by Anna Thayer
“That depends on your face!”
It was answer enough. “Very well.”
He pulled back his hood. He did not know whether they recognized him. He did not care. He had to see to Lillabeth. “Miss Hollenwell has been compromised,” he told them. “You must take her to the King.”
“We will.” Seemingly satisfied, the man gestured for his men to lower their weapons. He looked Eamon up and down uncertainly. “Are you going, too?”
“No,” Eamon replied. “I must return to the city. I have a friend there in grave peril.”
Lillabeth turned to him in horror. “If you go back they’ll –”
“All the same, I must.”
“Then my companions will take you back into the city through the port; you can’t return by this way. We will take Miss Hollenwell to safety.”
Eamon nodded gratefully. He turned to Lillabeth. “Thank you.”
Lillabeth looked surprised. “For what?”
“Your faith in me today. I have never earned it – but I have changed.”
Lillabeth took his hand. “He always believed that you would remember.”
Eamon frowned. “Who?”
Lillabeth froze. “You don’t know,” she breathed. But she could not continue – one of the wayfarers took her arm.
“I beg your pardon, Miss,” he said. “We have to go, and so does your friend here, or he’ll be missed. That’s costly in his garb.”
“Yes, of course.” Lillabeth looked back to him. “Take care, Lord Goodman.”
Eamon watched, utterly bemused, as she disappeared. Who had believed he would remember? Who had maintained such hope in him, despite all that he had done?
There was a voice at his ear. “This way.” The wayfarer gestured towards the Sea Gate and the port. “We can’t take torches or they’ll see us from the walls. You’ll need to watch your step.”
“Of course.” Gathering his cloak about him, he followed his guide towards the port.
They waited until the guards were changing and then Eamon made his way through the Sea Gate alone. The streets were silent and he kept his hood drawn close. His heart pounded with exhilaration – and fear.
Surely the throned already knew everything that he had done – why had he not been incarcerated, like Mathaiah? He could not fathom it. There had to be some reason – but what? He felt a dreadful pawn in a game beyond his imagining. Perhaps that was all he was.
It took him very little time to reach the palace. As he passed the threshold of the Hands’ Hall a figure rose towards him. His guilty heart leaped.
“Evening, Ratbag!” said a cheery voice.
Eamon grasped his chest; his heart beat so fast he feared it might burst out.
“Ladomer! River’s sake, you scared me!”
“You scared me,” Ladomer countered. “What are you doing, coming in at this hour?”
“I was with Lady Turnholt…” Eamon began the response then fell grimly silent.
“Lovers’ quarrel?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you stay with her, then?” His tone was disquieting. Eamon decided to change the subject.
“You’re up a little late, aren’t you?”
Ladomer shrugged. “Apparently Lord Cathair doesn’t sleep. He had some last minute papers that he wanted to send to the Master. Some cadet they arrested, I think. Details of his effects, and so on.” He waved his hand – Eamon knew the drill. He was seized with dread. Could the papers be about Mathaiah?
“Well, I hope they let you go to bed sometime soon,” he answered, trying a small smile.
“You’re right; can’t waste my boyish good looks on this kind of work! Sleep well, Ratbag.”
“You too.”
Eamon quickly made his way to his quarters, trying to drive thoughts of Mathaiah from his mind. He could do nothing until morning. Lord Cathair was of the kind to stay up all night interrogating his prisoners.
He woke early, disturbed by the light. His legs ached and the smell of smoke clung to him. The throned’s banner watched him from the wall.
You will pay for what you did. He will pay for what you did, Eben’s son. He is already paying…
Eamon lurched across the room to his basin. He splashed water onto his face and let it drip dry. His heart was unsteady and his mind reeled.
What was he doing? What had he done? Would Mathaiah really pay for what he had done? But how could they know? They couldn’t know…
His eyes fell to the table by his bed. On it was a ring that Alessia had given him long before. He had given her more than kisses in return. It sickened him. He thought of Mathaiah, bound and led away by the Hands. What tortures had his friend endured in the night?
He opened the trunk by his bed. Inside were his paltry belongings – some papers and coins, a stone from Edesfield. Among these things lay the heart of the King, discarded for so long. It glinted in the half-light. He was the First Knight –
A name you voided long ago! the voice hissed. Now you bear no name but the one I give you.
He weighed Alessia’s ring in his hand. When she had given it to him, when she had set it in his hand and covered him with pernicious kisses… even then, she had meant to betray him. The desperate cries for Lillabeth that he had heard the previous night had to have been part of that same ruse. It had all been meant to trap him.
How could Lillabeth, a servant of the King, have loved such a woman so devoutly?
How could he have loved her?
He hurled the ring into the trunk and drew out the heart of the King. It was cool. He drew it slowly over his neck and buried it beneath his shirt. Its weight was soothing, as it had been of old. Could he be forgiven and released?
Suddenly there was a knock at his door. Closing the trunk, he rose to answer. Febian stood outside, his face pale.
“Lord Febian.”
“Lord Goodman; the Right Hand wants to see you.”
A chill ran through him. “Of course. Where is he?”
“The Hands’ Gate.”
Driving tentacles of the voice from his mind, Eamon hurried to the main hallway.
As the sun was just throwing her early rays onto the yard, he was confronted with an awful sight: a long row of men, many of them members of the militia but a very high number in Gauntlet uniforms. Spaced between them at intervals were nervous-looking knights.
One by one Eamon recognized the faces of men who had followed him to Pinewood. In fact, the line included every man who had survived that expedition. Added to their number were the remaining thirteen Third Banner cadets. All looked anxious.
“Lord Goodman, how good of you to join us.”
The Right Hand stood near the end of the line. He had evidently been inspecting it. Eamon noticed a group of belligerent-looking Hands to one side. What was happening?
“You summoned me, my lord?” he asked, bowing.
“Yes, yes I did,” the Right Hand answered. “You slept well, I trust?”
Eamon felt uncomfortable beneath his keen stare. “Thank you, my lord, yes.”
“Rise, Lord Goodman. Ah, the last man.” The Right Hand looked contentedly along the line. “Soon we can begin.”
Captain Anderas staggered through the Hands’ Gate. He was escorted by two Hands who forced him to join the line near its centre. When he stopped he was breathing heavily with fatigue.
Filled with foreboding, Eamon turned to the Right Hand. “My lord, what is the meaning of this?” he demanded. Why had they brought Anderas from his rest? Over-exertion could still kill him! The captain was not the only injured man who had been forced into the line – there were groups of others, some swathed in bandage or looking unsteady on their feet.
The Right Hand glared. “That is uncivil of you, Lord Goodman.” Vengeful wrath was in the man’s cold eyes.
Hands closed the gate. Eamon was startled to see the bolts being drawn. The men shuffled and exchanged disconcerted looks. None spoke. The Right Hand turned to face the line.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” Each word struck horribly at Eamon’s heart. “You are all men who can lay claim to a singularly dubious honour. You have all served under the command of Lord Goodman.”
Eamon looked across sharply, but the Right Hand didn’t look at him. He was pacing along the line, a smile twisting his face.
“Most of you will know that Lord Goodman is a man of an equally singular reputation. The man who surrendered his sword, who escaped the clutches of the enemy, who became first lieutenant of the West Quarter College in days, and a Hand in mere months.
“But recently, gentlemen, Lord Goodman has suffered a series of debilitating misadventures.” Eamon’s blood curdled. “Those of you who were with him then, know that what was a routine, regular, simple operation at Pinewood became a massacre due to his incompetence. But Lord Goodman has suffered another indignation, gentlemen. Last night his own ward, a cadet whom he had promised to teach to serve the Master, was arrested. On what charge?” Here, the Right Hand met Eamon’s gaze. “Being a snake.”
Eamon’s breath caught in his throat.
The Right Hand glared at the line. “This charge has been proven,” he said, “and reflects ill on a man whom you have all followed and to whom you have at times pledged your trust. These motley dishonours require atonement – would you not agree, Lord Goodman?” His voice was quiet, deadly, and Eamon feared to answer. More than that, he feared not to answer.
“A fault requires a punishment, my lord,” he managed.
The Right Hand smiled. “I am so glad that you agree.” He looked back to the line. “These faults need addressing. In the same way as following his commands was allotted to you, Lord Goodman is in agreement with me that his faults should be atoned for by you.”
Horror ran through the line. A hundred betrayed men turned to him.
He gaped at the Right Hand. It wasn’t true! He had never said such a thing. He had explicitly given that the fault lay with him, and him alone! “My lord –”
Suddenly a cruel voice spoke behind his ear: “If I were you, Lord Goodman, I would hold my tongue.” Eamon froze; the voice was Cathair’s. “Or he’ll make it one in five.”
One in…
A decimation. It had to be. They had searched for Lillabeth, and found her gone. They had to know – or guess – that he had removed her. They could not prove it. This was to be the punishment visited upon him for his defiance; one to press him back into their service before he strayed too far.
He had to do something.
“Lord Cathair,” he begged.
But it was too late. The Right Hand motioned his Hands forward. “To atone for Lord Goodman’s many faults, one in ten of all those who have served under him shall shed his blood.”
Stunned silence gripped the line. The Right Hand was undaunted.
“Any man who runs will be slaughtered for cowardice, and the men who flanked him will share his fate.” Suddenly he smiled. “Lord Goodman has ratified this course of action and is here to oversee it. Comport yourselves with honour, as befits him.”
Cathair grasped Eamon’s shoulder. He bit his tongue.
The Right Hand pointed at a man, one of the polemen from Pinewood. An armed Hand surged forward. The chosen man blenched – and the Hand was upon him. The knife was quick.
Horrified silence. The corpse dropped.
The Right Hand counted along the line, and pointed to another man, a cadet. Another Hand went forward, and another body fell.
“No!” Eamon gaped. How could the Right Hand do this?
“Hounds that bite must be punished,” Cathair hissed. “A man who would take a flogging for his cadets is best punished when his men pay on his behalf.”
Eamon turned cold.
The Right Hand counted again. Another Hand went forward, another man fell. Eamon’s chest heaved with rage and anguish. What if the Hand’s gesture alighted on Manners or Anderas?
His mind whirled. It was barbaric that men should be punished for his faults. They would not publicly kill a Hand – that was why they had to kill the men. But they knew his weakness. This punishment had been chosen with him in mind: they meant to break him.
They will not kill a Hand, Eamon.
The thought ran through him with startling force. Suddenly, he knew what he had to do.
Another ensign tumbled to the ground, and the Right Hand counted austerely along the line with a wicked smile. But Eamon counted the ashen faces more swiftly than he, then tore across to the line, reached it, wrenched an ensign out of place, and took it.
The Right Hand’s count alighted on him, the number ten on his lips.
“Step out of the line, Lord Goodman,” he commanded. He voice was very still.
Eamon glared back. The man he had pushed from the line lay on the ground behind him, stunned. Whatever else happened, his men would know that he had not agreed to this scheme.
Defiance, he realized, could not be wrathful. He would not outlive it, otherwise. So thinking, he knelt before the Right Hand.
“I humbly bend my knee before you, my lord. I never ratified this decimation, nor would I ever have done so. This you know well. I will pay for all faults attributed to my name. I alone am responsible for my failings.” He felt something warm at his breast – his heart leaped. Could it be the heart of the King, maybe even the blue light? Was it that which gave him strength to defy the Right Hand?
“Curb yourself, Lord Goodman,” the Right Hand spat. “Retract your words, and step out of the line.”
“No,” Eamon answered steadily. “No more of these men, each of them loyal to the Master, will pay for my errors.” There was boldness in every limb; it strengthened him to speak again. “I demand to see the Master! Let me atone for my own error in whatever way he deems fit.” He looked up. “You will not deny me.”
He stunned the yard. The Right Hand glared speechlessly. Eamon feared a hideous reprisal. The smell of spilled blood rose in his nostrils.
At last, the Right Hand moved. “Very well,” he said. “I will speak with the Master. Keep them here,” he added, calling to the other Hands.
He stalked to the East Wing of the palace, his cloak streaming behind him. Eamon quivered, but he felt a strange exultation. He had pitched himself against the Right Hand, and lived! How many could say as much?
He heard a sound behind him, as of weeping being stifled, and turned. The ensign whose life he had saved shook on the ground. Eamon took hold of the man’s arm.
“Courage,” he whispered.
“You will keep your place, Lord Goodman!” snarled Cathair.
Eamon did not turn. After holding the ensign’s look for a long moment he rose to his feet, the ensign with him.
“I will keep my place, my lord,” he said, “and this good man will keep it with me.”
The ensign’s trembling hand was on his arm. Eamon settled him into the line and nodded encouragement to him. Only then did he turn to Cathair. The green-eyed Hand looked fulminous. Eamon saw his men gaping and wondering at him. Nothing of the like had ever happened in Dunthruik. What Hand would risk his life for mere men? Sun touched his face.
It seemed a long time that the courtyard stood in silence, the armed Hands prowling the line. Blood spread from the fallen men but the line held itself. The bustle of the rising city could be heard beyond the palace walls.
At last a black-clad figure appeared at the far side of the colonnade: the Right Hand was returning. Sudden fear yawned within him. What if the Master really did demand retribution of him?
You are wise to fear me, son of Eben.
The Right Hand halted and surveyed them darkly. “I speak the will of the Master,” he said. “Let none oppose me in it.” He fixed Eamon sinisterly. “The Master will allot to Lord Goodman a task by which he may redeem his and all your honours. If Lord Goodman is successful, the Master himself will bestow honour on you. If he fails, each of your lives will be forfeit.”
The line was crushed; Eamon staggered. How could he propose
such a thing?
“Let them leave,” the Right Hand commanded crisply. “Lord Goodman will remain.”
The gates were opened and the line filed into the street beyond. Only Anderas dared to meet his gaze as he passed; it was fraught with worry.
Eamon reeled. What had he done? Now all their lives rested on him.
The other Hands drew round him. He felt small and afraid.
The Right Hand glowered. “Follow me, Lord Goodman.”
Struggling to steady shaking knees, Eamon did as he was commanded.
The Right Hand took him to the throne room. The doors were bound before them. The doorkeeper was there, and bowed low. The Right Hand ignored him. He turned to Eamon.
“You are too bold, Goodman.” His voice was thick with ire; even the doorkeeper trembled. “You will not defy me again.”
Eamon did not have time to feel afraid. Suddenly the doors to the throne room stood open and the voice of the Master summoned him inside.
CHAPTER XXV
The doors closed leadenly behind him.
There was no escape. The throne room was struck through with the first light of the day, making the paintings the eerily vivid guardians of a fiery realm. The figures upon the walls watched him; they were but pale reflections of the one who sat upon the throne.
The Master was dressed in black and red, his powerful face framed with fiery hair, tangled in which sat a crown. No painting could ever conjure the full terror and grandeur of the one enthroned in that hall: the unassailable, immovable, grey-eyed Master. Surely very worlds would fall to their knees before him?
“Come forward, Eben’s son.” The voice brooked no defiance and expected none.
Eamon could barely breathe. Quivering, he crossed to the dais. Every step sounded in the interminable length of the hall.
Reaching the throne, he dropped to his knees.
“Your glory over all things, Master.” He felt as though he were dissolving in fear.
At last the Master spoke, his voice filled with a father’s indulgence for a wayward child.
