by Anna Thayer
Eamon allowed the doctor to take his bloodied shirt, barely caring for the scars on his back. As the doctor put his shirt aside, dust and splinters fell from it. He felt sore and wearied, but as the doctor assessed him he realized that he had no severe injuries, bar one.
The doctor carefully examined the wounds that the dog had made on his left arm. “Were you fighting wolves, Lord Goodman?” he asked wryly.
“No, a raven.”
“So it is true?”
“It is true,” Eamon replied. He blinked hard to refocus his eyes.
“Move your fingers.”
Eamon obliged, moving them one by one and then flexing them out flat before clenching them into a fist, each at the doctor’s direction. He grimaced; the movements seethed in his flesh.
The doctor made him repeat the exercise several times with both hands, then breathed deeply. “You are a fortunate man, my lord,” he said. “This is an unpleasant wound, but it was not deep enough.”
“I had my cloak around it,” Eamon murmured and made a gesture as of rolling the garment about it. He once again heard the dogs leap at him and tensed.
The doctor smiled encouragingly at him. “You saved your arm in doing so. You are right-handed?”
Eamon nodded.
“Good, else I should have prescribed becoming so,” the doctor continued. Eamon grimaced again. “You will have a very sore, very painful arm, for a very long time. There are also cloak threads caught in the wound. I will have to remove them – something I am sure you will not enjoy.”
“Will there be leeches?” Eamon asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
“You fear them overmuch, my lord,” the doctor told him. “Come, you must bathe.”
The bath had been drawn. The doctor rose to his feet and Cartwright entered from the bathroom. The servant’s face grew grey as he took in the bloodied remains of the shirt on the floor.
“My lord –” Cartwright began.
Eamon dimly felt the doctor’s hand upon his arm.
“Your assistance, Cartwright,” the doctor said. “Lord Goodman is well, but before I may proceed he must be bathed.”
Cartwright and the doctor wrapped their strong arms about him and helped Eamon to the bathroom. As he crossed the threshold the inviting warmth of the great bath came at him like a wave. Cartwright and the doctor helped him undress and climb into the water. As he set his foot into the currents, their heat coursed through his nerves like fire. Suddenly there seemed to be red light in his skin…
Cartwright’s hand was on his arm. “Gently, my lord.”
Eamon set himself down into the water, letting it enfold him. It permeated every pore. He sighed deeply.
“I will wait outside,” said the doctor. He bowed and left. Eamon shuddered as a first stream of water ran down his back.
Cartwright washed him. The water turned red. The servant soaped him, working it over every bloodied part; he delicately rinsed it away. At last he spoke. “My lord.”
Eamon breathed deeply. “Yes?”
“The secretary is having wine distributed to the house.” Cartwright faltered. “Is it true… that you bore Lord Cathair’s head to the Master’s feet?”
Eamon gazed down at the reddened water about him. “I did.” His left arm burned.
He had killed Cathair. He had taken the life of Mathaiah’s murderer, removed one of Hughan’s enemies, and delivered justice in the King’s name. And yet he was not now at peace.
He saw Cathair’s face caught among the drifting currents and shook it away. He knew he had done rightly. Cathair had brought him from the Hidden Hall, had taught and preened him into a perfect Hand. Cathair had stood proudly over him as he breached and tormented wayfarers. Cathair had rounded on him after Pinewood, had killed Mathaiah, had killed good men, had been party to the hardships he had borne since he dared to stand against the Right Hand. Cathair had hated him, fiercely and utterly, and that hatred had been in his eyes when he cast the first flame at Eamon. Cathair had baited him, humiliated him – and, at times, respected him.
He shook his head, feeling the confusion deep in his heart. Cathair had been justly killed. And that was not all he had done that day.
He had made peace with Arlaith. The thought shuddered through him: peace. He had saved the lives of the men on Arlaith’s list, had secured the good names of those who had been unfairly branded. But the other thing that he had done…
“By this service to me, son of Eben, you redeem your line.”
He glanced at Cartwright. “It has been such a terrible day, Cartwright.” Fire from the Master’s hands, hands that now held the Nightholt, struck at Eamon’s mind. His voice caught in his throat. “I am so tired,” he whispered.
“Come, lord.” Cartwright gently offered to help Eamon from the bath. “The doctor still has work to do.”
Eamon let Cartwright wrap him in great swathes of black towel. They smothered him round like a choking beast.
Cartwright led him back to his bedroom where the doctor waited patiently. Various lengths of bandage had been brought while Eamon bathed, along with ointments and others of the doctor’s tools; they lay neatly arranged on the bedside table.
With Cartwright’s hand unswervingly on his arm, Eamon sat on the bed and lay back.
“You’ll note I have no leeches, my lord.” Doveton straightened Eamon’s arm on the bed and peered at it.
“A mercy for which I thank you.”
The doctor set to work, painstakingly drawing pieces of tattered cloth from the gashes on his arm with tweezers. Eamon winced as the metal touched his raw flesh like ice-shards. The doctor set a glass lens to his eye. As the tweezers returned again and again, Eamon marvelled at the man’s steady hand and concentrated face. It helped him ignore the pain.
At last the doctor sat back, content, and bound the wound with ointment and thick cloth. As he rose, he looked at Eamon once again. “How is your back, my lord?” he asked, removing the glass from his eye.
“Well,” Eamon told him. The doctor frowned and touched Eamon’s shoulder; Eamon gasped in pain and surprise. Doveton nodded sagely, and helped him to turn on to his front.
“You bear a great deal, Lord Goodman,” he said, setting his hand firmly on Eamon’s shoulders. “Fortunately for you, no additional tools are required to ease your back.”
“I am sure it will be nonetheless unpleasant,” Eamon replied, then cried out as the doctor’s hand kneaded his shoulders.
“Yes,” Doveton told him. “It will.”
It seemed an eternity before Doveton finished his work. Eamon was exhausted, though his back was suppler than he had known it for a long time. The doctor knew his trade well and had been firm enough to take out the majority of the tension in his back without disturbing its long scars. Eamon’s arm still ached dully when the doctor took his leave.
“Have you concluded?” Eamon asked.
“For now. I shall see you again soon.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Brave words, Lord Goodman.” Doveton smiled and bowed. As he turned to leave he crossed paths with Cartwright, who carried a steaming goblet of mulled wine. The doctor nodded approvingly. “Drink deep, Lord Goodman, and take some rest. I will check on you in the morning.”
“Thank you,” Eamon answered, slowly moving his back and shoulders. “The Master is fortunate to have so skilled a physician.”
The doctor smiled again. “Good night, Lord Goodman.”
The doctor withdrew. Eamon cradled the chalice Cartwright had brought him between his hands, letting the vapours cover his face. The smell, the colour, the very texture of the wine told him of its fine quality, and he knew even as he held it that it came from Ravensill.
His stomach turned. Looking up from the cup he saw the bed’s thick drapes, the room’s dark walls, and starlight on the balcony beyond. There was a glimpse of red caught across the stonework and he knew it to be light from the Master’s chamber.
The memory of the Nightholt’s dark
letters chilled him and he shivered. “Mr Cartwright, would you draw the curtains?”
Cartwright did so at once. Eamon sat back heavily against the cushions and drank. The wine burnt as it went through him, warming his hands and brow.
He had not been afraid to kill Cathair any more than he had feared to kill Rendolet, though both had been trials of his strength and courage. But the Nightholt…
He rubbed one hand over his eyes. “What can I do now?” he murmured.
“My lord.” Cartwright spoke quietly and Eamon jumped. He had forgotten the servant’s presence. “Today was but one day, and though you accomplished much, I am sure that you have much left to do.”
“I don’t even know what it is,” Eamon told him; the Nightholt danced grimly before his eyes. “I don’t know what it is.”
“See what the morning brings, my lord,” Cartwright answered him. “Rest.”
Silently, Eamon supped wine at the expense of a dead man. His servant put out the candles and lamps then bade him goodnight, and left.
Eamon stared up into the darkness. What could he do? What was there left for him to do? Endure the Master’s words and touch, watch as the city was committed to battle against the King? Fall on the field beneath a black banner? Fall in the streets beneath a dagger?
He laid his head in his hands. Did it really matter what the Nightholt was or who had it? What was left for him now but darkness and fire?
First Knight, your place is here. Be true.
He wandered in and out of sleep during the long watches of the night, tossing and turning between his covers, feeling the drum of his pulse. Long before dawn unfurled her standard, Eamon rose and paced his chamber. His footsteps sounded solemnly in the still night.
He went to the window. Pushing the curtains aside he set his back against the embrasure; his arm ached and he held it quietly as he looked across the palace. Before him were the Master’s chambers; light flickered between the stones. Cool air touched his face.
Hughan. In that twilit hour his thought turned to the King. It was for one man and his sake alone that he bore all. Every scar, every hurt, every tear, every fear, every fire. Flame, tempest, tooth, claw, blade, bile.
All of them for Hughan.
Why do you bear it, Eben’s son? The words shivered through him. For a terrible moment he was afraid that the Master stood by him. Why should you cede everything to him? He is but a man.
“It is his right,” Eamon answered wearily.
His right! The voice mocked him. His blood is feeble, weak, dying. It has no right.
“He is the King.” With the words came a depth of feeling which in his guilt and pain and exhaustion he had nigh forgotten.
This land has a throne and one to sit on it, came the dark answer.
Eamon looked past the walls of the city towards the plains and the mountains. Suddenly he sensed forest and fen, river and sea, and knew that every part of it belonged to the King’s house. He did not understand that authority, nor how the house had come to be entrusted with it, but guardianship over the River Realm had been given to the house of Brenuin. “This land belongs to Hughan,” he whispered. “The house of Brenuin has held.”
And the house of Goodman? sneered the voice. The blood and heart of Eben’s son? Has that held?
He pressed his eyes shut.
Hold to me, First Knight.
Eamon breathed deep. His worth was not in the caresses and words of the throned; it was in his service to Hughan. That was what had brought him to Dunthruik, what had driven him to do every good he could in the East, and to take Cathair’s life. Hughan was a true and noble man, fierce in justice and in love, and he was the King. That was why Eamon served him.
Never have you rendered your precious Serpent better service than you have this day! The voice crooned.
Eamon reeled. The Nightholt, the Nightholt… He could not drive it from his mind.
Do not be afraid, Eamon. You served the King today.
Eamon looked across the palace stones. The city gazed back at him, serene in the moonlight. As he looked, his heart stilled.
The King had sent him to Dunthruik; however much or little that there was left for him to do…
There is nothing left, Son of Eben.
“The King sent me,” Eamon whispered, “and until he tells me that my work is done, or until I have no breath left to render it, truly I will stay.”
The voice of Edelred was silent.
Eamon stood and watched as the dawn touched the city’s stones with its long rays, driving away the moon and striking all with ruddy gold. But how much longer could he stay true to Hughan when he was circled on every side by the deepest counsels of the King’s enemies?
He lifted his eyes to the distant mountains and saw the shapes of craggy passes and purple ravines picked out in the dawn’s majestic hue. They marked the way to the east, where the sun was steadily rising.
“Come swiftly, Hughan,” he whispered. “Come soon.”
The sunlight touched his face and Eamon breathed deeply. As surely as the day followed the night, as surely as the sun moved from east to west, the King would come.
Until then, he had to do what Hughan had sent him to do.
Eamon rubbed his chilled hands together and moved away from the window.
He went to breakfast. Everywhere the servants and the Hands bowed, and his name darted before him down every corridor like a loosed bird.
The doorkeeper admitted him through the leafy gallery to the breakfast hall with exceptional gallantry; the man noted the bandage on Eamon’s arm with delight.
The Master rose from his table as Eamon entered and swept forward, his arms wide and his eyes exultant. “Eben’s son!” he cried. “The whole city sings of you this morning.”
“Sings it drunkenly?” Eamon answered wryly.
A look of delight crossed the Master’s face.
“It is drunk with your success. This deed shall outlive you, son of Eben.”
“Then may it outlive me only to prove the glory of him I serve,” Eamon said. Reaching out forthrightly he took the Master’s hand and bent down to one knee to kiss it.
The throned’s face flushed with pleasure and pride.
“Your success has made you bold, Raven’s Bane. Your boldness pleases me.”
“Your pleasure has made me bold,” Eamon replied, rising. “What service may I render you this day?”
Smiling, the throned drew Eamon across to the table where servants seated him; the Master’s house would not meet his gaze that morning.
“You will name a Quarter Hand,” the Master told him. His grey eyes sparked with fire.
Eamon watched him for a moment. “Forgive me, Master,” he said, “but my wit does not match yours. What mean you?”
“The Raven has taken flight,” the Master answered. “Another must be limed.” He met Eamon’s gaze. “You shall choose the Hand to go in Cathair’s stead.”
Eamon stared. The throned delighted in it.
“Master, I am not fit to name a man to serve you.”
“Are not fit, Eben’s son?”
Eamon pursed his lips together. “Master, I did not mean –”
“You demean yourself to speak so humbly,” the throned told him. “And that demeans me.”
Eamon was silent for a moment; he felt the weight of the Master’s gaze. A name sprang to Eamon’s mind, and it surprised him: Lord Febian. Febian had fought with him at Pinewood and had been witness to when he left Hughan’s camp with Rendolet’s head. Eamon had a hold over him – Febian had been sent to monitor him but had failed in allowing Eamon to see him – and nominating him might just bring him some kind of ally, albeit a forced one. The more he thought on it, the more the idea appealed to him. Any leverage he could gain might well help in the coming days. “I would nominate Lord Febian,” he said at last.
“Lord Febian?” the Master repeated curiously. “Explain your choice to me.” Eamon detected an odd tone to the voice.
“Febian is of the West, and knows Cathair’s quarter well. He has often worked at the port, and at Ravensill, and knows both places and their business. At Pinewood and in returning from that field, he proved himself valiant and ferocious in serving your glory and performing your will. You rewarded such qualities in me, Master, and I myself would render out gifts such as those you have bestowed on me.”
The Master smiled – and Eamon knew he had convinced him. Edelred gripped a jewelled chalice and raised it wryly to his lips.
“Lord Febian for the West,” he said.
The dawn gave way to a striking morning, with air so crisp that the crest of a single wave in the harbour could be distinguished from its fellows, and the nearer valleys of the mountains were as clear as a man’s hand before his face.
Eamon rode to the Ashen, keenly feeling his authority. For once, the burden did not feel toilsome or heavy.
The square was lined with sombre faces, all of which recognized him and bowed to him as he rode. Most of them were Gauntlet from the East Quarter; others were newcomers to the city who had simply been stationed there. The insignia of half a dozen other divisions and regions marked the men. As he passed, he reflected on how many men there now were in Dunthruik – men he had only considered as numbers in a Hand’s report.
At the far end of the square stood another group: the Hands and captain of the East Quarter, arrayed formally by the college steps. Arlaith stood first among these men and greeted Eamon as he dismounted.
“Lord Goodman,” Arlaith said with a bow. He extended his hand. “It is good to see you.”
“Thank you.” Eamon took the proffered hand and clasped it.
Arlaith led the group of men into the college and across to the courtyard, where the ceremony was to take place. Arlaith, Eamon, and the other Hands went to one side of the college’s speaking platform while Anderas went to its head.
Eamon halted and turned to look back across the courtyard. The East Quarter ensigns, cadets, and officers had drawn up in neat ranks down one side. Down the other gathered a group of men and women without uniform, dressed in formal attire. The mothers, fathers, and relatives of the dead and disgraced men seemed grossly outnumbered by the red uniforms. Eamon’s thought turned to all those others who had been forced to quit the city and he wondered if they would ever return to it.
