by Anna Thayer
“Because I did it, and one day you may remember it,” Eamon replied. “You may also remember the wilfulness and hatred with which I did it.”
Giles laughed kindly. “You do not seem to be a man who does anything unless he does it wilfully,” he replied. A small smile came onto his face. “That is how I know I don’t need to hold it against you: wilfully you broke my mind, and wholeheartedly you spoke to me of it so that I would know of it before I remembered it. The latter far outweighs the former.”
Eamon felt relieved. “Thank you,” he said. “You are a good man, Giles. I am glad to have come to see that in you, and to have peace with you.”
“Then we are both content,” Giles smiled. “I will think on the matter with the East,” he added.
“Thank you.”
Giles bowed and left; Eamon watched him go. Could forgiveness – even where bitterness and hurt and wrath had passed between two men – be so simply and deeply given?
But Giles had forgiven him knowing what he had done – not remembering it, nor the agony which Eamon had caused. Did that undo the worth of the man’s gesture?
Perhaps she would forgive him, too.
He gathered his things and returned to the palace.
As Eamon went through the Round Hall, a man called to him.
“First Knight?”
Eamon turned and stopped in surprise to see Captain Roe with a couple of King’s men.
The captain sauntered up to him and bowed. “Good evening. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all,” Eamon answered, extending his hand. “Let me add my own words to the King’s and say that it is a pleasure to have you in the city, captain.”
Roe clasped his hand with a friendly smile. “Thank you.”
“Are you seeing the palace?” Eamon asked.
“Yes. My wife needed to return to the theatre for a few things,” Roe told him, “and the guards told me that I was welcome to walk while I waited for her return.”
“It is a magnificent building,” Eamon nodded.
“So Anderas explained to me,” Roe smiled.
Eamon laughed. “Few escape him in such matters, I fear,” Eamon replied. “I am sorry that he cornered you!”
“He served very briefly under me some years ago. Perhaps, on account of the old respect of an ensign for a commanding officer, he was lenient with me,” Roe replied. He was quiet for a moment and then met Eamon’s gaze again. “To tell the truth, sir, I hoped that I might find you. It may seem bold, but I wanted to thank you.”
Eamon frowned in surprise. “Thank me?”
“My wife and I have spoken much today,” Roe returned, and a smile grew on his face. “As perhaps you might imagine! She told me many things – I have been out of the city for a number of years – and she spoke to me of many people. She spoke of you in particular.” The captain met his gaze. His eyes were creased with the passing of years. “You were the Right Hand,” Roe said, “a man with many worries and troubles of his own. Even so, and at your own peril, you took my wife under your wing.”
“I did,” Eamon answered, “but, captain, you must know that never did I –”
“I know,” Roe nodded. “Ilenia told me.”
“I am sorry that I was only able to protect her for so short a time,” Eamon answered.
“It seems to me that you were there to shield her when she was in the greatest danger,” Roe replied.
“She would not have been in peril but for me…”
“But you saved her as a King’s man.”
Eamon blinked hard. “How do you know about that?”
Roe smiled. “In truth I merely suspected until you confirmed it just now. Ilenia suspected as well.”
“It is true,” Eamon answered.
“Then for that I thank you more than all the rest,” Roe said. “Mine would have been a bitter homecoming, First Knight, to return to my city and to find her gone. The mark I bore on my palm is gone – I felt it go days ago. When it went I decided that I had to come to the city, to see if what we had heard was true.” The captain touched his hand once, and smiled. “I had forgotten what it was to be without it. Perhaps you understand how free I feel to have lost it.”
Eamon smiled. “I do,” he answered. He measured the man’s gaze, feeling a deep respect for him, then held out his hand and clasped Roe’s once more. “This city has been mesmerized by your courage in returning to it, captain,” he added. “If freedom from Edelred moves you as I feel it does, and you feel that it would be right, there is a place for you beneath the King’s colours.”
Roe’s eyes widened. “Thank you, First Knight.”
“Please give my kindest regards to your wife,” Eamon said. “She is a noble woman, and I see that she is matched in that by her husband.”
Roe thanked him again, and returned to his tour through the halls. Eamon watched him go. Then his eyes were drawn by a group of women passing through the far side of the hall. His pulse quickened. She walked with them.
The women moved purposefully – he knew they were deep in preparations for the marriage – but their eyes met. Her face was different, softer. Unable to contain it, a great smile spread across his face – a smile for her. Across the expanse of the hall, he bowed to her.
A flush of red, a demure gaze, and… the glimmer of a smile?
To him, it was as radiant as dawn.
The women passed from the hall.
CHAPTER XXXI
On the twenty-eighth of May the city woke to the proclamation that the King would be crowned three days thence. Dunthruik became a buzz of activity such as Eamon had never seen. The Coll was strung with jubilant blue banners and stars, while every house and every street was filled with flowers and with colour. At the Four Quarters great banners were hung. There was not a man about town who did not apply himself with gladness to his duties; and so anticipation heightened as the preparations continued.
Roe left the city to return to his men. Their surrender would be formally welcomed when they returned.
Work on the East Gate continued at a frenetic pace so that it might be as close as possible to ready for the coronation. But it was the Royal Plaza – the enormous square that had seen so many of Edelred’s majesties – which became the most frenzied hive of activity. Though its walls and gates were still damaged from the explosion of the throned’s artillery, Hughan chose it as the place for the coronation ceremony itself, as it was a space big enough to hold a large number of the city’s people. The inns all over Dunthruik filled with guests. Eamon had never seen such a variety of people going through the city streets.
On the twenty-ninth Eamon received word that General Waite had departed Dunthruik. The news weighed on him but he had little time to think upon it.
In the days leading up to the coronation Eamon made several visits to the East Quarter and took careful note of the progress of reconstruction with Anastasius. He oversaw the unloading of another ship from Lamiglia.
Thanks to the returning ships, the air up and down the Coll was filled again with the smell of freshly baked bread. It was something that had long been missing from the city. A baker in the West Quarter baked star-shaped breads, in celebration of the forthcoming coronation. It was not long before bakers all over the city got wind of the idea and by the thirtieth of May the city was filled with “Brenuin” breads, as they soon became called. Eamon tried several different kinds and was surprised at the ingenuity with which the bakers vied, varying all manner of ingredients to produce sweet and savoury loaves.
It was as he was sampling some of these breads that Cartwright came to him. The man bowed low.
“Sir.”
“Mr Cartwright, you catch me with my mouth full,” Eamon mumbled, offering an apologetic smile.
“I am not offended, sir.”
“I accept your indulgence with thanks!”
“I bring a message, sir, from Lady Turnholt.”
Eamon fell still.
“She asked me to thank yo
u, sir, for your letter and the flowers.”
Though his feet remained firmly fixed on the ground, he felt his spirits soar heavenward.
“Mr Cartwright, your message is as joyous to me as the coming of the King himself!”
As darkness fell on the evening of the thirtieth, Eamon stood in the door of the West Quarter College, looking down through the Brand to the Coll.
Anderas came to his side. “Good evening, First Knight.”
“The city, the River…” Eamon whispered. “It’s almost as if everything quivers as it waits for the morning.” He shook his head in amazement and drew his gaze from the city to look at Anderas. “Have you ever felt anything like this before, Andreas?”
“I have seen, and felt, many things in these walls,” Anderas replied, “but never such a thing as this.”
“Neither have I,” Eamon breathed.
“Perhaps we never will again,” Anderas mused, “and perhaps our children will gaze at us in awe when we tell them that we stood here, on this night, waiting for tomorrow.”
Eamon sighed. “Perhaps they will,” he answered quietly.
They stood in silence for a long time. It was as Eamon looked out over the star-struck city that long-buried words came to him:
“The dawn has come. The River sings
To see the crowning of her King.”
Anderas looked at him in quiet amazement; there was no further word to be said.
The sun rose and the thirty-first of May soared in golden glory to the skies over the River Realm. The River was a running flood of silver and gold. The city stood, like a star, at its mouth.
The East Gate cast its doors open towards the dawn. It was in the gate, before the very threshold of the city, that Eamon waited. His whole heart was turned in wonder towards the one who rode in from the dawn-struck plain. The whole of Dunthruik lined the streets behind him, their breath still on their lips as they too watched.
From the east towards the blue-bannered city came the King. He rode on a great white horse whose mane was like silver fire, and he was dressed in blue. He bore no banner, but the silver circlet of stars resting on his brow was as bright as the sun.
The King halted before the gate and looked into the heart of the city.
“In the authority of the first promise I come,” he said, his voice truer and finer than a joyous trumpet call. “I have followed the River from its source to its mouth; I have stayed the course. As Brenuin I come, to uphold the pledge of my house with the River’s Realm, until the stars go out.”
The King’s voice carried across the gates, washing over the stones so that they answered him. Light shivered in the stones all around him, singing the King’s words back to him; the light shimmered and then grew faint.
Hughan met Eamon’s gaze and the First Knight drew his sword. He had not held a sword since he had charged after Arlaith through the bowels of the palace, and for a moment he felt the fear and the terror of that chase fill him. But as the steel glinted before his eyes, it came to him that though it was a token of war it was also a symbol of justice, and a prize of peace.
Taking his sword firmly between his hands and raising it before him, Eamon turned from the plain to look down the Coll. It and the whole city were stretched out before him in the light – the Four Quarters, and beyond them the wash of the sea.
In the crystal silence of that moment, the Blind Gate saw the First Knight step across the threshold into the city. The King followed after him.
So it was that the sword heralded the star through the gate and down the streets of Dunthruik, before the watching gazes of the men and women of the River Realm. As they passed, reams of King’s men stepped into formation behind them, each proudly holding aloft the banners of the King and the house of Brenuin. Banners showing the joined colours of all those who had been the King’s allies against Edelred were there also.
The procession went down the Coll. At first many watched in silence, stunned still by the vision of the King coming through the gate and reclaiming the city as it had been usurped. Yet as they came under the great blue banners to the Four Quarters, applause erupted to north and south.
“Long live the King!” cried a voice. Suddenly the Four Quarters reverberated with it, North, South, East, and West. Men and women from every quarter were there. Some of them Eamon recognized, and scores upon scores of faces he did not know; but they knew him, and they cheered and sang as the procession went by.
“Long live the King!”
On they went, past the calling sea of faces, drawing ever closer to the Royal Plaza. Those who had cheered them joined the tail of the procession until the whole Coll became a river of living joy, singing the praise and life of its King.
They went to the Royal Plaza. There many were arrayed in waiting. The Easters and other men who served the King stood in formal lines. Those men turned to look at the arriving procession and stared in awe, for the King seemed like a bright rider come down from a distant age, and his face radiated the kindness and grace within him.
A platform had been set at the end of the square. Tall banners hung by it and at its centre stood a throne carved from light wood. A star was marked high on it, and the beams that stuck out from it were like sun-rays forming a living crown.
At the throne’s side stood several figures cloaked in grey. The first among these was tall and grey haired, like a crested wave made man. His look was solemn but he seemed good. The man at his side held in his hands something covered with a blue cloth.
As the grey man stepped forward and stood before the throne, the whole square fell silent. His voice as he spoke was like the roll of the sea.
“Son of Elior,” he called, “whom do you herald?”
Joy ran through Eamon’s veins. “I herald Hughan,” he called, “heir to the house of Brenuin and our undoubted King.” So saying, he sheathed his sword and stepped aside, bowing before Hughan.
It was then that the King dismounted. He seemed to grow in greatness. He stepped forward before the grey-garbed bookkeepers, and stood unfalteringly before the first of them. That man then spoke again.
“Are you, Hughan Brenuin, the King of this River and its realm?”
“By promise and by blood,” Hughan replied, “it is as you say.”
“And are you, Hughan Brenuin, willing to take oaths before these, your people?”
The question hung in the air, and Eamon shook. Never would Edelred have answered such a demand, never would he have taken oaths; he had only commanded them. The watching city knew it as well as did the First Knight.
“I am willing,” Hughan answered.
“Then come hither, Star of Brenuin.”
Every eye was on the King as he went forward. As Hughan stepped onto the platform he bowed down to one knee before the grey-garbed man. The man turned to one of his fellows and drew away the cloth that covered what he bore. The gesture revealed a great book.
Eamon gasped as he saw it, understanding at once what it was: the surviving copy of the King’s Covenant, made by the first of the Brenuin Kings long years before.
The bookkeeper held the book up to show it to the city, then turned to Hughan with it still in his hands. After Hughan had reached out and laid one hand upon it the bookkeeper spoke again.
“Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the people of the River Realm according to its laws?”
“I will,” Hughan answered.
“Will you, to the utmost of your power, cause law and mercy to be executed in all your judgments?”
“I will.”
“Will you, to the utmost of your power, maintain this land in goodness and in hope, punishing the wicked, protecting and cherishing the just, maintaining the promise by which this land was founded, and leading your people by the way that they should go?”
“All these I promise to do,” Hughan answered.
There was a moment of silence while the King’s oaths filled the square and the city. Then Hughan rose to his feet before the bookkee
per. The man held his gaze for a moment before speaking again.
“In this book is held promise and wisdom and hope. Receive it, gracious King, and let it be in your heart and in your land.”
He set the book into Hughan’s hands; Eamon saw a flicker of blue about its pages, and he knew that all about him the world seemed silent.
The man in grey smiled as he looked on the King. “May your throne, delivered to you by those who have held the River’s book and memory of the first promise, be established in righteousness. May peace be yours, and wisdom of governance. May you be strengthened, comforted, confirmed, and counselled, in knowledge and goodness, in reverence and hope, until the stars go out.”
So saying, the bookkeeper stepped aside.
Hughan walked slowly forwards and then sat formally in the wooden throne. A scarcely audible, but keenly felt, gasp filled the square. As Hughan sat, the bookkeeper took a small blue flask from another of his fellows. Eamon did not know what it held but he watched as the keeper dipped his fingers into the flask and turned again to the King. He reached forward and, taking Hughan’s hands, marked the shape of the star upon his palms.
“May your hands be anointed with oil of the promise,” he said. “May your breast and brow be anointed with it also. May the promise live truly in your heart and in your house; may the work of your hands prosper; may you govern and preserve the lands and people given into your charge in wisdom, justice, and temperance. May you restore the things that have gone to decay and maintain the things that are restored. May you not forget your people, to whom your pledges are made, nor they you.”
A crown was solemnly brought forth – it was tall, silver, and wrought about with bright stones as though with the twinkling stars of a silver sky.
The bookkeeper stepped behind the throne and raised the crown high in his hands over the King’s head.
“This is a crown of faith, a symbol of majesty. With it may this, our King, be filled with grace and all princely virtues; may he be held in righteousness until the stars go out.”
