by Anna Thayer
He woke, shivering and cold. The sky was darkening. His dreams pounded in his veins like things alive. He felt the talons about him still, their poison coursing through his veins.
The shards of the stone were still in his fingers. He lowered his head against them, pleading for comfort and courage.
He had to leave the city.
He put the shards into a small purse that he wore under his clothes. They felt heavy and dead.
As he passed through the Hands’ Hall he met Ladomer. His friend’s face was grey.
“I’m to tell you that there are fresh horses at the South Gate. I’ve sent a message ahead of you, so that when you get there at least one will be ready for you.”
“Thank you, Ladomer,” Eamon answered. He did not dare to ask who had sent Ladomer with such a message.
The sun was westering under the cover of a grey sky and a strong wind blew in from over the sea. Eamon shivered.
“I’ve been hearing some terrible rumours about you today, Ratbag.”
Overpowering weariness swept over him. What answer could he give? “I suppose you have.”
A flush of anger passed over Ladomer’s face. He turned Eamon roughly round to face him. “Whatever possessed you to speak to the Right Hand like that?”
Eamon stared. “How do you know?”
“For pity’s sake!” Ladomer retorted. “Everyone bloody knows, Eamon! You defied the Right Hand in front of a hundred people. Have you any idea the repercussions it will have for you? What kind of a fool are you?”
Stung, Eamon swallowed. “I’m a brazen fool, Ladomer,” he whispered. “I am paying for it.”
“I’ll say!” Ladomer was explosive with ire at Eamon’s folly. “The Right Hand will not forgive you.”
“I know.”
Ladomer forced himself to calm down. “What happened with the Master?” he asked at last.
“The Right Hand hasn’t told you?” Eamon snapped.
“Yes, I have been told,” came the harsh reply.
“Then I’m sure you’ve heard enough.”
They stood together for a while. Eamon watched a company of Gauntlet soldiers pass by. He drove his hands over his face. “I’m sorry, Ladomer. I don’t want anyone to die.”
“That was always your problem.” Though his tone was still harsh, his face grew kinder. “Honestly, Eamon! Did you think that this would be easy, that you could saunter around in black and take no responsibility for your command?” He laid his hand on Eamon’s shoulder. “We both dreamed of becoming Hands, Eamon. You have been made one. For both our sakes, act like it!”
Eamon stared angrily. “Should the lives of those men mean nothing to me?”
“Despite the Serpent’s best efforts, soldiers are still easy to come by, Ratbag.” Ladomer offered Eamon a faint smile, and pressed his shoulder. “Men like you – poetic, romantic, chilvalric men – are, I fear, little but a dying breed of quaint curiosities.”
The jibe somehow eased the tension that had been growing between them. Eamon shivered once. “I’m sorry, Ladomer.”
Ladomer nodded, accepting the apology. “Seven days?”
Eamon breathed deep. “Seven days.” There was little else to say.
Beyond readying a horse and gathering some provisions, there were no preparations to make. The Hands knew of his intended absence and he had leave from Cathair to be out of the city – he knew this only because Ladomer delivered the appropriate paperwork to him. Eamon had not been surprised at that. He supposed few of the high-ranking Hands – most of whom he had embarrassed in the last few days – would be in a hurry to see him before he left.
The day went on, and even though he seemed ready he could not bring himself to go. He could not think straight, and found himself nervously pacing and retracing his way through the Hands’ Hall. At last he left it, thinking that walking to the Four Quarters and back would clear his mind. He knew that he looked nervous and he was sure that he was watched from every quarter, but he barely cared. The Master’s voice was always in his mind. The throned knew everything.
He does not know about the ring, Eamon.
Eamon paused. How could the Master not know? And yet, if the throned had known about the ring would he not have called him to account for it? Would not the voice take back word of it?
Eamon: his voice is but his voice. It is a liar, an oppressor of thought. Nothing more.
Eamon reached into his pouch and drew out the ring. It was like a band of starlight on his palm. He looked at it for a long time – but the Master’s voice remained silent.
The sea wind whipped about him, stirring his cloak like illomened sails. He saw the Blind Gate and, beyond it, the distant shimmer of the mountains. He stopped and watched mist veil the peaks in a dun haze.
He found himself going on into the East Quarter. He had not gone far when he heard the sound of an approaching horse. A familiar face: Captain Anderas.
The captain drew his steed to a halt. “Lord Goodman.”
“Are you well enough to be riding?” Eamon asked, surprised.
“I seem to be well enough to stand in a line,” Anderas answered. “The surgeons told me that riding a short distance would be beneficial to me.”
“Is it?”
“I’ve only come from the Ashen,” Anderas answered, gesturing over his shoulder towards the East Quarter’s principal plaza. “It is a short ride.” He looked worriedly at Eamon. “Lord Ashway told me what you’re to do.”
Did the whole city know of his shame?
Anderas touched Eamon’s shoulder. It was a good hand; it would recover to wield a sword again.
“Be careful, Lord Goodman.”
Eamon glanced up. “You fear for your life, captain?”
Anderas laughed softly. “No, Lord Goodman,” he replied. “My life is but my life. I fear for yours.”
Eamon was swept away. “How can you –?”
Anderas smiled. “There is something about you, Lord Goodman, which inspires devotion. It is a fearful gift! I would not see you cast your life away – and I would not lose my friend. My wishes are not entirely selfless. But this city needs you. Thus, I say, take care.”
Unable to reply, Eamon nodded. Anderas saluted him and returned to the Ashen.
He drew his cloak about himself in a quandary. How could Dunthruik need him? The city was dense and rotten, ridden with the throned’s malice and corruption. It was tangible, and the people of the city bore haunted looks. Even the gentry, he realized, were not free. They could laugh and dance, but the women were whored and the men betrayed or pawned in politics and war. The Gauntlet were blind in their service, working for the glory of their Master. The Hands enforced that law and all the while the city, a thing of splendour with eagles and carven crowns on every lintel, was foul and stagnant at its heart. And yet not all was evil. Anderas was there, and Waite, and Manners… Why was it not simple?
Beyond the city walls coils of smoke rose from the pyres. They had been stoked to deal with those taken in the first waves of the culling.
He realized that it was true: the city was founded in blood. The Hands and the Gauntlet were bound to it and in it.
The throned had mastered him. It was the natural consequence of being in Dunthruik. Surely that was the role allotted to him? His place was at the throned’s side. Hughan had been wrong about him; there was nothing left in his blood but treachery, and the blood of a traitor could not be offered to the King. The King’s grace had abandoned him, disgusted with his service, and the King’s heart had been taken from him. Mathaiah was dead.
Eamon brought himself up sharply. Was the throned’s influence over him so great that his own thoughts were twisted, even without the interference of the voice? Mathaiah was not dead! He was alive, and Mathaiah had stood against the man who called himself “Master”, just as Eamon had stood against the Right Hand. Though they had been punished, neither of them had surrendered. Surely that was worth something?
The silver ring was cool be
neath his touch, driving away the heat in his hand and forehead. His mind was still his own.
Anger grew in his heart – but it was not the vile, burning rage that had driven him to attack Giles. This was a fierce, pure anger: it strove against the voice that had so often turned him against himself and all that he held dear.
You would fight me, heir of Eben? Divested of all disguise, the voice openly mocked him. You have not the skill for that. You are mine. Why do you resist?
Eamon shut his eyes. The voice penetrated like a hundred incisive blades. The plain shivered blackly around him. He was not alone – something hovered ghoulishly just beyond his ken.
“Get away from me!” he cried. His skin crawled with the sensation of something brushing past him, round him, encircling him.
You are sworn to me. I will not leave at your behest. Your oath is binding.
“Leave me!”
The black cloak seemed grotesquely large on his shoulders. His heart pounded and his whole body shook.
The voice laughed at him.
“Leave me!” he cried again, desperately.
Did you not hear? You swore yourself to me. Your blood is bound to my will. It has always been bound to me. None can free you from that. I command you, Eben’s son! Learn it at last, and submit yourself to me. Serve my glory.
Eamon froze. This was it: the moment he feared had come. He tried to hold to Mathaiah’s defiance but the memory was blown away by the darkness. All he remembered was the cadet’s body writhing on the ground.
Do not delude yourself. You are the traitor’s heir. You can have no choice.
There, in flame-bound darkness, Eamon felt his whole heart inclining, submitting all to the voice that had known him longer than he had been made.
Come, Eben’s son. You yearn after me; you know where your place lies. Bind yourself to me.
Courage, Eamon!
His will and heart rose to the call. Rising above the insidious, crawling din of the unseen beast that hounded him, he made his choice:
“In the name and grace of the King, get behind me!” Eamon yelled. “Do you hear? Behind me and hence!”
The darkness was gone. His hands met the walls of a building on Coronet Rise. A cat crouched near him. He steadied himself against the stone. Blood raced in his veins.
The dreadful voice was gone. He tentatively awaited its resurgence but found nothing in his mind but silence. His own thoughts returned to him clearly.
He did not know what would happen when he left Dunthruik or how he could do what had been commanded of him. But he would try. And there was something that he had to do before he left. He might not have another chance.
Go, Eamon.
His heart washed with courage, he returned to the palace. Men fell back before his determined stride. He stopped for none; his will laid clear the road before him. Reaching the Hands’ Hall, he passed through the guarded passages without a moment’s hesitation.
He went to the Pit.
There was a small antechamber at the foot of the case where trailing torches blackened the walls. The doorway to the Pit stood open, its smell overpowering. Eamon steeled himself against it and strode inside.
The gaping fissure in the cavern stood open. The system of ropes and pulleys suspended over it hung motionless. Two Hands stood guard there, masks drawn over their noses and mouths to lessen the choking stench. As Eamon entered they rose from the table where they sat alone. It was late. Lord Cathair was not there. Eamon knew it at once: none of the doors leading to the smaller chambers were open. Cathair liked others in the Pit to hear the nature of his work.
“Lord Goodman.” The Hand seemed uneasy in his presence. Eamon imagined that his name had run before him.
“I come from Lord Cathair,” Eamon told him. “I will address Cadet Grahaven.”
“Good luck to you, my lord!” the other Hand sniffed, muffled by the mask. “None can get anything from him. Lord Ashway practically hurled the boy back down there this afternoon; he spent three hours trying to break him.” Eamon shuddered. The throned had ordered further questioning of Mathaiah?
He laughed grimly. “I have breached this man. He will not elude me.”
“Do as you will, Lord Goodman.”
Eamon stepped up to the stinking welt in the cavern floor. His stomach pressed at him, but he gagged it and choked it back down. He heard coughs and desperate cries below. One was being quietened by the indistinct words of a firm, gentle voice. Eamon knew it at once: his ward’s. He felt a surge of pride.
The Hands seemed uninterested in his doings; they had returned to their table and were engaged in conversation. Eamon heard them laughing together. However uninterested they looked, he resolved not to take any chances.
“Grahaven!” He forced his tone to fury. His hands shook. “Grahaven!”
Silence fell below.
“I am Grahaven,” came the reply at last. “To whom do I speak?”
“You will know me well enough when I repay you for your insolence!” Eamon roared.
“You can only repay it to my body, Lord Goodman,” Mathaiah answered. “And you shall be no better at that than your so-called Master.”
Eamon turned to the Hands. “Bring him up,” he commanded.
The Hands looked at each other uncertainly. Eamon heard laughter down below.
“I will not come up!” Mathaiah’s voice was clear and bright.
One of the Hands shuffled uncomfortably. “Lord Goodman, he cannot be brought up.” The Hand lowered his voice. “The light cannot hold him.”
He remembered the red light that had drawn the arching, agonized body of Clarence’s screaming son up from the Pit – the way it had crackled and burned like furnace irons. It could not hold Mathaiah? He was astounded.
“Very well – then I will go down.”
He said it without thinking. The two Hands glanced at each other in alarm.
“Lord Goodman –”
“I will go down,” Eamon repeated forcefully. The Hands did not move. Eamon glowered at them. “Oppose me, and you shall answer to Lord Cathair! Prepare the ropes.”
The Hands began to work the ropes, bringing across a strung ladder that could be lowered into the orifice. The contraption looked flimsy; Eamon dreaded how climbing on it would be. But he had to go down; he could not leave the city until he had done so.
As the Hands worked he took off his cloak. He laid it aside and stood, shivering, in his remaining garments. He unbuckled his sword.
The Hands stared at him, but obeyed. They had steadied the ladder and let it hang into the Pit. It was carefully attached to one of the pulley systems so that they would not have to bear his weight as he climbed.
“You will bring him up?”
Eamon set his hands and feet into the first rungs. “If I must,” he answered. “But my business can be conducted as well there.” One of the Hands shivered at his grisly tone. They knew that he was a breacher, and what that entailed. They would not interfere. He smiled slickly. “I will call you when I have concluded.”
He began descending the ladder. The climb was longer than he expected it to be; he remembered Cathair’s insinuation that the Pit was much larger below than its narrow entry suggested. Cathair had certainly been truthful in one thing: it was completely dark. Eamon could see nothing as he fumbled down. The sounds of human suffering grew louder. He fought the urge to retch.
Suddenly a voice below burst forth. For a moment Eamon could barely distinguish the sounds, for the darkness and the terrible smell distorted them. But then they reached his ears like the notes of silver trumpets.
“I have been hounded into night
By foes that seek to take my life,
But there is light inside of me
Born of a hope they cannot see.”
Eamon’s heart soared. How well he knew that voice and how strongly it sang!
More rallied to Mathaiah’s song, until all other sounds were drowned by the bounding power of the melody:
“Though fires raze and tempests cry
I’ll be a King’s man ’til I die.
He is my hope, my strength, my shield,
Before him alone I kneel.”
Eamon reached the ground of the Pit. It was slippery with excrement and vomit; the reek threatened him with fainting. He forced himself to breathe. Singing voices surrounded him in the dark. Most were faint, some old, some young. The song reverberated everywhere. None noted him as he descended – he was just one more shadow in a pit of hell. Straining his ears he listened to the voices, trying to pick out Mathaiah’s.
“I fear no harm, nor darkness drear,
I fear not flame, nor mired mere.
I do not fear the eagle’s throne;
I fear my awesome King alone.”
Eamon stumbled towards the cadet’s voice. Filth soaked into his breeches; his very boots filled with it. But there was such strength and joy in the song that it drove him forward.
Mathaiah’s voice was right before him now, unfettered and resounding. He imagined the cadet standing with his defiant head raised to the unseen reaches of the starry sky.
Suddenly joy was in him and the song was on his lips – though he neither knew it nor clearly heard what he sang in the dark. One voice near him faltered as he lifted his own, for it recognized him and fell silent. He did not care; he sang as though his one voice could break all the darkness in the world:
“In iron towers and pits of stone,
’gainst roaring wind or rising foam,
My true vow calls again to me,
And in his service I am free.”
He felt something warm at his breast – and his eyes seemed to see. It was no deception: streams of light, faint but true, escaped from the shards bound in the pouch. Suddenly he saw Mathaiah. His ward stood before him, eyes wide in fear and amazement. The singing was strong around them.
Eamon sank to his knees before his friend. The sludge was thick. He bowed his head to his breast. Fear threatened him: what if his ward would not listen to him? What if, after all he had done, he could not be forgiven?
“Mathaiah,” he breathed. He began shaking uncontrollably. “I’m sorry.”
