by Anna Thayer
With a silenced sob he pushed the door open. He had to clean the blood from his hands and face, but it would not help him. The bloody witness penetrated him like poison.
You will not wash it away! The voice laughed at his dull simplicity. You have not the skill, Eben’s son! No man lives who can free you from what you bear.
He closed his door. The very wood watched him. The hateful walls that hemmed him round were dark, for the moon had shifted. Only pale starlight reached him. It was cold and bitter. He looked up at the distant flickers. Stars. Swords and stars.
For a moment bitterness masked his grief. Had Hughan known that he would have to bear this? Had Hughan known, the day he drew Mathaiah into his service, what cost that service would demand? Had he known and yet allowed the boy to go?
Rage reared archly in his breast: rage against the King and against himself. Hughan had known – and done nothing. Eamon had known – had always known – that Dunthruik was no place for Mathaiah. Eamon had betrayed the young man to Alessia, and she had drawn Mathaiah’s name from her lover, amidst a silken lair of pillows and firelight.
She had done it. She – the one who had spoken out his secrets and betrayed him to his enemies – had done it.
Anguish clawed in his throat. She had given Mathaiah to the throned.
And you did not save him. The voice was there again, cased in the coils of his rage. Even thus did you betray him, Eben’s son. You did it willingly.
“No!” Eamon heard his own voice, a desperate whisper in the dark room. The walls closed around him and the stars grew faint. His throat constricted so that he could barely breathe, and, all the while, the voice laughed and the broken hollows of Mathaiah’s dead face rose up before him.
You made no plan, no attempt, to save him. You let her treachery go unchallenged. You let her beguile you. So he burns.
Bile came to Eamon’s throat, the smell of burning flesh to his nose, and suddenly he saw the pyre in Edesfield. When he looked up it was not Telo’s face upon that pyre but blackened pits where eyes had once been – he saw Mathaiah’s face horrifically twisted by the scourging tongues of flame.
He drove his face into his hands with a cry, but still the image ground at him. Suddenly Ashway’s voice screamed in his mind; Overbrook’s blood touched his feet; Alben’s hands were at his throat, and Giles’s bloodied sword swooped overhead while young men screamed. In the furious scream he heard Mathaiah shriek also, and the boy’s agony ripped through him.
You did all these things.
“No!”
He could not bear it. His grief and rage bred bitter progeny in his heart.
But he could not cry – he could not. The Master’s banner hung over him, watching, listening, waiting. He could not howl out his grief into the narrow walls of that room; he would be heard and then be lost.
So had he been heard when he had confided in her.
It was the weakness of your heart that day that condemned him, son of Eben.
His legs lost their strength. He sank to his knees but they could not hold him; he sank until his whole body was prostrate on the frozen, stony floor. The chill met every inch of him and he feebly dashed his bloodied hands against the stone, clawing at it with his quivering fingers. There was no comfort for him – no one to unburden him from his woe – and there could be no grieving and no tears. He could not remain silent, and yet he could not speak.
No man could be asked to bear it.
The Serpent demanded it of you, Eben’s son. You are as nothing to him. Your grief is his delight.
Eamon shook his head. It was not true! Hughan would never…
But he did, son of Eben. So did she.
He had no strength to answer. His grief closed round him and his heart screamed silently where he lay, trembling, on the stone floor.
He did not know if he slept. As the grey dawn stole into his chamber he barely knew who he was. His right arm was dead beneath him, crushed between his weight and the ground. His cloak swamped him. He smelled dry blood.
Eamon.
The voice in his heart was gentle. It knew his burden.
His eyes were crusted with grime. He forced them open.
Shivering, he stirred. His head swam as he rose upright. He should wash and eat – how long had it been since he had eaten? – but he could do neither. His whole being reviled both. How could he wash and eat, when Mathaiah…?
She had done it. Alessia. In that moment, her name was to him like a ghoulish, bloodied harlot, and he hated it.
He stumbled painfully to his feet, flexed his hands, and walked over to his basin. As he did so he caught sight of himself in the water. The face that looked back at him was shrouded in a Hand’s cloak, and it was pale beneath the blood.
He stood for a long time over the water. If he washed away the blood, with what could he ever hope to hold the memory of Mathaiah – except her hateful treachery?
Eamon.
Shaking, he plunged his hands into the water. It struck at him like ice. He rubbed his fingers together, colouring the water black-red. He worked at them until they seemed clear, then lowered his trembling face to the cold. His eyes burnt as he washed. At last he raised his head, the freezing, mottled water trickling down his neck.
As he patted his face dry, he saw something glinting on the floor. It had tumbled from his hands as he rose, and now, seeing it again, he froze.
The ring.
It was Ashway’s. The Hand was dead.
For a long time he stood and stared at the ring, lost. Then Ladomer’s words returned to him: he was to see the Master that morning, and it was now morning.
He weighed the ring in his hand. It was cold and heavy. He shuddered.
To the Master he would go.
His footsteps echoed dully in the halls. Slivers of early morning light cut through the corridors. The smell of the sea was strong, the cobbled courtyard stones slippery. It had rained during the night. Smoke from the distant pyres was thick, black from the dampened wood.
He passed the guards at the entrance into the East Wing, and they bowed low before him. Had any of them seen him during the night, a blood-harried ghost? He did not stop to speak to them; his voice was shrunken.
He followed the corridors of the wing, corridors down which Captain Waite had brought him but six months before, and allowed his eyes to rest on the tall pillars and crowned ceiling. They were cold and brittle before him.
Slowly he went towards the throne room. The banners and crests shivered, whispering about him as he passed.
The Master’s doorkeeper was at the door. He bowed.
“You must wait, Lord Goodman.”
“Where shall I wait?” Eamon whispered.
“Here, my lord,” the doorkeeper answered him, gesturing to the right. There were small waiting rooms to either side, one for the Quarter Hands and one for all others. It was to the former that the doorkeeper indicated.
Eamon stepped through the doorway, heart pounding. He clenched his fingers about the ring. The waiting room of the Quarter Hands was ringed by the emblems of the quarters, and the Right Hand’s eagle was marked boldly onto the ceiling. But Eamon did not see it; his sight was fixed on owl and ash.
There was a sound in the corridor behind him – footsteps that swiftly reached the throne room’s doors. Eamon peered through the waiting room door. The walker stopped. A look of surprise filled the green eyes beyond.
“Lord Cathair,” Eamon bowed.
“Here a little early, are we not, Lord Goodman?” Curious delight passed over the Hand’s face. “One might go so far as to call you the ‘early bird’.” He laughed, glancing up for a moment at the banners along the hall. It was then that Eamon realized that Cathair was accompanied by several of the West Quarter’s Hands, Febian among them. With them were three other Hands whom Eamon did not recognize. Perhaps from the East Quarter?
Eamon swallowed. “The Master desires to see me, Lord Cathair.”
Cathair laughed again.
> “Oh, he does, but you shall have to wait for a short while. Would that be an inconvenience for you at all, Lord Goodman?”
Eamon felt unnerved. “No, Lord Cathair.”
“How right you are, Lord Goodman!” Cathair smiled. His voice took on the lyrical tone of a poetic citation. “After all, ‘there is glory to be gained when times of waiting wane’.” The Lord of the West Quarter looked to his followers. “Come, gentlemen.”
Cathair and his Hands continued on past the doorkeeper. The Lord of the West Quarter whistled. Eamon’s blood curdled.
He did not know how long he stood there, surrounded by the birds of the waiting room and gazed at by the crowns of the hall. Anxiety gnawed at him. He waited.
At last a group of Hands came down the corridor. He recognized them all: Tramist, Dehelt, and the Right Hand, the former two accompanied by Hands from their own quarters. All favoured him with an odd glare as they passed before him into the throne room. He realized that the Quarter Hands – just as Cathair before them – all wore the full ceremonial regalia of their quarters and positions.
“You will be summoned,” the Right Hand said as he passed, his voice thick and wrathful. Eamon bowed.
“Yes, my lord.”
The Hands entered, the doors closing heavily behind them. Eamon’s pulse raced. He felt sick.
What did they want with him?
He stood and waited.
At last, the doorkeeper stirred and turned to him.
“You may go in, Lord Goodman.”
Eamon stepped forward. The doors opened before him. He entered.
The long hall was broad and ruddy. The great pictures that had seemed so bright on the night of the ball were dull in the grey dawn. The trappings of the daised throne glowered in the gloom.
The throned sat there, a great crown circling his fiery head. Eamon met his grey gaze across that long room and all courage failed him.
The Master knew.
How could he not know? Ashway had spoken so much in his frenzy – and whether by force or not, he would have reaffirmed it before his death. Eamon was deliriously certain of it.
The Master smiled at him. Eamon remembered the heart of the King shattering over him on that dais. With trembling feet, he carried himself forward.
To the throned’s right stood the Right Hand, regal in black. His eagle was embossed in red at his breast, his face as shadowy as his robes. The man watched him closely. Had Ladomer spoken to him? But what Ladomer had said didn’t matter – Ashway would have confessed it all. The Lord of the East Quarter had had no reason to lie to them. The Right Hand would know.
Gathered at the foot of the dais steps were the other Quarter Hands: Cathair, Dehelt, and Tramist. On their breasts he saw their emblems – the raven, falcon, and harrier – and on their hands their gold rings. He recognized at once their likeness to the one he held. His heart faltered. Behind the Quarter Hands knelt all the others who had accompanied them to the hall.
But Eamon’s eyes were drawn past the gathered Hands to the keen, grey eyes of the Master. Caught in that gaze he found that he had not the strength to stand.
He halted. Then slowly, painfully, he shuddered down to his knees before the throne and lowered his head.
There is still time, Eben’s son.
Yes, there was still time. He could still renounce the King. They would not kill him if he offered his unreserved allegiance. It was what they expected and deserved. That was surely why he had been summoned: to reveal the folly of his disguise to them. They would kill him, just as they had killed Ashway, and Mathaiah, and Eben…
Kneeling in silence, he made one final effort to drive such thoughts from him. He would not speak before they accused him. It would come soon enough.
“Lord Goodman, you are here to answer the Master’s will.” It was the Right Hand who spoke. His voice rang sharply in the long room.
“Yes, my lord.” Eamon forced his tongue to words. “I will answer.”
The shadows round him moved, and the Hands, their faces solemn and pale, stepped into a line behind him. He was aware of the Right Hand and the Master coming down the steps towards him. The whole earth quivered beneath those steps. He dared not look up.
“Give me the ring of the East Quarter’s lord, Eben’s son,” spoke the Master. His voice drowned all thought.
Eamon stretched out his hand. The throned took the ring. It was small in the Master’s palm, the owl engulfed by powerful fingers. Ashway’s pale face came to Eamon’s mind. He pushed it away in silence.
“A master has servants.” The throned spoke quietly but his voice was thunder in that room and a deafening tempest in Eamon’s mind. “Those who serve me well are given to greater service.” He smiled, and Eamon saw that he cast his eyes for a moment to the other Hands before looking back at him. That gaze was swollen with pride.
“These Hands, son of Eben, have served me faithfully. One has served me since the day the Serpent’s house fell. He has seen this city founded and has been given power of life and death over it in my name and with my authority. The others have served me for a lesser time, but their service is not less. All serve me and me alone. We have made Dunthruik strong, a name to be feared throughout the River Realm. We have subdued north and west beneath our crown. We have broken the house of the Serpent – as he is crushed, we are made bold.”
Eamon looked up. The dying unicorn was before him on the high wall, the snake fleeing from its bloody cove.
The Master’s eyes rested on him. “You also are my servant. More than any of these, your house is bound to mine. Now you will be bound to me.”
Eamon’s heart quailed. What further bond could he endure?
As he met the throned’s gaze the weight of gloved hands fell on his shoulders. There were two on his right and those on his left – Cathair’s – gripped him fiercely. Fear shocked through him. He flinched as the Right Hand stepped up behind him, setting a hand on his left shoulder. With a smile, the Lord of Dunthruik came forward and laid his great hands on both Eamon’s shoulders.
There was a long moment of silence. In that cage of hands, Eamon shook.
Cathair’s voice suddenly broke the silence. “I am the raven and vine, Lord Cathair of the West Quarter. I witnessed the fall of the Serpent and rise of the Eagle. My blood is the Master’s, his mark is my strength. As it is the Master’s will, so is it mine: this man shall serve.”
A terrible chill speared through Eamon, but the mark on his brow felt warm and the eagle on his hand – still and silent for so long – ached deep. Both drew force from the grief and anger he hid.
Another voice spoke. “I am the falcon and oak, Lord Dehelt of the North Quarter. I saw neither fall nor rise but my blood is the Master’s, his mark is my strength. As it is his will, so is it mine: this man shall serve.”
“I am the harrier and yew” – the third voice was brittle – “Lord Tramist of the South Quarter. I saw neither fall nor rise but my blood is the Master’s, his mark is my strength. As it is his will, so is it mine: this man shall serve.”
“I am the black eagle.” Now it was the Right Hand who spoke. His hand, cruel and hard, gripped Eamon’s shoulder. “My blood is the Master’s, his mark is my strength. I am his right hand. As it is his will, so is it mine: this man will serve.”
Eamon felt something in him, but knew it not; in their voices he heard the echo of a time long ago. For a moment he saw an image of the throne room. Five men knelt, as he knelt even then, before the throned. They were robed in black and one of them, Eamon understood, was Eben.
Eamon looked up. The Master’s eyes were on him.
“It is my will,” the throned said, a slow smile on his face. “Hold out your hand, Eben’s son.”
Eamon held out his shaking hand and watched in silence as the throned took his fingers. His grip was huge, powerful, and crushing – it made Eamon’s skin crawl. But he could no more flee from it than he could draw his eyes from the pools of molten iron that devoured him.
Suddenly the cold, golden clasp of the ring was round his finger. The chill of it crept into his bone. The throned held the ring there, pressing it into his flesh. It was heavy and hurt him, but still he did not understand.
The throned smiled at him. “Rise, Lord Goodman.”
Eamon clenched his eyes shut, and, quivering, rose to his feet. The Hands still crowded him. Their hands weighed on his shoulders like an immovable burden. His own hand hung heavy with the ring; it felt both too tight and too large for him.
Suddenly the hands on his shoulders were gone. Eamon gasped as the Right Hand reached around from behind him and undid the clasp at Eamon’s neck, from which his cloak hung. The pressure of hands and cloth seemed enough to choke, but Eamon forced himself to keep still as the Right Hand pulled his cloak from him.
Cold air rushed at him. Though he wore both shirt and jacket beneath the heavy garment, bereft of his cloak he felt vulnerable. He shivered. Panic flowered in his heart, and his chest rose and fell with nervous, unsteady breath.
The Master stepped up to him, a black robe hanging menacingly from his hands. It was heavy, of the same quality as the ones worn by the other Quarter Hands. The Master came so close that Eamon felt the man’s breath on his down-turned face. He battled every nerve to keep his trembling limbs in order as the Master’s arms reached round him and, in a terrifying half-embrace, laid the new robe upon him. It settled over his shoulders, touching his back and arms. Last of all, its rich weight touched his chest, laying over his heart an emblem that he knew. It consumed his sight. No words reached his throat.
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.
