The King's Hand (60 page)

Anderas frowned seriously. “I would have advised you, my lord, if that were the case.”

“I know, captain.” He had known it well.

They rode from the city gates as normal, and followed the path towards the plains and the East Road. Eamon was terribly aware of the breeze in his face and the sound of the earth and stones beneath their horses' hooves. Every noise, every sensation, was tenfold itself, such was his fear. Yet the captain was disturbingly distant, as though he were a league away. Eamon knew that it was a figment of his own imagining. Anderas spoke confidently with him, and advised him on the latest news from the college and its cadets.

“Another month or so and we shall be due a swearing-in of our own, my lord,” he said. “Some of the third cadets are coming along very nicely indeed. If battle is imminent, perhaps we should consider bringing the swearing forward. It certainly aids morale on the battlefield.”

“Yes,” Eamon replied distractedly. They reached the crossroads that branched both across the plains and towards the hills. The paths stretched in various directions. His heart faltered.

Take your usual road, Eben's son. You will gain nothing by your folly.

“Captain,” Eamon said suddenly, and Anderas looked at him. Eamon straightened in his saddle. “Captain, I would ride by a different way today – I would go up across the foot of the hills into the woodland.”

For a terrible moment he was afraid that the captain would not answer. But Anderas smiled.

“A change is, they say, as good as a rest, my lord.”

They rode north, and the treeline grew closer. With the arrival of spring the leaves were full, and the boughs weighed down with foliage that rustled in the wind like the waves of the distant sea. As they rode beneath the wooded canopy, the branches moved, and the turf changed beneath the horses' hooves. The temperature dropped slightly as they entered the shade. Anderas followed Eamon. There was no sound about them other than what they brought, the morning birds, and the moving leaves.

The trees soon opened out into a clearing that was cool and shaded. Eamon paused as they reached it, stunned for a moment by the beauty of the trees themselves as their barks and arms were lit by the sunlight. The place felt at peace. This was where Eamon would confide.

Gently, he tugged back on the reins, bringing his horse to a slow stop. Anderas's horse went on a few paces. The captain's eyes turned towards the leaves in quiet wonder.

“There were once many trees on this plain and gathered in these hills,” he breathed. A smile spread over his face. “I am told that there were even birches once.”

“Silver ones?” Eamon asked. The trees were rare in the valleys and plains of the River Realm – no sooner did they spring up but they were torn down, at the Master's orders.

Anderas laughed. “I do not know, my lord,” he confessed, “but I rather like the idea.” Eamon did not answer, and the captain turned to him with a concerned frown. “Is everything well, my lord?”

It was the question Eamon had known would come. He trembled. Now – he knew it had to be now.

Anderas watched him dismount. His hands shook as he tethered Sahu to one of the trees. He did not believe that the horse would bolt, but he needed the security of the gesture.

At last he looked back to the captain. The man's swift eyes assessed him, and he wondered what thoughts were passing through his mind.

“Captain, I must speak with you.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Anderas dismounted and tied his own horse. He came and stood before Eamon. The first rays of sunlight were now high enough to pass through the eaves. Anderas blinked to clear them from his sight.

“How may I serve you?” he asked.

Eamon watched him for a long moment, his heart pounding. Could he really trust himself to this man? Anderas was a Gauntlet captain, sworn to the throned, while Eamon was the First Knight, sworn to the King. Grief filled his heart. What trust – or peace – could there ever be between them?

“Anderas,” he said at last, “I am going away.”

He saw the captain frown. “Going?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you going, my lord?” Anderas's voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

“It is the Master's will to draw me away from the East Quarter,” Eamon answered slowly. “He has another purpose for me, and I must perform it.”

“What must you do?”

Eamon matched his gaze as steadily as he could. “I am to become his Right Hand.”

Silence fell between them. Anderas exhaled deeply. When the captain next spoke, his eyes were veiled, and his voice dulled.

“Congratulations, my lord.”

“The news grieves you?” Eamon asked.

Anderas closed his eyes and drew breath before answering. “I cannot, nor will not, lie to you, my lord. Yes, it grieves me.” He looked up at last. “It is as doleful a blow as I have taken in a long time.”

“Neither can I lie to you,” Eamon replied. “It grieves me also.”

The captain looked at him as though this surprised him. Then he laughed quietly.

“I still remember, my lord, your uncertainty when they first gave you black to wear. It never really seemed your colour, and yet you have worn it well. I do not doubt that you will bear your new office as well as you have this.” He held out his hand to clasp Eamon's. “I must again offer you my most sincere congratulations.”

Eamon's heartbeat picked up again. This was it – this was the moment. He had to take it or lose it.

The captain's hand extended towards him and the smile on the man's face was genuine, if bittersweet. How easy it would be to accept that hand, how easy to take that praise, mount his horse, and leave.

A look of confusion ran across the captain's face as Eamon set his hands to his belt and unslung his sword from it. The blade and scabbard seemed heavy, but he held them out and set the sheathed blade in the captain's outstretched hand. The captain took it with both his hands, not daring to speak as Eamon also drew his dagger and laid it with the sword.

Anderas stared at him. “My lord,” he said, looking up in alarm from the blades, “what do you mean to –?”

“Anderas.”

The captain's face paled to hear his name passing so solemnly from Eamon's lips. Eamon held the breath that he had drawn, as though it would somehow steel him against what he had to do. He could not now go back. But how could he say what he had to say? The captain stared at him in bewilderment, and he knew that he had to speak.

Courage, Eamon!

“Anderas,” he said, and his words came haltingly. “I have found no truer friend in the whole of Dunthruik than you. You have made my way – a way blighted at times with grief and fear – easier to bear. I could not have borne it up to now without you.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Anderas now looked doubly uncertain. Eamon met his gaze again and smiled despite his fear.

“Anderas! You are gracious and noble in more ways than you understand, and you have been true to me when I little deserved that. You are true to me even now, though you cannot fathom what I do, why I have brought you here, or what I try to say. The truth of it is that I do not know how to speak what I must, but I must do it nonetheless.”

“I will bear with you, my lord.”

Eamon paused. If Anderas only knew what he had said. Would the captain really bear with Eamon the burden of being a King's man?

“The news that I must become Right Hand grieved me,” Eamon continued, “for the fact that I will no longer be in the East Quarter, in the college, in the Handquarters, nor have the company of those there whom I love.” He looked up again. The captain's face was grave. “You know that I love you, Anderas,” Eamon told him quietly, “yet I am drawn and commanded by a higher loyalty.”

“I understand,” Anderas answered.

“It is of that loyalty that I must speak.” Eamon drew another breath. “Do you love me, Anderas?”

“My lord,” Anderas answered quietly, “you know that I do.”

“It is because I love you that I would have you know me for what I am.” Anderas stared at him. “Let me tell you a story, Anderas,” Eamon continued. “It is not a story about Lord Goodman – it is not a story about Pinewood or a dinner with two crowns, nor a story about a head set upon a city gate. It is a story about Eamon Goodman.”

Anderas watched him nervously. The captain swallowed.

“When Eamon surrendered his sword, the man who captured his ship threatened death to all on board. He intended to kill Eamon first, and would indeed have done so,” Eamon said quietly. “But a young cadet threw himself in the way and took the blow. The cadet's name was Mathaiah Grahaven, and he received his death in that blow. But he was saved.”

Anderas shook his head slightly. “I do not understand.”

“Mathaiah was saved by blue light – the grace of the King in the hands of a King's man.”

A worried look passed over the captain's face.

“B-b-blue light?”

Eamon saw the fear in his eyes, and knew it. His heart was filled with courage, and when he met Anderas's gaze again, his voice was clear.

“You are right: black is not a colour that I bear well, though I have tried. You had the right of it, long ago, when you observed that I bore red better than I do the black. But, Captain Anderas, there is another colour that I wear better than either red or black. I wear it in my heart, and through it and for it, I have borne all the others. It is to that which I give my highest loyalty – to that colour, and the one to whom it pertains.”

A look of utter amazement ran across Anderas's face.

“You're a wayfarer,” he gasped.

Eamon's blood raced in his veins. “I am a King's man.”

Anderas gaped at him. “A King's man?”

“Yes.”

Anderas's eyes fell to the blades in his hands. The shaking palms tensed. The fingers tightened about the hilt of the sword. Anderas looked up at him again.

“Why have you told me this?” he cried at last, his voice full of rage. “
Why?
”

“Because I want you to know the truth, Andreas Anderas,” Eamon answered. The captain blinked tears from his eyes as the name echoed in the air. How long, Eamon wondered, had it been since any man had called the captain by his full name? “Now you do.”

Silence fell between them, broken only by the captain's ragged breath. Eamon stood still, and silent, and waited.

At last, the captain looked up. “After Pinewood,” he said quietly, “I was convinced that I was going to die. I knew that nothing the surgeons could do would save me from the wound; death circled round me. The only one who saw how close it stood to me was you, and I sought to convince you otherwise.” He paused and swallowed. There were tears on his face and he brushed them aside.

“On the night that I was meant to die, I had a dream. I dreamt that I was to go down into a dark land alone, set on the path into some strange darkness by a man who seemed all of fire. He encouraged me to go, and I would have done so – all my hope was spent and the wound could not be healed – it festered and rotted within me. The dark path was all that was left, though I did not want it.”

A deep breath shuddered out of the captain with the closeness of the memory. Eamon wanted to offer him comfort but knew that he could not, not at that moment. Anderas looked up again.

“I would have taken it, Eamon Goodman, but for one thing. At the moment of my choice a voice reached me. I could not hear its words, but there was light behind me, and the fire that showed me the path fled before it, leaving me at the crossroads, alone.” He met Eamon's gaze. “The voice was yours,” he whispered, “and in the dimness of my mind, the light seemed blue.”

Eamon's heart jumped. He remembered well how he had knelt by Anderas that night, how he had begged and implored that the captain's life be saved…

Anderas looked back down to the sword in his hands. “I did not speak of my dream to anyone,” he said. “How could I? And I could not believe it. I could not let myself interpret it as anything other than what I convinced myself it was: the figment of a mind tormented by impending death, by fever, and by whatever medicines the surgeons had me take.” He looked up again. “You have been a King's man since the very first day I met you?”

“Yes,” Eamon replied. “Since long before that.”

A glint appeared in Anderas's eyes. “Is that why the outer provinces fell so swiftly? Because you were here, spying for the Serpent!”

“No one has witnessed my actions as closely as you these last few months,” Eamon told him. “When have I acted unjustly? Have I ever wronged the people of Dunthruik? Have I ever failed to protect them, or act for their betterment?”

Anderas's face softened. “No,” he managed. “No, you… you've acted more rightly and justly than any Hand that I, or anyone in the city, have ever known.”

“My task in this city was once to spy for the King; now, it is to act as his messenger, to herald his coming, to uphold his laws, his goodness, and his righteousness before he comes,” Eamon told him.

“No one can say that you have failed in that.” Anderas fell silent. A tempest of thought raged across his face. He looked up. “Now what would you have me do?” he demanded angrily. “What would you have me do, Lord Goodman? I cannot return to that city as I left it this morning!”

“No,” Eamon answered. “You cannot.”

His sword dangled in Anderas's trembling hands. Eamon drew breath once again and met Anderas's gaze. The captain shook, as though he knew or guessed what words Eamon meant to speak.

“Andreas,” he said, “I am on a journey. I know full well that the road I take is perilous and burdensome; I may be called to lay down my very life upon it. I know that treachery lurks at the wayside, and that I am not the only one who lies open to it. I expose all those whom I love to that same treachery by what I do. But I know this also – that where the road leads is good, and that those who walk in the King's name, and with his grace, need not travel in fear.