The King's Hand (5 page)

Eamon glanced guiltily at his hands. “You don't remember anything because of me. I did this to you. I'm sorry.”

“Did I make you angry?” Giles smiled. “People tell me things, sometimes, about before. Most of them seem to agree that I often made people angry.”

“You did, but I shouldn't have… Giles, I am so sorry.”

“Were we friends before?” The question was sudden; Eamon thought he caught a glimpse of the man's old suspicion.

“I'm afraid that we weren't,” he answered slowly.

“And was there a reason for that?”

“Yes.”

“Well I don't remember it!” Giles laughed out loud. Eamon offered a timid smile.

“I will forget it,” he said. Relief washed over him.

“Good. Why are you wearing black?” Giles asked.

“I came from Dunthruik. I was serving there.”

“Oh! What is Dunthruik like?”

Eamon looked to Hughan. “You must have many things that you need to do,” he said. “May I stay with Giles for a while?”

The King watched with a smile. “Of course.”

 

Eamon stayed with Giles for a long time. He told the man about Dunthruik, about the towers, the city streets, and the Four Quarters, about the Hands and the Gauntlet. Giles listened intensely and asked questions about almost everything.

“Are you a Hand?” he asked at last.

“Yes,” Eamon told him.

“But you serve Hughan?”

“Yes.”

Giles nodded, as though the idea was entirely acceptable. Eamon laughed.

During the morning, Ma Mendel passed to bring Eamon his gloves. She stayed until he had put them on before leaving to tend to other business. A servant, sent by the King, brought them food at midday, and they ate together. Giles spoke about the borders and the cities that he remembered: crowded streets full of markets and small, lithe ships that danced along the coast to trade with the River Realm and the other merchant states. He told Eamon about the long years of unrest and war at the north borders, and about the day when he had first met the Gauntlet in battle. The enemy had surrounded a convoy of wood and demanded it. When the merchants refused, the Gauntlet had destroyed the line and taken everything.

“It's mountainous country there,” Giles said, “and not easy terrain for a fight. I think I killed a lot of men that day.” He frowned and flexed his big hands, his fingers still showing good memory of holding a sword. But the gesture seemed strange to him; he shook it away. “There were many battles. I was injured in one and that's when I met Hughan. I don't know why he was there.” He lowered his voice. “They say he's a king. Sometimes I'm not sure if I believe that – or if he should be King.” He looked curiously at Eamon. “What do you think?”

Eamon met his gaze. “I believe he is the King.”

Giles fell asleep during the early afternoon and Eamon sat beside him. Speaking with the man was a humbling experience. He wondered how it was that Giles had any part of his mind left after what he had done to him. Eamon gazed down at his hands, remembering the red light. Surely only Hughan could have brought the broken man back from the brink to which he had pressed him?

He fell asleep until a noise drew him back. Through sleep-fogged eyes he saw a young woman enter the tent. A moment later he recognized her.

“Lillabeth!” he breathed, rising quietly. She could not have reached the camp much before him.

“Mr Goodman,” she greeted, and smiled.

“How are you?” Eamon asked, feeling the question was woefully inadequate.

“Safe,” she told him. He watched her for a moment, and then she spoke again. “I came to find you. Lady Connara wants to see you.”

Eamon gasped. “Aeryn is here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don't call me sir!” Eamon answered. He noticed a glint of silver on her hand. “What is that?”

“A ring, sir,” she began – but before she could finish Eamon took her hand. Trembling, he stared at the silver ring. It looked familiar, so familiar…

“Who gave you this?” he whispered, but he knew the answer as well as he knew the ring. He had but two days ago pressed its fellow into Mathaiah's hand.

“My husband.”

Eamon reeled.

Of course she was Mathaiah's wife – how could he have been so dull as not to have guessed it? Had he but had the eyes to see past his own tempests he would have seen long ago that his ward adored her.

He had condemned Mathaiah to the Pit.

Guilt quivered through him. “Lillabeth –”

Mindful of Giles, she caught his hand and led him out of the tent. The setting sun covered their faces. Eamon began shivering.

Lillabeth pressed his hands between hers. “Please, Mr Goodman,” she whispered, her voice alive with urgency. “How is he? How is Mathaiah?”

“Lillabeth, I…” Her eyes searched his. Eamon struggled to find words that might strengthen her. “He knows that you are safe. I am… I am so proud of him, Lillabeth. He has stood firm and true, even against the throned himself.” He paused, and swallowed. “They took him to the Pit.”

Lillabeth clenched her eyes. “Oh Mathaiah –”

“He is not dead,” Eamon hastened. “I went to him. I saw him two days ago. He is alive; they cannot break him.”

“You went to him…” Awe filled her face. “You… went down… to the Pit?”

“Yes.”

“For him?”

“Yes.”

She stared, stunned.

Eamon took her hand. “When I go back to the city I mean to free him. I'll bring him to you,” he said. “I swear it.”

“No, Eamon.” Lillabeth offered him a sad, quivering smile. “Do not swear it. Do not bind yourself to sorrow. He… he may not live.”

There was wisdom in her words. He tried to hear it.

“Very well; I'll not swear it. But do not resign yourself to sorrow – he may not die.”

Lillabeth nodded. As she pressed tears from her eyes she pressed her other hand across her belly, and shuddered.

The gesture shook him with the force of deafening thunder. She had been so pale and weary when he took her from Alessia's house…

Seizing the girl's hand once more he looked deep into her eyes.

“Lillabeth?”

She seemed to know his question before he asked it. There was no need for a word to be spoken. She nodded.

Joy and sorrow pulsed through him with wild force. Before him stood Mathaiah's wife, the one who would bear Mathaiah's child. He had no words to say.

Footsteps passed nearby; he became aware of soldiers. Turning, he saw Lord Feltumadas. The Easter glared at him.

“Lord Feltumadas,” Eamon said carefully, and bowed low.

“Why aren't you being guarded?” the Easter demanded.

“I do not need guarding, my lord.”

Feltumadas came forward, his face dark. “I would guard my tone, if I were you,
Hand
.” His eyes fell on Lillabeth. She had shrunk to Eamon's side at his fierce approach. Feltumadas jeered. “Here less than a day, and already you procure yourself a wench?”

Eamon stared incredulously. “I am accustomed to hearing such things in Dunthruik, my lord, but scarcely thought that I should hear them from the lips of one allied to the King!”

“I scarcely thought to find the Star of Brenuin allying himself to a treacherous slave of the Usurper,” Feltumadas countered.

“That's enough.”

Eamon looked up as Lord Ithel walked towards them.

Feltumadas scowled. “Tell me that the truth is otherwise than as I see it!” he hissed.

Ithel fixed him with a firm gaze. “I shall not gainsay you, but do not speak from rage.”

Feltumadas shot Eamon a dark look, and laughed disparagingly. “My head!” he exclaimed. Glowering, he stalked away.

Eamon watched him go, blood returning to his veins.

“I apologize to you both,” Ithel said.

“Thank you, my lord,” Lillabeth whispered.

Eamon glanced at Ithel. “Lord Feltumadas is the commander of the Easter army?”

“He answers to his father,” Ithel sighed. “His uncle commanded it before him. Lord Feltumadas was in charge of a cavalry banner. Not two weeks ago there was a battle, and Feltumadas was surprised and in danger. His uncle led the charge that rescued him, but lost his life. Lord Anastasius, rightfully, put his son in his brother's place. Feltumadas has a fine mind but a grieved temper – he was as fond of his uncle as of his own brothers. It was a Hand who killed his uncle.” Ithel offered Eamon an apologetic smile. “Feltumadas killed the Hand.”

Eamon's blood ran cold. “Thank you for your intervention.”

“I know my brother well,” Ithel replied.

Ithel excused himself and returned to his duties. Eamon turned back to Lillabeth. As the Easters retreated, she drew herself upright and let out a long breath.

“Are you well?”

Lillabeth nodded. “They remind me of the Hands,” she answered with a small smile. Eamon laughed; he had thought the same.

Lillabeth began leading the way across the camp.

“Sir,” she said, “have you any news of Lady Turnholt?”

Eamon felt his face darkening. “I'm sorry, Lillabeth,” he said at last. “I do not.”

She did not ask again.

They passed the King's tent – Eamon wondered if he heard raised voices within – before arriving at another. It was also blue, rimmed with silver, a banner waving at its top. Several guards stood outside, and they looked at him suspiciously as they approached. On speaking with Lillabeth, however, they permitted entrance.

The tent was large, much like the King's, and a figure sat at a desk within it. She was writing with a gracious and steady hand.

“Lady Connara,” Lillabeth began, curtseying as the lady turned. “I've brought Lord Goodman.”

“Thank you, Lillabeth,” Aeryn answered, rising. Eamon stared, marvelling at both her beauty and her grace.

“You are truly worthy to be a queen,” he breathed as she approached.

She took his hands. “You've grown strangely eloquent since you went away,” she told him.

“I wasn't before?”

“I had forgotten it,” Aeryn conceded.

They embraced and, for a moment, Eamon imagined they were back in Edesfield, exulting in some petty victory at the Star. But when he opened his eyes they were still in the tent, and the victory was far away.

“By your leave, my lady.” A nod from her, and Lillabeth left.

“Come and sit down,” Aeryn told him. Encouraged by her gentleness, Eamon followed.

They sat together and she watched him for a long time. “I don't believe it,” she said at last, and shook her head. “You're a Hand.”

Eamon blushed. He wished that he could tear the cloak off and burn it. Aeryn touched his arm in comfort.

“It's all right.”

“I don't know how Hughan can see fit to trust me,” Eamon told her. How could anybody trust him?

“But he does.”

“What if he's making a mistake?”

“He isn't.”

“How do you know?”

Aeryn smiled at him, and he tried to let himself fall into the two blue pools of confidence that were her eyes. But he could not. Looking at her, he suddenly remembered Alessia.

“
If you ever loved me you will hear me now…
”

He turned sharply away.

“Eamon?” Aeryn touched his arm again. “Eamon, what is it?”

He drew a shuddering breath; he had to stay calm. It was not Aeryn's fault…

But his hurt would not be quelled. “They know everything!” he cried at last. “The throned knows everything. If I don't take back Feltumadas's head he'll kill every man who has ever served under me. And how does the throned know everything?” He grew quiet and looked away. “I let myself be seduced, Aeryn. I let myself believe that a woman…
loved
me, and I told her everything.
I had to
.” His voice shook. “You have to understand I… I couldn't bear it alone. I had already lost Mathaiah.” Ravenous grief rose inside him.

Aeryn pressed his arm.

“Now Mathaiah is in the Pit,” Eamon wept, “and I learn that his wife and unborn child are here. For my treachery, she will be widowed and her child fatherless. And I have to go back to Dunthruik, where I can bring only death, and I have failed the King.” Sobs swallowed him. He plunged his face into his hands. “I was supposed to be the First Knight, Aeryn. First
blight
is more like it!”

“You have not failed the King,” Aeryn told him. “He loves you. He trusts you.”

He tried to believe her. It was true, wasn't it? Hadn't Hughan shown how true it was?

It grew dark outside. After a time, Aeryn rose.

“Do you want to walk?”

Eamon looked at her. It was a question he had often asked her when they were young and she was upset. She smiled. He nodded.

They left the tent. The cool evening air soothed his face; he was glad that none could see the grief marks there. Aeryn led him through the quieter parts of the camp, where most men were absorbed in finding supper. For a long time they walked in silence.

“What was her name?” she asked at last.

“Alessia. Alessia Turnholt.” A shiver ran through him. He sought her gaze. “How could you not know her name?”

“I knew her name,” Aeryn answered, “but I had yet to hear it spoken by one who knows her.”

“I knew her,” Eamon whispered. His heart began to ache.

“Did you love her?”

He didn't answer – he didn't know.

Aeryn listened to his silence, and understood it. She slipped her hand into his. “What was she like?”

For a long time he could not answer her. “She was beautiful, Aeryn,” he said at last. “Oh, she was dawn in a dark land, dawn to me.” He thought longingly of Alessia's long hair, her deep eyes, her silken touch –

Her tears. Her treachery.