The King's Hand (22 page)

A cloak was laid over the robe and fixed upon him, and then the Quarter Hands stepped back to stand behind him. Eamon finally understood.

“You will serve me, Eben's son.” The throned's voice blasted his ears like fire. “For treachery, for defiance, for insolence, for any grievance, you will receive my wrath. For loyalty, you will receive my pleasure.” Eamon couldn't breathe. The words struck like hammers to an anvil.

The Master's hand was on him, taking his jaw in a pincer-hold and forcing his chin up. Their eyes met. The man's flaming face was lit by an indulgent smile. The Master held him, the grey eyes searching every part of him. Eamon wanted to howl and tear himself away, to throw back the ring and cast off the robes and cloak bestowed upon him. He could not.

The Master knew it.

“You are the owl and ash.” The Master's words drummed into Eamon's soul. “You are the Lord of the East Quarter. Your blood and strength please me. You are mine.”

The grip on his jaw tightened; Eamon could see nothing but the twin pools of grey, could hear nothing but the words that axed his stricken heart.

They had made him a lord of Dunthruik.

“As is your will,” he heard himself whisper, “so is it mine.”

The throned laughed. His great hand caressed Eamon's cheek.

“You will serve, Eben's son.”

The hand released him and tossed his chin away. Eamon staggered, his mind in turmoil. As he stepped back he felt hands on his arms. The Quarter Hands were around him again.

“Your glory, Master.” They spoke in unison, bowing. Eamon stumbled to keep with them. The throned nodded. At some unspoken signal, Cathair, Dehelt, and Tramist bowed even more deeply before leaving the hall in silence, taking with them every other Hand present. Eamon saw the Right Hand towering nearby, and waited.

The throned's eyes were on him. The touch of the Master's hand lingered on Eamon's cheek.

“Lord Arlaith,” the Master said.

“Master.”

“Conduct Lord Goodman to his quarter.”

The words rushed over Eamon with stomach-turning speed.
His
quarter…

“Your glory be ever first in my heart,” the Right Hand replied, bowing low. Eamon followed his lead. When he rose it was to find the Master's eyes still watching him, the glint of victory shining through the grey.

I have made you mine, son of Eben. Now honour me.

Eamon followed the Right Hand from the room. Even when the door closed behind them, he felt the eyes on him.

 

The Right Hand led him out of the palace and across the enormous Royal Plaza. The Gauntlet on duty snapped to attention as they passed. They stared at him in awe, for his robes were marked with the ash and owl and his hand bore the ring that had for countless years belonged to the seer of Dunthruik.

They passed out of the palace's great gates, Eamon following dumbly in the Right Hand's steps. As the palace fell behind him, his insides churned with a sour mix of conflicting emotions and broken loyalties. They had killed Mathaiah and Ashway, and rather than kill him – why had they not killed him? They surely knew his heart! – they had made him a lord of Dunthruik. From her treachery – and their deaths – he had been made a Quarter Hand. It delighted and appalled him, terrified and enraged him.

He resolved to keep his eyes on the paving stones – he could not look at the Right Hand.

They soon reached the Four Quarters. The Coll's shop fronts glistened in the morning light while the statues over the quarters, players on a stage of light and shadow, took their turns in the changing arcs of sunlight. Eamon's eye was drawn to a giant crowned eagle, a stone shield at its breast, which towered over the top of one of the quarters. The shield bore both the ash and owl.

“Ash trees drive away serpents.”

Eamon twitched in alarm as the Right Hand's voice spoke in his ear. He realized that he had been looking at the emblem for a long time.

“An appropriate symbol for a lord of Dunthruik.” The Right Hand paused for a long time. “For you in particular, Lord Goodman.”

Eamon's heart tremored. Slowly, he forced himself to meet the Right Hand's gaze. The formidable face watched him incisively.

“Feltumadas's shall not be the last head that I bring to the Blind Gate, my lord.” With a gut-crushing effort, Eamon forced an arrogant laugh to his lips. “There will be no snakes in this quarter by the time I have done.”

“It has been long since there were many,” the Right Hand answered with mock thoughtfulness. “They seem, Lord Goodman, to have migrated west in recent months.”

He meant Mathaiah. Eamon choked back his heart. “You should perhaps speak with Lord Cathair regarding that matter, my lord.”

The Right Hand smiled. “Wise counsel, Lord Goodman! Wise indeed.”

They passed into Coronet Rise and Eamon recognized buildings that he had dimly glimpsed the previous night. Soon the broad street leading to the Ashen appeared on their right, and they took it. Faces peered curiously from the doorways, and voices murmured as they passed.

Suddenly the Ashen, its trees swaying lightly in the morning breeze, opened before them. As they stepped into the sunlit square, Eamon gasped.

It was lined with rank after rank of Gauntlet soldiers, officers, and militiamen. By them were quarter officials. Every man was impeccably uniformed or dressed, and, as Eamon and the Right Hand came to a halt at the square's heart, two hundred hands raised two hundred swords to two hundred faces in the Gauntlet's formal salute.

“I come in the name of the Master,” the Right Hand called. Eamon realized there was still some ceremony to be undergone. “Let none gainsay me. I bring to you a man after the Master's heart, chosen by him.”

The words shredded Eamon. How could he be like Edelred? He remembered the feel of the hand at his chin and fought the urge to rip his nails across his jaw. He longed to eradicate that loathsome touch!

“In the Master's name,” the Right Hand thundered, “I declare that this man shall henceforth be Lord of the East Quarter.”

The eyes of the attentive men turned to him. He saw other onlookers, ordinary men and women, hidden in the shadowy streets.

“Declare yourself, lord.”

Eamon felt that it was a voice familiar to him, yet he could not grasp it. His own voice seemed rusted to his throat. At last he raised his head to face the assembled men.

“I am Lord Goodman,” he called. As his name rippled across the courtyard, strange silence descended. Since Pinewood, his name had gone before him into the East Quarter.

“Lord Goodman, choice of the Master, be his Hand among us.”

Through the mire of his thoughts, Eamon recognized the voice with sudden clarity. He looked up, and found that a face he loved was there.

As their eyes met, Captain Anderas smiled.

“Lord Goodman for the East!” the captain called jubilantly. Every man assembled took up his acclamation with one voice:

“Lord Goodman for the East!”

Some called it in fear, some in thin hope, some in awe, some in uncertainty, but they all called it. The wave of his name washed over him, and Eamon sensed the Right Hand, a dark and furious presence, beside him.

See how I repay those whom I love, Eben's son? With adulation and with power. More of it shall come to you, serving me.

With odd reluctance, Eamon forced his thought from the enticing words and sought Anderas again. The captain's face was pale with fatigue, but he smiled.

“The East Quarter welcomes you, my lord,” he said.

To my glory, son of Eben.

“
To his glory
.”

They were the words that he had to say, the words on the tip of his tongue – but there they froze. Eamon felt something stir with forgotten gentleness in his breast.

“Thank you,” he said.

The Right Hand stiffened blackly beside him, but Eamon did not turn. Strange expressions passed over the faces that watched him.

Captain Anderas stepped out of the ranks and marched smartly up to them. He bowed low. “My lords.”

“Captain,” the Right Hand answered, his gaze falling hard on Eamon, his hands tensing within their black gloves. Eamon wondered – not for the first time – whether the man might be considering doing him some violence. But then the Master's closest looked back to the captain with a small smile. “I leave Lord Goodman in your capable hands.”

Silently he left. Eamon felt a little weight pass from his breast and turned to Anderas. The captain smiled and held out his hand.

“The East Quarter welcomes you,” he said with a quiet laugh.

Their hands clasped together. Eamon felt the shape of Ashway's ring bound about his finger.

Dismissed, the men in the square went in an orderly fashion back to their duties. Anderas led Eamon to the Handquarters and Ashway's own rooms. Eamon remembered following Ashway along the corridors on the morning he had come to collect papers for Cathair. Everything was the same as it had been then, the stone corridors still engraved with leaves. Sometimes the angular, haunting script from the Hands' Hall appeared, hidden among the top-most parts of the stone.

They were met with silence everywhere. Eamon saw nobody.

When they reached the more private halls of the Handquarters, Anderas turned to him. Eamon silently nodded to permit the captain to speak. He could not trust himself to do more.

“The Right Hand sent a message to me this morning,” he said, “directing that the East could expect a new lord…” His worried eyes sought Eamon's. “What happened to Lord Ashway?”

Eamon's mind cast itself back to the hours of darkness and to Ashway, bound in his chair… Had it only been last night?

“I don't know,” he said at last. “I do not believe, captain, that it would be wise to ask.” The words came out more harshly than he had meant them to. He could not speak of the manner of Ashway's death, nor his thoughts as to how or why it might have occurred. Had he not seen what happened when he entrusted himself to others – as he had done to her?

“You are tired, I expect,” Anderas answered. “I will show you to your chambers.”

Anderas guided him to the great doors of the study. The captain pushed them open. Eamon followed him inside.

The room was exactly as the previous night. The bay window looked out over the immaculate garden and tall shelves hung imposingly from the walls. The painting stared at Eamon. He heard the sounds of the mêlée in his mind. He heard Mathaiah screaming.

He gasped.

Anderas looked carefully at him. “Lord Goodman –”

“I am sorry, captain.” Eamon looked at the man. He remembered Pinewood and the decimation line. This captain trusted him, and he trusted and loved the captain –

He had trusted and loved
her
.

He could not speak to Anderas.

“I am tired,” he said. “I came from the palace. It's a long way.” How ludicrous that sounded! A green cadet could march from the East Quarter to the palace in less than half an hour.

“The journey to the East Quarter is a long way to go before breakfast,” Anderas answered quietly. There was a small pile of paper on the desk. Anderas cleared it before gesturing to the table. “If it would please you to sit, Lord Goodman, I'll have something sent to you.”

Eamon moved obediently forward then stopped. The chair stared back at him. He saw Ashway bound to it, and then Mathaiah, bound in torment in the Pit.

His hands shook.

“Captain –” His voice was a partial sob. He bit it back. Anderas glanced at him in surprise. “Breakfast is not usually a cause for grief in this quarter, my lord,” he said gently. “You will find that your cook knows his trade well.”

“My… my cook?” Eamon stared, then watched in disbelief as Anderas nodded. With a deep breath, he steadied himself. “Captain, I…” His eyes fell on Ashway's chair. There were no marks of death or struggle on it. It haunted him.

Anderas followed his gaze.

“Please accept my apologies, my lord,” he said. “This seat is certainly too low to the table; you would find it most uncomfortable. I will have the servants bring you another.”

Eamon met his gaze. Anderas's tone was light, but his eyes saw well.

“Thank you.”

The captain smiled. “You shall be less inclined to thank me, I think, when you realize that you shall have to sit in your chair to read, sanction, sign, and distribute all of those papers,” he said, gesturing at the load on the desk. “But we can discuss a fitting punishment for my deception later. Would you eat alone?”

“Yes,” Eamon answered. “I would eat alone.”

 

Anderas was true to his word. Barely had he left when servants arrived to remove the chair. They kept their gazes lowered and moved with a disconcerting silence. Eamon did not feel it in himself to speak to them. He stared out of the window and tried to occupy his mind with the twisting branches and climbing leaves that dappled the morning.

When he turned back it was to find that a new, much taller, chair had been set at the desk, and a tray, filled with bread and cheese, had been left next to the papers. There was also a pitcher of water, its neck elegantly traced round with a circlet of leaves.

He ate slowly, each mouthful agony. His body wholly rejected the notion of food, and yet he broke the bread and pressed it to his sealed lips. With each piece he swallowed, he felt that he might choke. The ring on his hand was heavy and it drove his arm back down to the desk.

He ate a third of what had been presented to him, then rose. The painting on the wall drew his gaze, seeming both clear and distant. As he looked about the room at the long shelves of books and ornaments, he wondered.

What had happened to Ashway? Had they killed him there? His blood ran cold. If the room had been witness to the lord's death, it was too dull to speak of it. Who, he wondered, had made the stroke?