The Broken Blade

by Anna Thayer

  “You’re welcome,” Eamon answered dumbly. He realized that there was much about Manners that he had not understood.

  Lillabeth bade farewell to them both and returned inside. Together, Eamon and Manners watched her go, then looked at one another.

  “You must be honoured, sir,” Manners said.

  “Sorry?” Eamon answered distractedly.

  Manners smiled at him. “She means to name her son after you. Then again,” he laughed, “I suspect that there will be quite a number of Eamons in this city over the next few years.”

  Eamon blinked hard. “That’s a bizarre thought, Mr Manners,” he answered, “and I thank you for befuddling me with it.”

  “My pleasure, sir,” Manners replied brightly.

  They moved back towards the palace, and walked in silence for a few moments.

  “I didn’t know that you knew Lillabeth,” Eamon said at last.

  The young man looked apologetically at him. “Mathaiah asked me to go with him on the day they made their pledges,” he replied. “I’m sorry, sir,” he added, “those were strange days. It should have been your place…”

  Eamon shook his head. “I had forfeited that right, Rory,” he answered. “I am glad that Mathaiah had you by him, and I know he would be glad to know that you are near Lillabeth now.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Manners answered, looking quietly to where Lillabeth had gone. His face had an odd look to it as he did so.

  “Are you well?” Eamon asked.

  Manners looked up with half a smile. “Yes, sir.”

  They moved back into the palace together, as Manners explained that he had come on Feltumadas’s behalf.

  “He said that he wanted to speak to you about Etraia,” Manners told him. “He declined to mention much more. He is a fearsome fellow,” he added.

  “He is,” Eamon answered.

  “The voice of experience?” Manners asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” Eamon laughed.

  Feltumadas awaited Eamon in one of the palace’s many halls. When Eamon and Manners arrived, they found the Easter lord passing the time by looking at the paintings and decorations, with his hands clasped behind his back. He looked up as Eamon drew near and smiled.

  “First Knight,” he greeted.

  “Lord Feltumadas,” Eamon replied.

  “I understand that you will be meeting a grain ship from Lamiglia tomorrow?”

  “That is my hope,” Eamon answered. Lamiglia was one of the northern merchant states and had maintained a broad loyalty to Hughan, often by setting itself in direct opposition to its neighbours, over the past year or so.

  “I would go myself, but have a couple of matters to attend to,” Feltumadas continued. “I wanted you to know: I’ve heard that the word on the water before the fall of Dunthruik was that Etraia and her allies would not have peace with this city should the Star take it. Many Gauntlet are still there.”

  Eamon’s heart sank. “She would not dare go to war with us?”

  “Etraia is large and strong. She was a staunch supporter of Edelred, is likely the place where any escaping Hands fled to, and has been trading wood, weapons, and wines with the River Realm in exchange for grain for many years,” Feltumadas replied. “She is grim and powerful. Tell me, First Knight, whether you think she will have peace with the Star?”

  Eamon’s face blanched grey.

  Feltumadas nodded. “It is as I feared. It may not be today, nor even tomorrow,” he said, shaking his head, “and perhaps Etraia will not come against the Star for many months, perhaps not for a year or more. But such is the rumour. You will have an opportunity tomorrow to ascertain whether the rumour holds any truth, or was just water-talk.”

  Eamon sighed. “Thank you, Lord Feltumadas.”

  “I heard that you spoke with General Waite? What of him?”

  Eamon became suddenly and inexplicably conscious of Manners, waiting for him in the hallway behind.

  “He is embittered,” he said quietly. He did not add that he felt himself to be the root of the man’s hatred.

  “I would not have spoken to him,” Feltumadas mused.

  “You would have found no weapon to hand by which to strike him,” Eamon countered, catching his implied meaning at once.

  Feltumadas gave him an ironic smile. “We have a proverb in the east, First Knight: ‘When swords are broken there are still rocks’ – I’m afraid that it translates badly,” he said. “I am, however, glad that you spoke to him; I would have found a rock to throw.”

  Eamon laughed a little. “Are there many rocks in Istanaria?”

  “In abundance,” Feltumadas answered. “And a multitude of men at which to throw them. Siblings frequently argue, First Knight, and the Land of the Seven Sons has many siblings.” He smiled. “But it has great cities, and lakes, and forests and mountains, and deserts. Perhaps, one day, you will see them, and perhaps you will walk in Istanaria, the city of the sun. Perhaps,” he added with an amused smile, “we will go together.”

  “Perhaps we shall,” Eamon answered. “But before I venture into the east, I would see peace in my own land.”

  Feltumadas nodded. “You have the right of that, First Knight.”

  CHAPTER XXX

  The day was long, and Eamon was glad when it drew to its end. He moved through the corridors of the palace back to his own room, passing between the shadows and the starlight with a strange uneasiness. News of potential unrest in the merchant states disturbed him, and ever at the back of his mind was a thought he tried not to face. But it remained, and so did she.

  He paused at last before a great arch that looked out to the star-marked sea. The clear light glistened on the waves, making them like a thousand shifting candles. His thought drifted back to Lillabeth, to her words and look, and he drew a deep breath.

  Eamon Grahaven. A child was to be born that would bear his name. It was a thought as terrifying as it was awesome.

  There should have been another child bearing his name… And as he tried to drive Ladomer’s face from his mind, he laid his hands against the frame of the window, letting the feel of the cool stone fill him.

  Footsteps sounded in the passage behind him. A glimmer of light was followed soon after by a lamp-bearer. Eamon turned his head from the still sea.

  A man approached him and bowed. “First Knight.”

  “Mr Cartwright,” Eamon breathed. For a moment he almost embraced the man in his joy but an odd awkwardness held him back.

  “You are well, sir?” Cartwright asked. The lamplight showed flickers of concern on his face.

  “Yes,” Eamon answered. “For the most part,” he then added. “Yourself?”

  “I am well, thank you,” Cartwright answered. There was a silence, then he looked up. “I sought you, sir, to apologize.”

  “You have no apology to make to me, Cartwright,” Eamon said kindly.

  “You did not find me serving you when you first recovered, sir,” Cartwright answered. Eamon had to think for a moment before he understood the servant’s meaning. “I am sorry for it. I meant no slight to you, sir,”

  “I bear you no ill will for it,” Eamon answered. “So much has happened since I woke that, in truth, I must say that I scarcely had a thought to spare you. But I thank you for your concern,” he said with a small smile, “and forgive you quite completely. Being the Right Hand was perhaps the most difficult thing that I had to do. Your service to me was invaluable and I wonder sometimes whether I should be standing here today if you had not passed me in the Four Quarters that day.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Cartwright answered. He paused, then looked at Eamon a little uncertainly. “I wanted to tell you, sir… I mean no offence by it, but I have returned in these days to the service of Lady Turnholt.”

  The words brought an ache to Eamon’s heart.

  “I am sure that she finds comfort in your presence,” he said at last. He remained silent for a long time, then turned to look at Cartwright. “You may not be able to answ
er me,” he whispered, “but do you know if Mrs Grahaven has spoken to her?”

  Cartwright frowned, puzzled. “I am sure that she has, sir.”

  “Please… wish Lady Turnholt a good night on my behalf.”

  Cartwright looked as a man stunned with a blunt instrument. Eamon nodded to him. At last, Cartwright bowed. “I have some duties to which I should attend, if you will forgive me.”

  “And I keep you from them. I am sorry,” Eamon answered. “Please do not let me keep you further.”

  Cartwright seemed to measure him for a long moment. “Good night, sir,” he said at last.

  “Good night, Mr Cartwright.”

  The servant bowed and continued along the passage.

  Eamon looked back out to the sea, his eyes heavy with sudden tears. In that moment he suddenly longed for Alessia beside him, for her hand in his own or her kiss on his cheek. He longed for her touch at his brow, for the lightness of her fingers to brush his hair and his weariness from his face, and he longed for her voice, for the feel of her heart beating near his own.

  Above all, as he watched the sea, he longed for words that would set peace between them. He fixed his eyes upon the distant waters, where the furthest waves rolled and the deep mirrored the deeper sky. Tears slipped down his cheeks. His hands tightened together. He leaned against the stone embrasure.

  The city lay peacefully beneath the night, the pyres still; ships waited in the port and the streets stood beneath the banner of the King. Somewhere just beyond the city’s walls, Roe – the last Gauntlet captain – was being escorted to Dunthruik by Anderas. After Waite’s refusal Anderas had been sent out to meet the delegation coming from the north. But within the walls, General Waite prepared to leave his shattered city and devastated house, burdened with shame and despair. Febian had fled in fear – certainly of Hughan, perhaps of him. Somewhere within the city walls lay Alessia, and he did not know whether she slept or wept; he knew only that she who should have nursed his child now nursed grief.

  He longed to go to her. He could not. He did not know if she would receive his messages – let alone him.

  As he stood in thought, he realized that he could not be a man of inaction. If he wanted things to be right with Alessia – and he wanted that with all his heart – then he had to show her that he understood, and that he had changed.

  Courage, Eamon.

  A field of stars shimmered in the deep dark far across the sea. He pressed the tears from his cheeks.

  Returning to his room he went at once to the desk. A candle glimmered there. He searched the drawers for parchment and ink, which he set in front of him. For long moments he gazed vacantly ahead, sorting through his whirling thoughts until they settled. Then he took the quill, dipped it with exaggerated care into the inkwell, and began to write.

  Dearest Alessia… No; Dear Alessia…

  He wrote at length, disdained it, began again, hurled it into the fire.

  He did not know how much later it was that he leaned back, sighed, and watched the candlelight glimmer on the drying ink of his name. No signature of his had ever marked a paper so important.

  He sealed the letter with a single globule of wax that he pressed flat with inky fingers. He watched the parchment as it rested, trying not to weigh its significance. He could do no more – at least, not for tonight.

  With an eased mind, he retired.

  The following morning he sought out Cartwright, letter in hand. The servant eyed him curiously when he asked if it could be delivered to Lady Turnholt, but he bowed, assuring it would be done.

  Eamon went early to the port and watched the first merchant ship come into the harbour. As Feltumadas had surmised, it came from the province of Lamiglia and proudly flew a blue flag on its mast beneath its own colours. The stalwart vessel glided in across the calm waters. Eamon smiled to hear the applause running across the quays as the craft’s moorings were fixed. The vessel’s captain descended and Eamon went forward to meet him.

  “Welcome to the city of the King,” he said. “Warmly it welcomes you.”

  “I thank you.” The captain – a tall, willowish man – looked as though he might be better suited to sewing than sailing, but there was a keen glint to his eyes and a chiselled look to his face that spoke of long years at sea. “I am Petreus, captain of the Wave-Rider. On behalf of my liege, I convey congratulation and honour to the Star of this city.”

  “My name is Goodman,” Eamon answered. He saw the captain’s eyes widen as he continued. “I am First Knight to the King.”

  “This is an unexpected pleasure,” the captain replied. “May I clasp your hand, sir?”

  “Yes,” Eamon replied. He almost laughed at the seeming absurdity of the question, but felt too astonished to do so. The captain reached out and fervently took his hand.

  “There have been stories of you in every port recently,” he said, “some of them so exaggerated that they could only have been true.”

  Eamon smiled, unsure how to react. “Thank you. If I may direct your boatswain to the harbour master, we can unload your cargo.”

  “Of course,” Petreus said, nodding. “You must have need of grain.”

  “We do,” Eamon replied. “Likely far more than you shall have need of wine.”

  “With the throned fallen and his Hands felled, First Knight, the Raven’s Brew will sell well indeed,” the captain laughed with a broad smile. “The elite will clamour to have it in their cellars, that they may boast to their peers that they have bottles laid down in the last days of Edelred.”

  Eamon blinked; the idea surprised him. “Well, I am glad if it will do you good business.”

  “It will,” the captain replied, “and you shall need it! Etraia won’t be sending any of her ships in the near future.”

  “I have heard this rumour,” Eamon answered quietly, “and perhaps you can clarify it for me a little. Do you think Etraia’s discontent will continue?”

  Petreus shrugged. “Popular opinion over the water, First Knight, is that your King will have to strike her,” the captain answered simply. “Etraia is not known for letting grievances go quietly to dust. But it will be some time,” he added, “before she can challenge you.”

  Eamon nodded with a sigh; at least there was that comfort.

  The captain called his boatswain and Eamon directed them both to the harbour master’s offices. Tomas Longroad, who had donned the King’s blue in the days following the destruction of the Nightholt, received them. He was as invaluable to those managing the North as Anderas and Manners were to Eamon, for the man knew the ins and outs of the port as no other.

  Longroad greeted both captain and his boatswain before politely enquiring after their crossing.

  “The summer does improve matters,” Petreus said, “but ah! The straits, good sir; even in the gentle sway of the fairer tides, the straits remain lamentable and treacherous.”

  A small grin broke out on Eamon’s face as he remembered Fletcher’s desperate warning not to ask a captain about his crossing. Longroad had perhaps stepped willingly into the terrible monologue, and he bore it well, but Eamon reminded himself to mention the matter to Feltumadas, in case the Easter ever chose to receive one of their merchant allies.

  It was as he left the offices that he met Manners. The young man was breathless with running.

  “Sir!” he called.

  “Mr Manners?”

  “He’s here, sir!” Manners panted, drawing himself to a halt before Eamon.

  Eamon frowned. “Who is?” he asked.

  Manners thrust a hand back over his shoulder towards the palace. “Anderas is back,” he said, “and he’s brought Captain Roe.”

  “They’re going to the palace now?” Eamon asked.

  “Yes, sir, to see the King.”

  “Manners, I’d like you to go to the Crown,” Eamon told him. Part of him wondered whether the theatre’s name would change, but it was only a fleeting thought. He strode towards the Coll, Manners matching his pace fait
hfully. “There is a player there, Madam Ilenia by name. Please find her and bring her to the palace.”

  “Who is she, sir?” Manners asked.

  “Roe’s wife.”

  They went together down the Coll a fair way then parted company as they reached the palace gates. Eamon passed through the gates, swiftly climbed the steps, and made his way to the King’s meeting room.

  Hughan and Feltumadas were already there with several others. Eamon suspected that many of them had come, much as he had, to see the infamous captain.

  “Sire,” Eamon said, bowing as he entered. “Is he here?”

  “He is,” Hughan answered, and gestured to one of the men at the door. “Send word to Anderas.”

  “Will you be disappointed, Star, if you find this man to be a petty, thieving soul?” Feltumadas asked. He sounded haughty, as though the expectancy with which the captain was awaited was a ridiculous thing.

  “We will see what kind of man he is, Lord Feltumadas,” Hughan replied.

  Not long later the doors opened and Anderas entered. With him walked a couple of men in Gauntlet uniform. One came firmly at Anderas’s side. He was tall and dark haired, though threads of grey showed at his brow. His uniform was stained and worn. He had the look of a shrewd and thinking man; his face grew grim as he measured those gathered before him.

  “Sire,” Anderas said, bowing before them, “this is Captain Roe.”

  “Welcome, captain,” Hughan said.

  Roe watched him for a moment. The men who had come with him, their faces pale with toil, stood nervously behind him.

  “You are the Lord of Dunthruik?” Roe asked quietly. He sounded as though he had not slept properly for some nights.

  “I am,” Hughan replied gently.

  “In what manner do we stand with you?”

  “You need not stand against me, captain,” Hughan told him. “I hold you in as much esteem as all those who have borne your colours. The terms of the Gauntlet surrender hold good for you, and for your men – and all of you are welcome here.”

  Roe looked at him in surprise. “We have persisted in hostility towards you.”