Read The Traitor's Heir Online
Authors: Anna Thayer
The Traitor's Heir
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The three who were there from the beginning:
Esther, a faithful bookkeeper; Jonathan, a tireless consigliere; and
Thea, a first-rate “guinea pig”.
For your friendship, enthusiasm, and words of courage, my thanks!
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Text copyright © 2014 Anna Thayer
This edition copyright © 2014 Lion Hudson
The right of Anna Thayer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by Lion Fiction
an imprint of
Lion Hudson plc
Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Road
Oxford OX2 8DR, England
www.lionhudson.com/fiction
ISBN 978 1 78264 075 2
e-ISBN 978 1 78264 076 9
This edition 2014
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Cover illustration by Jacey: www.jacey.com
C
ONTENTS
Map of the River Realm and its World
Map of the River Realm Towns and Provinces
A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS
S
ir Philip Sidney once wrote, “Look in your heart, and write.” There are many without whom I never would have done so. First and foremost, I heartily thank my family: my mother, Costanza, who never tired in feeding me with books (even when they weighed a tonne in holiday suitcases); my father, Andy, who insisted on reading to his children every night and who piqued my curiosity with references to obscure facts and ancient stories; my sister, Giulia, whose fascination with a badge-making kit one rainy afternoon first drove me to take up the pen for myself, and who was the hearer of my earliest tales; my brother, Nicolas, and my great aunt, Giulia â whose obstinate affection and encouraging lunches upheld me during the writing of a tale that soon grew more complex than I had envisioned â and my grandfather, Leopoldo, whose gracious gift to me was the space and time I needed to write it.
Many friends and colleagues were the first purveyors of Eamon's misadventures; in weekly instalments Esther, Jonathan, and Thea acted as my first soundboards, continuity checkers, and “guinea pigs”; they helped me to flesh out and refine the world that grew up around Eamon as he journeyed into the dark heart of Dunthruik. There were many others who read and commented on early drafts; of these “beta testers”, Matthew Davison and Tony Prior deserve special mention â the first for unbridled enthusiasm, and the latter for his exquisite, fine-toothed comb!
My thanks also go to my many students, all of whom, upon learning that I was writing a book, unabashedly and delightedly encouraged me to persevere with it.
I am indebted to all at Lion Hudson, for working so tirelessly and dedicatedly with me to see my novel come to fruition â and for giving me the chance to do so!
Lastly, I thank my amazing and loving husband, Justin, whose heart for story and eucatastrophe beats in time with mine.
Leith:Â Â Â Â Two ways you see, each from the other parts.
The one with broken stones is packed, and briars
That rend and grots that swift devour a man;
The other upward leads. Though toilsome steps
They be at first its region is the sun.
This is no choice! These cannot mingled go.
Perhaps before this day you might plead blind
But the dread wheel has turned, and choose you must.
Tobias: O cursed all-cleaving soul!
If I but knew I would not tarry more.
The Standard Won
,
The River Poet
P
ROLOGUE
D
arkness smothered the valleys and lurked in the curves of the River, shrouding the light of every star.
The slopes around Edesfield were marked with trees that surrendered their leaves to the wind in weeping moans. Beyond them, what had once been a mighty tower lay impotent in ruins. The trees spread blackly up towards it.
Groups of torches moved through the tower copses, combing fiercely back and forth across the muddy woodland. But the lights did not mark every man in the valley that night.
One felt the wind pulling at his face as he moved through the treeline. Branches clawed his face; roots and weeds clutched at his ankles like snakes. The glint of torches was behind him, casting an eerie glow across the trunks of the trees: pillars of harsh, reddened stone.
His hand slipped on the grizzled bark; he drew his fingers up to his face and tasted blood.
He spat it out. “Light!” he called softly.
A torchbearer came across the dell towards him, struggling not to sink in the mud. A second man came with him, with dark, tousled hair and eyes that glinted keenly under the torchlight. Both wore the Gauntlet's red uniform and had cloaks thrown over them to ward off the September chill.
The second man gave him a small smile. “I bring you light, Mr Goodman.”
“Thank you, Mr Kentigern, sir.”
“Report.”
Cadet Goodman held forward his bloodied hand. The dark-haired lieutenant gestured and at his command the light was directed towards the tree. Goodman winced as the heat of the torch passed his face.
The light showed what he had known it would; blood on the bark, smeared in part by his hand and in part by the flight of the hunted man who had left it there.
The lieutenant turned to the torchbearer. “Fan along this treeline. Concentrate on the north ridge.”
The torchbearer swept off; the dell receded into tombed blackness.
The cadet turned to his lieutenant. “He's making for the River?”
A flash of moonlight illuminated the lieutenant's face for a moment, showing a smile. “That he is. Our fleeing friend will be distraught when he finds that we know it!”
Together they moved to the eaves of the treeline. Goodman heard shouts farther up the hillside and saw the flicker of torches fanning out across the stretches of woods. In the heart of the valley below, torchlight sharply figured a rider in black: Lord Penrith. Even with the distance between them, the sight of the Hand chilled Goodman to his marrow. A man in Gauntlet uniform rode beside the Hand; lord and captain surveyed fields and woodland with grim faces.
Goodman swallowed in a constricted throat and glanced at the lieutenant. “What kind of man are we hunting, Ladomer?”
“Concentrate on the matter in hand, Eamon,” the lieutenant answered. “You can ask Lord Penrith in person tomorrow, if the mood takes you.”
Goodman did not know whether to shiver or laugh. “Do you think me mad?”
“I have known you for far too long, Eamon Goodman, to think otherwise.” Suddenly the lieutenant gestured to the trees where another Gauntlet man stood. “Move into the line here with Spencing.” His voice had taken on a tone of crisp command. “Barns and Ilwaine will be to your right and left. I want this bastard found, Mr Goodman; so do Captain Belaal and Lord Penrith.”
“Yes, sir.” Goodman did not hesitate a moment before going into the trees.
Ensign Spencing looked him over with distaste.
“You're with me?”
“Lieutenant's orders, Mr Spencing,” Goodman returned sharply.
“Just don't make an idiot of yourself, Goodman,” Spencing growled.
Goodman didn't answer him; they were already moving. Briars snatched at him as they passed into the line of men trying to force their quarry to surface. There were torches to his left and right, but light was poor; his best sense of direction came from the sounds of Spencing's movement.
Suddenly he heard a heavy thud somewhere to his left. He stopped; Spencing glowered back at him.
“The line is moving, Goodman!”
“I heard something.” Goodman pinned all his sense on the dark.
“You heard nothing,” Spencing spat. “We have orders to search the ridge. The done thing with orders, Mr Goodman, is to carry them out!”
The noise again. What good would it be to follow orders and lose the fugitive?
Impulse shot through his limbs.
“Goodman â!”
He didn't hear the rest but plunged into the thorny thickness of the trees, pushing on through ankle-deep mud and stinging branches. He knew what he had heard.
He came suddenly through the trees into a clearing and stopped. The torchlight was distant.
He heard someone drawing breath.
The wind swept through the trees and a stroke of moonlight illuminated the mud. It showed deep footprints and the shape of a man caved in the roots of a tree. The man clutched at his arm; blood flowed about his fingertips, weaving dark threads in torn clothes.
For a moment Goodman simply stared. Was this bloody wretch the man they had been hunting for so many hours?
It did not matter. He surged towards the fugitive, hand flying to his dagger. As the cadet crossed the clearing the fugitive seemed to see him for the first time; his face went white.