The King's Hand (19 page)

“Mrs Morell?” His words felt futile.

“My lord.” She did not know who he was, but, even in her grief, she would honour a Hand. His heart went out to her, yet, looking at her, he found that he did not know how to do what he had come to do.

“Mrs Morell,” he began, “I am Lord Goodman.”

Her eyes widened with terror and hatred.

“Was killing my husband not enough for you? It was your defeat –
yours
. Why should you live, and not him?”

Eamon recoiled. He brought a bag of coins from under his cloak. It was awkward in his hand. “Mrs Morell –”

The woman's eyes fell on his offer. She spoke with disgust. “I will take no coin from you. My lord, please leave.” Her voice shook.

“Mrs Morell –”

With a grieved bow the woman turned and fled, weeping, into the house. Without her to hold it, the door swung closed.

As Eamon stood there, stunned, he heard someone stepping up by him. One of the old men, leaning heavily on a cane, came to bow to him.

“Did you come to buy our silence, Lord Goodman?” he asked. Only age quelled his fury.

“I did not come to buy anything,” Eamon retorted. The old man did not flinch. Eamon took a deep breath. “Mr Morell?” he guessed.

“My lord.”

“Mr Morell, I came to offer something that can never take the place of the son who has been taken from you and your house. Your son served me and he served the Master even with his life. He fought at Pinewood with honour, never once abandoning his oaths. He did not deserve death as he received it. He deserved to be honoured, and he should have rested better in a noble tomb than on a wretched pyre.”

Mr Morell stared. They were not the words that the Right Hand would have spoken.

“In whose name do you come, my lord?” Morell asked carefully.

“My own,” Eamon answered wretchedly. “Just my own.”

Sorrow poured into his heart. How could he assuage their grief? Perhaps he could not.

In the silence, he offered the bag again.

At last, Morell took it. He met Eamon's gaze. “We will accept what you bring.”

“I am sorry for what was done.”

“So are we, my lord.” The old man bowed once, and entered the house.

Eamon watched him go. Grief surfaced, raw and red. This was what he had to do, for every man whose life had been given in the line for his shame.

Turning, he went back to the Coll, away from the music, and on to the next house.

 

His reception in each house was much the same, consisting of suspicion and wary acceptance. It was a bloody coin that he brought, never able to give back what had been taken. Those who remained behind were widows, aging mothers, fatherless children. Their grief was green, budding, and seeding hatred of which he was the object.

It was late evening when Eamon arrived at the Four Quarters, his errand concluded. He felt heavy of heart, desperately so, but he had done all he could. Maybe one day the families would understand the truth of what had happened – maybe that day would never come. He reminded himself that though men had died in the Right Hand's decimation line, and died because of him, many more had lived – and that was his doing also.

He stood, drawing deeply of the air, when he heard footsteps approach. Someone halted by him.

“Lord Goodman?”

“Yes?” He did not recognize the man before him, but saw that he was a first lieutenant.

The man bowed. “First Lieutenant Greenwood, East Quarter.”

“Good evening, Mr Greenwood.”

“I'm sorry to trouble you, my lord – Captain Anderas implores your assistance.”

Eamon frowned. “Has something happened?”

“I believe it has to do with Lord Ashway. My lord, would you come with me to the Ashen?”

“Of course.”

Eamon accompanied the first lieutenant along Coronet Rise and then across the Ashen. The square was moonlight-mottled, and tall braziers stood at the Handquarter doors. As they approached, Eamon made out a figure on the steps who peered anxiously into the square.

Greenwood vaulted the steps and saluted. “Sir.”

“Thank you, Mr Greenwood,” the captain replied.

The first lieutenant saluted again, bowed to Eamon, and left.

“Lord Goodman,” Anderas said formally.

“Captain.”

The moonlight illuminated a tense, gaunt look to the captain. Eamon at once remembered what Ladomer had told him: Anderas was holding the reins of the East Quarter for the time being. “Is everything well, captain?”

A flicker of strain ran across the captain's face. “No, Lord Goodman. My men looked everywhere for you, but couldn't…”

Eamon suddenly saw that the captain shook like a brittle leaf. Eamon reached out to steady him.

“Courage, captain.”

Anderas looked strangely at him, biting his lip. At last, he drew breath.

“Lord Goodman, I sent after you because… it is about Lord Ashway. I…” He faltered and closed his eyes. “I cannot control him.”

Eamon stared. “What do you mean?”

At a loss for words, Anderas shook his head. “The Right Hand commanded that he be kept confined in his quarters, as befits his station, until I receive further notice,” he said, “and I have done so. But this evening… This evening he is howling, calling down curses. I cannot stop him.”

Eamon remembered Ashway in the Brand, and shuddered.

“Will you help me, Lord Goodman?”

What could he do? He met Anderas's gaze. “I will do all that I can, captain.”

They went together into the Handquarters, its corridors and rooms eerie in the moonlight, like the chambers of a forgotten keep.

The captain led Eamon to Ashway's quarters and on towards his study. Eamon saw the internal courtyard through the tall windows lining the corridor. A tall ash tree was engraved on Ashway's door, its leaves lined with emerald traces.

There, Anderas reached to his belt. He drew out some keys and unlocked the door.

The study was dimly lit and lined with bookshelves, as Eamon had seen the week before. They were grim and forbidding in the shadowy light. One wall was dominated by a tall painting framed with gold. It showed a tangled mass of men, some under the banner of an eagle, some under the banner of a tattered star.

Ashway sat in a great chair by the windows, his clothes torn, his face bruised and unshaven, and his long hair lank about his jowls. Ropes lashed him to his place. He watched the courtyard trees as they swayed in the night breeze. At first glance he seemed calm and in his right mind.

Anderas led Eamon to the window. At their approach Ashway looked up sharply. His eyes and tone were cool.

“Lord Goodman,” he said.

“Lord Ashway,” Eamon answered with a bow. He wondered what help Anderas had needed; the Quarter Hand seemed as placid as a sea becalmed.

He glanced at Anderas. The captain looked both terrified and ashamed.

“Lord Goodman, I am sorry to waste your –”

“There has been no waste. All is well, captain,” Eamon replied.

He looked back to Ashway. The Hand watched him intently.

“Have you come to kill me?” Ashway said. Fear glimmered in his hollow eyes.

“Your sight is dimmed, Lord Ashway,” Eamon answered gently. “I have not come to kill you.”

Ashway shook his head slowly. “No, no; it will not be you to kill me. But you will kill him.”

For a moment Eamon wondered whether the Hand meant Anderas. Ashway's eyes took on a faraway look.

“You will kill him for what has already been done this night. I have seen it.” Ashway looked back at Eamon. His voice changed. “I too am bound,” he said quietly. “I too will die tonight.”

“Lord Ashway,” Anderas began, stepping to the Hand's side. “You only hurt yourself to take such notions to heart.”

Ashway looked at him witheringly. Anderas fell back. Ashway fixed Eamon with a grave face.

“I tell you, Lord Goodman, that this captain loves you more than he has ever loved me.”

Anderas stopped in his tracks, alarmed. Ashway laughed.

“Do you see so little? It is true, just as it is true that he will serve you, Lord Goodman, more heartily than he shall ever love or serve the throned. I have long known it.”

“You mean the Master, Lord Ashway,” Eamon countered quietly.

“I mean the throned,” Ashway spat. His eyes passed up to the painting on the wall and a scowl darkened his face. When he next spoke, Ashway's voice was caustic. “I mean Edelred. Thus he named himself, and thus I call him.”

Eamon froze. What could he say?

Ashway's eyes were fixed on the painting, his bruised and bloodied face coloured with distant remembrance. “He thinks himself safe. But it is not only the Star of Brenuin that he should fear.”

“The Serpent,” Eamon corrected.

Ashway fixed him with a blistering gaze. “You cannot feign before me, Eamon Goodman,” he sneered. “You know his name better than I.” He turned his gaze to the window once more. Suddenly, Eamon saw a tear moving down his mottled cheek.

“Anderas?” Ashway whispered faintly. Suddenly he cried: “Anderas!”

The captain was already at the Hand's side. “I am here, my lord.”

Ashway searched the space before him. “I can no longer see, Anderas,” he breathed. Tears marked his pale face and his eyes took on a faraway look. “I saw the star shining in the streets. And now I see nothing else.”

There was a long silence. Anderas trembled. Eamon felt gagging hesitation. What should they do?

“All that I have done…” Ashway half-spoke, half-sang. He laughed sadly. “All that I have done will come upon me.”

“No, lord –” Anderas began.

With a wordless screech, Ashway rounded on the captain.

“What do you know of it?” he howled. Anderas leapt back before his overwhelming rage. “Were you there when Edelred drove his sword through the heart of Ede? Were you there to see the Serpent's house scattered in ruins? Were you there when Edelred took the throne? Were you there to see the founding of this city, and the dressing of the throne in blood?”

“No.” Eamon spoke quietly. “He was not – but you were.”

Ashway fell silent and stared at him. Eamon felt the chill move through him.

“Yes,” Ashway said at last. “Yes. I was there.” He fell heavily back, and turned his unseeing gaze to the moonlit garden. “I was there.”

There was a long silence.

Courage, Eamon.

Filled suddenly with deep conviction, Eamon stepped before the Hand.

“You have seen how this will end,” Eamon told him. “What would you choose?”

“The throne is built on my blood also,” Ashway answered. His words were bitter, regretful. “I have nothing left – no sight, no choice.”

Agony wracked Ashway's face. Eamon saw, and knew what stirred it.

“It is the voice of Edelred who counsels you thus,” he said.

“My choices have brought me here,” Ashway answered fiercely. He looked up with proud eyes and smiled. “I rue none of them! I will die as I have lived. Save your words; they will avail you nothing. You will not live to see what was shown to me. You will perish, impaled and writhing, before your enemy. You will drown, gagging, in your own blood. But you will suffer much before that day. You will suffer this very night! Ah, how you will suffer. And you will crumble before the throne that you malign!” Ashway's voice grew strange and strong, his eyes wild in the moonlight as he laughed. “Benighted and forlorn you shall be, Eben's son!”

Eamon fixed him with a stony glare. “Hence, voice of Edelred!”

Ashway gave a horrendous cry and tried to grip his head with his hands. As he thrashed, Eamon laid his hand on his shoulder.

“Tureon.”

Ashway froze. Hooded eyes searched Eamon's face, and then grew round with tears. “What?” he breathed.

“That is your name.” Eamon did not know how he knew it. He knelt down by the Hand, grasping his hands in his own. “Peace, Tureon.”

Ashway watched him for a long time, face torn by long remembrance.

“I may not turn, Eamon,” he whispered at last, gesturing ironically to the cords on his arms. “I am bound, just as you are.”

He wept freely. Eamon pressed his hands.

“I will not be bound,” he said, “and you need not be.”

Ashway did not answer him.

Eamon did not know how long he knelt there, holding Ashway's hands. Suddenly the Lord of the East Quarter looked up sharply.

“Lord Goodman, you must go.”

Eamon frowned. “I will not –”

“Fool and simpleton!” Ashway snarled. “He is coming – can you not feel it?” The Hand trembled wildly. “He comes to take my life for what I have done – and he does not know the half of that. He will take the lives of any he finds here.” He fixed Eamon in a fierce gaze. “I will say nothing to him of you,
but only if you go
.”

Eamon stared.

“Go now, or lose all that you seek!” Ashway yelled. The Hand's eyes filled with tears – yet they were clear.

Eamon rose and turned to Anderas.

“Come with me, captain.”

Anderas shivered, as though disturbed from some terrible dream.

“Lord Goodman –”

“We will go.” Eamon looked once more at Ashway. The Hand met his gaze.

Without another word, Eamon drew Anderas from the room.

They staggered out of the Handquarters into the night air. Anderas still shook when they stopped in the Ashen.

“Lord Goodman…”

“Are you afraid, Anderas?”

“After the things that I have seen and heard, these days and this last night…? I am afraid of many things, Lord Goodman – of war and death and famine, of this city falling in ruin to the Serpent, and of the Serpent himself. I am afraid for this quarter,” he added quietly, “entrusted to a captain when a Hand should hold it. I am afraid for the men under me and for the Hand over me. He is a seer, and he…” He looked at Eamon in terror. “What he has howled fills me with fear. And yet all of this is but nothing compared to how much I fear you.”