The Broken Blade

by Anna Thayer

  A rush of hot air struck them. Eamon keenly felt the sting of the Master’s mark on his hand as he looked down the long hall. Though the floor was cracked and bent, large areas of it struck by falling debris from the ceiling and collapsing north balcony, the paintings of the flame-haired throned and the vile serpents still showed in dusty horror on the walls. Their forms grinned luridly at Eamon and mocked him. It turned his stomach.

  Swallowing down his sorrowed anger, he stepped down from the doorway and crossed the hall. Hughan walked with him.

  They crossed the shattered stones to the dais. As they approached, there was a shuddering lurch in the stones and a beam upon the platform struck downwards. As it went it caught the broad painting on the back wall. Stones, frame, and canvas were broken. The work crashed down in a flood of dust and stone. They fell heavily down upon the throne, which splintered into hundreds of glistening pieces. As the dust settled, all that remained of the painting was the flicker of a star.

  “Which way?” the King quietly asked.

  “There,” Eamon answered, gesturing to the back wall and its torn curtains. He hesitated, watching in awe as Hughan ascended the dais and passed the broken throne.

  They went to the back door, which led into the throned’s own quarters. It too was sound. The red stone above it glinted threateningly in the light. Eamon wondered how they would pass it, but as the King approached, the crimson rock cracked and shattered.

  Eamon stared. “Even the stones know you,” he breathed.

  The wall opened before them into a corridor and then a small hall. Eamon knew that from the hall they could climb the stairs up to the throned’s chambers. He felt the Master’s presence above him like a louring tempest.

  They passed into the hall and Eamon stopped in alarm. The grand staircase was cracked and looked distinctly unstable. It might bear the weight of a man but it would not bear many, and perhaps not even just one dressed in armour.

  The King and the King’s men halted around him; there was no need of speech.

  Hughan turned to him. “Is there another way?”

  Eamon shook his head in disbelief. They might have used the south balcony but it was as likely to be unstable as the stairs before them. “I do not know.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then Hughan turned to the men. “Search this area. Go carefully.”

  Eamon felt the barb of failure in his breast. It brought a flush of horror to his stomach. “Hughan, I’m sorry. I…”

  The King’s gentle eyes fell on him. “Eamon,” he laughed kindly, “that the stairway is impassable is not your doing.”

  Eamon glanced up again at the tall stairwell, remembering the time that he had climbed it and the crippling light that had awaited him in the Master’s chamber. Would the King face that rending pain?

  Would it break him?

  He looked fearfully to Hughan. “You will fight him?”

  “If he will not yield,” Hughan answered, “yes.”

  “He is a terrible foe,” Eamon breathed. How could the King stand against Edelred?

  “Yet I will face him.” As their gazes met, Eamon wondered how long Hughan had known that this day would come, and how much he had prepared for it.

  “Are you afraid, Eamon?” Hughan asked.

  “Yes.” He would rather fight in a hundred battles than face the man who awaited the King. That same waiting man had known him and mocked him, had so often claimed his blood, kissing him one moment and striking him the next…

  Driving back a shudder, Eamon silently searched the King’s face.

  “Are you afraid?” he whispered.

  “I do not fear Edelred, nor what the outcome of this day may be.” Hughan smiled gently at Eamon, a smile full of grace and courage. “And yet, I cannot say that I am not afraid.”

  Eamon nodded. Somehow the King’s words strengthened him.

  A group of the King’s men returned through one of the hall’s crumpled doorways. As they approached, they escorted a man between them. Eamon recognized him at once. He stared as Iulus Cartwright was brought before the King.

  “Sire,” said one of the men, “this man claimed to serve Lord Goodman.”

  “He does,” Eamon confirmed. “Are you well, Mr Cartwright?” he asked, laying a hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “Yes, my lord,” Cartwright answered. He was pale and covered with soot and dust. “I did as you ordered.”

  Eamon felt a wave of relief. He turned to Hughan. “This man has been a faithful servant to me. His name is Iulus Cartwright. Before he served in my house he served Lady Alessia.”

  “She speaks well of you, Mr Cartwright,” Hughan said.

  Cartwright’s eyes widened. “You have seen Lady Turnholt?”

  “Yes,” Hughan answered with a smile. “She is safe and well.”

  “You bring me good news,” Cartwright laughed, and then suddenly he took in the colours that Hughan wore. His face paled and he looked at Eamon in alarm. “My lord –”

  “This man is the King.” Eamon met the servant’s gaze. “I serve him, Cartwright.”

  Cartwright stared at him for a moment then looked back to Hughan in astonishment.

  “Cartwright,” Eamon said gently, “you and the servants will be free to go, and you will be under no obligation to aid us.” Cartwright nodded. “Do you know another way to the throned’s chambers?”

  Cartwright looked at the impassable stairs. “I know of one.” He nodded slowly. “I will help you.”

  They called back the other King’s men, and Cartwright led them from the hall into some of the narrower corridors. From there they went down into servants’ corridors. The passageway was tight. Eamon had trouble passing in his armour; he had to edge along sideways in some places, and duck down in others. The passages were dark and claustrophobic, often set below the ground level of the palace. Eamon wondered how often the servants had passed through their like to move unseen according to the will of their masters.

  The network of servants’ tunnels opened into another small hall. There were dozens of doors leading from it. Eamon gazed at them. Small rooms lay beyond, filled with beds. Before Eamon had time to gather his bearings, Cartwright moved again into another corridor. Like the first, this passageway emerged in another tiny hall. It was dark, but a tall, narrow staircase led up at one side. It was whole and undamaged.

  “It is one of the servants’ stairways,” Cartwright said quietly. He seemed reluctant to raise his voice. “It… it leads up to his chambers.”

  Hughan turned to him. “Your lady spoke truly of you, Mr Cartwright,” he said. “I will send some of my men back with you. Please take yourself and the rest of the house safely from the palace.”

  Cartwright nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “I will.”

  Some of the King’s men went to the servant’s side.

  “Lord Goodman,” Cartwright called as they prepared to leave.

  “Mr Cartwright?”

  The servant faltered for a moment. “Be careful, my lord.”

  “I will, Cartwright.”

  Hughan, Eamon, and the remaining dozen King’s men slowly climbed the staircase. It was narrow, forcing them up one at a time. It led to a covered opening. Eamon pressed aside the heavy tapestry and stepped out into a broad corridor. They were not far from the throned’s vault of treasures. The air was cool and dense. Eamon felt in his heart that the throned was near.

  Hughan seemed to sense it, too. They both paused for a moment in the corridor and then the King stepped forward. Eamon followed him. They passed the throned’s breakfast room on the right.

  Then they came to the throned’s chambers. Eamon knew the dark doorway; it filled his whole body with fear.

  A group of the throned’s guards and servants stood before the door. On seeing Hughan emerge from the shadows of the hall they froze. For a moment Eamon thought they would attack, but as Hughan stepped into the light, they only gazed at him in awe. The King seemed to be crowned with silver in the dim corrid
or.

  “If you would live, lay down your arms,” Hughan told them.

  The guards looked at him for a long moment, then in absolute silence they set their weapons down on the floor.

  “Go with these men of mine,” Hughan said. “You will not be harmed.”

  The guards came away from the door and went to stand in the custody of Hughan’s men. But the servants, who had had no arms to lay down, remained rooted by the threshold.

  Eamon stepped forward. The servants were the men and women who had served him breakfast in the throned’s own hall. One of them was the man who had brought him wine after he had endured the Master’s fury, on the day that he had delivered the Nightholt to Edelred.

  It was to that man that Eamon went. He could not remember the gesture Edelred used to dismiss his servants. Even had he been able to, he would not have wanted to mimic it.

  Slowly, he reached out and took the servant’s hand. The man gazed at him in astonishment and flinched. Eamon earnestly met the man’s gaze.

  “Please,” he whispered, and pointed back at the King’s men. “Go with them.”

  The servant searched his face before tilting his head towards Hughan’s men. Pressing his hand once more, Eamon nodded.

  The servant turned to those with him and made a couple of quick gestures. The other servants replied with movements of their own – one of them gestured wildly towards the Master’s door – but the servant to whom Eamon had spoken shook his head. He turned his hand fluidly in Eamon’s direction before gesturing to Hughan’s men.

  A moment later the King’s men watched in silence as the servants stepped away from Edelred’s door. Eamon lightly touched the leading servant’s arm as he passed. Having attracted the man’s attention, Eamon laid his right hand over his heart.

  “Thank you.”

  The man bowed.

  The guards and servants were escorted away by the King’s men. As they disappeared into the dark, Eamon looked back to the throned’s door. It stood before them, dark, unguarded, forbidding. The very silence of it crept into Eamon’s blood.

  In striking bound, Eben’s son…

  Hughan handed his shield to the man to his left. “Wait for me here.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  Hughan looked back to the door. Eamon felt ashamed. Was he to remain with the surviving bodyguard and accompanying King’s men while the King fought against the throned? Yet why should he think himself worthy of going to that battle with the King? He was nothing but an encumbrance. If he went into that room with the King, he would fall, and the King would fall with him; they would both end in begging mercy from the Master while he tormented them.

  Do you think yourself worthy, son of Eben, of begging before me? Do you believe that discarded colours loose you from me? A fool you remain.

  Eamon swallowed in a parched throat. He had to be a fool if he thought that he could ever be the King’s second in anything but name. He knew the voice was a liar’s, but surely it was right now: Eben’s blood was in his veins and Eben’s son he remained, the traitor’s heir, fit only for exile and works of blood…

  “First Knight.”

  Hughan watched him. As he met the King’s gaze, Eamon’s dark thoughts passed from him, driven back by the King’s clear eyes.

  Eamon looked at him in awe. “My King,” he breathed.

  Hughan touched Eamon’s shoulder. “Our houses will stand or fall this day. But they will stand or fall together.” He touched Eamon’s shoulder and smiled. Both gestures were as bright calls to courage and to hope.

  “Come, Eamon Goodman. Stand with me.”

  Wordlessly, Eamon nodded.

  So it was, in the heart of Dunthruik on a day of blood and smoke, the heir of Ede and the heir of Eben set their hands against a darkened door and passed together over the threshold of the throned.

  CHAPTER XX

  Eamon stood in the Star’s wake as they passed through the doorway into a vale of shadow and flame. The darkness clawed at Eamon’s skin and drove at his heart; fire stirred maliciously at his brow. It poured fear into his veins like poison.

  But the King was there. The living shadows fell back before him.

  Eamon knew the room into which they went. It was broad and high, built of red stones woven together like flame-threads. The May light fled from the shattered windows, as though even it dared not go where the King trod. The angled, unknown letters from the Nightholt glinted in the floor, casting back their glowers in a sea of shifting embers. Before them was a wide, dark table. The letters there moved in the wood like worms. Upon that table lay a tome darker than the blackened night; behind it stood its Master and Lord Arlaith, his last Hand. Edelred’s grey eyes glinted. Eamon shuddered. They were eyes that had so often seen into his soul.

  Despoiler of Allera and usurper of the River Realm, the Master smiled.

  “And so the Serpent is led before me.” Edelred’s voice was thick with pleasure. “You have done well, my son.”

  Eamon recoiled.

  Hughan strode through the darkness; it fell apart before him.

  “Hear me, Edelred,” he said. “This man is no son of yours, and I break any bond that you have laid on him by saying it.”

  Edelred regarded Hughan. He looked the King up and down with an amused glance before throwing back his head in a pounding laugh.

  “Who are you, Serpent, to come into my hall and speak of loosing bonds? The man whom you so proudly bring by your side is mine.” His gaze became eviscerating. “He knows it. Eben’s son has been mine since before his days were writ.”

  Eamon trembled. His mind was filled with the hundred times he had knelt before the Master and received his kiss. Surely he could never be more than the Master’s thrall?

  The King stood, undaunted, before the throned. The sight called Eamon on to courage.

  As sudden strength flooded him, Eamon met the gaze of the glowering man who had tormented him for so long.

  “My father’s name was Elior,” he said fearlessly. “I am his son, and he was no man of yours.”

  For the briefest moment Edelred’s face became so dire that it might have bansheed the very darkness.

  “Miserable snake!” Edelred hissed. The words cut like knives. Then suddenly the long smile returned. “Never shall you be more than a worthless puppet.”

  “Edelred.” Hughan spoke the name with such authority that a grey trace of fear passed across the throned’s face. “You have harried my First Knight too long. You will no more.”

  Edelred laughed. “You cannot command me, Serpent!”

  “Your tongue is false, as are the words you utter,” Hughan answered. “No serpent am I: I am Hughan Brenuin, true beam of that house.”

  “What grand titles you take unto yourself, little upstart princeling,” Edelred sneered. He leaned forward across the table, a grim light in his eyes. “Tell me, Serpent, what true beam is it that hails from the womb of a mere woman? Where is the kingliness, the authority of your line? In a woman?” Edelred laughed sharply. “Your line’s authority lies crushed in the dust at Edesfield – never did you inherit it!” The throned looked at Hughan as though at an erring boy. “True beam! Nay, child of forked blood; the star of your house fell and died when Eben and I plunged our swords into Ede’s heart.”

  Eamon gaped in horror. Hughan was not of Ede’s line but of Elaina’s. His ancient sire not a King but a duke. His heart quailed. How could he not have thought it before? Being but the son of a duke, how could Hughan’s blood run pure?

  The throned watched Hughan fiercely, with smile and gaze so condemning that Eamon wondered how Hughan could meet it. But the King met it without a trace of fear.

  “Elaina’s blood was no weaker than her brother’s.” Hughan grew in brightness as he spoke. “Through it many things will be undone.

  “Aras, son of Amar, who named yourself Edelred,” the King pronounced, “you have wrongfully striven in plots and wars against my house and against this land, turning fathers against t
heir sons and daughters against their mothers. You cast down the high places of this city and realm, and laid your own in their stead, calling yourself Master and taking a hall which was never yours to claim. By your hands and your schemes this land has been filled with toil and blood, with shattered oaths and broken houses, with tear-strewn fields and brittle hearts. You have sown your power in a pestilence of violence and of hatred.” Hughan’s eyes never once left the throned’s face. “I have come, Aras,” he said, “to call you to account for all that you have done.”

  Edelred raised an incredulous eyebrow at him. “You are but a child, Serpent,” he hissed. “You think to bring judgment on me? You may know my name, but I will not answer to you.”

  “You will answer. You will cede your wrongful hold over this land and you will render the Nightholt to me. Do so, and I will be merciful to you.”

  “What mercy would you give to me, Serpent?” Edelred sneered.

  “I cannot offer you your life, for by that you must answer for your deeds. But you will have my pardon,” Hughan added gently, and as he spoke the gaze with which he beheld the throned showed pity and kindness, “and the peace of my house.”

  Eamon’s breath stole from him. Even after all that Edelred had done, Hughan was willing to forgive him.

  Arlaith’s face was a picture of astonishment. The Hand had not spoken a word. It was as if he and Eamon could do nothing but witness the words and deeds of the ones they served.

  Edelred held Hughan’s gaze in silence for a long time.

  “I see that you took thought, Serpent, as to how you would defeat my Gauntlet in my realm and take my city. Even to the Source you went,” he laughed, “and that was bold of you. In these matters you have been fortunate. I see also that you have pondered long, filling your mind with words too great for you, so that you might bring yourself before me in a manner suited to the lofty cause you claim.”

  Slowly Edelred came round the table to stand before the King. His armour glinted. Power shifted in the ground. The light in the dark letters eagerly moved to follow the wake of their Master. The throned’s grey eyes passed over Eamon; they terrified him.