The Traitor's Heir

by Anna Thayer

  Eamon shivered; he alone knew them to be lies to steal the throne.

  His vision changed. Beyond the arches of the hall’s balconies hung the darkened night. The walls bore no paintings and the ceiling was blue, littered with silver stars. The great doors were barred.

  A solitary man sat on the steps by the throne – not the great, stony monstrosity which Eamon knew lay before him but a tall, elegant seat with a star set at its head. A blue banner covered the wall behind him, showing a sword and a star. The old man cradled a sword across his lap.

  A great noise rang through the hall. The doors buckled before a tremendous strike of red light. A figure strode through the splintered wreck of wood. He was dressed in crimson; he carried a bloodied banner showing a unicorn and three stars. He cast it derisively onto the floor, calling a mocking challenge to the old man whose whole house had fallen.

  The old man slowly rose to his feet, lifting his small sword. The grey-eyed man laughed. Black-robed men followed him as he struck the last guardian of the King’s house.

  The vision was gone. Eamon saw jewelled throne and golden crown.

  “Mr Goodman?” He stirred and looked up to see an older woman, dressed darkly. Blinking back his thoughts, Eamon bowed to her.

  “Your servant, madam.”

  “Mr Goodman,” she said, “I hope you’ll not think it wrong of me, but I must ask something of you.”

  Eamon nodded. A man stood at the woman’s side. There was no joy in either of their faces; there were tears in the woman’s exhausted eyes.

  It moved him. “Please make your request, madam,” he said, “and if I can rightly serve you in what you ask, then I shall do so.”

  “Please, Mr Goodman, tell me about my son.” She reached out for her husband’s hand. She held it and trembled.

  A sick feeling wormed through him. “Your son, madam?”

  “First Lieutenant Alben,” the man interposed. His voice was harsh. “He was our son, Mr Goodman, and we would know more of his death.”

  Pain pressed on him anew. “Mr Alben,” he answered carefully, “I believe that you will find yourself in receipt of an official letter regarding the matter from Captain Waite. It is hardly my place to speak in his stead.”

  “Waite be damned!” the man retorted. His wife let out a quiet sob. Those nearby turned to look at them but the man did not notice or care. He stepped towards Eamon and jabbed at him with a condemning finger. “His letter said nothing! We want the truth, do you hear?” As he spoke his eyes fell on the sword and star. He grimaced.

  “What kind of man are you, Mr Goodman,” he growled, “that you can wear that Serpent’s mark only hours after your colleague was slaughtered? What kind of man are you!”

  Eamon faced the man with as much calm as he could muster. He was glad of the rumble of voices and music, and for Alessia’s presence. He drew a burdened breath.

  “I am the kind of man that will grant you your request, understanding why it is made.” Alessia stiffened. Did she fear for him? The thought emboldened him. “Mr and Mrs Alben, your son was a worthy officer, and he died well. I was with him at the end and can vouch for his courage. He had a great hand in battle and the Master had blessed him with many gifts in reward for his dauntless service.” He shuddered, remembering the pain of breaking. “It was in great sorrow that I parted from him,” he continued, “for he was a powerful captain of men, and I have no doubt that he would have gone on to become greater still.”

  Alessia pressed his hand. But Alben’s father glared at him as though he were utterly reprehensible. “You have nothing for me but honeyed words, drawn from Waite’s own sickening comb.” The man turned on Alessia. “Are you not ashamed of yourself, lady?” he glowered. “My son is not a day in his tomb and already you have another man to warm your bed!”

  He spat at her.

  Outraged, Eamon surged forwards. “Spit at a lady?” he called hotly. “Have you no shame?”

  “No shame? I have no son! Do you hear me?” Alben bellowed. “I have no son!”

  “Mr Goodman, please,” Alessia whispered, pressing his arm.

  Only she could have restrained him. Eamon forced himself to be civil. “I am grieved for your loss, Mr Alben, and have given all that you asked of me. First Lieutenant Alben was a man who showed his breeding in his every gesture, and I pray you that you would respect his memory by allowing some of that same grace to touch you.”

  Alben fell back, shaken. He bowed formally.

  “Good evening to you, Mr Goodman.” He took his wife on his arm and the crowd parted to let the black figures pass. They left the hall.

  Eamon watched them go, shaking. Alessia trembled beside him.

  “Are you well, my lady?”

  She smiled weakly. “I think I need some air.”

  Eamon looked around. Farther down the hall there were steps that led up to the Master’s balcony. Cool air drew in from the arches and he could see that nobody walked there.

  He took Alessia’s pale hand gently in his own and led her through the watching crowd and up onto the balcony. Both of them breathed with relief as the cool air balmed their faces. Lights had been set in the plaza which, moving, showed like stars in a troubled sky.

  They stood in silence for a while, only the music reaching their ears. The musicians began to play a melodic dance that lifted Eamon’s spirit. He looked across at Alessia. She watched the plaza below, deep in thought.

  “My lady?” She fingered her golden mask, and did not answer. “I’m sorry that he treated you in such a way,” Eamon said gently, thinking that he discerned her burden. As he watched her in the moonlight he felt something stirring within him. Was it something deeper than his passion for the lady’s beauty?

  “His son was little better,” Alessia confessed, offering him a pale smile. “But he is gone. And you are here.” She reached out and touched his cheek. Her eyes searched his. “I am so glad that you are here.” There was no trace of the seductive, teasing smile which he had come to associate with her. In that moment she seemed more real to him, and more alive, than he had ever seen her.

  Eamon stood still, relishing her touch. She still held the mask in her other hand but, after a few long moments, she laid it carefully aside on the balcony rail. Its golden eyes stared out over the empty square.

  “Mr Goodman, I am wondering whether you might ask me to dance with you?” Smiling shyly, she took his hand and set it against her waist. “Or shall I have to ask you?”

  “That would be most improper,” Eamon answered, scarcely able to breathe. Her touch elated him. Yet the crimson dress reminded him of the figure painted in the throne room, of the murder and treachery that had unfolded there. He told himself that she was nothing to do with that history, nor that fire.

  He took her hand and raised it in his own. “Lady Turnholt, would you do me the great honour of dancing with me this evening?”

  Alessia raised her eyebrows, delighted. “For the whole evening, Mr Goodman?” she asked, but she had already pressed herself close to him in answer; her eyes danced beneath his.

  Eamon laughed. “Dance with me, lady!” he cried, his voice filled with passion and delight. “Dance with me until the very stars are razed from the sky!”

  He swept her out across the balcony; she laughed and he joyed to hear her. As they danced and danced together in the moonlight, neither of them wore a mask.

  Eamon didn’t know how many hours had passed when they at last came in. The throne room was warmer and the guests, who had been picking all evening at lavish food, now sipped closing drinks. Some Hands, Lord Cathair among them, were speaking together on the entry dais. Eamon and Alessia went to find something to drink – neither of them felt any desire for food.

  Suddenly a fanfare was played. Through the grand entry doors processed a figure robed and cloaked in black, a large, obsidian mask hiding his face. Despite it, Eamon recognized the Right Hand. A shudder ran through him. The man had undeniable presence. As the trumpet call died,
its place was taken by uproarious applause.

  The Right Hand raised his arms for quiet. “Lords, ladies, and gentlemen, I thank you for honouring both myself and the Master by your presence here this evening. I hope that you have had ample chance to avail yourselves of the glorious bounty of the Master’s benevolence towards those who serve him and whom he loves.”

  The assembled company cheered and goblets were raised in every quarter. Eamon applauded along with the rest.

  “Honoured guests,” the Right Hand continued, “I take this opportunity to thank you again for your great service to the Master.”

  “His glory!” cried a voice; a whole chorus rallied to it. Eamon joined it. Alessia put her hand silently in his.

  “It is my great pleasure to announce that this evening’s costumes were magnificent. You are all worthy of prizes and of praise! But alas – only one prize can be awarded. It was a difficult choice!”

  The Right Hand paused as some laughed and applauded. Eamon was amazed – he was so different from the cold, harsh man in the Hands’ Hall.

  “The Master was especially amused by the audacity of this evening’s winner.” Eamon suddenly felt pierced by the man’s gaze. “Please congratulate First Lieutenant Eamon Goodman of the West Quarter, and his rather unmistakable garb.”

  Eamon froze. He hoped against hope that he had heard wrong or strayed into a nightmare. He could not stand before the Right Hand dressed as he was! And yet, being summoned, he could not refuse.

  Applause had begun and Eamon forced shaking legs to carry him to the Hands. Each step seemed to take a lifetime to climb. The Right Hand’s darkened eyes were always upon him.

  Eamon bowed low. The Right Hand clasped Eamon’s hand in his, with crushing strength.

  “A fine and bold display you have made this evening, First Lieutenant Goodman.” Eamon’s knees threatened to give way. “The Master is looking forward to meeting with you himself.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Eamon answered, quailing with terror. Mathaiah had been right: he had been a fool to dress as he had done. Why hadn’t he listened?

  A burst of movement caught his eye. A young man, dressed in a servant’s livery, came to the dais from the corridor. His grim face was set on Cathair. Eamon caught the glimmer of a knife in his hand. The crowd, gathered below, could not see him, and the Hands had their backs to the open doorway. The guards in the doorway faced into the hall. He was the only one who could see the dagger – and the only one who could stop it.

  Sweat beaded his brow. Would not the Hand’s death be a blow to the throned and a victory for the King? All he needed to do was stand by… But he could not.

  At the last possible moment he tore his hand from the Right Hand’s congratulating grasp and hurled himself with a cry at the would-be assassin. He and the young man crashed to the floor, taking a small table and dozens of glasses with them. Eamon clenched his left hand about the knife-holding fingers and twisted the wrist back hard.

  The sound of smashing glass and astonished cries filled the room. Eamon ignored it. Strengthened by fury, the young man struggled to get his hands free and cast Eamon away. It was clear from his wild cries and even wilder mismarked blows that he had never tried to kill someone before.

  With a brutal crack Eamon crunched the man’s wrist against the ruddy paving, sending the knife spinning. The young man yelled in furious pain. Gauntlet soldiers ran to Eamon’s aid and hauled the boy up to his feet. The panting face seemed vaguely familiar.

  The young man began cursing. “How dare you?” he yelled. “How dare you!” With a final burst of strength he wrested one arm free and tore the sword and star from Eamon’s breast. “You are no King’s man!” the man screamed. “How dare you!”

  “Send him to the Pit,” said a voice at Eamon’s side: the Right Hand’s. He spoke quietly now and the soldiers obeyed him without question.

  As the screaming young man was dragged from the hall, pouring maledictions on Eamon’s spinning head, the Right Hand turned back to the alarmed crowd.

  “Silence!”

  As willingly and immediately as soldiers, they obeyed. A stunned hush descended upon them, like a wave rolling to the shore. Out of the corner of his eye Eamon became aware of Lord Cathair. The Hand looked shaken and was watching Eamon with new wariness.

  “Lords, ladies, and gentlemen: Mr Goodman is, as you have seen, a man worthy of praise,” the Right Hand said. “Let us thank him for his timely intervention.”

  The Right Hand began to applaud, and what the Right Hand did the people followed. Soon the whole hall was alive with clapping. Eamon was awed by the power of the man beside him. Would he one day stand in that place, reaping multitudinous and compliant adoration? He smiled.

  How could he want to become Right Hand?

  The Right Hand clasped his hand again. “A most timely intervention, Mr Goodman,” he repeated, before adding meaningfully: “It will not go unnoticed. You have my thanks, and Lord Cathair’s, I do not doubt.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Eamon could not hear himself think over the raging applause. Alessia’s face beamed at him.

  How could he not love this? How could he not seek it for his own? What could Hughan offer him that could outshine what the Master lavished on him daily?

  He breathed deeply, trying to clear his head. The Right Hand’s warm, strong grip clasped his arm, urging him to cast all notion of the King from him; with his left hand he clutched the tattered remains of the sword and star.

  CHAPTER XVII

  “You still seem incapable of telling me whether or not you enjoyed yourself at the masque, sir,” Mathaiah said.

  “Perhaps I still am.”

  They were sitting together in one of the inns near the college, taking comfort in a drink of mulled spices. Over the last few days the weather had grown much colder and news of snow had come from the northern reaches. The passages to the north and east would soon begin to block, rendering trade more difficult, and the port would drop to minimal functioning as the ships took to wintering instead of trading. It was a time when the city became more insular and, with it, more superstitious. Over the winter months the dead were rounded up from street corners and burnt in the pyres. Such burnings had already begun, and Eamon had seen great billows of smoke on the city’s plain. The price of bread had increased as grain became more tightly rationed with the closing of many trade routes. Yet while the poor starved and dreaded the coming icy blasts, the lords and ladies of Dunthruik feasted on venison and gorged on honeyed cakes until their stomachs could hold no more. Eamon had seen first hand what gifts were lavished on those who glorified the Master.

  “It’s been three days since the masque, sir,” Mathaiah persisted. He had listened with great interest to Eamon’s account of the hall and the throne – details that Eamon, in his embarrassment over Alessia, was all too eager to relate. She served the throned – what could he possibly say to defend her to as staunch a King’s man as his ward? He could not justify what he felt for her, not to Mathaiah.

  “I know,” Eamon answered at length. But his memories of the masque still troubled him. He would not have exchanged the time he had shared with Alessia for any price, but that joy was overshadowed by the snakes, by the Right Hand’s dark mask, by Cathair’s eyes and the howling assassin. The gruelling nature of the work he had done at the college since had driven none of it from his mind. Besides all of this was the memory of his return to the West Quarter College on the night of the masque. He had found Captain Waite waiting for him. What the captain had meant to say he did not know; when the man had seen Eamon’s torn uniform and heard his account of what happened, he had fallen silent. Thoughtfully pursing his lips, the captain had patted him amicably on the shoulder and bid him goodnight.

  Eamon took a long sip of his drink. He was accustomed to ale but his stomach, having been given nothing but wine to drink since he had become an officer, was weary of alcohol. Even in the mulled drink he was privileged: upon hearing his name the bartender
had insisted on brewing for him the most expensive leaves in the house, brought long ago from Istanaria, the pinnacled city east of the mountains, in the land of the Seven Sons. Eamon hardly believed that he deserved to drink it.

  “Hughan should know about what I saw,” he said quietly. It had taken him some time to tell Mathaiah about the old man in his vision. But his ward had not batted an eyelid at the revelation: he had nodded sagely, as though the whole affair was the most logical thing in the world. Eamon admired the cadet’s calm and reassuring manner.

  “You’ll tell Lillabeth?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Eamon thanked him. Mathaiah was a dear friend – he could never have foreseen how dear. The young man was faithful and trustworthy, and Eamon was glad to have him by his side. The cadet also seemed to have grown his own attachment to Alessia’s maid: he often spent his free hours visiting her and some of that time, Eamon knew, was used to pass on messages for the King. There had not yet been any news from Hughan. The silence played on his troubled mind, but he had to trust himself to the King’s judgment.

  He rubbed tired eyes, then looked at Mathaiah over his drink. It was the day of the majesty, and the whole city had sprung into life. As first lieutenant of the West Quarter College, his own task that evening was to lead the quarter’s ensigns, cadets, and officers in the procession from the Blind Gate to the Royal Plaza. Eamon had spent the morning going through the ceremony’s protocol with his own cadets until they knew every moment wherein it was permitted for them to breathe. Though he was confident that his men would cut a very impressive figure in the Royal Plaza, he knew that he would be watched from every quarter; his name had spread like wildfire since he had saved Cathair’s life at the masque. He still kept the heart of the King beneath his shirt, but the three pins of his first lieutenancy weighed against his throat. He fiddled anxiously with one as he thought.