The King's Hand

by Anna Thayer

  Eamon met the captain on the stairs into the college. Anderas was obviously deep in thought and had not seen him, for he made as though to hurry past the arches where Eamon waited. Eamon laughed and called out after him.

  “I see my cloak is more effective than ever this evening, captain!” he said.

  Anderas jumped, and came back to where Eamon stood.

  “Good evening, Lord Goodman,” he said, bowing.

  “Yes, captain,” Eamon answered, “it is.”

  Anderas frowned at him. The frown quickly turned to a look of astonished surprise. “Your meeting with the Master –”

  Eamon grinned from ear to ear. “My meeting with the Master was a great success, Anderas,” he said, and laughed again. “It was a triumph, for his glory and for the people of this city.”

  “Nobody but you, my lord, could have concocted and conducted such a reckless scheme.” Anderas shook his head. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Perhaps once you have shared a glass of something with me to celebrate, you will find the believing of it a little easier,” Eamon replied. “As to the charge of recklessness: that, I fear, will remain untouched.”

  “May I make rash comments about the particularity of your style?”

  “I think you may just have done so,” Eamon replied.

  “My lord, I fear that were I to live a thousand years I would never find another able to lay claim to such spectacular folly as yourself.”

  “That, I am told, is all due to my particularity,” Eamon answered with a smile.

  Eamon requested a fine bottle to be brought to his office. He and Anderas drank some of it together. The captain asked to hear the details of the meeting. Eamon was as honest in the telling of what had happened as he could be. Anderas was fascinated by his glimpse into the world of the Hands, and singularly delighted with the change in the law.

  “It will save lives, my lord,” he said.

  “I know,” Eamon answered. “And perhaps it might just result in more effort being spent on catching actual thieves rather than the easiest available culprit.”

  After the captain had left, Eamon retired to bed. Again he took up the Edelred Cycle and tried reading another part of it, but his mind was restless, and it was difficult to concentrate.

  He fell swiftly asleep, and awoke only briefly during the night at the sound of an owl screeching beyond his window. But in sleep, something just beyond hearing nagged at him, demanding his attention. His sleepy mind ignored it, but the premonition grew with the passing minutes till it filled his whole mind.

  He opened his eyes. He heard nothing now, but the work was done: he was awake. As he gained consciousness, he realized that it was not yet fully light outside. The first birdsong cautiously touched the air, as though even the birds wondered if they woke too soon.

  Eamon rose and drew on his breeches and boots, then crossed the floor to the wash basin. He cast his arms out wide, and stretched his back. His shirt and cloak were set carefully over a chair. He looked between them and the basin. He knew that he ought to throw some of the cold water over his face, knew it would help him wake up, but there was also the undeniable fact that it would be cold…

  He heard a timid knock at his door. He paused, wondering if he had imagined it, but it was soon followed by a voice.

  “Lord Goodman?”

  “You can come in,” he called. He splashed some water on his face.

  The door opened behind him.

  “I’m so sorry to disturb you, Lord Goodman,” the voice continued. Cara’s voice. A great smile broke across his face. “There is a…” Cara trailed off into a gasp.

  Eamon rose, rubbing his face against a cloth to dry it, then turned towards her. “Good morning to you, Miss Tenent,” he said. “I’m glad to see you back on duty. How are you feeling?”

  “Well, my lord,” Cara answered, though her face was pale and she clenched one of her hands. Concern washed over him. He furrowed his brow and walked over to her.

  “Forgive me, but your words and manner do not match. Are you sure everything is well, Miss Cara?” he said.

  “Yes, my lord,” Cara breathed. She looked at him with wide eyes. “Your back…”

  Suddenly, Eamon understood.

  “Is it the scars?” he asked, and slowly turned his back to her. She nodded. One of her hands reached towards the scars on his back as though to ward off the disbelief that consumed her. It sent a chill down his spine.

  With a gasp she withdrew. “My lord, I’m sorry –”

  “Be at peace,” Eamon answered, and turned to look at her again. The girl froze in terror. As he looked at her, he was overwhelmed by how young and fragile, and in her own way beautiful, she was. He stared at her.

  In that one, terrifyingly vivid, moment he saw himself seize her and claim that hitherto unclaimed innocence for himself.

  It is the work of but a moment, Eben’s son, and your due. She cannot refuse you. She will subject herself to you, and count herself as honoured. How many others could lay claim to such an honour?

  With a shudder, he tore himself away from his thoughts. The voice’s suggestion revolted him. Not only would such a thing be an abuse of her, it would also be an abuse of him and a betrayal of them both. It would betray the King, and in betraying Hughan, Eamon would dishonour him.

  It would betray Alessia.

  That this last thought should enter his mind surprised him. For a moment he longed for her face and the touch of her hand in his own.

  Answer her betrayal, Eben’s son! It is widely thought that this wench is your whore. What shame is there in making her so?

  Eamon repulsed the voice and turned his heart from it.

  He realized that he had been quiet for a long time. Cara watched him with concern.

  “Are you well, my lord?”

  Take her now.

  Eamon met her gaze. He felt deeply ashamed of his thoughts, but still he answered her.

  “Yes,” he said at last. With a final effort he forced the last traces of the voice from his mind. When he looked at her again, he saw that he loved the servant because she, just like Slater and Marilio and Callum and Cook and so many others, served him. “Yes, I am well.”

  “When were you flogged?” Cara asked quietly. She suddenly drew breath as though to apologize for her boldness. Eamon smiled and interrupted her.

  “Seven months ago,” he answered. Tears welled in Cara’s eyes.

  “I never knew…”

  “Not many people do,” Eamon answered gently. “I am not sure what people would think if they realized that the Lord of the East Quarter was once a lieutenant who was flogged for miscarrying his duty.”

  Cara looked at him in surprise. “That cannot be true.”

  “You’re right,” Eamon answered. “I suppose it is only partially true.”

  “What happened?”

  “Three cadets under my command were guarding a prisoner we were transporting from Edesfield to Dunthruik.”

  “Edesfield?” Cara repeated uncertainly.

  “Not the province,” Eamon answered, “the town. It is some way from Dunthruik.” Cara nodded and he continued. “The prisoner was my charge. One day the cadets were careless and she attempted to escape. She was caught, but three of them were held responsible for her attempt to escape. They were young, Cara, as most cadets are. Younger than Cadet Bellis.” She blushed a little. “They were to be flogged.” It seemed so long ago. “I took the flogging in their place,” he finished simply.

  There was a long silence. Cara watched him, as though unsure what to make of what she had heard.

  “That is not a story that they tell about you.”

  “Most of the men who would tell it are dead,” Eamon replied. “They were killed when the holk was boarded.”

  “Even though you surrendered?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Eamon offered her another smile.

  “I’m not sorry for what I did,” he told her.
“There is no shame in bearing scars like these, Cara. You took them well, and they are a testament to your courage.”

  “And to yours, my lord,” Cara answered quietly. “You bore near to a flogging from Lord Arlaith for my sake.”

  Eamon’s face flooded with momentary embarrassment as he remembered how he had grovelled before the Right Hand.

  “Slater told you?” he guessed.

  “Please don’t be angry with him,” Cara said anxiously.

  “I’m not, Cara.”

  “He felt that I should know what happened. When he explained to me what you had done I couldn’t understand it,” Cara said quietly. “Now perhaps I do a little better.”

  “Miss Tenent, I did not try to stop Arlaith because I was once flogged myself,” Eamon told her. “I tried to stop him because…” He faltered. He could not say it was because she did not deserve it; if he did, it would be to gainsay the Right Hand, and that was dangerous for them both. He looked up at her again. “I had to try.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You deserved nothing less, and much more, than what I was able to do.”

  There was a long and slightly awkward silence. Quietly Eamon stepped away from her and went to the chair where his shirt and cloak lay. He drew them on. As he did so, Cara came forward to help him. He laughed quietly.

  “I am sure that you often assisted Lord Ashway when he dressed,” he said, “but you need not do the same for me. I am well able to dress myself.”

  Cara fell back a pace. “Yes, my lord.”

  Eamon quickly settled his robes and cloak over his shoulders.

  “My apologies, my lord, but I nearly forgot. A messenger came for you,” Cara said.

  “From whom?”

  “From the Master,” Cara replied quietly. “You’re to go to him at once.”

  Eamon frowned as he straightened the cloak on his shoulders, and at last pushed his ring onto his finger.

  “Then to the Master I shall go,” he said.

  CHAPTER XXXI

  The doorkeeper awaited him. He lurked in the shadows that surrounded the door to the throne room. As Eamon approached, the man bowed deeply – far more deeply than Eamon had ever been bowed to before. It surprised and alarmed him.

  “My lord,” the doorkeeper said. “You are expected.”

  “Thank you, doorkeeper,” Eamon answered. The man remained folded before him. For a moment Eamon didn’t know what to do.

  “Rise,” he tried at last, and the man did so before slowly drawing open the doors. Eamon stared at him.

  “My lord,” the doorkeeper said again.

  Flummoxed, Eamon stepped into the throne room. The doors closed behind him.

  The grey dawn’s first touch loaned the grand hall a ghostly quality, almost as though the place were wreathed in mist.

  Eamon stepped down from the door and crossed the hall. It was only as he reached the halfway point that he saw the throne. The Master stood before it, his eyes fixed on Eamon. The grey stare cut through the twilight shades, making a breach straight in his heart.

  Eamon reached the foot of the dais and bowed down to one knee as he had done so many other times.

  “Your glory, Master.” His voice came as a threadbare whisper.

  “Rise, Eben’s son,” the throned replied. Eamon did so and looked up at the Master’s deep, dark eyes. The throned smiled. Eamon realized – with a mix of awe, delight, and utter dread – that it was a smile given to no other.

  As the Master descended the steps of the throne and approached him, another realization dawned: he was alone with the Master.

  The Master stood before him. His towering height made Eamon cower, and a searing thrill ran through his flesh as the Master reached down and touched his face. He could not move and could not breathe, even as his palm and forehead burned at the flare of the throned’s mark.

  “You will be the youngest, Eben’s son.” The throned’s voice was quiet, and Eamon wondered if it was not also a little wistful. The words chilled him to his very core. “And yet, none will have been as you will be.”

  “How may I serve you, Master?” Eamon asked.

  The throned smiled. “Son of Eben,” he said, “you will become my Right Hand.”

  Eamon’s breath was torn viciously from his lungs as at a blow. He reeled. With startling suddenness Waite’s words, spoken at their first meeting, came back to him: “Right Hand is not beyond you.”

  Eamon remembered how much he had longed for it, how he had hankered after it when he had lain awake night after night in Alessia’s bed; how Ladomer had encouraged him to yearn after it, though it had seemed far beyond him…

  Now, it was freely given to him from the hand of the Master himself. The hand that gave it lay on his cheek in a dreadful tenderness that he could scarcely endure.

  “You have shown yourself trustworthy with little; now you will be entrusted with much.” The Master’s voice seeped into him through every pore.

  Shaking from head to foot, Eamon sank down to his knees before the kindly smile of the throned.

  “Master,” he breathed, “I cannot of my own merit accept what you offer me. Only if it is your will shall I dare set my hand to such a thing.”

  There was a moment of silence, broken at the last by a laugh. It was a rich, round, deep-chested laugh, and it shook Eamon through his very bones.

  “Few have been offered this task, Eben’s son; none have taken it with such words.” He laughed again. “You show promise, my son.”

  “I hope to make good on it, Master,” Eamon replied. “But Lord Arlaith –?”

  “In seven days, Eben’s son, you shall take his place,” the Master answered, and as he finished Eamon’s heart sunk into a petrifying mire. “And, on that day, he shall take yours.”

  When he left the palace, Eamon could barely walk; he was glad that he needed only mount his horse. The creature proved cooperative and went slowly, not minding that the reins trembled in his fingers. Dunthruik passed by him in a daze. The Master’s last words ran through his mind again. One week: a single week, and Arlaith would take the East Quarter. The thought cut at his heart like a deathblow. His servants, his college, the streets and people that he had come to know and love… they would be taken from him.

  And the work that he had done? Arlaith would undo it. He would do so out of spite against Eamon. His hatred would do nothing but grow more terrible. Eamon did not know if he would be able to stop it, even if he was the Right Hand. And what of the servants? They could not be as free as they had been with him. They had to be retrained to be as they had been under Lord Ashway, trained again to tread in silence and in fear.

  He came into the Ashen. “Lord Goodman!” called a voice. The earnestness of that voice dealt him a further blow.

  “Good morning, captain,” he answered.

  In seven days he would lose Captain Anderas, his dearest friend in the entire city. Eamon was sure that Arlaith knew it too.

  “I see you have been riding already,” Anderas commented cheerfully.

  Eamon could not answer. He felt as though he restrained tears by a thread. The captain looked at him in concern. “Are you well, my lord?”

  “Yes,” Eamon answered.

  “You’re lying,” Anderas told him quietly. It was too bold a statement for a captain to make to a Hand, and to say as much to a Right Hand…

  “Yes,” Eamon replied. “I am.”

  “You’re very bad at it. It’s as well that you never thought about becoming a spy; they’d have rooted you out in seconds.”

  “Yes,” Eamon answered, his throat terribly dry. “They would have.”

  But they had not.

  He decided to go to bed early that night. He tucked his papers away into neat piles and stood at the window in his office, letting his hand rest on the wooden frame. There was a knock on his door.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord,” said a voice – Slater’s. “Mr Bellis asks whether you will take supper in your office this evening?�
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  Eamon sighed. Cook had fallen ill that morning and so Marilio had taken charge of the kitchen in his stead, and seemed determined to run it in a manner of which the cook would approve.

  “I do not think that I will sup tonight,” he answered.

  “He’ll make you take an enormous breakfast in the morning,” the servant warned with a smile. Even Slater had become relaxed in his role. Eamon swallowed nervously. How was he to tell these people that they would, for all their kindness and service, reap Lord Arlaith in place of Lord Goodman?

  “I know,” he answered with a tiny smile. “Tell him that I look forward to it.”

  “Very good, my lord,” Slater replied, and disappeared.

  Eamon made his way wearily upstairs to bed. He had told no one of the news he had received that morning, and it weighed on him. Whom could he tell? He knew that they all had to know, but he would first need to have a hold of himself. It was something that he very much lacked.

  He climbed into bed. The sheets trembled about his shaking limbs as he tried to read. It was a lost cause, and he soon doused the lamp and lay staring at the dark window. He stared for a long time before slipping into a troubled sleep.

  He did not know how long he had been asleep when a loud banging at his door woke him. Someone called his name.

  “Lord Goodman! Lord Goodman!”

  Eamon stirred and then bolted awake. The voice was Slater’s and it sounded terrified.

  “Lord Goodman!”

  “I’m coming, Slater.” He got quickly out of bed and pulled his thick cloak on over his night-shirt; there was not the time for any further attempts at decency.

  He pulled open the door. Pale and trembling, Slater fell back a pace. He held a slender candle in his hand. It was still pitch dark outside.

  “Mr Slater, what is the matter?”

  His servant could not answer him, but gestured for Eamon to follow him and led the way back down the stairway into the corridors of the Handquarters. Eamon followed, growing increasingly nervous. The candle threw their shadows in arches over the walls. They approached the kitchens. As they neared the doorway, traces of firelight struck up the walls from the kitchen fires burning low in the grates. With the smell of smoke mingled something else; something which made his flesh crawl.