The Traitor's Heir

by Anna Thayer

Further Hands were summoned from some dark recess of the chamber. They ruthlessly dragged the young man through one of the doorways.

  The room beyond was small and silent, with a single torch fixed to the wall, which Cathair lit. The trembling prisoner was bound to the chair in the centre of the room. Along the walls were various instruments of torture, and Cathair stood silent while he allowed the young man’s terrified eyes to pass over them, taking in the shape, size, and power of each. Eamon knew the names and functions of the tools, and dreaded that the boy would be made to suffer them.

  “There is something missing, if I could but think of it,” Cathair mused. “Ah yes.”

  The Hands returned with another man. He was dumped on the floor where he lay and writhed. In disgust, Cathair kicked him hard. Eamon winced. He could do nothing.

  “Up, snake,” Cathair hissed.

  The old man hauled himself upright and leaned heavily against the damp chamber wall. The point of some evil instrument glistened by his forehead. Eamon saw that the man’s face had been cut almost beyond recognition: one eye had been gouged, leaving a dark, scabbed mass of crimson.

  Mathaiah retched. Eamon held himself in check by a thread, for he recognized the remains of the man before him. Cathair had stopped him at the Blind Gate on his first day in Dunthruik.

  Cathair stepped lightly between his two prisoners, his pallor and robes giving him a deathly aspect.

  “Mr Clarence?” he said to the older man. “Please allow me to introduce you to Master Clarence. But soft! I believe that you have met.”

  The young man heard the words upon Cathair’s lips and managed to bring his eyes into focus on the bedraggled other. He stared uncomprehendingly, then stretched his bound hands out.

  “Pa!”

  Eamon blenched. A glance at Lord Cathair showed crippling delight in the Hand’s eyes. It stifled all Eamon’s will. Cathair was boundless in his strength and vile in his means. He could not be stopped.

  “Do you see, Mr Goodman, the kindness that the Master offers, even to the snakes?” Cathair asked. “See! A father and son sweetly reunited.” A groan died on Clarence’s lips.

  “You bastard!” the son screamed. “Murdering bastard!”

  “Young man,” Cathair said with mocking gentility, “your father has been my most honoured guest in recent days. I even took care of your dear mother’s funeral expenses on your behalf. Let me assure you that my dogs enjoyed the event especially.”

  The boy let out an incoherent cry of rage and grief. “I’ll kill you!” he screeched: “I’ll kill you!”

  Cathair leaned close to his prisoner. “I very much doubt it,” he sneered. “Mr Goodman.”

  Quaking, Eamon tore his eyes away from the sobbing, screaming, swearing boy.

  “My lord?”

  “Breach him.”

  Eamon gaped. What could that possibly achieve? “My lord –”

  “I want to know who forged the papers.”

  Eamon glanced guiltily at the young man. The prisoner spat. “Damn you! Damn you and your usurper!”

  “I said breach him, Mr Goodman.”

  There was no other way. Eamon pressed his hand against the young man’s head, the flesh sweaty and grimy. The boy struggled furiously in his bonds. In his ire he hurled curses at Eamon, and as each curse landed anger rose.

  This boyish simpleton had no idea what position he had been forced into. Fire flecked unbidden on Eamon’s palm. And then the world changed.

  The plain was dark and he was strong. The boy was nothing before him, and in Eamon’s ears was a voice he had not heard for many days:

  See how he defies you? Crush him, Eben’s son. Crush him with all my strength!

  Yes. Eamon knew he could do it. The boy’s mind was breached and lay open before him, a fruit split apart by the incision of a knife. He saw the boy’s whole life, every secret thought and word, every anguish, every joy, every love and hatred. It was wretched and pitiable. With one gesture, he could stop it all.

  Breaching was more than tearing open the pages of a mind to read all written there: it was the power to cast them into torment and flame or to destroy them utterly. It was his power.

  The young man stared at him in horror. Eamon towered over him. The prisoner backed away on broken flesh.

  Crush him, crush him!

  “Stay away from me!” the young man cried.

  Rise to your place, Eben’s son!

  The young man screamed in pain. “You cannot harm me!” he yelled. “I am a King’s man!”

  A ruddy flare was forming in Eamon’s palm. Such power! He would send it against the insolent wretch… He drew back his hand to crush his foe.

  Suddenly the King’s grace dropped down, engulfing the young man in a wash of blue.

  Eamon started in terror. He could not strive against that! He could not – it had saved him, and he had sworn to serve another.

  With a cry he thrust the red light away – it cracked harmlessly over the plain. Driven by the sight of blue he tried desperately to withdraw, but the grim voice demanded that he hold.

  Do as I command, son of Eben!

  No! He did not want to! His heart cried out to the King’s grace, begging it to aid him in his struggle.

  Breach him.

  The light grew. Eamon pinned his flaming arm against his breast. Why did the grace not help him? He called again for strength to stand against the command that his hand so ardently meant to follow. Was he not also a King’s man?

  Suddenly the blue light was on him – the heart of the King answered it with sapphire brilliance. The red was quenched at once. He was released.

  The boy stared at him. “Who are you?”

  His will his own once more, Eamon met his gaze. “I serve the King,” he panted. The boy’s look became incredulous. “Please, forgive me my part in bringing you here. I will do everything I can to help you.”

  He opened his eyes; the torture room was before him. Echoes of agony died on the boy’s lips. Eamon heard the old man crying for mercy.

  “Stop, stop! He’s just a boy. I beg of you, my lord! Stay your hand!”

  “Mr Goodman?”

  Blinking hard, Eamon lowered his reddened palms. “He doesn’t know who forged the papers, my lord,” he said firmly.

  “No,” Cathair agreed. “But he does.” Cathair turned burning eyes to the dolorous man. “Have you not heard your only remaining son screaming, Mr Clarence? Have you not heard him begging for mercy?”

  “Yes, my lord, yes!”

  “Have you not seen that my servant can break his mind at my whim?”

  “My lord, I beg of you –”

  “Does it seem a reasonable exchange to you, Mr Clarence?” Cathair spoke the words as though they were the most logical in the world. “A name, a single name, for your son’s very life?”

  “You will let him go?”

  Cathair nodded. “I will release him,” he promised solemnly. Eamon gasped – no, he could not –

  “Pa, no!” But it was too late: the name was uttered.

  “Benadict Lorentide. It was Benadict Lorentide.”

  An awful silence. Cathair stood back, satisfied. “Thank you, Mr Clarence,” he said, touching the man’s shoulder with consoling lightness. “You have been most cooperative. Mr Goodman.”

  “My lord?”

  “Kill the boy.”

  Eamon froze. Kill the boy? He couldn’t! There had to be another way…

  Mathaiah stood, pale and shaking, in the corner; there were Hands at the door, and Hands beyond it. Cathair was a Quarter Hand. Eamon had no help. He could not disobey; and Cathair, whatever else he knew, knew that. The Lord of the West Quarter relished it.

  “You promised me that he would live!” Clarence howled.

  “I promised you that I would release him,” Cathair answered smoothly. “What better service could I render him than to release him from his muddy bondage to this earthly world? Mr Goodman.”

  He could show no fear, no reluctan
ce. Eamon drew his dagger and pressed it against the young man’s heart. In that moment, when the dagger was all the bond between them, the young man met Eamon’s gaze.

  Eamon wished he could say he was sorry, wished he could beg the boy’s forgiveness, wished that he could promise that good would come of his sacrifice. He could not. He put his weight to the blade, closed his eyes. The dagger crunched as it sank through flesh and bone and stopped abruptly against the chair.

  The old man screamed.

  Blood ran down the dagger to drip about his fingers. He gripped the pommel tight. Enraged tears stung behind his eyes. He could not show them.

  Cathair watched approvingly, and smiled a horrible smile. “Thank you, Mr Goodman,” he said. “A most effective blow.” He looked disparagingly at the weeping man, who grovelled with grief.

  “Miserable fool,” he pronounced archly. “Mr Goodman, go back to the college and fetch your cadets. Arrest Mr Lorentide, all of his kin with him, and as many of his neighbours as you can find. No doubt all snakes. Bring them to me at the college. An example will be made of them.”

  Eamon lowered in a bloody, quivering bow. “Yes, my lord.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Eamon reeled as they ascended the disorienting stair. Blood – everywhere was blood. His very heart was matted with it. It stained his hands, burnt his face.

  One of the Hands from the Pit escorted them through the reddened doorways to the palace gates. Eamon gulped down the cool air, as though it might somehow purge him.

  He bowed towards the Hand. “My lord,” he said, “I will go directly to carry out Lord Cathair’s will.”

  “Good man,” the Hand smiled. “These snakes are to be found in the East Quarter, where Coronet Rise meets Acacia Way. This man, Lorentide, holds a minor post in the local Crown Office and his wife owns a small grocer’s shop. A relatively well-off family. Get them all, first lieutenant.”

  Eamon didn’t know how the Hand knew this, but he did not dare to ask. He bowed again and then watched the Hand return to the Hands’ Hall.

  He watched long enough to be sure that he had truly gone then turned to Mathaiah. The cadet clutched at his throat where bile had burned it.

  “Are you all right?” Eamon whispered.

  Mathaiah nodded weakly; Eamon steadied him. Clarence’s son had not been much older than his ward. He swallowed down the bitter swill in his mouth. He had murdered. Murdered – and for what? A man with a crown? An eagle’s oath? He wanted to howl, swear, curse, but duty forbade it.

  Had killing Alben been so very different?

  “I’m sorry that you had to see…”

  “I’m sorry that you had to do it.”

  Eamon glanced furtively about. There were soldiers everywhere and any of them could take an unwelcome interest in them at any time. He might not have been able to save Clarence’s son – but he would not stand by while the Lorentides were slaughtered.

  “Come on, quickly.”

  “Sir?”

  Eamon needed to think fast. Cathair certainly expected to receive prisoners for his grisly tortures – as many as could be obtained. It was also clear that the official to be arrested was a wayfarer and that he had somehow managed to forge Lord Ashway’s permission for Clarence’s pass. The Hands would want to know how the man had managed to come so close to accurately forging the paper. It was a crime that would merit a prolonged and painful death. With luck, the family would have heard of Clarence’s arrest and found some way to hide themselves – but there could be no guarantee of that. If Eamon did exactly as Cathair had ordered, then the whole family might be captured.

  The smell of the Pit was still in his nostrils. It was no way to die – cramped in the dark at the mercy of a Hand. Yet that was the fate to which Eamon would condemn the wayfarers if he arrested them – and if he brought back none at all then Cathair might guess at where his own allegiance lay. The choice was between himself and the Lorentides – just as it had been between himself and Alben.

  No. Eamon shook his head. He would not make that choice again. One man had to be brought to endure Cathair’s rabid fury – but perhaps the others could be saved.

  They were by now on the Coll and hurrying towards the Brand. Eamon could make out the flag over the West Quarter College, hanging limp and still.

  “Mathaiah,” he said suddenly, “go to the Lorentides’.”

  “Sir?”

  “Go now; warn them. One of them is going to have to give themself to Cathair, or he will keep hunting them until he finds them all. But tell the rest of them to go. Get them out of here, clear out their neighbours.”

  Mathaiah glanced at him, astounded. “I’m in uniform!” he hissed. “What do I tell them?”

  “Not your name.” As his plan grew so did his urgency. “And not mine. Don’t even tell them who wants them or why. Just tell them…” he paused. He had to think of something – they were getting close to the college gates. There was one obvious name to give – did he dare?

  “Tell them that the First Knight sent you and that, as they value their lives, they have to go.”

  As he gave the command, peace filled him: it was a choice made for his true colour and for his King. “I will delay the Banners for as long as I can, but you will need to move swiftly and discreetly.” He looked steadily at his ward. Mathaiah watched him with wide eyes.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Eamon was trembling. It was dangerous for both of them, but he would not turn back. “Be careful, Mathaiah.”

  Mathaiah disappeared into a side street among the thronging merchants, ensigns, and aristocrats. Eamon breathed deep. He drew himself upright and marched into the college.

  Knowing that his cadets spent that time of the day in geography he went straight to the study chambers. Without knock or preamble he swept inside.

  His fifteen cadets – most of them thoroughly bored – sat in the room. Of them only Cadet Overbrook was hunched over his bench furiously scribbling notes. Lieutenant Best was taking the class and was at that moment pointing at a large map of the north-east border where the Shimmer, one of the tributaries of the River, tumbled down from the mountains near Greypass. As Eamon entered unannounced the lieutenant looked up in surprise; the cadets leapt to their feet to salute.

  “Good afternoon, first lieutenant,” Best began.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr Best,” Eamon answered. “I must rob you of your students; orders from Lord Cathair.” The cadets exchanged glances.

  “Of course,” Best continued, carefully not noticing the blood on his first lieutenant’s uniform. “You may take them immediately, sir.”

  “Leave your things,” Eamon barked. “Be in the hall in three minutes.”

  “Yes, sir!” The cadets hurried out of the room.

  As Eamon watched them go he heard Best’s voice at his arm: “Is everything all right, sir?”

  “Just an arrest to see to, Mr Best,” Eamon replied, trying to make it sound as nonchalant as possible. His heart was beating fast.

  “And that…?” Best began, looking at the blood.

  “Not mine, Mr Best.”

  He took his leave and hurried to the hall. He had to make everything look as though he wished deadly efficiency, but knew he needed to give Mathaiah the time to get to the Lorentides before him. The Coll and Coronet Rise were the two roads that divided the city into quarters, the former running from east to west and the latter north to south. Acacia Way was in the East Quarter near the Crown Office and was a reasonably prosperous area. Thanks to the attention he had himself paid to Best’s geographical knowledge and to Giles’s map, Eamon was quickly able to calculate that he could probably prolong the time it took them to reach the wayfarers if he insisted on taking the Coll rather than weaving through the smaller streets. The Coll would be teeming with preparations for the majesty, and the Four Quarters, the city’s heart and crossroads of Coll and Coronet Rise, would be filled with people. Adding a group of fifteen marching cadets would augment the confus
ion considerably. It was the perfect way to slow everything down.

  “What are we doing, sir?” Manners asked. He was first to arrive in the hall.

  “Lord Cathair has identified some snakes in the East Quarter,” Eamon answered. “He is sending us to arrest them.”

  The cadets looked excited at the prospect of some real Gauntleting. Eamon regarded them sternly.

  “Gentlemen, be at your most proficient. If possible the suspects are to be taken alive and unharmed, though you may use force if they resist you. Lord Cathair will doubtless have questions for as many of them as we can bring back.” And, he thought, if those who gave themselves up were unharmed, there was the slightest chance that they might be freed later, to make a good escape in their health.

  “Sir, shouldn’t someone from the East Quarter be performing an arrest in the East Quarter?” asked Ostler.

  Eamon hadn’t thought of that. He gave the best answer that he could. “Lord Cathair unmasked these snakes and he has sent us, Mr Ostler.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your ward, sir?” Manners asked. His absence was conspicuous.

  “Mr Grahaven was otherwise engaged but I have sent word for him to join us,” Eamon answered. It wasn’t a total lie.

  Eamon led his men onto the Coll and towards the Four Quarters. As he had hoped, the road was choked with people.

  The Four Quarters came into sight up ahead. The façades of tall buildings formed their angles. The quarters’ faces were high and sombre in the light, at least one perpetually caught in shadow as the sun circled the city. At the highest part of each building was an upright eagle, its bold wings outstretched and a crown upon its brow.

  Every street around the Four Quarters was filled. In all the confusion caused by the preparation for the majesty, diverted carriages and carts had blocked the central passage. Irate traders and merchants hurled colourful abuse at each other from their stationary wagons, and raised their voices at the Gauntlet ensigns trying to get the traffic moving again.

  It was better – or rather, worse – than Eamon could have hoped. It took time for the carts to be cleared to the side so as to grant them passage. He took his men left at the crossroads and north up Coronet Rise onto Acacia Way. The trees that lined the tidy road seemed ghostly reminders of an older time.