by Anna Thayer
Eamon trembled as Cathair and Waite drew him to his feet. His arms were drawn back and his red jacket was taken from him. Cold air passed over him; he felt vulnerable, naked. The Right Hand came to him, bearing a black garment. Thick, black clothes were set upon him and a cloak was darkly clasped about his shoulders. The Master smiled at him.
He was a Hand.
He was to be stationed as a Hand of the West Quarter and awarded lodgings in the Hands’ Hall. He was assigned to the especial care of Lord Cathair, who would in effect ward him until he grew accustomed to his role. His duties had not essentially changed: he was to continue assisting Captain Waite at the college, but he would also have duties at the palace – and work from the Master himself – via Lord Cathair and the Right Hand, when it was allotted to him. He would learn about the deepest workings of the city, be privy to its politics, economics, and trade disputes, and be an integral part, so Cathair told him, of setting policy on the upcoming culling.
The black cloak was heavy and cumbersome as he walked slowly up the Coll, overtaken by dozens of Gauntlet and servants. He had accompanied Captain Waite back to the college and collected his things. He was to take them back to the Hands’ Hall, after which Cathair had insisted that he should join the West Quarter’s other Hands for a celebratory drink. His forehead still burned – perhaps that was what people shied away from as he passed.
A cool wind came in across the sea with the eventide. He turned to face it. All the hope that the morning had brought was shrouded in black. He had reaffirmed fealty to the wrong man; strengthened the wrong oath. He had been a fool to think that he might do otherwise.
Hearing footsteps approaching, Eamon looked up. Mathaiah Grahaven was watching him.
“Good evening, Lord Goodman,” he said, bowing.
Eamon’s heart curdled. Lord Goodman. Had he not always dreamed of coming as far as he had done that day? Why, then, was the title so grievous to him?
You will go farther even than this, son of Eben.
As Eamon shook the voice away the young man turned to continue along the Coll. Suddenly his voice leapt to his throat.
“Mathaiah!”
The young man turned warily. “My lord.”
That joy again! And none could gainsay him this due. The title was his. He had earned it.
“Mathaiah,” he said, shaking himself as though by it he might cast off his oath. “You must take a message to Hughan.”
Mathaiah gaped at him. His face set into a disbelieving line. “A message?” he repeated. His tone grew hard. “Your garb is message enough!”
The words cut to his heart. “Don’t you understand?” he cried. “Hughan is in danger!”
“He is now, my lord,” Mathaiah retorted curtly. As he stalked away his face was streaked with tears.
“Mathaiah –!”
He will not listen to you, the voice told him. He never did.
The door was answered slowly when he knocked, and he stood, shivering, in the cold. He felt more vulnerable in black than he had ever felt in red.
He had been to drink with the Hands. Lord Cathair had toasted his health and long service, and Eamon had stayed as long as he could deem polite before leaving, ostensibly to retire. He had even done so. But his room had been cold and dark, engulfed by the wings of the palace and the hall’s red stones. The stones now answered to his hand – he could go where he wished. But he did not want to be in the Hands’ Hall. He did not want to be alone.
Shadows moved in the dark around him, and as he waited by the door he heard the last whispers of the city. Most lights were doused, though those at the palace still burned; its great windows were like eyes weeping flames. He watched the moon creep from behind a cloud.
At last he heard fingers unbolting the door. A servant welcomed him with tired eyes.
“Mr Cartwright, is Lady Turnholt here?” Eamon asked.
“Yes, Mr… my lord,” the servant corrected himself, starting at the black. “She’s in her chamber.”
“May I go up to her?”
“Of course, my lord,” the servant replied, lowering his eyes.
Eamon thanked him and made his way upstairs. Light flecked the corridor and he knew that it emanated from the fire in Alessia’s room. He followed it, the way so familiar to him that he barely thought about it. His shadow grew behind him as he approached the door. It stood a little ajar.
He knocked.
There was no answer. Carefully, he peered inside.
Alessia was sitting at her dressing table, her hair undone all along her back. A brush lay still in her hand and her eyes gazed far away.
He walked to her and gently touched her hair. Seeing black in the mirror she turned, terror on her face.
“My lord,” she began, shaking.
“Alessia!”
Her eyes widened in relief. “Eamon!” she whispered, hurling her arms about his neck. “It’s you!”
“Of course,” he answered. “Who else should it be?”
“Nobody, nobody!” Alessia cried, and pressed her lips against his until his whole world was her wild hair and wilder kisses. He laughed and caressed her, until at last she stepped back to look at him.
“What happened to you today?” she asked. She seemed unsure whether she should smile or weep. Her hands lightly touched his forehead where the throned had marked him. He did not know if she could see it, but her fingers were a balm to his troubled brow.
“I got some new clothes,” Eamon answered, trying to make light of it. “Do you like them?”
“They do suit you… but perhaps I liked the old ones better.” Alessia smiled. “Black seems to swallow you a little.”
“How should I dress to please you, my lady?” Eamon asked.
She laughed and laid her hands upon his shoulders. The black cloak felt stifling on him and seemed, as he held her, to dwarf them both.
“The colour and dress matter little to me,” she told him, “while it is you who wears them.”
Overwhelmed, he kissed her gentle lips, losing himself in her warmth – a warmth that penetrated the cold recesses of his soul. It was all that mattered then.
He stayed with her that night. The grey dawn stole upon them all too swiftly. In that half-light he held her close and wished that he could lie there with her forever; that her lithe limbs, soft laugh, and deep heart might be his whole world.
But he knew it could not be. His discarded black haunted his sight.
“Do Hands have to go to parade?” Alessia murmured.
He shook his head and buried his face in her neck. “No,” he answered, “not now, not today, not ever.”
“You’re lying!”
“You’re worth it.”
She fell silent and then looked at him seriously. Her hands touched his back; her fingers explored his scars. He did not mind.
“I have never asked you…” she said at last. “When were you flogged?”
“On the ship.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
She was silent. He watched her thought in her eyes until she met his gaze again. “If you didn’t do anything…”
“There was a miscarriage of duty; the three cadets were under my command. So I claimed the fault as mine, and took their punishment.” He remembered the bite of the lash, the rip when the knots caught his flesh, the cadets’ terrified faces. “They were just boys.”
“Mathaiah,” Alessia guessed with her usual, deadly accuracy. “He’s important to you, isn’t he?”
Sorrow filled him. “I tried to tell him,” he told her. “About the danger to the supplies, and the cull that’s to happen here. He could have got a message out but he… he wouldn’t listen to me.” He fell silent as the enormity of the statement hit him. They had each saved the other’s life. Now there was no measure of trust between them.
Alessia kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
They rose together and Eamon delighted in helping her to
dress. He tenderly brushed her fine hair and offered her his hand. He did not don his cloak, but rather gathered it over his arm. They went downstairs together. As Alessia held his arm, he felt the happiest man in the world.
They had scarcely reached the last step when a familiar, but unexpected, voice reached them.
“Ah! The love birds. Good morning, Lord Goodman; Lady Turnholt.”
Alessia went quite still at his side. Ladomer appeared at the foot of the stair. Lillabeth followed him; she had obviously let him in.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” she began.
“It’s all right, Lilly,” Alessia answered. Was her voice shaking? Why?
“What are you doing here, Ladomer?” Eamon asked.
“My apologies, Lord Goodman,” Ladomer answered, bowing. “Lord Cathair sent me to find you. There’s work to be done.”
It sounded ominous. “What kind of work?”
“There’s a supply convoy to upset. You’ve been chosen to lead the endeavour.”
Eamon’s heart sank. It would be one of Hughan’s; one he had learned about from Giles. Why was he being sent to destroy it?
They were testing him. They had to be.
“Cathair is dispatching a team tonight. You’d best make your farewells,” Ladomer added, seeing Alessia’s face. Eamon looked to her, standing stiff beside him as though struck dumb.
“Eamon,” she whispered, fearfully and urgently.
He laid a finger to her lips and hushed her. “I’ll be all right. I’ll come back,” he promised, and kissed her. She clung to his hand, and as he pulled away he felt her fingers trembling. “Alessia?”
What she would have answered he never knew, for Ladomer laughed. “Don’t worry, Lord Goodman!” he put in cheerfully. “I’ll keep an eye on her for you!”
“Not too close of an eye, if you please,” Eamon replied firmly. He looked back to her. “What is it?” he whispered.
She held his gaze and almost imperceptibly shook her head. Her fingers pressed his hard.
“I love you,” she breathed.
Eamon touched her face one last time, seeing emotion written there that he did not understand. “I’ll come back to you,” he told her.
“Come on, Lord Goodman!” Ladomer called, chivvying him towards the door. “Lord Cathair is waiting. I’d put on your cloak,” he added. “It’s cold out there!”
“Thank you, Mr Kentigern,” Eamon answered. He threw the cloak over his shoulders and fastened it. Before he knew it he was beyond the door and in the chilly grip of the February morning. He glanced back over his shoulder.
Alessia stood, pale and beautiful, in the doorway. Lillabeth was at her side and, as he stepped from the Turnholt gates, he saw Alessia reaching out to take Lillabeth’s hand.
Ladomer guided him to the Hands’ Hall, chatting incessantly about the amount of work there was to be done. He did not ask about Eamon’s ceremony – in fact, he made no comment on the promotion at all. This Eamon found somewhat odd but he did not comment. Perhaps Ladomer was jealous.
The hall had a large meeting room, protected by red stones and marked with the same writing which Eamon noticed more and more wherever he went. There was a table inside and dozens of chairs, all empty. Cathair and Ashway stood by the table, speaking quietly together; a couple of maps were unfurled before them. There were several others in the room, Waite among them, as well as a couple of other Hands who served in the West Quarter. Although he had seen them a few times and drunk with them the previous night, Eamon did not know their names. They looked young men and were most likely recently promoted, as he was.
The other man present in the room was a welcome sight. As he saw Eamon he grinned broadly.
“Lord Goodman,” he said, coming across and bowing. “Congratulations on your appointment!”
“And you on yours,” Eamon replied, noting an extra flame at the man’s collar, “Captain Anderas!”
“Yes, the weather and the wayfarers served me well in that,” Anderas told him. It was Gauntlet practice to cross-post captaincies, promoting men from other areas so as to avoid favouritism; but the East Quarter had been in need of a captain and Eamon imagined that Draybant Anderas had been the best of the men that the quarter had to offer.
“Good fortune indeed,” Eamon told him warmly as they clasped hands.
“Gentlemen, your attention.” Cathair seemed in no mood for his accustomed pleasantries. He summoned them sharply to the map. “Business is of an urgent nature today. This shows the area near Stonemead, by the eastern mountains. Stonemead is here and this is the length of the East Road, picking up from the pass here and running to the River here.” He traced the directions. The road had been the main route over the Algorras to the Easter cities long years before. It was broad, in places still well maintained. Old women told stories of the days when the Easters came along the road from Istanaria, the great eastern capital, bearing fine goods.
“The Serpent has a convoy of supplies coming down the road from the Easters. How they made it across the mountains so early in the year we don’t know – we shall have to ask anyone who survives. The convoy is travelling the road with a view to joining the main forces when it can.” Cathair shook his head, muttering something to the effect of wishing a gory death on each one of them down to the hundredth generation, should it be reached. He was in a foul mood. “Bloody snakes took the fortress at Greypass just before the winter set in, and with Easters pouring over the border there we weren’t able to take it back. Logistical nightmare,” he offered with a faint smile. “Otherwise we would have nipped this little expedition in the bud.
“But, gentlemen, that’s where you come in. Local Gauntlet units have been pinned down and reduced by skirmishes and a harsh winter. They are thus incapable of taking on this task alone. Dunthruik blood is needed to complete this mission, encourage those units and show that we have not ceded the area to the Serpent.” The Hand’s voice was bitter.
“You want us to take the convoy, my lord?” Eamon guessed. It seemed logical. He looked at the map. Differing levels of terrain were indicated in sweeping contours. It was hilly and wooded to one side and flat on the other. He realized that the map was Overbrook’s.
“The convoy is of a reasonable size, likely escorted by Easter archers.” Cathair pulled a face as he mentioned them, uttered horrific expletives directed towards the archers’ mothers, then regained himself. “We’re sending a reasonable force to deal with it. The men will be East Quarter ensigns and officers, a group of the city’s knights, and a joint group of East and West Quarter Hands. It is a force over which you, Lord Goodman, will have charge.”
Eamon stared. Shouldn’t an East Quarter Hand have charge? Ashway scowled as the pronouncement was made. It unnerved him. Eamon imagined that as Cathair was the Hand over the West Quarter – the most important and demonstrably most prestigious of the four parts of the city – he likely outranked Lord Ashway. Whatever Ashway’s own view on how the mission ought to be ordered, Cathair was in command. It renewed Eamon’s fear of the Hand that bore the raven.
“Thank you, Lord Cathair,” he managed.
“Road block to force the convoy to stop,” Anderas murmured, thinking aloud. He ran a hand through his hair as he pondered the best place. “About here. Pinewood village. Probably deserted these days. The convoy will have no choice but to clear it, and, unable to go round it, they’ll be encumbered with what they’re carrying and by the ditches.”
“Then we ambush them,” Eamon continued. He had always enjoyed tactics in his Gauntlet training, and there was something soothing about pointing at a map and making plans. “We put part of the force behind these hills, and the rest in this hollow here – just behind your village, captain. We draw and hold off the escort,” he added, gesturing in an arch over the curved lines, “then come at them taking the front, rear, and flank of the column.”
“We kill the guards and any who give us trouble, but keep the drivers to bring home whatever portion of the bounty needs
to come to the city; the rest we leave with the regional units,” Anderas finished, and smiled broadly. “A fine plan, Lord Goodman!”
“Thank you, Captain Anderas.”
Cathair had watched them both with interest. He smiled. “I seem to have chosen capable hands for the matter, gentlemen,” he said. “You’ll be a large group of men, one hundred or so, including logistical support. I will send a few surgeons with you, too. The movers will take you on to your meeting point with the local units, whence you shall proceed to Pinewood. Clearly bring back some of the wagons. Dependent upon your losses and situation, leave some ensigns and a couple of officers there to bolster the local units. The rest of you must return to the city to maintain quarter capacity. There won’t be any movers on the way back.”
The room echoed in assent to Cathair’s commands.
“Very good, gentlemen,” Cathair concluded. “Logistics for you will soon be in place. You leave at midday.”
They were near one hundred and fifty men that marched through the streets of Dunthruik that afternoon, each accoutred with the tools of their trade. Hands and Gauntlet ensigns, militia and knights, all gathered with a common cause. Morale was high.
Eamon rode at their head. He neither was nor ever hoped to be a skilled rider, but trotting the beast down the Coll and being marvelled at by all was not beyond his ability. Indeed he enjoyed it.
Captain Anderas rode near him, his steed a rich gift from Lord Ashway on his promotion. The captain was content to speak either to the animal or to Eamon, as the moment took him. He laughed much, which cheered Eamon immensely.
Lord Dehelt, the Lord of the North Quarter, rode with them. He was chief of the Master’s movers. A small group of Hands was with him. He spoke very little.
Though he scoured the streets for her as he rode out, Eamon did not see Alessia.
When the procession passed the Brand and the West Quarter College, he was touched to see many of the cadets crowded on the steps. The Third Banners cheered him.
But he did not see Mathaiah, and that he rued. He had somehow hoped that one more exchanged glance would soothe all the ill will which ran between them. The Blind Gate loomed before him, its stony height ornately fashioned with the eagles of Dunthruik.
