The Traitor's Heir

by Anna Thayer

  “I am sorry to lose you again so soon after finding you,” he whispered.

  “You have not lost me, Eamon,” Hughan replied. “And I will not lose you. Be careful.”

  “I will,” Eamon promised.

  They clasped hands firmly and Hughan embraced him. When they stepped apart Hughan looked at both lieutenant and cadet.

  “The blessing of my house, the protection of my name, and the prayers of my heart go with you both,” he said. Eamon caught a glimpse again of the otherworldly crown, sparks of silver over the King’s bright brow.

  Hughan smiled at him. “Go in strength and peace, First Knight.”

  Eamon glanced at the threshold of the Hidden Hall where muddied grass lay in the failing day. Beyond that first step there was no returning.

  With papers and stone at breast and Mathaiah beside him, Eamon began to walk. Giving one last look over his shoulder he saw a dozen faces watching them leave – some relieved, some angry and suspicious. Some anxious, he hoped, at the thought of the peril that they freely went to for the service of the man they all served.

  But before all those faces, one image marked itself indelibly upon him. Hughan and Aeryn stood together. They held hands before the threshold, the King and Queen of a hidden world and a hope placed, against all trusts, in him.

  He crossed the threshold. The walls of the ruin gazed back at him, silent.

  “Which way, sir?”

  Eamon tore his gaze away from what he left, and felt the reassuring weight of the stone over his own heart.

  “We go down past the village,” he answered, “and strike east.”

  The sinking sun cast long shadows before them. They passed the smoking remains of the village and went south and east beyond it to another copse of trees on a small ridge. Calling birds jumped from the high branches and as the sun continued to fade, the shadows grew darker and the temperature dropped.

  As they pushed silently through the trees Eamon thought suddenly that, should he wish to speak openly to his companion, this might be one of his last chances.

  “Did Hughan explain everything to you as he did me?”

  “He did, down to your ruse. I think it very clever, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Eamon replied, honoured by the approval. “Listen, I don’t know what time we shall have to speak safely once we meet up with…” he faltered. “Them. But keep your eyes and ears open for anything that may be helpful. I don’t know what they’ll do with either of us when we reach Dunthruik. For the sake of this ruse your chief value to me is as the one person who can verify what I say about the ship. Beyond that, I will say that I know little about you.”

  “Sir,” Mathaiah affirmed.

  “We mustn’t speak of my healing you,” Eamon added, “or, indeed, of any injury to you. We were both captured –”

  “And my young mind spent the whole time under the influence of the drugs and poisons,” Mathaiah continued, “leaving the more complex lies all for you, I’m afraid.” There was the trace of a smile to his voice. “All I remember is being left for dead when the snakes left, and spending all of what I assume to be today struggling with the after-effects of the drugs before being found by you early this afternoon. I’m still partially hallucinatory, so I won’t speak much for the next few days, and I’ll be somewhat incoherent when I do.”

  Eamon looked at his friend, surprised and pleased. Whether the cadet had concocted parts of the tale with Hughan or not did not matter: it was clear that he was quite ready for what lay ahead.

  It took them at least an hour to clear the treeline and cross the shallow, east-facing valley to the next ridge. A slope led down from it towards a dark ribbon that mirrored the early evening stars. The stream was marked by a stretched shadow. By this were grouped dismounted riders, their eyes watching the ridge.

  Eamon tallied them. The hounds gathered intently about something, presumably edible, near the foot of the bridge while the horses grazed and drank from the riverbanks. The five Hands stood immovably. Their eyes upon him filled him with dread.

  Mathaiah fell quiet. He wondered if the boy had ever really seen a Hand before. Glancing across in the twilight he saw that his friend had grown a little paler. Well, it would help their ruse.

  “It’s all right,” Eamon told him, more bravely than he felt; now that he was faced with the prospect of several days’ journey with these men he felt sudden doubt about his purpose. “Just pretend to be scared and confused. I’ll do the rest.”

  “I think I can do that, sir.”

  Eamon looped one of Mathaiah’s arms over his shoulder and gripped the cadet’s lower back so as to help him hobble down the ridge.

  The long trip down the hill to the bridge was one of the most terrifying things Eamon had ever done. With every pace he took, his whole being warned him that there would be no chance to run once they reached that bridge. The stone at his breast seemed to grow heavy, as if it too had no wish to go towards the enemy. But his nerve held, both for himself and for Mathaiah, drawing them always closer to their rendezvous.

  As they came to the last few yards the dogs raised their heads to growl. The Hand to whom Eamon had spoken the night before spread his arms open in welcome, rather like an uncle welcoming a favourite nephew, and strode on as though he purposed to embrace the prodigal returnees. It was a terrifying sight.

  “Lieutenant Goodman and cadet. So good to see you both! I am most glad that you recovered your companion, Mr Goodman. What is his name?”

  “Grahaven, my lord, and thank you,” Eamon answered, bowing as much as he could while supporting the greater part of Mathaiah’s weight.

  “Where did you find him? We also searched the woods here about, on the off-chance that we should discover him in your stead.” The Hand spoke jovially but Eamon realized that his wit was already being tested.

  “In the copses a few miles from here.”

  “He was put under the poisons of which you spoke?”

  “Yes –” Eamon was thrown as the Hand threw back his hood, revealing a long face. It was handsome enough and well proportioned, but there was a glassy tint to the green eyes and a pallid sheen to the middle-aged skin. His dark hair was thickly braided. The man had a golden insignia marked on his cloak showing a raven, and he alone of the other Hands bore a curved sword – the blades borne by the others were all as straight as any in the River Realm. Above all else it was the Hand’s eyes that held Eamon’s attention. Behind the glassy look a deep green fire moved with a flicker that went beyond the jealous execution of duty.

  Eamon took all of this in at a moment. He watched as the pale face peered closely at Mathaiah, inspecting for signs of illness. The Hand touched the young man’s forehead with a curious air. Eamon waited with bated breath.

  Suddenly the cadet began to twist and jerk. After a few seconds he cried out, babbling incoherently before turning his face towards Eamon as though in severe distress. The young man proceeded to swat at unseen things in the air, occasionally yelping as though struck.

  His pulse racing, Eamon tried to grip Mathaiah more firmly. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Was Mathaiah pretending? Or had the Hand done something to the boy?

  “Hmmm,” the pallid face crooned, nodding as though sage to the condition. “It would seem that your captors chose a potent blend of shadeweed. Very unpleasant.” He looked back to Eamon. “And you are quite recovered from your own treatment?”

  Eamon took his courage with both hands. “I must confess, my lord, that I was not entirely frank with you yestereve.”

  “Oh?” The pale face raised an eyebrow. Eamon became highly aware of the other Hands, who had formed a partial circle around him. Although their green-eyed leader had an attitude of nonchalance, he understood that there was a system of signals, unseen by him, by which the Hands took the orders of their fellow. He could be cut down at a gesture should the leading Hand desire it.

  “My lord, there were snakes nearby last night.”

  The pale face showed no
flicker of emotion, as though it was accustomed to receiving the confessions of inept soldiers and lieutenants. Eamon resolved to persevere.

  “These snakes were mere couriers, of little import. I would have revealed them to you and had you wipe them out in a second, but they held this boy. They would have killed him and he is the only one who can prove what happened when my holk was taken. I would not face rumour that would restrict my service. In that, I must be charged with arrogance as well as falsehood.” He lowered his head. “I can only beg for your clemency.”

  “You were under considerable duress,” the Hand answered him, in a tone that seemed kindly and comforting, and yet not quite mocking. “These snakes will not long escape the Master, Mr Goodman, whatever the conspiracies of your arrogance.”

  “I did speak truly when I said that the great mockery of our Master, the Serpent, was not there,” Eamon continued, glancing up defensively. “But while I was there they received dispatches from him. These dispatches I obtained in secrecy this morning, before engineering my escape and the liberation of this cadet.” The Hand’s face broadened in a smile. “The letters contain details of what these vermin call ‘hidden halls’, places of treachery sown throughout the River Realm.”

  “Good,” the Hand told him. “The Master will be pleased.”

  “I did have one other opportunity in my flight,” Eamon continued, a little more reluctantly. “That is to say, one of the men in the group that took us was what they called a ‘bookkeeper’.”

  Even the Hand could not conceal the surprise in his voice. “Indeed!” It was plain that the Hand knew of the bookkeepers. Maybe he had searched for them himself.

  “This one carried something that he was delivering to the Serpent, something I understood to be of great importance,” Eamon told his foe. “A stone.”

  “A stone?” The Hand watched him with astonishment.

  “Indeed, my lord. I carry it now.” With his free hand he raised the heart of the King from his travelling pouch and held it in the light.

  The Hand erupted into long laughter. “For that alone, the lives and livelihoods of a hundred holks and the arrogance of ten hundred officers would have been traded!” he exclaimed. “Ah, Lieutenant Goodman, you will be rewarded well for your initiative!” He looked at the stone with gleaming eyes then gestured for Eamon to put it away.

  “Will you not take it, my lord?” Eamon asked, surprised.

  “No indeed!” the Hand answered. “You shall bear it and your papers to Dunthruik. They are marks of your endeavour and you will deliver them to the Master. He will be eager to meet with you.”

  Eamon bowed. “Such grace, my lord –”

  “Maybe not,” the Hand replied. “All the other officers vying for the Master’s attention will despise you for your mark of passage.”

  At his gesture the other Hands began to gather the horses and hounds together. A horse was brought to the leading Hand. Eamon watched in surprise as the pale-faced servant of the throned leaned his head close to the beast’s, speaking to it affectionately – behaviour wholly at odds with a man who bore the mark of the eagle on his hand and was robed in the Master’s black. Eamon wondered what the raven emblem on the man’s breast signified. The answer fretted at the edge of his memory but he could not grasp it. It had been long since he had been in the city of Dunthruik.

  “Your young cadet shall ride,” the Hand said. “He is in no fit state to walk the distance to the city.”

  Between them, Hand and lieutenant manoeuvred the senseless cadet onto the steed. One of the other Hands mounted behind him as a safeguard. Eamon briefly searched Mathaiah’s eyes, looking for assurance, but there was none. He could not tell whether Mathaiah acted or was genuinely hurt.

  “Come!” the Hand’s voice drew him from one worry to another. “Walk with me, lieutenant, and we shall speak further!”

  They walked long into the darkening night. The Hand talked the whole way as though they were intimate friends. He discussed the frivolities of court life in Dunthruik, the details of the latest training course for the officers in the city (which sounded gruelling), and the state of security in the provinces – especially on the northern borders. Spurred by the antics of the north many other merchant states were growing restless and pushing for unreasonable terms of trade, while in the east tension grew between the throned and those who lived near the passes; Dunthruik had been fortifying the cities there. Snakes had been found even in the capital, and had proved most resilient to interrogation; rumours of a snake cull, on a scale greater even than the Great Cull of 508, were gathering strength and support. He was a little less talkative on the doings of the Hands but did hint at the additional perks the Hands enjoyed in regards to the favours of ladies. The topic pushed the bounds of modesty.

  It was late that night when they stopped, probably much closer to the third watch than to the second. The Hands quickly built and lit a fire. The dogs settled down near it, their limbs akimbo in the dust. Eamon helped to lower a somnambulant Mathaiah down from the horse before the beasts were tethered. He offered to take watch but, much like a dinner host refusing assistance in clearing the table, the Hand instructed him to rest; they would see to watches.

  Eamon sat by Mathaiah, shivering. Two of their escort settled to watch and the other three to sleep. Noticing his reluctance to rest, the leading Hand doffed his cloak and offered it to him. The night was, he explained, only to grow colder. Eamon could only watch the man in surprise as he then moved off, humming, to rub down the horses.

  So it was that Eamon settled himself down to rest wrapped in the cloak of a Hand. There was a time when such things would have been inconceivable to him. The blood in his palm stirred and in the dark he felt the mark of the eagle on his hand. He curled his fingers shut and clung with his mind to the silver sword given to him by the King.

  The Hand’s singing filled his thought for a long time.

  When he was certain that the Hands were engaged either in sleeping or discussing things among themselves, he turned discreetly to Mathaiah. The cadet was pale and Eamon tried to tell himself it was the pallor of fatigue. He would not have been able to speak to his companion even had the cadet possessed his right mind, but what he would have given for an exchange of intelligent glances! This too was denied him; the cadet breathed the short, shallow breaths of one who walked in dreams.

  Eamon turned his face towards the fire and listened to it crack. After a while he too must have passed into realms of sleep, for he saw shadows in the flames that raised their arms and danced a slow and secret dance, summoning ancient words from a place occult for years unnumbered. As he watched he felt himself fall and become entangled in the fires.

  He woke too warm. His clothes stuck to him with cooled sweat and his fingers seemed swollen to twice their size. Light shined on him, the grey herald of the coming dawn.

  Slowly he examined what lay about him, hoping that he might gain some intelligence before the Hand again set upon him with talk and incisive green eyes. He watched and listened for a few moments and then sat up, alarmed.

  The trees were wrong. To begin with they stood in a small copse and not a nearly rigid line. Secondly, the leaves that lay prone to the pre-dawn breeze were thin, threaded leaves, like those of olives. They had been sturdy pines the night before; he had known them from their smell. The sun rose before him where it should have been behind and the River was behind him, to the south. He had lain the night before on ground composed mostly of moss and stone but now grass and wet earth pushed against his hands outside the warm cocoon of the cloak.

  He looked this way and that for an explanation but there was none to be had. The fire in the centre of the camp still burned and two Hands paced in a circle about it, masters of the dismal grey. The sight chilled him.

  For what felt like hours he wrestled with the bewilderment that had filled him on waking. He watched as the other Hands slowly rose from their rest and waked both dogs and horses. With his enemies intent on their occupation
s Eamon tried again to reach Mathaiah. But the pale face still slept, as though it had not moved from one stiff posture for the whole night.

  The lurid face of the leading Hand dropped down, beaming, before him. “Good morning, lieutenant. You slept well?”

  Eamon couldn’t bring himself to answer the question. He could only stare. The Hand laughed.

  “Ah!” he said. “You are, of course, bemused. Let me try and explain. You are a breacher, yes? That involves the breaking of the boundaries of thought and the defences of the mind.”

  Eamon nodded dumbly.

  “Well,” the Hand continued jovially, “there are those who can change the rules which apply to moving long distances.” He left it at that, as though it explained everything, and moved off to set a pack on one of the horses. Eamon felt the air about him beginning to move, bringing with it a tang of the sea.

  “Breakfast will be a frugal affair, consumed whilst walking,” the Hand advised. Behind him the others were gathering their things. “Wake your cadet; he will ride, of course.” The gallantry of this statement made Eamon press hard at his temples.

  Waking Mathaiah was a lengthy process. Eamon shook him, hard, several times to little avail. Finally, he combined the shaking with a firm utterance of the young man’s name, and two groggy eyes came half-open.

  “Come on, cadet,” Eamon told him. “Time to be moving on.” He didn’t dare speak other.

  The Hands put Mathaiah on one of the horses. The grey hung all about them like a shroud. Warming only a little as they walked, Eamon longed for the shroud to be torn in two and for the sun to soar up victorious from the veiled horizon.

  In silence the Hands led the way along the River. Suddenly the plain dropped down to swoop forward and Eamon saw a great city standing tall against the plain and the sea behind it. To his left, in the south, ran the wide expanse of the River that churned on to the sea mouth where the city sat. From his elevated vantage Eamon could see the far side of the city and the walls of a well-defended port. To the east were the distant mountains and, near the city’s northern walls, hills filled with vines. Below them, between the hills and the plain, were masses of woodland and farmsteads that trickled into plain grassland as it drew near the road. The eastern edge of the plain also had a large, burning pyre.