The King's Hand (7 page)

Eamon turned cold. He was a divisive element in the King's camp. While he remained in it, he was a threat to Hughan's alliance with the Easters.

Leon appeared, wet and stinking, at Hughan's side. Eamon marvelled that the men with the power of command had themselves been aiding the dead and wounded. He could not imagine Cathair or Ashway doing the like.

“You sent for me, sire?”

“Yes, thank you.” Hughan's voice was quiet. He and Anastasius watched each other. “Please escort Eamon to some secure quarters.”

“Yes, sire.” Leon did not sound enthused with his charge.

Anastasius came forward suddenly. “He will be bound,” he snarled. “He will be guarded. He will be killed if he so much as steps out of place.”

Hughan looked across at him. “Eamon, will you agree to be bound and guarded?”

“Yes,” Eamon replied, shaking in the face of Anastasius's anger. “I will, if you ask it.”

“I ask it,” Hughan answered. The firelight touched their faces, but Eamon felt chilled to his core.

“I will go with Leon,” he said quietly.

Hughan laid his hand on Eamon's shoulder for a moment. “I promise you that you will not be harmed, First Knight,” he said, and looked firmly at the Easter lord. Anastasius bristled.

“Come with me,” Leon said.

Eamon nodded to the King and then allowed Leon to lead him away from the hellish remains of the bridge. Anastasius raised violent protests behind them. He wondered what Hughan could ever say to allay that anger.

As they walked he knew that every man they passed watched him, some murderously. It seemed to make no difference whether he strode through the streets of Dunthruik or whether he was led through the heart of the King's camp: looks of anger, jealousy, suspicion, and fear followed him. The sensation gnawed at him.

He glanced at Leon, who was drenched and muddied up to his shoulders. Eamon wished the man would say something to him – anything. Away from Hughan's support and even Anastasius's outrage, his confidence quailed.

Leon led him to the tent where he had slept the night before. Guards approached it – doubtless his guards. Their number was now greater – and grimmer – than it had been before.

“One will sit inside with you,” Leon said quietly. His voice was hoarse.

Eamon nodded. He did not speak for fear of betraying the terror that marked his limbs.

“The others will wait outside. Stay here until the King sends for you.”

Eamon swallowed. Leon's civility chilled him. He felt the man's sharp eyes driving into him. Did Leon think he was guilty?

Leon escorted him inside and gestured to the bed. Eamon went across to it, his hands still bound. Still, he counted himself fortunate that he was to be permitted to rest there, rather than being chained to the tent's central pillar for the night.

Another soldier, this an Easter, entered. Leon acknowledged him, bade Eamon a curt good night, and left.

Eamon stood for a few moments, staring at his guard. The man was tall and slim, with an angered look. Could he trust such a character not to kill him in his sleep?

The King's protection was over him. Surely, as long as the King's name held, none would dare to touch him or do him harm?

He offered the Easter a tired smile, uncomfortably twisted his bound hands, and tried to settle to sleep.

C
HAPTER
IV

H
e heard crying. While not broken, the voice was not as defiant as it had been when it had last touched his ears. It was burdened with the unyielding press of pain.

He was on the plain. Mist moved round him, obscuring his sight yet sharpening none of his senses in return. There were eyes in the dark, foes in the mere, watching him. A voice spoke to him, but he could not hear it clearly. There was no light.

Shadows passed; some jeered. One wore his own face, like a mask.

The mist parted, revealing a line of broken, bleeding bodies. They were cadets and soldiers, each familiar to him. As he gaped at them, a flaming river appeared and swallowed them, whirlpooling them away with the blackened remains of a bridge.

He reeled before that churning tide. The distant, crying voice was Mathaiah's.

 

He woke with a terrible start, drenched and shuddering. He murmured a name and reached out for something that was not there: her hand. He fell still in the heavy dark.

She was not there. She would never be again.

Somewhere nearby, he heard his guard breathing – the quiet breathing of an attentive watchman. He was glad the man could not see his face, for hot tears streamed down it. His hands throbbing against his bonds, he drew them up to where he had once kept the heart of the King.

He had grown accustomed to dreadful dreams, but this one lingered. His face marred with tears, he waited for the dawn.

The light outside grew grey. He did not know how long he lay there, clutching his breast and staring at the doorway – a threshold that he could not cross. His whole world was held in walls of canvas. In the half-light he saw the guard watching him. What thoughts passed behind the man's steady face?

You can discover them
, the voice urged.

He rolled over and clenched his eyes shut. He would not breach the man. His stomach turned at the thought of it. He never wanted to breach any man again.

But you will, Eben's son. And you will glorify me.

At last he heard movement outside but still he did not move. He did not want to get out of bed until he was sure that he was being summoned. He did not want to face his guard. He could speak no word without it being misconstrued.

The man who came for him was not Leon. His face was grim. Neither fact was encouraging.

The man looked at the guard. The Easter rose to his feet. Eamon noticed with a start that it was a different soldier from the one who had watched over him the night before. How could he not have heard a change in the watch?

“Has he given you any trouble?” The newcomer's voice was gravelled, as though he had not slept.

“No, sir.”

The man looked keenly across at Eamon. “Follow me, Lord Goodman.”

Eamon drew a deep breath and followed his escort.

They went again to the King's tent, Eamon conspicuous in his black trappings. He looked up at the fading stars and felt his blood run cold: it was the twenty-third of February.

In silence he followed the man into Hughan's tent, where a row of stony faces awaited him, all in the varying colours of the sun-marked Easter lords. He recognized Anastasius, Feltumadas, and Ithel – the former two struck him with a lethal glare.

Hughan stood at the head of the group, his face stern. He did not smile as he met Eamon's gaze. Eamon grew even more uncomfortable. Most of those in the tent were strangers to him, and Eamon was alarmed to see that some of them shook as he was brought before them. He suspected the source of their fear.

His escort dismissed, Eamon stood, alone, before the enemies of the throned.

Silently, he bowed down on one knee before Hughan. All words left him, but one thing he knew: he would not say that he was guilty.

“Sire,” he breathed.

The King was before him. “Will you stand, Eamon?”

Eamon looked up. Something about the King's face induced a sweeping wave of terror. “Is this a trial?” His voice was faint even in his own ears.

“It is a hearing,” Hughan answered. He nodded encouragingly, and Eamon rose slowly.

The King turned to the other men. “I know that this exercise will seem fruitless to many of you,” he began. “To most, this man was seen working treachery against us and that should be reason enough for me to command his death without delay.”

Eamon could see Anastasius bristling angrily and wondered how many times the Easter had brought those very words against Hughan during the night. He held his breath, as though his life hung by a thread.

Hughan's firm gaze passed over them. “To all of you, this man is a Hand, and a Hand alone. But still would I have you hear his words, treating them as you would treat the word of any man here.” The King turned to him. Eamon's heart raced. “Eamon, tell us where you were yesterday evening.”

“I was with Giles during the day. Yesterday evening, I was walking with Lady Connara.”

Shocked looks passed through the gathered men.

“What business does a Hand have with the Star's bride?” Feltumadas spat indignantly, his gaze smouldering.

Eamon drew a deep breath. Feltumadas's powerful gaze drilled into him. Meeting it, he knew that much rested on his answer.

“She knew me long before I first knelt to the throned,” he answered softly.

“Your queen would count a Hand among her friends?” Anastasius's chilling voice rose above the outrage of the crowd.

“He is my friend also,” Hughan told him evenly.

Anastasius gave no reply.

King and Easter watched each other for a fractious moment. Panic welled inside Eamon.

“My lords,” he hastened, “any bonds of friendship between Lady Connara and me, or between me and the King himself, do not cloud this matter. That I was with Lady Connara is proof that I was not near the bridge and proof that I am innocent of the charges you bring against me.”

“Innocent?” Feltumadas answered with a snapping sneer. “Yes, innocent. As this is a ‘hearing', let us also hear this man's opinion.” He matched gazes with one of the unknown Easters by him. “Is this the man that destroyed the bridge?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And what did you see?”

“Red light, and an explosion, lord,” the soldier answered. He shook. “I was struck by debris when the bridge was hit, lord. Many with me were hit, too. While I was tending to them, I saw a man dressed in black running from the River to the camp.” The man faltered.

“And of what stature was this black-clad man?” Feltumadas asked, staring acridly at Hughan. “Was it, by any chance, equivalent to that of the man before you?”

The soldier nodded. “It was, noble lord.”

Eamon gaped open-mouthed. “Lord Feltumadas –”

“And you,” Feltumadas continued, calling forward another man; “what did you see?”

“I saw him going to the River just before the bridge collapsed, lord.”

“And you,” Feltumadas turned to the next man; “what did you see?”

The soldier looked nervously back at him. “I saw him standing at the bridge with the Star, after the fires,” the man said quietly. “I never saw him before that.”

Feltumadas scowled.

One by one, a further seven gave their accounts. Most had witnessed the explosion of red light that had broken the bridge. Some of them had seen Eamon at a distance; some hadn't seen him at all.

“Anyone could have dressed themselves in black,” Eamon cried at last. “I swear I did not do it!”

“Anyone?” Feltumadas turned to him, a cold look in his eye. He laughed, and looked at Hughan. The King said nothing. “He tells me it could have been anyone, Star of Brenuin. But I say it was he. My men say the same – as would yours, if you had not silenced them!”

A heavy quiet fell. Eamon looked across at Hughan in alarm. Was that why there were no wayfarers at the hearing?

Hughan matched Feltumadas's gaze. “My men have not been silenced, Lord Feltumadas.”

“Then why are they not here?” Feltumadas cried, slamming one fist into the other.

“When my men speak of what they saw and heard, Lord Feltumadas, they will speak only of what they saw and heard,” Hughan replied. “They will not be influenced by other accounts.”

Feltumadas shook his head. “This is a charade!” he snapped. “You do not mean to bring any man of yours to speak against this Hand. You mean to let him go, with blood on his hands.”

“Whether I acquit him or not, Lord Feltumadas, I will do so impartially,” Hughan answered. “Summon General Leon.”

Eamon watched as an aide left the tent. In the silence that followed, Feltumadas glared at the King.

The guard returned with Leon, his clothes still muddied from the night before. He was grim-faced as he bowed.

“Sire.” He did not look at Eamon.

“Leon,” Hughan said firmly, “I would have you give your account of what you saw and heard last night, omitting nothing.”

“Yes, sire.” Leon rose. “Last night I went to meet the incoming supplies; my duty was to lead them back to the camp. My men and I were among the first to cross the River bridge.

“As I crossed I saw two things: a great mass of woods coming down the River, and a man, standing a little farther along the bank.” Leon's voice grew quiet. “I am not a man of poor sight. The man that I saw was wearing black. I saw light gathering in his hands – red light.

“I have seen this light before, and I know its power.” He paused. When he spoke again his voice was strained. “I immediately ordered my men off the bridge, but there was little time. I ran towards the man. The light had left his hand before I could reach him. It struck the barge of flotsam just as the barge collided with the bridge. Everything erupted into flame. After the explosion, the bridge collapsed in a mass of fire, with men and supplies caught in the flames. A few made it to the water; most made it dead.”

Eamon thought again of the crack and the light… he shuddered.

“That was when I reached the man. He lowered his hands and turned to me. I saw him as clearly as I see him now. The man looked me in the eye and smiled.” Leon looked grimly at Eamon. “That man is before me. He struck me. I fell into the water. He ran.” Leon stared balefully at Eamon, his voice harsh and his gaze cold. “This is my account.”

Silence. A look of triumph was on Feltumadas's face.

“Thank you, Leon,” Hughan said.

Eamon gaped. “It is not true! I wasn't anywhere near the River! How could I possibly be in two places at once?”

“You are a Hand, Lord Goodman,” Ithel's voice broke in. His face was grim, though not as hostile as many others. “Hands have been known to have stranger abilities for the working of their Master's will.”