The Broken Blade (22 page)

Eamon tried re-imagining a different version of the final scene; one where the fair brother did not return in time and the daughter was married to the servant. The story would have been very different – indeed, it occurred to him that at that point the daughter would have become a tragic heroine. What would she have done? Would she have taken the servant's life – or her own? Would the fair brother have returned just in time to hold the body of the woman who should have been his wife? Would he have returned at all?

He shook the thoughts aside with a shudder, feeling an odd relief that the outcome of the play was as it should be – the marriage
of the daughter and the fair brother. Even so, the tragic outcome simmered just below the surface.

It seemed to Eamon that the tragic element in the play was maintained the most by the dark brother. Ilenia had said as much when she described his speech. Perhaps that was his role – to balance the likely comic outcome against the tragic alternative. Eamon had seen plays where other characters did similar things and knew that it took a very skilful playwright to correctly hold the two outcomes in tension. He tried picturing the dark brother in his mind. The character's story was certainly a distressing one: tricked into betraying brother, the knight's daughter, and estate into the hands of the servant. It was little wonder that his speech was tragic!

How had it gone? Eamon drew Ilenia's words back into his mind: “
Nothing but fire remains to me, who have betrayed my brother and bound his estate to blood and darkness.
”

Eamon paused. Of course the dark brother's speech was stricken – he had bound the estate to the servant – but fire, blood, and darkness?

As Eamon considered the dark brother's words empathy engulfed him. How often had he felt exactly the same – that only fire, blood, and darkness remained to him? Ever since he had sworn his oath and discovered the history of his house he had grappled with the anguish of blood, fire, and dark. Such was the hideous weight of treachery – one that even Arlaith, sitting by him in the Crown when he had returned from Pinewood, had acknowledged. That same burden – of knowing that he had betrayed the rightful holder of the estate – moved the dark brother in the play.

Had Eben Goodman felt it?

The thought came at Eamon like an unexpected blow. Blood, fire, and darkness – if Eamon felt the clawing press of them, then surely Eben had? Like the dark brother, Eben had betrayed one dear to him – perhaps as dear as a brother – and he had unlawfully helped to set another in that man's place. Indeed, the dark brother's words might almost have come from Eben's own mouth.

An odd stillness fell.

What if Eben
had
said them?

For a moment he didn't move, scarcely dared to think. The dark of the Right Hand's eyrie hung silently around him.

Breathing deeply, he tried to reason with himself. If the play had been written by an author writing only a little earlier than the River Poet, then it would have been written in the decades shortly following the fall of the house of Brenuin. It was conceivable that such an author had seen the fall of Allera and the founding of Dunthruik. Eamon knew that writers and poets at the time had tended to move either within or at the edges of the court's circles – and so it was just possible that the unknown writer had known Eben. If that was the case…

Was it possible that the dark brother represented Eben Goodman?

He turned his mind to the play and its characters again, testing what he had been told about the dark brother against what he knew of Eben. He thought at once of Ilenia's assertion that the dark brother had helped the servant to destroy the knight's bond before lending his hand to the creation of the replacement will-bond.

“…
who have betrayed my brother and bound his estate to blood and darkness.
”

Eamon let out a long breath. The dark brother had betrayed the fair, just as Eben had betrayed Ede. If the fair brother represented Ede…

If the fair brother represented Ede – or perhaps the house of Brenuin – then the daughter and estate given to him by the knight's bond had to hold another meaning. Eamon's mind whirled. The estate seemed obvious – the lands stood for the land, for the River Realm. But why should they be willed to the daughter? In marrying her, the fair brother took lawful possession of the estate. Perhaps, then, the daughter somehow symbolized the right to govern that land. Perhaps she stood for the kingship itself.

It was the daughter and estate that the servant wanted and what he had deceived the dark brother to attain.

The servant stood for the Master.

A creeping chill settled in Eamon's bones, for suddenly the allegory seemed terrifyingly obvious to him.
Brothers in Law
was no comedy – it was a play about Edelred's rise to power.

He turned back to the story again and again, trying to wring some other meaning from it, but the interpretation he had reached would not loose its hold upon his racing thought. What else could it possibly mean?

Then he remembered the lackeys with whom the servant had drawn up a second bond and used to control the estate.

“
So shall all those who are marked be bound in body, blade, and blood.”

The line Eamon had read in Arlaith's papers flitted suddenly across his mind and he held it for a moment. How could he not have thought it before? The servant's men were bound to him, and the Gauntlet and Hands were bound to the throned. They were bound by the marks that they had received when they had sworn body, blade, and blood to him. In the play, the bond was ratified by the falsified will.

He quietly traced the mark on his palm with his fingers. It was dull beneath his touch. By what were the mark and fire in his flesh ratified? If the play's logic was to be followed then Eamon's own oath to the throned – signified by the lackeys' bond – was tied into some grander “will” of the servant's design. The servant used the same will to grant himself authority over the estate.

Eamon's blood curdled in his veins. He remembered the dire wrath with which the Master had struck him when he had given name to the long-sought Nightholt. He remembered the dreadful eagerness with which the throned had taken that same book into his hands when, bloodied and worn, Eamon had borne it to him from Cathair's lair.

There was only one Nightholt.

He lost his breath. Of course there was only one: why else would the Master have grown so angry losing, or spent so long seeking, it? Usurped though it was, Edelred's right to mastery was in that book. It was one that no other man could gainsay, for there was but one copy. By that tome, Eamon knew, the “Serpent's right” had been “made to yield”.

He drew a deep breath. The Nightholt, then, was both the servant's will and bond. But in the play the will had been written to replace the bond by which the knight had granted his daughter and estate to the fair brother. In the same way, Edelred's Nightholt had to be an attempt to undo or invalidate some older bond – the “Serpent's right” spoken of by the Edelred Cycle.

Eamon frowned. It was clear that, in the play's terms, the knight's will remained uncontested, being greater than either the bond he had drawn up with the fair brother or the will-bond subsequently forged by the servant. In fact, the original will was the basis for both. Who, then, was the knight?

He silently searched the deepest parts of his thought and tried to summon forth some explanation, but none could be found. He did not understand who the knight might be or what exactly his will represented, but he understood that first will could not be overruled.

Even so, the servant had perversely mimicked it with his will-bond, and Edelred had done the same with the Nightholt.

Eamon understood then why Eben had sought so desperately to hide it and why Edelred had rejoiced so much to have it returned to him. He shivered. Everything came back to the Nightholt.

Troubled, he shook his head. If the Nightholt was a mockery of whatever was signified by the knight's will – by whatever truly granted power and kingship – then surely it could not hold? Or did it hold only so long as it could not be disproved and undone?

“
We await only the Serpent. I am ready, Eben's son…
”

There was sweat on his brow. Feverishly, Eamon brushed it away.

Dunthruik was fortified and prepared. The throned held his Nightholt, the book by which he had claimed and bound his stolen power. Since Ede's death that same tome had kept the Master's mark over the whole of the River Realm. There was only one thing left that could break it.

Edelred waited for Hughan.

Eamon did not sleep that night.

As traces of light touched first the sky and then the dim walls of his hall he heard the faintest sounds of his servants moving about on their morning errands. After the long, waking dark, those sounds were sweet to him indeed.

It was not long before the servants' door opened and he heard footsteps approach. Belatedly he remembered that he was lying on the chaise longue rather than in his bed and that the servants should not know it, but even as he sat up, he realized that it was too late.

Cartwright passed through the hall towards the dining room. He carried a breakfast tray. As Eamon came upright, the servant froze in his tracks and stared in surprise at the Right Hand, whose cloak was still wrapped about him like a blanket.

“Good morning, Mr Cartwright,” Eamon managed.

“My lord,” Cartwright answered. “I have brought breakfast for you and your guest, my lord.”

“Thank you,” Eamon replied. “Please do continue.”

Cartwright bowed and went on into the dining room to his work. With a deep breath Eamon rose and followed him. He watched as the servant set everything upon the table: a bowl and goblet for the Right Hand, another for his guest. Cartwright moved swiftly. Though he said nothing, Eamon knew the thoughts of Alessia's former servant were on the closed bedchamber door.

“Mr Cartwright,” Eamon said softly. “I have need of your discretion.”

Cartwright nodded silently.

“None must know that you found me sleeping this morning in my hall,” Eamon told him. “There are some expectations of me that I will not keep, but which I cannot openly defy.”

Cartwright hesitated.

“She is a married woman, Mr Cartwright,” Eamon answered, “and I am not her husband.”

There was a moment of silence. “Yes, Lord Goodman.” Cartwright finished laying down what he had brought.

“Thank you,” Eamon said.

Cartwright bowed then gathered his tray under his arm. He returned to the hall and, setting the tray down a moment, turned his attention to the chair where Eamon had lain during the night. He tidied it with swift, expert hands, and then beat the creases out of Eamon's cloak before setting it firmly over the Right Hand's shoulders. No word passed between them as he worked. As Cartwright stepped back, Eamon heard the sound of movement from the bedchamber.

“Thank you, Mr Cartwright,” Eamon said quietly.

Cartwright bowed once. “My lord,” he said, and left by the servants' stair.

Ilenia appeared in the bedchamber's doorway. She came gracefully down into the grey hall towards him.

“Good morning,” he greeted her.

“Good morning, my lord.” She curtseyed deeply.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you. And you?”

“Well enough,” Eamon answered. He wasn't sure whether she believed him or not; her face remained pleasantly unreadable. “Will you join me for breakfast?” he added, gesturing towards the dining room.

Ilenia's eyes followed his hand to the breakfast table. She smiled. “It is not even dawn, Lord Goodman,” she laughed. “Why is it that we are both awake and thinking of breakfast?”

“In fairness to my house, it is not I who thought of commanding breakfast at such an hour,” Eamon offered. “But I seem to be more
of an eagle of the day than an owl of the night.” He looked at her. “So, you see, I can explain my waking. And you, madam?”

“I heard you speaking,” Ilenia answered.

“I am sorry if I woke you.” Eamon wondered how much she had heard.

“I do not mind it, my lord.”

Eamon smiled. “That is gracious of you,” he told her. So saying, he led her to the table in the dining hall and invited her to sit. Taking a seat beside her, he poured her a glass of wine. His hand shook slightly, for the Nightholt still dwelt in his thought.

Ilenia watched him. “You are tired, Lord Goodman,” she said quietly. “Perhaps, my lord, you are also troubled?”

Eamon set the jug down. “Yes,” he murmured. “I am troubled. But I may not speak of it.”

He dearly wanted to. As his desire to speak strove with his need for silence, his thought turned to Alessia. She had been such a comfort to him…

He felt a sudden touch on his hand and gasped, for when he looked up the touch was real. But it was not Alessia's – it was Ilenia's.

Slowly he pulled his hand away.

“Have I offended you, my lord?” Ilenia asked into the following silence.

“No,” Eamon answered, earnestly meeting her gaze. “You have done nothing but delight me since I met you.” He fell silent again. He could not guess where
she
was that morning, nor how she broke her fast, nor with whom, nor what she would rise to wear and do and say that day.

How he missed her.

“I remind you of someone,” Ilenia guessed.

The words drew him out of himself. When he looked up, the singer searched his face; he could not guess how much she saw or read there.

He closed his eyes. “She is gone,” he whispered.

“No.” Ilenia's dark gaze assessed his face. “Forgive me, my lord. She is with you still. And you are grieved.”

An angry furrow marred his brow. “She betrayed me,” he said, “and not me alone.” Alessia had betrayed Mathaiah. How could he forget it?

Ilenia still watched him carefully. “Did she speak to you of it?”

“When the hurt was done,” Eamon answered bitterly.

“And did you hear her?”

Eamon stared at her. “I let her speak,” he retorted, his bitterness increasing. “She could not undo the wrong that she had done me by mere words and tears.”

Ilenia held his gaze for a moment. “Two hearts, Lord Goodman,” she said quietly.

Eamon fell silent. His rage at Alessia fed on him.

He sat in silence for a long time then reached for his goblet and drank. Thoughts of the long night returned to him. They crossed in dark waves across his face.

“If I might be so bold, Lord Goodman, I wonder whether you lied to me before.”

Eamon gaped. “You are bold indeed!”

“You said that you slept well enough,” Ilenia explained. “I think that you did not sleep.”

Eamon looked at her. He knew that she spoke the truth.

“If I slept badly, madam, that was not your doing,” he told her. “The Serpent is coming,” he added at last. “It troubles me.”

“It troubles many.”

“But I am not simply troubled, madam,” he answered. “I am afraid.” The confession seemed strange, but she received it.

“Why are you afraid, my lord?”

For a long time, he did not answer.

“When the day of battle comes,” he breathed, “and the Serpent unfurls his banner on the field, I must keep the gate of this city.” In his mind he saw the sword and star raised over the plains and groves and vines of Dunthruik, set against the Master's and the city's eagles. He shivered. “I fear that, on that day, all the things for which I have striven will come undone.”

Ilenia gave him a compassionate look. “Why should they?”

Eamon met her gaze uncomfortably. “Mine is blood that has undone this city before. Perhaps,” he whispered, “I have already undone it.”

For a moment, Ilenia watched him in thoughtful silence. “Forgive me, Lord Goodman,” she said, “for a second time, I fear that I must gainsay you.”

Eamon looked at her curiously.

Ilenia was undeterred by his silence. “You are a noble man of great heart – so much is clear. I do not doubt that some things have been given to you to do, or to undo.” She paused and her eyes searched his face. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet, but determined. “Though you may have the task of watching at the gate, the saving or undoing of this city is not your charge.”

Eamon gaped, astonished. “How do you reach that?” he breathed.

“You are a watchman, Lord Goodman,” she told him, “and you have been preparing this city for when the Serpent comes. Then your time of watching will be at an end.”

Tears blinded him briefly. He blinked them away. She was right, and it terrified him.

“When all my watching is done,” he whispered, “what will be left to me?”

Ilenia matched his gaze. “The test of your heart,” she told him. “For then, you must come down from the watchtower and draw your sword beneath the banner that you serve.”

There was a long silence.

“Where did you learn to see the hearts of men so keenly?” Eamon asked.

“It is your heart that I see, Lord Goodman,” she answered. “Take courage. Take breakfast, too,” she added, and lifted the basket of breads towards him.

Eamon stared dumbly.

“Thank you,” he breathed at last.

For a few minutes they ate and drank together in silence. The sounds about them were those of the palace rising to another day, and the sun continued climbing beyond the rim of the world.

Eamon looked at Ilenia again. “You will remember what I said to you yesterday evening?” he said. “If any man asks after your company?”

“Yes, my lord,” Ilenia answered. “Thank you.”

“It is the very least that I can do.”

Eamon paused to drink. As he set his goblet down, the doors to the hall opened. Seconds later a man burst into the room.

“Mr Fletcher,” Eamon said in surprise. His lieutenant looked pale.

“Your pardon, my lord,” Fletcher garbled breathlessly, throwing himself into an untidy bow, “but you must come at once.”

“What has happened?” Eamon asked.

“The port,” Fletcher cried, gesturing towards it. “It's under attack!”

Eamon sprang to his feet. “Cartwright!” he yelled.

Cartwright appeared at once. “My lord?”

“Have Madam Ilenia escorted home. Madam,” he added, turning to her, “please accept my apologies.”

He did not wait for either of them to answer. Stopping only to seize his scabbard and sword, he rushed through the door.

 

Eamon and Fletcher tore wordlessly down the steps and into the plaza. The stable hands were already there; Sahu was saddled and waiting. Fletcher's horse stood beside, flanks quivering from the ride it had already made.

Right Hand and lieutenant leapt into their saddles. Eamon grabbed Sahu's reins and wheeled towards the palace gates. The cobbles shuddered through the limbs of both horse and rider as Eamon drove his steed into a gallop, Fletcher close behind him. Men fled from their path.

They raced up the Coll towards the Sea Gate. Before they reached the quay stones Eamon heard the cries of battle and the smell of
smoke thick in the air. They bolted through the gate onto the waterfront. There, Eamon drew his horse to a sharp halt and stared.

The port was a churning lake of fire.

The quarters' storehouses on the dockside poured violent, billowing smoke and leering flame into the harbour and the air. As the fire guttered, the South Quarter storehouses crumbled. The flames engulfed the wares awaiting transport. Almost half the city's cogs and a dozen smaller vessels burned; masts withered and prows buckled as voracious flame devoured them. One ship was deeply staggered in the water at the harbour mouth, men pouring over its sides in terror, some only to be caught and drowned by hissing wreckage. Long slicks lay on the water and these also burned, giving out choking smoke. Walls of fire enclosed the port, trapping those within.

Just beyond the flame of the dying ships in the harbour mouth were three ships and half a dozen small holks, much like the one which had borne him from Edesfield. The ship nearest the mouth was a great cog. In that whole terrifying expanse of fire and water it was to the cog's mast, and to its flag, that Eamon's eyes were drawn.

The flag was blue.

There were men on the harbour walls: attackers dressed in browns and greys and armed with flaming bows, shooting at ships, men, and wares. The waterfront, which had been filled with traders and civilians with the breaking of the day, was a mass of terror.

As Eamon threw himself down from his horse, reinforcements arrived. Uniformed Gauntlet raced into the port and onto the walls while the attackers harried the Master's fleet. Men from the North Quarter charged along the length of the harbour's north wall, and the attackers, seeing their danger, turned their bows from red-sailed ships to red-shirted men. One man fell as, with a wrathful hiss, the arrows loosed. Screams of warning were answered by anguished cries.

Having loosed their charge, the wayfarers retreated along the wall. Reaching its end, they scrambled into a waiting boat. The
wounded Gauntlet prepared to follow them. One man in grey was struck by a bolt and tumbled from the wall into the churning water.

More cries sounded from the south wall. West Quarter troops charged the length of the wall towards the enemy. The wayfarers fell back rapidly before them. Struck by an arrow, a Gauntlet man toppled into the water. Encouraged by the retreat, the Gauntlet pressed on, but suddenly the air above them was riven with a volley of flaming arrows from beyond the harbour wall. Men stumbled with cries of pain.

As the remaining Gauntlet pursued their quarry, the wayfarers piled back into their boats and withdrew. The largest cog, itself surrounded by the remains of flailing, flaming ships and treacherous fire slicks, retreated from the harbour mouth to the open sea. Another hail of arrows flew from the south, pinning the Gauntlet behind the walls.

Suddenly sense returned to Eamon. “Fall back from the walls!” he commanded. He raced towards them to make his call heard. “Fall back!”

The Gauntlet heard and obeyed. As he ran, Eamon looked again to the harbour and saw that the cog had reached the safety of the open water. It left a river of flame and death in its wake.

It was then that a thick whoosh shuddered the air; a burning missile hurtled over the south wall towards another storehouse. The Gauntlet on the wall, retreating with their wounded in tow, saw it too. The air filled with their cries as the missile smashed into the waterside. The building blossomed into a flaming quagmire.