by Anna Thayer
Eamon breathed out in awe. “Then there is another?”
“There is no other Nightholt,” Hughan told him. “That I see you know – or have guessed. But there is what is called the King’s Covenant. It was made long before Edelred or I walked these lands, by the first King of the house of Brenuin. By it, and the promise that preceded it, the River Realm was granted to that house.”
“This Covenant… granted the kingship,” Eamon guessed in a whisper.
“Yes. It joined King and land and people together in faith and promise and service. The house of Brenuin held one copy, and the second was kept by the bookkeepers; any man could go to them to see and read it.”
“What happened?” Eamon asked.
“When Ede was killed, one copy of the King’s Covenant was destroyed – the Nightholt had been based upon it. With its destruction and Ede’s death, Edelred used his Nightholt to claim the throne.”
Eamon’s heart sank. “Then… he has a rightful claim to the River?” Memories of Edelred’s fond caresses almost choked him.
“No,” Hughan replied. “For however hard he sought by the slaying of men and the penning of words to claim it, my house has not surrendered its authority to him – and the second copy of the King’s Covenant still exists.”
Eamon’s eyes fell in horror to the broad scroll that he had delivered. “‘All rights of blood and oath…’” The words murmured past his lips before he realized it. He looked up in horror. “That’s why he wants you.”
“I am the last of the house,” Hughan answered. “He believes that if I cede to him, or if I am killed, then he will have his victory at last.”
“Believes?”
Hughan looked at him. “There are things deeper than land or sea, higher than the soaring heavens and truer than light in a faithful heart, about which Edelred understands nothing, and of which a King is but a shadow. The King’s Covenant is proof of those things, for it came from them. Even if he killed me and destroyed the King’s Covenant, Edelred could not undo those things – or rewrite his Nightholt, as perhaps he hopes.”
Eamon stood, stunned. “You knew all this?” he asked at last.
“About the Nightholt? Yes, although the bookkeepers didn’t realize that it was an actual book until your message reached us.”
“Why didn’t you warn me?” Eamon gaped. “I could have done something!”
“What would you have done?”
“I’d have found a way to bring it to you –”
“You’d have lost your life doing so,” Hughan told him firmly. “That was not a price I was willing to pay.” Eamon was taken aback. “Suppose you had brought me the Nightholt when you and Mathaiah found it – what would it have changed? Edelred would still be hunting me. Destroying his book would not destroy his hunger for my blood or his belief that he could eradicate the Covenant. But you could have been discovered and killed. Who would then be bringing me vital information on the eve of battle? Who would have defended Dunthruik in these last months of darkness?”
Eamon couldn’t answer. Had he not betrayed Hughan in delivering the Nightholt to Edelred?
Seeming to read his thought, the King looked deep into his eyes. “Eamon Goodman, take courage: you are the last heir of a house that has defended mine since the promise was spoken and there was a house of Brenuin to defend. You are my First Knight, the sword that goes before the star. You are the broken blade turned true.”
Eamon’s jaw dropped. Ashway’s prophecy! How did Hughan know of it?
Heart pounding, Eamon swallowed. Hughan clasped his shoulder.
“I know you are true,” the King continued, “and Dunthruik will see that when the battle comes.”
Eamon breathed deeply. “When the battle breaks, I will come to you,” he said. “I will bring as many as I can with me.”
“I know.”
He did not yet know how he would do it. “Is Lillabeth here?” Eamon asked suddenly.
“Yes.”
“Does she… does she know about Mathaiah?”
“I have told her. Thank you for sending word of it.”
Eamon laughed bitterly. “She cannot have thanked me. His death is of my doing. They learned that he could read the Nightholt because of me, and one whom I trusted.”
“Lady Turnholt?” Hughan asked.
Eamon looked at him in surprise. “Yes,” he said. “Alessia Turnholt.” The name came ruefully from his lips.
“Eamon.” Hughan’s voice was quiet but arresting. “There is something that you must know.”
Eamon looked at him. Though he loved the King and knew that the King loved him in return, he felt suddenly afraid.
“What must I know?”
“She is here.”
His whole world stopped. “Alessia?” he repeated dumbly.
“Yes.”
“But she… she… she went…”
“She was held and tortured by the Right Hand before being sent to the city’s pyres,” Hughan told him, “where she was found by men loyal to me. She is under my protection,” he added, “and she is safe.”
“How can this be?” Eamon breathed. Anger grew in his voice as he gaped at Hughan. “How can you keep her here? She betrayed –”
“She gave account to me of what she did,” Hughan answered quietly, “and I gave her my forgiveness.”
Eamon stared. “Forgiveness?”
“She has borne much, Eamon,” Hughan told him, “and much for you. What she did for love of you, she did for me also.”
Eamon’s chest felt suddenly too small to hold his anger and anxiety. What had Alessia ever done out of love for him?
He trembled. Had she really been tortured and sent to the pyres? Or had she lied to Hughan, as she had lied to him?
Could Hughan have been deceived?
“I am not you, Hughan,” he whispered, tired by grief and anger. “I do not know that I can forgive her.”
“I understand,” Hughan replied gently. “Do not let her presence here weigh on you, but know that she is here.”
They watched each other for a long moment. Eamon felt the depth of the King’s gaze upon him as though he looked into the starry sky, and marvelled at it.
“I am glad you’re here, Hughan,” he breathed.
“As I am glad of you,” the King answered. “But you cannot linger, First Knight.”
“I know.”
Hughan moved across to one of the trunks nearby. He opened and drew an object out of it. It was wrapped in lengths of blue cloth. Coming back to Eamon, the King extended it towards him.
“Cover your colours,” he said. Eamon did so. “Take this, and this answer, back to Edelred. Tell him,” he continued, laying the bundled object into Eamon’s hands, “that the Source has been taken. The Star is constant and does not yield. Neither shall I.”
Eamon received the cloth. It was heavy, as though it held a weight of metal. “What is this?”
Hughan smiled. “Something that belongs to Edelred. He will not be enthused by my returning it to him.”
Eamon nodded. “I will take your message, sire,” he said, firming his hold on what Hughan had given him.
Together they went to the tent’s doorway. Just outside it stood the Easter lords and wayfarer generals. They looked up as King and Right Hand exited – for Eamon was Right Hand once more.
“Well?” Feltumadas peered at them both.
“Our course was ever towards the gates of Dunthruik,” Hughan answered, “and so it remains.” Feltumadas nodded, pleased. “Leon,” Hughan continued, “please escort the Right Hand and his men back to the bridge, and let them return to the city.”
“Yes, sire.”
Hughan met Eamon’s gaze once more. “Look for me on the field of battle,” he said.
“I will meet you there.”
Leon led him away from the pavilion and down the line of tents to one that was unmarked. By its posts stood several watchmen. They stiffened as Leon led Eamon into the torchlight.
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��Bring out the escort of the Right Hand,” Leon commanded. One of the guards ducked inside the tent and a few moments later Wilhelm, Lonnam, and Heathlode emerged. Each of them searched Eamon’s face, but he did not meet their gazes or speak any word to them.
Leon and the guards led them back to the bridge and over it to where, as had been promised, steeds and blades were returned to them.
“Ride straight to your city gates,” Leon told them. “If you turn right or left, or falter, my men will ensure that you do not do so again.”
Eamon looked to his escort. “Let us go.”
Silently they rode away from the camp until its noise and light were lost behind them. The city grew before them. At last Lonnam looked to him.
“What said the Serpent, my lord?” he asked. His eyes fell uncertainly upon the bundle cradled in Eamon’s hand.
“His message is for the Master.”
“He rejected the terms?” Heathlode asked eagerly.
The Hand’s enthusiasm was unsettling. “In every part,” Eamon told him.
Wilhelm said nothing.
The gates boomed open as they approached, flooding their faces with torchlight and making the plain behind them seem darker than before. Dozens of faces were at the gates and gatehouse, each looking to his and seeking to know the outcome of his meeting.
Eamon spoke to none of them. His escort rode with him to the Four Quarters where he dismissed the two Hands back to the East.
“Mr Bellis, ride with me to the palace.”
“Yes, my lord.”
They rode on in silence. Eamon watched the young man’s face from the corner of his eye; it was pale and troubled.
“Are you well, Mr Bellis?” he asked. Wilhelm shifted the weight of the standard in his hands.
“Yes, my lord,” he answered at last.
“You may speak frankly, Mr Bellis,” he said. “Are you well?”
Wilhelm swallowed. “No, my lord. I have seen something terrible tonight.”
“What have you seen?” Eamon asked gently.
“The Serpent,” Wilhelm breathed. He shook his head as though to clear it.
“He is not what you expected?” Eamon guessed.
“No,” Wilhelm agreed. “That is what makes it terrible.”
Eamon looked at him for a moment. “Mr Bellis, this city is going to war.”
Wilhelm drew a deep breath and nodded firmly, as though to focus himself. “Yes, my lord.”
“When it does, will you ride with me and bear my standard?”
Wilhelm looked up in awe. “I, lord?”
“Yes.”
“To follow you into battle would have been great enough for me,” Wilhelm told him. “To go with you is more than I could ask.”
“I ask it of you.”
“I will do it gladly, my lord,” Wilhelm replied.
They reached the palace gates and were admitted into the Royal Plaza. Eamon alighted there and several of Edelred’s own household came to retrieve the standard from Wilhelm. He seemed relieved to let it go. “Good night, Mr Bellis,” Eamon called.
“And to you, my lord,” Wilhelm replied. Then he bowed, turned, and left.
Eamon went straight to the Master.
The corridors leading to the throne room were curiously empty. His footsteps bounded ahead of him in echoes.
The doorkeeper was at the throne room door; he seemed to be waiting. As soon as he caught sight of Eamon he emerged from the shadows.
“Good evening, my lord.”
“I bring news for the Master.”
“He awaits you.” The doorkeeper bowed low and then cast the throne room door open before him. Nodding once to him, Eamon entered.
The Master sat in the silent hall alone. Eamon walked the long chamber of fiery stones to the dais, and knelt.
“Your glory, Master.”
“What news?” The throned’s voice was impatient and eager. “Rise and speak.”
Eamon rose and matched the Master’s gaze. “The Serpent sends this message: ‘The Star is constant, and does not yield. Neither will I.’”
A broad smile spread across the Master’s delighted face. “He will have war.”
“Yes, Master,” Eamon replied. A tremor ran through him: all the comfort he had received from Hughan slipped away before that smile.
“Master, the Serpent bade me bring this to you,” he said, raising the bundle which the King had given him. “He says, ‘The Source is taken.’”
He did not know what the words meant, but as the bundle was taken from his hands, a grim flicker passed over the Master’s face. As Edelred unwrapped the token, Eamon caught a glimpse of gold. It resembled part of an eagle’s wing.
Edelred’s face became one of dire wrath. “Dares he blithely send this to me to goad me?” he thundered. “And you would dare deliver it!”
Eamon looked from the golden fragment to the Master’s face in uncomprehending alarm. The Master’s wrath transfixed him and he trembled, for that gaze was filled with savagery.
“Master, I mean no deed of daring or offence. I do not even know what I have brought!”
The throned laughed derisively.
“You know but little, son of Eben,” he hissed, “and the Serpent is all the more witless.” He drew a violent breath. “But he will have war from me, son of Eben,” he snarled. “No harrowing or affliction that this land has yet seen will be like that which I shall render unto him. From its very source to its mouth, I will make the River run with his woe, his blood, and his lamentations.”
Eamon quivered.
Edelred stilled, looked upon him, and smiled. “The Serpent will have war from me,” he said, laying his hand upon Eamon’s cheek. “He will have war from us.”
CHAPTER XV
The fifteenth of May dawned clear and crisp. The whole of Dunthruik rose with it, and every man within the city walls awakened to the perpetual hum of preparations as blades were set to grindstones and hammers to nails.
Eamon spent most of the day in the North Quarter overseeing its preparations. He inspected each of the quarter’s fifteen groups, offering words of encouragement. Officers, ensigns, and cadets found hope in his words, but Eamon left with a heavy heart. He knew too well that every man who looked to him to see the Master’s splendour was a man he would soon betray.
There was so much movement in the city that the Coll was brought to a near standstill. Even the smaller side streets, the more secret ways of going from quarter to quarter known only to those who lived there, throbbed with traffic. The tension of the air webbed around Eamon and clung to him.
Towards the late afternoon, content with the preparations in the North, Eamon left the quarter. He rode to each of the other quarters to speak to their Hands and enquire after the day’s work. Lord Febian greeted him nervously, but assisted as he was by Captain Farleigh, the Hand seemed to have most matters under control.
“Lord Goodman,” Febian said as Eamon prepared to leave, “I wish to ride with the main body of the Hands tomorrow.”
“You would have the West go Handless to the battle?” Eamon asked.
“I may be its keeper, Lord Goodman,” Febian replied, “but I cannot ride at the head of the West. I will serve the Master in better heart and fuller strength among the Hands.”
“Captain Farleigh is happy to assume command in your stead?”
“He is, my lord.”
“He is a highly capable man,” Eamon answered. “I will inform Lord Arlaith that you will ride with the Hands.”
Febian sighed with relief. “Thank you, Lord Goodman.”
Eamon went to the South, but Tramist was not available to see him. Tramist’s captain nonetheless assured him that preparations had gone smoothly.
“Lord Tramist has always been particular about the proper arming of this quarter, my lord,” the captain told him. “He will be examining and testing the arms of every single man, quite possibly in person – at least that appeared to be his intention when we spoke last night. Shal
l I have him come to you when he returns, my lord?”
“Only if he is not content with the preparations,” Eamon answered. “Thank you, captain.”
He went last of all to the East. There the number of men in the streets was greater than anywhere else, for the Blind Gate was being assiduously prepared for the exodus it would witness the following morning.
As Eamon rode past he caught sight of Anderas in the crowd. The captain was speaking to another man, an officer from one of the many external divisions.
“Captain Anderas!” Eamon called.
Hearing his name, Anderas looked up, saw Eamon, excused himself, and threaded his way across the crowded road between them. He reached Eamon as swiftly as he could.
“My lord,” he greeted, bowing. He looked pale and sleepless.
“Are you well, captain?” Eamon asked quietly.
“Yes, Lord Goodman.”
“And is the East prepared?”
“I believe so,” Anderas returned. “You may wish to check my assessment with Lord Arlaith,” he added, seeming to shudder as he spoke.
“I mean to,” Eamon told him. It was then that he looked carefully at his friend. “You seem shaken, captain,” he said, and so Anderas did: there was a tremor to the man’s hands and a haunted look to his shadowed eyes. “You are sure you are well?”
“I passed a difficult night,” Anderas answered at last.
“Would you speak of it?”
Anderas looked up at him gravely. “Not here, my lord.”
“Lord Goodman!”
Eamon looked up to see a black-clad figure upon the city wall. It was Arlaith.
“I will speak with Lord Arlaith,” Eamon said, glancing back to Anderas. “But may we speak of what has troubled you, when we find a moment?”
“Yes.”
Feeling disconcerted, Eamon dismounted. As he alighted, Anderas steadied him.
“I am firm to our purpose, my lord,” he whispered.
Eamon matched his gaze for a moment. It was indeed firm. “Thank you, captain.”
Leaving his horse he climbed the wall to Arlaith. The Hand stood observing the plain and the River. As Eamon reached his side, the Hand gestured to the bridge.
