The King's Hand (59 page)

“I know.” Eamon laid a hand on the man's shoulder. The cook shuddered beneath his fingers. “You are also a good man, Mr Cook.”

The cook nodded wordlessly.

 

Eamon also made a point of seeking out Slater. He found the head of the household in the dining room. The man had laid out all the Handquarters' cutlery on the table and was in the process of cleaning it. As Eamon walked in, the servant set aside his cloth with a tremulous sigh.

“Mr Slater.”

Slater looked up with a start, trying rapidly to compose himself. “My lord, I –”

“Be at peace, Mr Slater.” The man looked back at the knives and forks on the table, and Eamon smiled at him. “You've been doing some good work here,” he said kindly.

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Be sure you take some rest.”

“Yes, my lord.” He breathed deeply and looked up at Eamon. “Lord Goodman…” He paused. “I've served in Dunthruik for a long time, Lord Goodman,” he said. “I've served Hands for a long time.”

“I am sure that you have been a great boon in every household that you have served,” Eamon told him.

“My lord, I've never seen…”

“I wish you had never seen its like, Mr Slater,” Eamon said quietly, “but, having seen it, do not fear it.”

Slater was silent for a moment. “Perhaps,” he said at last, “a Hand is more accustomed to the realities of war against the wayfarers…”

Eamon carefully hid his surprise. “Wayfarers?” Was that the rumour that went with Marilio's body as it trundled out of the city to the pyres – that wayfarers had done it?

Slater nodded. “Perhaps they meant some harm against you, my lord…”

Much as Eamon desperately desired to tell the man that the wayfarers would not do such a thing, and certainly not to someone in Eamon's house, he could not.

Slater breathed deeply and then looked at him with a quivering lip. “Where do you find such strength, my lord?” Eamon looked at him enquiringly. “I mean, the strength to look at such things, yet still carry on?”

“In the one I serve,” Eamon replied.

Slater looked at him and nodded. “So shall this house, my lord.”

 

Eamon retired early to bed, his mind in a trance-like state. In a strange way, his house had never been closer to him than it was now in grief. How could he tell them he was to leave them? They were so vulnerable.

He lay still for a long time, his thoughts moving heavily. Already a day had passed, and he had made no preparations. He had spoken to no one and he knew that he must. Perhaps it was fear that made him delay. He feared to see the disappointed faces, feared to speak from his own lips words that would seal him to the Master's will, and draw him away from a part of the city that he loved. He had not liked the idea of being a Quarter Hand at first, and yet it was in the East Quarter that he had found companionship and strength to do the King's work better than in any other place. Now, that all had to change: he had to leave all the people he loved behind him to walk unfamiliar new halls, to become once again the stranger who learned the ropes. It terrified him, but to whom could a Right Hand turn for guidance? Eamon knew that as the Right Hand he would be reliant only on the Master and on that smile, which looked on him as though he were a son…

He shook the thought from himself with a shudder of revulsion. How could he exchange his household and his college for that? He did not want to become Right Hand. Yet he had no choice. Would he be able to work for the King, even there?

He did not know. He could only hope that he could.

There were things in the quarter that he had to safeguard against Arlaith's arrival. He had to speak to Anderas.

As his thought turned to the captain, his stomach churned. Anderas needed to know. More than that: Eamon realized suddenly that he had to tell the captain everything, the whole truth.

Why?
The voice's question was cold.
You will earn nothing from that, Eben's son, except loss.

Eamon sighed. Surely having Anderas alive – and having his friendship – was more important than the truth? Was it not the captain's friendship that he wanted to preserve, even though they would be driven apart? If he told Anderas the truth, then the captain's life, and even his own, would be in danger.

Eamon, how can he know you if he does not know who you are?
The words spoke deeply into his heart.
Would not knowing the truth save his life? How can he be a true friend to you if he does not know whom you serve?

The grim voice laughed.
If you value his friendship, son of Eben, then you will say nothing to him. He will not love you for what you are. He will reject you, totally and utterly. He will betray you, even as
she
did.

Eamon did not answer but set his resolve sternly against the voice of Edelred. He had to speak to Anderas, and not just because of his friendship with the man. Did the captain not also deserve the chance to serve the King?

And if he rejects you, Eben's son?
The voice relished the thought.
If he rejects you, you cannot then let him live.

Eamon's blood ran cold. If Anderas, despite the weeks and months that they had spent working together, despite the fact that they had saved each other from death and despair… if Anderas were to turn against him, what other choice would he have but to take the captain's life?

The idea haunted him. He could not sleep.

Take heart, Eamon.

At last he sat up. Stacking the cushions up behind his back he set himself upright in his bed and reached across to his table for the Edelred Cycle.

Have you not yet understood? You will learn nothing of value there, Eben's son,
the voice of Edelred told him.

“I certainly won't if I don't read it,” Eamon answered, somewhat petulantly. Carefully flicking the book open, he leaned it against his legs, drew a deep breath to drive the voice away, and continued reading.

He had already read a large amount of the work, which went to great lengths to describe the Master's skill, cunning, and greatness against his enemies. From what Eamon had understood from the poem, Edelred's aim was that of liberating the River Realm from a deluded king, although Eamon could not see how Ede might have fit such a description. The king he had seen in his visions had seemed noble, though troubled.

He had read how Edelred had gone as a diplomatic envoy to Ede's court and wooed a lady, Liana. This lady was sister to the King's closest counsellor, and Eamon's skin had crawled when he had realized that this lady had been the sister of Eben, and of his own blood.

In the poem the King (who disapproved of her love for Edelred) had struck down Liana – this was framed by the poem as proof of the King's wickedness. Eben was drawn, reluctantly but steadily, to Edelred's cause until he became the man's staunchest supporter – a shift of loyalties that filled Eamon with anguish and revulsion. The poem's words opened up the way to the battle at the watchtower wherein Edelred asked the King to relinquish his tyrannical hold over the River Realm, and Ede had rashly and arrogantly refused. The battle was joined and then Eben, in a moment of brazen courage, landed a blow against Ede's steed, allowing Edelred to take the King's life.

Eamon read the text carefully, knowing that the words did not tell the truth, or at least not the whole of it. He wondered what had truly happened.

He set his eyes to the text once again as he found his place. Edelred defeated the King, and went on to make a lengthy speech which lasted a number of pages and – in the manner of the best poetry – said little that was truly relevant. It took every part of Eamon's resolve to read, rather than skip over, the words. It was as well that he had nearly finished the book. Had he spent much longer reading it, he would not be overly surprised to hear himself speaking in the poet's eight-syllable verse.

At last the speech concluded. Eamon drew a deep breath, hoping that the end of the speech might signal a return to something of note. His eyes were blurred. He rubbed his hand across them before quietly counting the scant number of remaining pages.

Perhaps the voice of Edelred was right: perhaps there was nothing for him to find. Perhaps he wasted his time.

With a great effort of will he turned his eyes back to the verse. While there were still pages left to read, he would not abandon his hope.

An odd chill crept down his spine. The words on the page before him crystallized. As he read them they painted vivid pictures in his trembling thought:

Cracked was the Serpent's helm and shield.
His blood; bleak on the ground it spread
And there, where sword and shield lay strewn
Beneath the watchtower's gaze, and hewn
From flesh and breath of men was all
The road to Allera's last hall
Stood Edelred, whole wreathed in flame
While dark skies echoed back his name.
And in his hand aloft – Dark Tome!
Great covenant to claim the throne!
Its witness were those shattered fields
Where Serpent's right was made to yield.

Eamon's pulse raced. His thoughts fell back in on
themselves in wonder and dismay. A
dark tome
.

All at once he felt the weight of the Nightholt in his fingers. He saw the grim, angled writing on its pages, smelled the scent of death erupt from them, and remembered his vision of Eben, weeping as he hid it deep in Ellenswell.

He drew a deep breath. Surely, by a “dark tome”, the poet could mean nothing but the Nightholt?

Eamon stared at the words again, scanning them, re-reading them, trying to interpret them in as many different ways as possible, but he came again and again to the same terrifying conclusion: the Nightholt had been at the battle of Edesfield. More than that, somehow it seemed to validate Edelred's rule. Why else should it make the Serpent's “right” yield? What other right had a king, other than that of governance?

He sat back in dismay. What, then, could be written in the Nightholt? And why was it so vital to the throned to have it? Having it, what danger did it pose to Hughan?

He did not know, but in one matter alone he was left in no doubt. Eamon again read the line about Edelred being wreathed in flame. His flesh crawled –
the red light
. Eamon's palm burned.

The throned's mark had begun there, at that moment. Eamon remembered Hughan say that at Ede's death the King's grace had also shown itself. Lights, tome, King, and throned… somehow all things met in that moment at Edesfield.

Eamon read a little more but his eyes grew heavy, and at last he set the book aside. Then he slipped into a deep sleep where armies clashed on a darkened plain.

 

He woke long before morning came. Reluctantly sense returned to his limbs, and thought to his mind. The first traces of the dawn touched the distant sky. All in the house was silent.

He had to speak to Anderas.

He rose and dressed himself with care. Much as he tried to distract his thoughts from what he was about to do, he could not halt their hawk-like circling.

In silence he slung his sword to his belt.

You shall have need of that, Eben's son,
the voice told him.
He will deny you.

Eamon saw Anderas in his mind, the captain's face wrenched with horror and rage. His hand flew to his weapon as a cry erupted from his lips: “
Traitor!
”

His pulse quickened. What if what he saw in the fearful cracks of his mind happened before his eyes? He had struck and killed men, but could he truly turn a blade to strike Captain Anderas?

What other choice would he have?

Shaking, he took up his cloak. It seemed heavy as he set it over his shoulders and fastened it. He tried to marshal his thoughts.

He would speak to Anderas during their ride. He would make sure they went far from the city that morning – somewhere where the spies in Lord Dehelt's towers could not watch them. Maybe they would go up into the first curves of Ravensill; there were some wooded copses there. Then he could speak to Anderas fearlessly.

That you will never do, Eben's son.

He left his rooms and went swiftly down to the stables, where the stablehands were already at work. One of them brought his horse for him while he waited. Servants passed and greeted him. The early light grew stronger, and still he waited. Every now and then he glanced up at the doorway through which he knew the captain had to come.

What if he did not come? A shudder ran down his spine as he looked at the doorway again with horror. What if Anderas had been called away by other business?

The cruel torment of his thoughts began again. He had left it too late; he should have spoken to the captain weeks ago. Now the chance had been taken from him. Captain Anderas would die in battle against the King. His lifeless face would fall, pale and bloodied, in the tangled mud of Dunthruik because Eamon had not spoken. It tore at his heart. Why had he done nothing?

You glutted yourself on him, Eben's son, and fed on him for your selfish gain. Such is your friendship! Go back to your rooms and reap what you have sown. It is too late: he will not come.

A rustling sound by his face stirred him. Startled from his dark thoughts, he looked up. Suddenly a warm face was by his own and he smiled: Sahu. The beast, as always, seemed ridiculously content to see him. Eamon laid his hand on the charger's broad nose, tracing the white, star-like pattern there, and seeking encouragement in the horse's intelligent eyes.

“Do you think it will turn out well, Sahu?”

“Will what turn out well, my lord?” asked a voice.

Eamon started in surprise and turned to see the captain staring at him. The captain nodded to one of the stablehands to fetch his horse. Then he looked back to Eamon and smiled.

“Are you well, Lord Goodman?”

“Yes,” Eamon answered with a relieved laugh. “I thought for some reason that you would not come today.”