The King's Hand (8 page)

Eamon fell silent. What the Easter said was true.

He met the King's gaze. “Breach me,” he said suddenly.

Many grew tense. A number of Easters passed their hands over their breasts in a sign to ward off evil.

“We do not condone such things here, Lord Goodman,” Leon said gruffly.

“If my own account is not enough then tell me how else I can prove that I am innocent!” Eamon cried.

“If the Star of Brenuin is reluctant to condemn you, even in the face of evidence from his own,” Anastasius growled, “you will stay in this camp, a prisoner of war, until all this is concluded.”

Eamon stared at him in horror. “I can't!” he cried. “My men –”

“The destruction of this bridge, Lord Goodman, has cost more than the lives of men,” Anastasius retorted icily. As his glare worked into Eamon's own, understanding wormed into him. The bridge had been the camp's pass over the River to the East Bank, and the way by which supplies were brought to the King's army. Cut off from vital supplies, those who meant to stand against the throned stood in true peril.

Eamon looked desperately at Hughan. “Please – I see the loss that this has brought you, and I am grieved by it, but do not make innocent men answer for it.”

“
Innocent men?
” Feltumadas roared. “No man of Edelred's is innocent!” He surged wrathfully towards Eamon. Ithel grabbed him.

“Peace, brother.”

“Then who would you have answer?” Anastasius demanded. “To take the lives of your men in exchange for the lives of mine lost at the bridge – and to demand no further price – is more generosity than you deserve.”

“Lords.” When the King spoke all others fell silent. Hughan turned to him. “Eamon.”

Eamon looked up, tears in his eyes. He trembled. “I will abide by your judgment, sire.”

“Thank you,” Hughan nodded. “I know that you have answered me this question before, but I would have you answer it again, in the presence of all these men.” Hughan watched him; Eamon felt unspoken power in that look. “Are you innocent of this work?”

“This is outrageous!” Feltumadas spat. “Have you not heard the evidence?”

“Peace, Feltumadas,” Ithel told him again. Feltumadas shook his brother's restraining hand away and glowered, unable to speak.

But Eamon almost did not see them. In the hold of the King's eyes the world slipped away.

“Are you innocent?” Hughan asked.

Eamon nodded quietly. “Yes, sire,” he said. “I am innocent.”

The Easter lords erupted in cries of outrage. Feltumadas surged at Hughan. The Easter towered over the King in his anger.

“Would you stake your alliance with Istanaria, and the Land of the Seven Sons, on a Hand's claim of innocence?” he screamed.

Hughan's face was calm. Eamon watched in horror as Hughan nodded.

“Yes, Lord Feltumadas. I would.”

“No!” Eamon rushed forward to place himself between the Easter and the King. “You can't, Hughan! You need the Easters, to defeat the throned. Your alliance is more important than my innocence!” As his words grew louder he felt their stares. He gave them no heed. “I am one man – many here are finer men, men who will serve you better than I.”

Hughan touched his arm. Eamon stepped silently aside.

The King looked again at his allies.

“I would stake my alliance on this man's innocence,” he said. “In this hearing, lords, you have slurred the honour of my First Knight. In his supposed treacheries you have also involved the honour of the lady whom I would call my queen.”

Each man's mouth hung open in stunned silence. When Hughan next spoke, his voice was fierce with the strength of his conviction. “I would stake my alliance on this man's innocence because, if he is false and fills his time in working to our destruction and I see it not, then I am a man beset by blindness and folly. A man privy to such vices is worthy of no alliance; all his endeavours are doomed to failure.

“In accusing my First Knight of treachery, you charge me with darkened sight. If my sight is dark, my lords, then you must take your alliance and go, before I doom us all to death and suffering in Dunthruik's darkest halls.”

His voice grew quiet again. His words stirred in the sudden stillness of the tent. “But if my sight is clear, and this man is true, then, lords, you would honour me much by staying.”

Eamon gazed in awe. Even Feltumadas fell back in amazement.

Hughan watched for a moment and then looked to Anastasius. There was no trace of fear in the King's eyes.

“We see the wisdom in sparing a man's life in any case of doubt.” Anastasius's voice was harsh, only a little cowed by the King's words. “We will not retract our alliance, Star of Brenuin. But,” he added angrily, “a resolution on this man must be reached before we are brought to that juncture.” He looked coldly at Eamon. “You have the Star's goodwill,” he growled, “and I shall grudgingly lend you mine.

“But know this, Lord Goodman: it is loaned, not given, and if the Star will heed me, you will be bound and watched this day.”

Strengthened by the King's words, Eamon matched the Easter's iron glare.

“I will submit to that,” he said. He looked across at Hughan to see that the King nodded once to him.

“Thank you, First Knight.”

 

Eamon emerged from the meeting exhausted, willing for the night to wrap him in sleep, but when Leon escorted him from the tent again Eamon saw that the sun had barely climbed beyond the horizon. He shuddered, and rubbed at his hands where the ropes bound them. His cloak snapped about him.

“Leon,” he said quietly, “I'm sorry for what happened.”

The man did not answer, his gaze fixed firmly ahead. He simply escorted Eamon back to his tent and left him under the supervision of several guards – four outside the tent and one within.

Eamon sat down heavily.

He could do little but lie and wait, pretending to rest. The waiting was the worst part. The guards changed every couple of hours. He wondered how many men were charged with watching him. Perhaps they were grateful for the work; perhaps, without the bridge, there was little else for them to do. He imagined what it was like to be one of them, to be charged with guarding a Hand. Were they terrified as the others had been? Did they worry that he would escape?

What would they do to him if he tried?

Eamon looked at his bound hands. Escape was certainly within his grasp.

Surely you do not think that your life is safe here? You cannot trust a Serpent. Go now.

He could run and be gone. Would not Hughan's allies, even the King himself, thank him for that? He was a nuisance; he could remove himself.

But it was the voice's suggestion. That, Eamon told himself, was precisely why he would not heed it. The voice was a liar. Eamon trusted Hughan. More than that: the King understood that Eamon was a piece in a larger work. He still needed Eamon in Dunthruik.

The thought emboldened him. That was the task of the First Knight.

 

Lunch was brought to him and he ate quietly, slowed by his bonds. He was grateful for the hindrance; it gave him something to do. The guard on duty watched him curiously, as though he doubted Hands ate and drank like normal men. Eamon smiled, wondering if he might be able to engage the man in talk. But his gesture was met with a scowl. Lowering his eyes, Eamon settled back to his lunch. Outside, he heard the camp going about its business. The familiar sound of moving horses drifted in the air.

After he had eaten he fell asleep. In the darkness of his mind the voice was clearer. He held against it.

You still turn from me, Eben's son?
The words crept through him.

He did not answer. The voice laughed and suddenly the darkness was broken by a cry. Eamon stiffened as he recognized it. Still he said nothing.

The cry grew louder: Mathaiah. Howls reverberated in the darkness, clawing at him.

Do you hear it, Eben's son?
the voice laughed.
Do you? Perhaps you think that he is safe, because your Serpent wills it. But he is not.

“You lie.” Eamon forced his whole will into his answer, but terror pounded in him. What if it was true?

Vision flashed in his eyes. The dark spread apart. He saw the book that he and Mathaiah had retrieved from Ellenswell laid open on a table. The twisted, hidden letters flickered on the page with the clarity of carved stone.

He heard the cry again. His blood froze.

The voice rejoiced in his fear. He felt it seep into his thought.
It troubles you? Turn to me, Eben's son, and his pain will cease.

“No.” Eamon shook in the dark. The King protected him and the King's grace was over Mathaiah. He would not bind himself to that voice again.

The cry was unleashed on his ears again, twisted sounds forming his name.

“Eamon!
”

He shook his head. It was not the voice of his friend.

You would defy me?
the voice hissed.
Then you make him suffer.

Fierce anger filled his heart. He would not heed this voice!

As he stood in the cloying dark, he called out in words that he did not understand. He saw a faint blue light about himself. As the words continued the light grew, reaching out to his hand where it shimmered into a sword.

“Mathaiah is covered by the King,” he called at last, “and so am I.”

The voice spat at him.
Then let him cover you!

Eamon opened his eyes. His breathing was harsh; sweat dripped from every pore. Shaking, he pressed it away. He could see only little in the shade but saw it was late afternoon. Through the tent folds he caught a glimpse of the westering sun.

A shadow passed over him. He blinked and pressed his bound hands to his eyes. Nothing. Even his eyes were beginning to play tricks on him. How long could he endure this war of wills?

With a sudden hiss something lunged at him – a glinting blade. He rolled to one side, barely avoiding its downward slash. He tried to leap to his feet, but his bindings hindered him.

A fist struck him in the gut. As he drew breath to cry out, a blow to his ribs stole it from him. He collapsed. He scarcely had the strength to move.

He would die if he did not.

His hands beneath him, he tried to sit up. He heard his assailant coming for him. Before he could roll out of the way heavy knees slammed into his ribs, crushing him down. A fierce hand grabbed his hair and yanked his head backwards. He wanted to cry out but his constricted throat made no sound.

The blade came for his neck; he would die, never having seen the face of his attacker.

Suddenly he heard a noise behind him. The hand holding the blade froze as a voice called out in surprise.

“Stop!” it cried from no more than a couple of yards away.

Abruptly Eamon was dragged to his feet, the blade still against his throat. The man who held him was taller than Eamon. The assailant seized his arms and wrenched him round to face the newcomer.

It was then that he saw who had kept him from the knife thurst.

Giles.

The man bore a look of surprise, though his muscles had tensed. They remembered a history of violence, even if Giles did not.

“Let him go.” Giles spoke softly, carefully.

“Leave!” The voice of Eamon's attacker burst out behind his ear, deafening him. He glanced at Giles's determined face, the blade at his throat pressing tighter. He suppressed a cry as it drew blood. He could do nothing.

“Let him go.”

“Leave, or I'll kill him!”

Giles pulled a curious face. “Isn't that what you intend in any case?”

“Then try and stop me!”

Eamon braced himself for the thrust. Giles could never reach him in time.

But he did.

Eamon was never quite sure what happened. He knew only that at the moment when the blade should have severed his throat and sent him to his knees in a haze of blood, his attacker screamed. Somehow, Giles had crossed the short distance between them and spun the blade away. The big man dealt a single blow to the attacker. Cast aside in the ensuing struggle, Eamon staggered to his knees and crawled away a few paces.

A knife in Giles's hands swept across the back of the attacker's knees. The man sank with a cry. It was only then that Eamon saw him: his would-be murderer was an Easter, and bore on his breast the same green insignia that Eamon had previously seen on Feltumadas and Anastasius.

Giles stood over the screaming man, bloodied blade in hand. He blinked hard, looked at it in surprise, then looked to Eamon.

“Are you all right?”

Eamon felt wet blood clinging to his throat but knew the cut was shallow. He nodded silently. They both looked back to the Easter.

More men rushed into the tent, drawn by the attacker's cries. Leon was the first – pale-faced and angry. He looked at Giles.

“This man attacked Goodman,” Giles said simply.

For a moment, nobody moved: they could only stare at the fallen man. There was a wild look to his eyes, and the Easter cursed Giles loudly in his own tongue. An Easter soldier who had entered with Leon paled. Giles looked at Leon with confusion then offered the dagger to him with a shaking hand. He took it.

“Help him up,” Leon barked, gesturing at Eamon. Eamon gasped as he was helped to his feet. He saw an anxious look pass over Leon's face. “Are you injured, Goodman?”

“Not badly.” His own voice sounded quiet. He feared to speak too loudly lest it should encourage the blood that still slid down his neck.

Leon rounded on the man whom Giles had disabled. “Who sent you?”

The man didn't answer. The wild look in the Easter's eyes was one that Eamon had seen before – in First Lieutenant Alben.

Leon seized the man by the scruff of his coat. “Answer me,” he growled.

“Don't hurt him!” Eamon gasped as pain shot through him. Leon looked back at him, astonished.