his eyes passing to the King. “But I shall thank it for little else.”

Eamon's heart churned. Could the general not see that the King was true, truer than any other man?

Waite's gaze passed over his. The general's expression grew harder. It was an unpleasant blow and Eamon bore it in silence.

“The Gauntlet and the knights committed atrocities in Edelred's name,” Hughan said quietly, “and not only in times of war. They have long been agents of torment and oppression against the people of this realm. The blood that has been spilled must be answered for.”

“Did you not guarantee us our lives, Star of Brenuin?” Waite asked. “Or is your mercy in going back on your word?”

“My word holds. This city has seen too many culls and too much bloodshed,” Hughan continued, squarely matching Waite's gaze. “In place of blood for blood, I would have the Gauntlet answer
for what has been done in coin, as was done in times long before Edelred took the throne. The Gauntlet's payment will be used to repair the city and to assist the people of the River Realm. Some will go to the Easter lords.”

“Blood money,” Waite said quietly. For a moment his face was caught between an expression of disgust and relief. “Tell me, O Star: how much are we to pay?”

“Each serving man shall pay sixty crowns.”

Eamon blinked – it was half a year's wages for most Gauntlet. Though it would not be impossible for them to pay, it would be difficult.

“That is a harsh sum,” Waite replied.

“It is no recompense for the sons of my land that have been slain,” Anastasius answered grimly, “nor can it ever answer for those lives lost in the Pit, or the lives of your own people.”

“Not every life lost to the hands of the Gauntlet was lost unfairly.” It was Anderas who spoke. “Not every man killed by the Gauntlet was a servant of the King, and not every man killed was innocent. Some were thieves and murderers who cared nothing either for Edelred or for the house of Brenuin. Those men we dealt with also. Do not forget that the Gauntlet has been an instrument of the law.”