The King's Hand (36 page)

“He killed Mathaiah.”

“He cannot strike you, Lord Goodman.”

“He would not withhold from killing men so as to strike at me.” He was but a plaything in the raven's talons. His anger told him that a woman he had once loved had laid him in their reach.

Anderas matched his gaze. “Lord Goodman,” he said, quietly and boldly, “call it folly if you will, but I do not fear for my life while it is in your service.”

Eamon looked up. Anderas's face was calm and he spoke with earnest encouragement. “Have courage, my lord. Do not be afraid.”

The words touched Eamon's heart – how often he had clung to them for comfort! Now it was not the calm, gentle voice that had tempered him in times of trouble and despair who spoke them to him; it was Anderas. It seemed to Eamon then that the kindly voice that had so often called him on to courage had but chosen another way to speak.

The captain nodded to him. Slowly, Eamon took better hold of his reins and turned his eyes back to the city.

C
HAPTER
XIX

S
later seemed pleased with the wine, greeting it with contented nodding. Eamon watched as servants from his household unloaded it from the cart and hauled it to the kitchens. Preparations for the following night's dinner were going well and Eamon knew that the servants worked hard towards it; their effort was etched across their faces in sweat and colour.

As he passed through the halls that evening, the men and women of his household still bowed to him, but they no longer fled. Some even spoke to him, and their quiet “good evenings” encouraged him.

He retired early to bed. As he lay among the blankets and covers, his mind returned to Cathair's words – to the man's library, to the eighth shelf…

He suppressed the grisly image as best he could. He had just been recovering himself and his ability to do what Hughan had entrusted to him to do. It angered and shamed him, but as he lay there, tears welled in his eyes once more.

What he must think of you, Eben's son!
The voice swept uninvited through his thought, startling him in its ferocity.
What they must all think of you! They think you weak! They will not serve a man who cries like a child for a lost plaything.

Eamon turned away. Though they ground at him relentlessly he knew that there was no truth to the words. Captain Anderas bore him fierce loyalty. Eamon knew that it was because of that loyalty that the captain served him. Indeed, Anderas had put his life in danger in that service, and would likely do so again. As Eamon pondered this the depth and trust of it terrified him: why would a man do such a thing? Yet Anderas was not the only one. Men throughout the quarter were beginning to show him warmth and respect. Why would they bind themselves in service to a weeping Hand?

Eamon, you are the King's Hand.
The words passed gently through his heart.
Through you and what you do, they glimpse another.

Eamon gazed across at the window and let the pale starlight fill all his thought. How terrifying it was to receive the service and devotion of another. Who was he to receive such love and loyalty from Anderas, from the college, from the servants in his household? For only love could describe what these men and women showed him. It encompassed everything that he had seen in Anderas's eyes while he had wept on the road from Ravensill, or in Mathaiah's when they had seen each other the final time. He had seen similar looks in the eyes of many. It was for that reason that Cathair's small smiles and deceptive words struck fear into him. It was so easy for a Hand to reach out and crush any one of them.

The starlight played through the casement. As he watched it he realized another in whom he had seen that loving look – he had seen it in the eyes of the King. He had seen it when they had first met and Hughan had welcomed him – a Gauntlet officer – into the Hidden Hall and into his service, despite the distrust of others. He had seen such a look fiercely stirred when he had been accused of treachery, and he had seen it when the King had been compassionate towards him in his suffering. He had never seen Hughan look on anyone without that same look.

How could he bear it? How could Hughan bear to love so many? How could he live without fearing for them?

Did Hughan fear for him?

The thought stilled him. The King might fear for him because he loved him, but with that love came trust. How many times had Hughan spoken encouragement to him and forgiven his faults, strengthened him and helped him back to face his own troubles? The King's love overcame Eamon's own fears: in loving Eamon fearlessly, Hughan strengthened him.

Anderas also loved him, fearlessly and unrepentantly. Eamon had recognized it from the first, and understood at last that that was how the captain reminded him of the King.

A breeze moved through the room. Eamon breathed deep of it. His tears diminished. Being fearless was rare in Dunthruik, but it was a powerful tool. If he could do rightly, as the King would do, and love with his whole heart, and do both fearlessly… what could withstand him?

Mathaiah had done just that.

Your ward was broken, Eben's son!

“No.” Eamon shook his head with a quiet laugh. Mathaiah had not been broken – he had been fearless in his love and service. “He was a King's man and, to the hour of his death, the King's grace was with him.”

He had not spoken loudly but the room filled with his voice. If so much as a mouse had heard him speak, then he was lost – a realization that stunned him to silence and demanded that he return in thrall to the halls of his grief.

Do not bandy words with me, Eben's son. Do not prattle witlessly on things that you do not and cannot ever understand.

“But I do understand them.”

And the voice was gone.

In the silence that remained, Eamon listened to the rustle of branches in the night breeze. He watched the starlit window until he fell asleep.

 

“Will there be anything else, Lord Goodman?”

It was the morning of the twentieth. Eamon had risen early, refreshed, and stood by his window wrapped in his cloak. He watched the city awaken, the sun's palette painting the colours of a new day into the city's stones and streets. He saw the tall towers of the palace, and had almost heard the distant running of the waves and cries of the seafarers as another ship came to port. He imagined its mast like a spindle, woven round with a bright white sail, shuddering as the ship met its moorings. He had seen the first ensigns leave the college and the last return from their night patrols.

Eamon looked up from where he carefully halved a western star fruit. “No, thank you, Mr Slater. Is everything in order for this evening?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good.”

“My lord, Captain Anderas is waiting for you in the entrance hall. He asked me to let you know.”

Eamon glanced up from the unruly fruit. “Did he say anything else?”

“That you had made arrangements for this meeting yesterday.” Pallor touched Slater's face. “My lord, should I have sent him away –?”

“Of course not!” Eamon laughed gently. “Slater, you fear me too much. You are performing your duty, and so is he.”

“Yes, my lord.” Slater did not look overly convinced.

“You may tell Captain Anderas that he has missed breakfast, that he shall rue that heartily, and that I shall be with him shortly.” Eamon set down his knife and began working segments out of the fruit. “Have you breakfasted this morning, Slater?”

“No, my lord.”

“Be certain to do so: you have a long day ahead of you.”

“Yes, my lord.” Slater bowed low and left. Quietly, Eamon finished his breakfast.

Anderas was indeed waiting for him in the entrance hall. As Eamon entered he saw the captain standing in the centre of the circular space, his hands folded behind his back and his head tilted back as he admired the ceiling intently.

Eamon stepped beside the captain and looked up.

“Good morning, Lord Goodman.”

“Good morning, captain.”

“You see the style of work there, my lord?” Anderas pointed up at a trailing leaf motif that bordered the ceiling's rim – the painted vine that ran around the whole hallway, hemming in skies filled with flocking birds. “It's much later in style than the building itself; very much in keeping with early Dunthruik. I imagine that the original was painted over, whatever it was.”

“Is that today's historical oddity?”

“Yes, my lord. And are you well?”

“Yes.”

Anderas smiled. “I am glad. You have a little practice to do, my lord.”

“I've already eaten breakfast,” Eamon told him.

“Even fruit?”

“Even fruit.”

“Then that was a foolish move on your part, my lord,” Anderas told him, “for I cannot renege on my promise to teach you to ride.”

“No?”

“No.

“I condone your nobility.”

“And I your folly. You will have to ride on a full stomach.”

“And you, captain, will have to endure the consequences of that sore trial.”

“I consider myself well equal to the task.”

Eamon laughed. “Very well, captain! We shall put your courage to the test.”

Anderas led the way to the stables at the side of the Handquarters. They passed Lord Heathlode. The Hand bowed low.

“Good morning, Lord Goodman; Captain Anderas.”

“Good morning,” Eamon answered, offering him a smile. To his delight, the Hand returned it. He had never thought that he would love such a gesture, but the smile was not forced nor duplicitous – it was a smile of genuine greeting.

“Enjoy your ride, my lord,” Heathlode added as he passed on.

“Thank you.”

The Handquarters were provisioned with fine stables and plenty of horses to serve the household's every need. There were packhorses and palfreys, horses accustomed to swift riding and chargers for the thick of war. All were impeccably kept, and the stables sounded with the signs and calls of stablehands as they duly fed and served the beasts.

Two horses – saddled, bridled, and attended – awaited them. One was Anderas's own, given to him by Ashway on his promotion. Eamon did not think that the horse presented to him was the same as he had ridden to Ravensill. Many of the horses were tawny or greys, and as Eamon approached the well-tended grey that was offered to him, he thought of the handsome and intelligent beast that had carried him to Hughan. He wondered if this new horse would be as indulgent of his lack of skill.

He mounted swiftly, and took hold of the reins. The horse shuffled its weight, adjusting, then trotted forward a few steps. Eamon tugged it back a little as Anderas came up beside him.

“Are you set, Lord Goodman?”

“Yes,” Eamon answered. He felt nervous in the saddle and wondered whether his own preoccupation with not being a terribly able rider was indeed the root of the problem. He saw the ease with which Anderas caught up the reins to urge his steed on, then glanced self-consciously at his own hands and reins. Setting gentle pressure to the horse's flanks, he obtained a few forward steps.

“You have to be confident, my lord,” Anderas told him. “And you have to trust the horse.”

“And it me, I don't doubt.”

“You know more about this than you like to think.”

The horse snorted heavily. Eamon looked at the captain. “I'm not so sure.”

They went to the North Gate, the horses' hooves clattering crisply on the cobbles. There was some rideable ground beyond the North Gate, just before it reached the hills. It was towards this part of Dunthruik's plain that Anderas directed them.

“The knights use the fields nearby to exercise their chargers,” Anderas explained, “and the college sometimes brings officers out this far. Often the riding field does as well, but there's nothing like real turf. How is your gallop, Lord Goodman?”

“More poor than middling,” Eamon confessed.

“That would not serve you well on a field of battle.”

“It has not hindered me thus far.”

“Then you have not had to ride in a battle thus far. But if one day you do, you will be grateful that we had this conversation.” Anderas grinned, and for a moment Eamon imagined how the cadets and ensigns must look up to this man; he was utterly at ease in service and authority. “Apart from that, Lord Goodman, there is nothing like riding this plain.”

Anderas urged his horse forward – it seemed but a moment before the captain whirled away across the churning turf. Eamon laughed, delighted by the sight, and followed him.

 

It was the second hour when they re-entered the city. As they trotted through onto Coronet Rise, Eamon still felt the exhilaration of wind rushing through his hair and the powerful rhythm of the horse as it beat across the tumbled plain. Drawing the horse back into a canter and then a trot had been difficult, but Anderas had aided him by calling out instructions and bringing his own horse up beside and slowing it.

“What did you make of that, my lord?” Anderas asked. The guards at the gate bowed low as they passed.

“It is easier than I remembered it.”

“That bodes well for tomorrow.”

The sound of cobbles filled Eamon's hearing as they passed down the road, and the smell of fresh bread permeated the air. There were carts filled at last with grain, and while its price was not low, it was less than it had been of late. A group of soldiers from the college passed by, led by Lieutenant Scott. The group saluted.

“Good morning, Lord Goodman!” Scott called.

“And to you, gentlemen.”

Eamon turned his horse towards the Ashen when a sudden noise reached him. It was like the sound of pelting rain or rushing water striking hard for about ten seconds, followed by a terrible silence.

He looked across at Anderas.

“I do not know, my lord –”