by Anna Thayer
For a moment more he held the crown aloft and then, before the city and the River, he set it upon Hughan’s head.
Cries of joy pealed in Eamon’s heart, and there were tears in his eyes. Yet he remained in silence a moment more.
The bookkeeper stood before Hughan again. “May you have faithful councils and quiet realms,” he said. “May you have sure defence against enemies, a prosperous land, wise counsellors, and honest, peaceable, and dutiful people. May the promise which has made you King over them give you increase of grace, honour and happiness, vigilance and valour, until the stars go out.”
The bookkeeper stepped back and bowed down once to his knees before rising to his feet and turning to the watching people. “A star over his house,” he called. “Long live the King!”
With one cheering and jubilant voice the River Realm answered him:
“Long live the King!”
When the shout quieted, the bookkeeper looked kindly to Eamon. “Let the King’s First Knight come forth.”
Eamon went forward up onto the platform. In a daze of joy he knelt before the starry throne. Hughan was before him. As he knelt there, Eamon held forth his hands; Hughan placed his own about them. Eamon took a deep breath as he declared his fealty to Hughan in words he never dreamt would escape his lips.
“I, Eamon Goodman, will be faithful and true,” he said. His hands shook but he felt the press of the King’s palms about his own, holding him and calling him on to courage. “Faith and truth will I bear unto you,” he said, “and unto the heirs of your house, as long as I live, until the stars go out.” So saying Eamon bent his head forward and joyfully kissed Hughan’s hand.
The King smiled at him. “Your faith I receive, Eamon Goodman,” he said, “proclaiming you First Knight of this realm, first defender of my house, and first voice of my people.”
Two bookkeepers came forward, carrying between their hands a long, dark blue cloak. For a moment Eamon noticed nothing else about it, but then he couldn’t believe what he saw.
At its bold heart stood the sword and star. The emblem had been sewn in silver and edged in black. The eight slim beams of the star reached out to the cloak’s black edge, the downward beam behind the blade of the sword. In the two top corners of the cloak two black horses reared, stars shining brightly at their breasts.
Tears of amazement filled Eamon’s eyes as the bookkeepers came forward. The cloak he wore was taken from off his shoulders, and then the cloak of the First Knight was laid upon him.
As the bookkeepers fell back a pace, the King rose, bidding Eamon to do the same.
“Draw your sword, First Knight.”
Eamon did so, laying his blade across his hands before kneeling again to Hughan. The King laid his hands on the blade of Eamon’s sword.
“Bear not, First Knight, this sword in vain,” he said. “Bear it for the protection and encouragement of those who do good, and for the terror of those who knowingly do evil. With it, protect my house and all in this land, from the greatest to the least. May your promise and service to me be of comfort and of hope, to you and to all those who serve me, and may you strike in goodness, in truth, and in courage always.”
Hughan leaned forward and kissed his brow. Eamon felt the strength and loving wholeness of that gesture, knowing at last what Edelred had always meant to claim for his own, and knowing that the King had restored it to its proper place.
“Rise, First Knight,” Hughan said. “May courage always be first in your heart.”
Eamon rose. Hughan turned with him to look at the people.
“This man is Eamon Goodman,” the King said. “He is the First Knight and witness of my house, of my realm, and of this city.
“But not to Dunthruik do I present him, for this city shall be called Dunthruik no more. The name of this city shall henceforth be Eldaran – a city of promise shall it be.
“Eldaran, here is your knight.”
There was an awe-stricken silence. And the city rejoiced.
“Eldaran for the King! Eldaran for the First Knight!”
The calls shivered through Eamon. He remembered the prophecy delivered, what seemed so long ago, by Ashway: “The city rises with a new name…”
Tears struck his eyes. He had lived to hear that name. Eldaran would be a city of Kings and promise, and he was its First Knight.
As the applause quieted again, Eamon, shaking from the city’s praise, stepped to one side. The bookkeeper’s voice stilled the air.
“On this day that the River’s realm takes a King and a First Knight, a queen shall it take also,” he said, and he smiled. “Let her come forth!”
There was a stir of music and then a group of women proceeded with solemn joy through the square. Aeryn walked at their head. Eamon stared at her in awe, for she was dressed in purest white. Her hair was caught back with bright flowers, and her eyes shone. Behind her walked six women, each dressed in the King’s blue and each bearing a part of her train. Leon walked at her side, his arm looped through her own.
Among the bridesmaids went Alessia. She wore a single white rose in her hair and, as the bridal party came forward, her eyes sought his. Her tender look was for him.
Leon led Aeryn to the platform and up the steps to where Hughan stood. The King’s face filled with unspeakable pride and joy as Aeryn came before him.
Eamon, Leon, and the bridesmaids stepped formally down from the platform. As they did so, Eamon saw Hughan and Aeryn standing, hand in hand, before the bookkeeper.
“As is the pledge between the King and the River Realm, so it is between a man and his wife,” the bookkeeper said, looking sincerely to the King. “Hughan Brenuin, do you mean to hold to this woman in the fullness of that promise, doing her love and honour, rendering comfort in adversity and song in joy, protecting her and serving her, until your days are ended?”
“So mean I,” Hughan answered.
“Aeryn Connara, lady of Edesfield, do you mean to hold to this man in the fullness of that same promise, doing him love and honour, rendering comfort in adversity and song in joy, protecting him and serving him, until your days are ended?”
“So mean I,” Aeryn said. A thrilling quiet followed her words.
“Take, then, these rings,” the bookkeeper told them. Eamon saw two rings being set before the King and his queen. “And with them speak your pledges.”
Hughan and Aeryn turned to face each other. Eamon watched in amazement as they then knelt down together.
Taking up a ring, Hughan gently took Aeryn’s hand. His voice was deep and loving. “With this ring I wed you, and with it I make my promise,” he said, “to cherish you in all seasons, forsaking all others, until my days are ended. You shall be the crown of my joy, this day and all days. In love shall I serve you and honour you, dear queen and dearer wife.”
“With this ring I wed you,” Aeryn answered, setting a ring on Hughan’s hand, “and with it I make my promise to cherish you in all seasons, forsaking all others, until my days are ended. You shall be the lord of my heart, this day and all days. In love shall I serve you and honour you, dear King and dearer husband.”
They clasped together their ringed hands as the bookkeeper spoke again.
“River’s Realm and city,” he said, “behold here your King and queen, remembering that as a lord he will serve and save you, and as a bride you may rejoice in him and honour him.” He turned to Hughan and Aeryn, a great smile on his face. “Your pledges made, honour your bride, O King, and welcome her with a loving kiss.”
There, before the watching eyes of the city, the kneeling King joyfully kissed his wife. As he did so the square erupted into applause and overwhelming cheers. They were cheers that only grew as the King and queen then rose to their feet, hand in hand.
“Long live the King! Long live the queen! Long live the house of Brenuin!”
Eamon was on his feet with the whole city, his being overwhelmed as the King and queen received the hearts of their people. He watched with tears strea
ming down his face as he beat his hands together with the force of his rejoicing soul. It was a joy made keener by the long, dark road that he had followed to reach that day.
So Eldaran rejoiced.
The King and queen came down from the platform in procession, the bookkeepers behind them, towards the palace. It was there that the day’s ceremonies were to be feasted. Great banqueting tables had been laid throughout the palace halls.
As Eamon followed the procession into the palace, music began in every quarter of the city, rising with the people’s cheers.
The King and queen went to the throne room. Long tables had been set there and Eamon was amazed to see their bounty and their beauty. There were musicians robed in blue, and as the King and queen arrived, they played, strumming and singing with the same infectious joy found throughout the whole of the city.
The hall filled with guests: Anderas and Giles, then Feltumadas, Ithel, Anastasius, and the other Easters. Each one spoke to the King, congratulating him and the smiling queen. Servants, lords, wayfarers, and ex-Gauntlet alike soon joined them. Eamon knew that the palace was filled with dozens of the same. Anderas was carried away in conversation with Leon. Manners and Lillabeth sat together at another table. Doveton and Giles raised glasses to him in tacit celebration. There were men and women in the room whom Eamon loved, and Eamon knew as he looked that all that he had done in Dunthruik had been for this day, and for this joy. He wondered, as he watched, what Mathaiah would have thought to see it.
The throne room had been cast with great blue banners. Where Edelred’s throne had once stood, where Eamon had knelt countless times – in fear, in terror, in loathing, and in shame – there now stood a tall wooden throne on which was carved a star. As he looked at it, Eamon’s heart grew light. Never would he kneel before that throne, or the one to whom it belonged, in fear.
As the music continued, he made his way to Aeryn’s side. She was speaking to Ithel, but as he approached, the Easter lord bowed to him.
“First Knight,” he said, “or Lord Goodman, as you shall soon be called again.”
“Lord Ithel,” Eamon answered.
“I am very glad that I spared you at Pinewood,” Ithel smiled, and clasped his hand. “May a star be over your house, and yours, my lady.” He bowed again to Aeryn.
“Thank you,” Aeryn answered with a smile.
Ithel took his leave and went on. Eamon turned to Aeryn.
“Congratulations.” He looked at her, at her smiling face and at the flowers caught up in her hair, and smiled, taking her hands in his as he had done at the Hidden Hall long months before. “You look wonderful.”
Aeryn blushed. “Thank you.”
Eamon smiled at her – and his mind was filled with thoughts of the one who had worn a white rose in her hair.
“Aeryn, I would like to speak to Lady Turnholt. Perhaps you have heard her thoughts of late. Do you think that she would welcome me?”
With a smile, Aeryn lightly kissed his cheek. “I think she would.”
“I saw her among your ladies before. Do you know where I might find her?”
“I was just speaking to her. She wanted to walk in the gardens.”
Eamon nodded silently.
Aeryn pressed his hand. “You are a man of promise and of courage,” she said, “and I am glad, Eamon, that you will be a guardian of my husband, and of my house.”
Aeryn embraced him. As he stepped back he saw that Hughan watched him from across the hall. As Eamon met his gaze the King nodded to him with a gentle, and encouraging, smile.
“Courage.” Eamon whispered the word to himself. Aeryn smiled.
“Courage,” she agreed.
The sound of the musicians was on the air as Eamon stepped from the great corridors of the palace and into the gardens. Spring blossomed into summer about him, a wash of life and hope. He felt the sun on his face.
For a short time he followed the garden path, lost in the sights and sounds and smells of the garden. His feet took him on, and he knew not where he went in the wide garden; he knew only that he would find the one whom he sought.
He came at last to the heart of the gardens and stood still for a moment in the sun. As he surveyed the leafy, radiant world about him he remembered, as though in a living memory, the song that had so captivated him at the Crown:
“As roses smell their sweetest after rain…”
It had brought him hope then, and did so again in that moment.
Before him was the fountain, its great eagles gone. Beyond it the hidden path led to the garden of roses and the basin of stars. Looking at the twining path of petals and of thorns, he knew that it was the path to follow.
It led him truly. The white wooden frames stood still, rose-twined.
The garden was sheltered and quiet; peace dwelt there. Like a wanderer from a distant land reaching home at last, he was filled with wonder.
He saw the basin. The pool of clear water caught in the stones reflected the highest reaches of the sky. The tall pedestal was wound about with carved flowers that blossomed like stars, and at the steps of the pedestal, with her head leant gracefully against its stem, sat the one he sought.
Eamon paused. Her back was almost to him and her long, beautiful hair tressed the stones against which she leant. In silence she sat, lost in all her own thought; and as Eamon watched her he felt his resolve strengthening.
Quietly he stepped forward and crossed the small courtyard. The breeze whispered through the roses.
Her eyes were closed. Eamon paused by her, watching the wind stir in her star-woven hair, and as he gazed at her, he saw how fair she was.
“My lady.”
Her eyes – eyes where he had so often seen himself – looked up at him. They rimmed with tears.
“You came,” she breathed.
“Yes. Too late, I know; but I have come.”
She lowered her gaze, seeming not to know what to say. “Thank you for your messages.”
“Thank you for receiving them.” He watched as she turned a white rose in her hands. “My lady, might I sit with you a while?”
“Yes.”
Quietly Eamon sat beside her. The stone was cool.
“I spoke out of turn to you when last we met,” she told him. “I was hurt, and angry.”
“Lady, you had every reason to be both,” he answered. “I did you great wrong.”
There was silence. Biting her lip, Alessia fingered the rose petals. Tears stung his eyes, for as he looked at her he saw her as he had never seen her before: fair she was, bright and noble as a star before him.
“Great wrong you bore for me,” he said. “I did not deserve your faith, and yet you still kept it for me.”
“Yes.” Fresh tears touched her face. Eamon longed to brush them away.
“I am sorry for all that was done to you on account of me,” he told her. “I wish that I could undo it. I wish that I could have understood the truth. I wish I could have seen clearly when you first spoke to me. I wish I had protected you, as you deserved. I am sorry for what I did to you. I am sorry for speaking ill of you, for harbouring hatred against you in my heart. I know now that I was at fault, and that I poured sorrow, in the full strength of my will, upon you. And yet… you bore it. After all that I did, and all I said? I do not know how you saw to keep your faith with me. I know only that you did.” He gazed at her in awe. “Why did you, and for so worthless a man as I?”
Alessia was silent for a long time. When at last she spoke, her voice was scarcely audible above the singing roses.
“Because I loved you,” she whispered.
There was quiet between them. As he looked at her then Eamon knew that, despite all that had passed between them, he loved her still.
“I have come to seek your forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness?” she breathed.
“I cannot undo what you endured for me,” Eamon answered. “I cannot undo the darkness, the tears and lies, the life and love lost. I will not ask if you love
me still, or whether you may yet love me again. Rather, I here confess my wrongs to you. I treated ill with you, and in my anger and my hurt I forgot all that I loved, and all that I had promised to be. Forgive me.”
Alessia held him in her gaze for long moments. “It is a difficult thing you ask of me, Eamon.”
He swallowed. “I understand.”
She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. “But it is my choice. Eamon… I forgive you.”
The weight of a universe lifted from him. Eamon gazed back at her with compassion and joy and wonder. “It is more than I deserve. Thank you, Alessia.”
Then her face softened. His voice empassioned, he whispered, “I cannot imagine what paths of grief and torment you have trodden since those dark days when we parted, nor what rage and suffering you bear still. But I know that you have set your heart on peace, and on life in hope. If… if you would be willing, I would walk with you along that way to peace. And I would have peace with you.” He laughed gently. “Dear Alessia,” he said, and it was as her name came from his lips that he reached across and earnestly took her gentle hand in his own. “I would have peace with you, for all the days of my life.”
For a moment she watched him, and for a moment he feared that she would not speak. Then her fingers pressed his.
“And I with you,” she answered. “Until the stars go out.”
They watched each other. A smile, such as Eamon had always loved, touched her face.
She laid her head then against his shoulder and spoke his name to him. The music of Eldaran and of the King danced all about them. The roses swayed to it.
Gently he turned and kissed her forehead. “Until the stars go out,” he whispered.
So they sat together, hand in hand and brow against brow, until the twilight high above them brought forth the long-awaited evening stars.
EPILOGUE
Hughan Brenuin was crowned King over the River Realm five hundred and thirty-three years after the battle of Edesfield. How long it had been since the promise that had first brought the house of Stars to the River had long since been forgotten.
