The King's Hand (30 page)

“I imagine that sometimes you think she is too careful, or fussy, or grown up,” Eamon added, and the boy smiled again. “But I want you to remember something. When you are outside this house, or serving someone other than me, take all of her caution to heart. She is wise.”

The boy pulled a curious face, but then nodded. “Yes, Lord Goodman.”

A look that was part fear and part relief passed over the girl's face. She seemed no more than sixteen years old.

“That will be all,” Eamon said.

“Thank you, Lord Goodman.” Cara curtseyed, took her brother's hand, reminded him quietly to bow, and then led him from the room. The door closed behind them.

He was alone.

Eamon breathed slowly and deeply. The fears of the day began milling in his breast. What kind of Hand was he?

The fire cracked in the corner, casting strange shadows over the room. He drifted to the threshold of his wonted grief.

He shuddered. How easy it would be to give reign to his returning grief and horror, to permit them possession of the manor of his mind – to cast it down utterly. For Mathaiah was dead, and Alessia…

Eamon touched at his stinging eyes. Mathaiah was dead. Lillabeth was widowed. Her child was without a father, and its gift at birth would be grief.

You are to blame.
The voice appeared at last, a familiar and bitter friend.
Remember his face, eyeless and bloody! That was your doing. His wife will hate you. His child will loathe you. There will never be peace between the house of Grahaven and you, Eben's son.

“But we had peace.” Eamon was filled with the song from the Pit, remembering it with startling clarity. He remembered Mathaiah and how they had spoken to each other and embraced.

They had been at peace. They had both known that their lives could be lost. Not lost – given. Mathaiah had given his life for his “awesome King alone”, fearing nothing. Eamon was suddenly sure of it, and it brought him courage. Mathaiah was dead and there was sorrow in Eamon's heart, but he would no longer be in thrall to grief and rage.

“We had peace, voice of Edelred!” he spoke it out, more defiantly this time. “Peace! He has peace. The King's grace went before him. And while the King's grace holds, so will his name.”

So you believe,
Eben's son!

Shaking, Eamon sat heavily on the bed. It was soft. Alessia's face assailed him, twisted in treacherous glee. The wrenching stab of her betrayal tore him.

What of her, Eben's son? She warms another's bed while your ward burns. She said that she loved you, and you believed her! Remember her touch, son of Eben, and how you adored it!

Eamon cried out angrily as he forced the images from his mind. Each time he tried, the voice of Edelred pushed them back to him.

She betrayed you. She betrayed your ward. You may have peace with him, but you can never have peace with her. You may posture as you wish, and cover your wretched heart with lofty pretensions, but you are mine – and you will not have peace in this quarter, Eben's son.

Eamon's mind was awhirl, teeming with all the voices of the day – those that had disparaged him and loathed him – and every gaze that had gaped at him, the fool who had served
two
crowns.

You are my Hand, son of Eben.

Courage, Eamon. Peace.

Eamon mustered all his will to latch on to the quiet voice. With its encouragement, he pushed back the images of Alessia and the memory of Mathaiah's broken face.

“There is no place for you here, voice of Edelred,” he breathed at last. “I am under the King's grace. Take your lies and leave.”

Silence came, filling the room and Eamon's mind with calm. He sat still, drinking it in like a tonic. The fire crackled softly.

He took off his heavy cloak and ring, setting them on the table and chair by his bed. With them he set his sword belt and his black jacket. Slowly he laid himself back on the bed, allowing its covers to enfold him. There were leaves traced into the wooden posts, and, as he lay looking at them, the fire sounded like a wind-swayed wood.

He was the Lord of the East Quarter. He bore the mark of the throned but was given strength by the King's grace. By that grace Mathaiah had faced death, and, by it, Eamon meant to remember his promises to the King, and serve Dunthruik.

C
HAPTER
XVI

T
he eighteenth of March dawned warm, and the Coll was flushed with men and women going about their business. The winter waned and the first ships struck west across the sea from Dunthruik's port to Etraia and Anouria – two merchant states closely allied to the throned.

Many of those who walked the Coll that morning bore bags, baskets, or children. The cries of hopeful merchants echoed in the air, alongside the sounds of trotting horses and marching men, as Gauntlet patrols went about the city. The Four Quarters shone in the sunlight, glistening where the night's rain had touched its stones.

Eamon had never been terribly proficient at walking on wet cobbles, and much of the Coll was paved with slabs of stone made particularly slippery after rain. He carefully minded his footing as he worked his way up the bustling road. It was about the second hour. Though it would not appear so to any who looked at him, beneath his cloak and robes Eamon wore all of his courage. Streaks of sunlight passed over him as he wove his way across the Four Quarters. Green blades peeped up between the stones, daring the cold cobbles with as much courage as he did. Spring had arrived. The King would follow.

He walked with confidence and greeted all who passed him, regardless of whether or not they met his gaze. Many might have looked at him with contempt were it not for his black robes and the golden ring upon his hand.

“Lord Goodman!”

Eamon looked up and saw a group of young men come down the Coll, no doubt returning to the West Quarter College from duty at the palace.

The cadets were his old group, the Third Banners. What must they think of him, now that ill was spoken of him? He was reluctant to meet their gazes.

“Good morning, gentlemen.”

To his surprise, the Third Banners replied with an almost exultant “Good morning”, in chorus.

“Congratulations on your quarter, Lord Goodman!” Manners called.

“Thank you, Mr Manners.” The cadet's words bolstered Eamon's resolve to press his steps on to where they had to go. “Gentlemen, it is a pleasure to see you. Please give my warmest regards to Captain Waite.”

The cadets affirmed his request with a round of smart bows, and they parted.

As he passed up the road, calls echoed from the port: vessels were docking, for the merchants had begun their perilous routes even earlier than usual. Soon Dunthruik would be flooded with wares from the south and west. Perhaps the ships would also bring much needed grain; he had heard that winter in the merchant west had not been as severe as in Dunthruik. Besides which, Etraia had always supplied the River Realm with grain.

As he approached the palace gates, his cloak snapping behind him in the sea-whipped wind, he remembered Captain Anderas's words at breakfast that morning:

“You're walking to the palace, my lord?”

“Yes.”

“You should ride – you're a Quarter Hand.”

“One who couldn't ride even if someone paid him half a crown –”

“You rode when you went to capture the Easter's head!”

“ – and one whose horse is lost somewhere along the River.”

“The latter can be remedied easily enough,” Anderas laughed. “You have a whole stable
full
of horses! As for the former, you know how to ride.”

“A feat better left to the knights.” Even at the time he knew it was a poor excuse. “And I will walk.”

“I will teach you.”

“
I will walk.
”

“For today, maybe,” Anderas smiled conspiratorially, “but not next time.”

“My, you are insistent, captain!”

“Will you be taught?”

“Yes, captain.”

“Good. And did you sleep well last night?”

“Yes,” Eamon had answered. And he had.

 

Eamon stood at the palace gates, the sculptured archways yawning back at him, an imposing mass of stone and eagles and crowns. Beyond them he saw the Royal Plaza, the enormous square stretching back to the palace's main façade, to the Master's balcony. He kept walking.

The Gauntlet guards at the gate let him pass. Soon he trod the familiar stones across the Royal Plaza to the palace steps. Men led horses into the nearby stables. They were messengers from other parts of the River, the badges of distant Gauntlet colleges and regions marking their uniforms.

The shadow of the Master's balcony fell on him as he climbed the steps, and once again the guards at the doors saluted him. He had climbed those same steps with Alessia on the night of the masque; his footing faltered as a wash of memory soaked through him. He had been dressed in blue, with a sword and star at his breast, and he had walked freely in that attire. Maybe one day he would wear its like and climb these steps again. On that day, would the King walk with him? Would he, one day, look up to see pennants of the King's blue atop the palace towers?

His heart soared to think it. He stepped into the shade of the entrance hall, giddy with his imagining.

The cool air brought him back. He turned his steps from the jewelled hall and made his way along the corridor that led around to the throne room. The ring on his finger and the look on his face opened the way before him.

The corridor was long. The banners hung in the early light as dozens of woven witnesses to his bold stride; they shivered as he passed. Every step brought him closer to the throne room.

Do not be afraid, Eamon. You will know what to say.

Eamon walked on, the banners conducting him to the throne room.

A tall man stood at the door – the doorkeeper. For the first time Eamon saw him clearly – the man's hair was greying and he seemed to be in his late forties. He was robed all in red and his watchful eyes had a sharp glint. Red-tuniced and black-cloaked guards – guards from the Master's own house – and two Hands stood in the alcoves at the side of the corridor. The fanning banners shadowed them all.

“Lord Goodman,” the doorkeeper inclined his head. “What would you, my lord?”

“I would see the Master, doorkeeper.”

The doorkeeper bowed down low. “If you would wait a moment, Lord Goodman.” He turned to enter the throne room. Eamon caught sight of a blade among the man's robes. From the way that the man moved – indeed, from his very look – Eamon imagined that the Master's doorkeeper knew well how to use it.

The Hands and other guards watched him as he waited. He kept his head aloft and did not look at them.

Perhaps he should go back. What if the Master's eyes seared right through him?

You will know what to say, Eamon.

The doors drew open and the doorkeeper bowed to him again.

“The Master will see you, Lord Goodman.” Eamon felt the words slicing his resolve.

“Thank you, doorkeeper.” Drawing breath, he stepped past the bowing man and into the throne room. The doors closed smoothly behind him.

Eamon stood upon the entry platform. The sun was high, and the long room lit in every part. It threw back beams of gold, and arch-light from the high balconies flooded the ruddy floor with fire.

The Master was seated in his throne, the last jewel to deck that grisly artifice. A heavy crown sat in the red hair. Eamon met the grey eyes.

“Approach, son of Eben.”

The Master, the throned, Edelred spoke, his voice dripping with indulgence. The traces of a smile played upon the man's face.

Eamon walked steadily across the long hall. His steps echoed. The throned's fearsome grey gaze bored into his brow until his whole face felt hollowed by it. It burnt at him as though with fire. The ring on his hand grew heavier. His heart snagged.

Courage, Eamon.

He reached the foot of the throne and there he bent his knee.

“Master,” he said, bowing his head. “To your glory.”

“The early bird strikes the Serpent.” The Master's voice was cool and thunderous. “You are early indeed.”

Eamon swallowed. What would he say? “I have not been early of late, Master,” he answered at last.

“Speak.”

The command struck Eamon's soul, and for a moment all his courage, so fickle in its staying power, vanished. His knee trembled where it touched the ground and his throat grew dry.

At once, Eamon thought that he should never have come. It was folly! The throned knew everything – the voice of Edelred knew what had sourced and succoured Eamon's grief. Surely the Master knew it, too? All he would reap was humiliation and death. He should rise and leave, begging forgiveness for his coming.

If the Master truly knew, would he not already have been killed?

As he struggled in his thought, his head stayed bowed. The Master's eyes always watched him. While they did he could never…

Eamon – speak fearlessly.

He raised his head. The grey eyes watched him indeed, piercing his own like daggers, but at last he met them.

“Master,” Eamon said, and as he spoke his voice became clearer. “In your great glory and majesty you bestowed upon me an honour that I scarcely deserved; it is one that I have not repaid. I did not withhold my service willingly, but the fact remains that you have not been served by me. I have come, Master, to give account of myself, craving your clemency for the pardoning of my fault, your justice in the punishment which I must bear for it, and your grace to let me sow anew your will in me, that your glory would be shown indeed.”

There was a long silence. Eamon's heart pounded. The words were his and yet came from somewhere deeper and stronger than his heart could bear. The piercing grey gaze filled his whole sight, daring him to flee, but Eamon held. He had just to hold that gaze. Though it might search him and try him and tempt him to treachery, he need only hold it.