The Broken Blade

by Anna Thayer

  He rode to the West Quarter and ascended the familiar steps into the college. He was told that Cathair had left the city early that morning for Ravensill on some business or other. Eamon was not sorry to learn that the West’s reports had been left with Captain Waite.

  The captain was in his office, crowded with perhaps the largest pile of papers that Eamon had yet seen. The reports that Waite gave him showed that the West’s walls had been checked, the Gauntlet was prepared, the militia were ready, and Waite and Cathair had already appointed the thresholders, the units of citizens and militia who would form the last defence of the city in time of need.

  “You’ll find everything to your satisfaction, my lord,” Waite told him. “Lord Cathair sends his apologies for his absence.”

  “I accept them,” Eamon answered. He continued to skim-read the papers, then looked up at the captain with a smile. “I see that the West has not been idle.”

  “Today of all days, the West could not be idle,” Waite answered, taking in Eamon’s face with joy. Eamon wondered if the captain might have embraced him, had decorum permitted such a thing. It touched him deeply. “How could the West be idle? Its favourite son has not been. Rather, he has today won an accolade that graces us all.”

  Eamon swallowed, unsure of what to say. “Thank you for your work, captain,” he managed at last.

  Waite smiled broadly. “It is a pleasure to serve you, Lord Goodman.”

  Returning to the palace, Eamon sought out Fletcher. The man had been busily at work, and had made good progress on an initial report of the city’s status. Eamon handed him the West’s work and examined the draft of the report.

  “This is good work, Mr Fletcher.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “How long will it take to complete?”

  “The rest of the day,” Fletcher answered. “I will have copies drawn up for the Quarter Hands.”

  “Do,” Eamon nodded. He knew that such copies would be made by the throned’s own efficient scribes, word for word. “I will take some details from this draft to the Master this afternoon.”

  “Of course.” Fletcher finished making a note on a piece of parchment and then looked up at him. “My lord, a man by the name of Iulus Cartwright reported to me not an hour ago.”

  Eamon looked at him blankly for a moment. “Iulus Cartwright?”

  “He says that you sent him, my lord,” Fletcher added.

  “Yes,” Eamon answered. Was he so dull that he could already have forgotten? “I did. I would have him serve me personally.”

  Fletcher’s face coloured with disapproval. “With all due respect, my lord, you have a full complement of servants –”

  “And I want this man, Mr Fletcher.”

  “Of course, my lord,” he answered. “As you wish it. Perhaps, in future, you may wish to discuss such matters with me, prior to appointment? I must have the palace’s permission to take on new servants.”

  Eamon raised an eyebrow. “My command is not permission enough?”

  “It is, lord,” Fletcher replied, and Eamon sensed reticence in his voice.

  “Then do not dictate to me,” Eamon retorted. As Right Hand he could do as he wished, but it was his lieutenant who had to sort the details. Perhaps the thought should have humbled him. “You will do as I ask, when I ask it.”

  “Yes, my lord, on those occasions when I do not foresee your desire,” Fletcher replied. “I will ensure that your new servant sees to you from the morning. He must first be suitably inducted.” He paused for a moment, gathering papers. “I will take these to the scribes,” he said. “These you may take with you to the Master, if you wish it.”

  “Thank you, Mr Fletcher,” Eamon answered and dismissed him.

  He went on to study the papers Fletcher had left him at some length. Dunthruik had been preparing for war for many months; the papers confirmed it. More than this, as he read Eamon saw that the city was fully garrisoned, in places distinctly over-garrisoned. The walls, bar a small section along the South, had been or were being reinforced, and the city’s many forges rang to hammer and anvil as thousands of weapons were produced and armour was strengthened and made. All the iron that the River Realm could afford had been impounded for it. The knights were ready and provided with full retinues of squires and followers to assist them. Wall and gate defences were strong and the gate towers were ready to repel anyone with a mind to breaching them.

  The reports reaffirmed the terrible truth: the city was more than ready for its foe. What could Hughan possibly drum out of the valleys and mountains that could take arms against the Master’s stronghold?

  Both doubt and despair lurked in Eamon’s thought when, in the late afternoon, he turned his steps towards the throne room. Though he could have gone down directly from the great balcony he did not dare – he preferred to follow the long corridors through the East Wing. Thought of the Master’s touch and voice and gaze returned to him, making his stride unsteady as he followed the bannered hall to the throne room.

  The doorkeeper bowed immediately.

  “Lord Goodman.”

  The doors opened. Without a word, Eamon entered the throne room.

  The Master was there. With a long smile upon his face he waited while Eamon crossed the length of the hall and then knelt in the stony lake of fire at his feet.

  “Your glory, Master.”

  “Rise, Eben’s son. You have seen your quarters.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  The Master rose and approached him.

  “Do they please you?”

  Eamon did not dare meet his gaze. “How could they not, Master? I received them from your own hand.”

  Edelred’s fond touch alighted on him, pressing his face upwards. He could not refuse it; obediently, he subjected himself to the gesture that filled him with such yearning, disgust, and fear.

  “You please me, son of Eben. Tell me of your doings this day.”

  “I have done as you asked me, Master.”

  He went on to speak at length on the state of the city, giving the relevant details from the reports that he and Fletcher had compiled. As he spoke the throned absorbed his every word, and every word increased his smile.

  “The only difficulty the city has is in feeding these men and beasts,” Eamon concluded. “But the North is finalizing the details of increased trade with Etraia to see to that need; a dozen extra loads of grain are due to dock in the next week, to be exchanged for arms.”

  Silence fell between them.

  “Son of Eben, you have worked well today.”

  Eamon bowed his head. “To your glory, Master.”

  Edelred laughed. “Tell me, my Right Hand, how does my Left?”

  Eamon blinked and looked up. “Forgive me, Master,” he said, “your ‘left’?”

  The throned laughed again – a chilling, deafening sound – and he lifted both his hands before Eamon’s face.

  “You are my Right Hand,” he said, holding out his right. With it he smothered his left. “Lord Arlaith is my Left.”

  Eamon started. “Lord Arlaith has been made Lord of the East Quarter, Master,” he said. “It is as you willed.”

  “Does it grieve you, Eben’s son?” The Master’s voice plied him, seeking the intimacy of his deepest thought. “Seeing your pearls bestowed on swine?”

  The freshness of Eamon’s wound returned to him; the East was at Arlaith’s mercy. How he feared for it! He checked himself in time. He could not allow the Master to draw that from him.

  “Lord Arlaith is your chosen Hand over the quarter, Master,” he said at last. “What matters is not who holds it, but that it glorifies you.”

  Edelred smiled. “Come, son of Eben. Follow me.”

  Eamon followed him.

  The throned drew him past the throne and out through a doorway at the rear of the dais. Eamon had never before stepped through the thick drapes that bedecked the darkest recesses of the throne room; they felt thick and stifling about him as he followed.
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  The door led to a corridor lined in red, and eagles dashed down its walls. Eamon caught sight of a garden through the windows and, above it, dark-hewn arches and balconies. One bore the black eagle on a red banner, and he realized with a start that he looked at his balcony. The Master led him through the corridors of the West Wing and eventually to the royal suites themselves. Eamon felt the colour draining from him.

  But they did not go to those rooms; the throned soon halted before a wide set of doors that were cast open for him by two men dressed in gold, red, and black. Eamon recognized them as members of the Master’s own private guard.

  Behind the door was a long reception hall, lavishly decked in the Master’s colours. A small number of men waited inside it. The leading of these four or five wore a red apron over his clothes. Eamon understood the man to be another of Edelred’s own servants, but what he did was something that he could only guess at.

  As the Master entered, the men bowed down low. Papers and cloth lay neatly on a table behind them, accompanied by wide-eyed needles and crimson thread. There was also a cushioned stool, bearing the Master’s eagle.

  “Your glory, Master,” spoke the man in the apron. His eyes burnt with ardour as he looked upon the throned. “Whom are we to fit?”

  “Here is the man,” the Master answered with a smile, and for a moment Eamon felt a pang of indescribable jealousy. The Master smiled at him alone!

  With the thought he shuddered. He pressed his eyes shut, sending his thought back to Mathaiah, and to the Pit. He had to hold to the King.

  The man with the apron bowed deeply. “We serve at your pleasure,” he said. At his gesture the others brought forward the stool and positioned it in the centre of the rug on the floor, in the midst of a flood of light from the windows.

  The aproned man looked up and caught Eamon in his gaze. “Lord Goodman.”

  Eamon started as though from a daze. “Yes,” he answered uncertainly.

  The man gestured to the stool. “If you would step up, my lord.”

  Bewildered, Eamon did as he was bidden. The light blinded him as he found his balance on the stool; even atop this perch he did not match Edelred’s great height. The Master watched as a herd of men flooded forward with paper and quills. The men surrounded Eamon and, drawing out long measures, took the length of his limbs.

  “What would you, Master?” asked the aproned man. He conferred quietly with the throned; every so often, the Master’s eyes flicked towards Eamon as the tailors’ hands covered Eamon with measures.

  “Such garments as have never been seen on a Right Hand,” Edelred replied. “Fit for a majesty, fit to enthral both Dunthruik and myself. Fit for an heir.”

  Eamon gasped; a tape was drawn constrictively about his breast, measuring his midriff. The Master smiled at him.

  Moments later the flurry of tape-wielding hands about Eamon retreated to their papers. The master tailor lifted Eamon’s arms up and out to the sides, then paced about him, looking at him from various angles.

  “To his advantage, Master, his form has no blemishes needing to be covered or compensated,” the tailor said. “However, he also has no especially notable features that I may enhance. A very average kind of man.” The tailor mused for a moment. “Nevertheless, he will not appear such, when I have done.”

  The throned nodded appreciatively. The tailor made another onslaught, this time with a dozen subtly varying sable fabrics in his hands.

  “Black, Master?”

  “Of course,” Edelred replied. “And red.”

  The tailor nodded and held a few of the fabrics up against Eamon’s face; they felt smooth against his cheek, like the Master’s hand…

  Eamon forced his mind to the King. And yet while the Master stood before him, watching him and webbing him with smiles, Eamon found that he could not keep the King’s face in his mind’s eye.

  Maybe half an hour later the tailor gave a final nod and stepped back. “You may step down, Lord Goodman.”

  Doll-like, Eamon did so.

  The tailor bowed towards the Master. “I will need some three days, Master, if you permit me leave to work on nothing else.”

  “You will work on nothing else until I am satisfied with this.”

  “Your glory, Master.”

  The tailors bowed in unison, and left.

  Eamon stood still on the rug, blinking the light from his eyes. A voice, and a touch upon his cheek, called him from his confused thoughts.

  “You have glorified me this day, son of Eben.”

  The touch of the hand was like that of the sumptuous fabrics with which the tailors had palled him. A small, but steadily growing, part of his heart urged him to surrender himself to both.

  How could the indulgence of a single man so allure him from his resolve and King?

  As Edelred smiled at him Eamon’s tangled tongue suddenly loosed itself.

  “I will not glorify you in such clothes as these will make me, Master!”

  A chilling silence. Eamon knew in an instant that he had gone too far. He swallowed, not daring to meet Edelred’s gaze.

  “You refuse my gift?” the Master asked, coolly.

  “No, Master,” Eamon whispered. “I will love your every gift as much as I do you yourself. But how can I serve you in such finery?”

  “Those upon whom I bestow tokens of my love show my glory by their finery.”

  “Then send these measurements after an armourer,” Eamon cried, “and have him make for me such plate as has never been seen in all the long years of Dunthruik’s craft. Then will I serve you, Master, proving your glory on my body, by my blade and with my blood.”

  “Both those things are already mine, son of Eben,” the throned replied. “As to your body, I shall dress it in whatever way seems best to me.”

  Eamon faltered. Slowly, he sank down to one knee.

  “Forgive me, Master,” he said. “I spoke in haste. I am ill at ease with fine things; my only thought is for your service.”

  Though the Master smiled, there was dark thought behind his eyes. “Rise, son of Eben,” he said, “and go to your rest. You have done much this day. Tomorrow you will take breakfast with me.”

  Eamon did not raise his head. “Yes, Master.”

  As the evening gave way to the night Eamon climbed the stairs towards his eyrie, the heavy tread of his boots his only company. He felt as though he bore a hundred years of toil.

  How long had it been since he arrived in Dunthruik? He paused on the stair, trying to count the months. But every day was a blur in his deadened mind and he could no longer see where his road had begun. Still less could he see where it would end.

  Was it not a simple task – to hold firm to Hughan? It had seemed so that morning. Yet, in that single day he had wavered more times than he could number.

  The Hands at either side of his door bowed as he approached and then opened the great portal before him. As he entered and the doors shut behind him, he thought he heard the sound of footsteps retreating down the servants’ stair.

  Eamon went to his bedroom; its balcony stood open to the air and the moon gleamed down through the tall aperture. Quietly Eamon stepped out, letting the still air enfold him. Though lights burned in the palace, piercing the growing gloom, Eamon turned his head up to the night sky, towards the dark. The stars, mirrored far away in the crests of the distant sea, glinted back at him.

  Leaning against the cold stone, he breathed deeply. When he exhaled, it came out as a shuddering, exhausted breath.

  Dunthruik. The city lived in his very veins and he was a lord over its men and women. Its defence was entrusted to him. Could he not still be the King’s Hand, even as he had been in the East Quarter? With Edelred so close by him, it seemed a distant hope.

  He sighed. The stars filled his sight and he drifted into silent thought.

  He did not know how long he stood there, engulfed by the high and distant starlight. After a while he shivered and looked back at the palace. Its lights, drapes,
music, and laughter seemed gaudily abhorrent. As his eyes adjusted to the changing light he saw a shadow on the balcony opposite his own.

  The Master stood there, broad hands clasped on the stonework; he watched his Right Hand with keen eyes.

  Eamon stepped away from the wall. Slowly, he bowed low before withdrawing into his bedchamber. The Master’s eyes followed him.

  He allowed the drapes to fall over the window and shied back from them, his heart pounding. He was watched. The bed loomed behind him, a pit in which he dared not lie.

  He eschewed it. Returning to the entry chamber, where veined candles and burning lamps cast their glow, he took instead to one of the chaise longues. The play of light over the eagle on the mantelpiece made it seem to shiver.

  Casting aside boots, sword, and dagger, he lay down stiffly in the long chair, threading his arms along its edge as though he laid himself deep in a tomb. The thick cushions and his cloak moulded around him, swallowing him. He closed his eyes.

  As he fell into shifting sleep, he heard a pall-song carried on the breeze.

  CHAPTER III

  “Lord Goodman?”

  He had not heard the opening of any door, nor the footsteps that approached him. He barely knew the voice through the dimness of his groggy sleep.

  “Lord Goodman?” it spoke again. It seemed timid in the grey morning.

  “What hour is it?” Eamon croaked at last.

  “About the second, my lord,” his servant answered. Eamon remembered; it was Cartwright. “I am sorry to wake you,” the man added hesitantly, “but you are desired at breakfast.”

  “Yes.”

  Eamon forced his eyes open and Cartwright’s face came into focus before him. His muscles felt stiff. He remembered that he was lying in his chair.

  “Is there something the matter with your bed, my lord?”

  “No.”

  Eamon drew a deep breath to force the blood about his limbs, and looked at the servant again. The man carried a broad length of fabric that Eamon recognized to be a towel. He heard splashing nearby.