The Traitor's Heir (16 page)

People in the village were bustling about jovially enough and none took any notice of him as he passed among them, a complete stranger. He could see no sign of Mathaiah, Aeryn, or Giles, though he examined every face that they passed. He gloomily asked himself how he could hope to recognize the brute; the man had worn a mask.

Seeing him staring, his companion laughed. “Have you never seen a village before, sir?”

“Not this one.”

“Well, you shall see a little more of it as we go. Come with me.”

Chatting the whole way the woman led him to the western edge of the settlement where thick trees stood guard around an old, crumbling building, the only stone one that Eamon had yet seen. The building's roof was missing and so were large parts of the walls. The coloured cobbles that led to its door-less threshold suggested that it had once been a place of regard. Eamon guessed it might have been some lord's abode and that the village had once been more than it was now.

It was into this gaping ruin that he was led. He had to duck to pass through the tumbled lintel and realized that his guide had now moved on to discussing the conflicting values in bodying out stew with this, rather than that, kind of vegetable. He was not really paying attention and paused to take in what would once have been the hall, its walls crowned with ivy and yellow flowers. Dark entrances suggested the remains of downward stairs, maybe to a cellar or servants' quarters, while others might have led to kitchens or storerooms. Some broken stairs led up into the ivy-strewn trees.

The woman turned aside into one of the collapsed doorways. Perhaps it had once led to a great hall but now it led to nothing but a clearing. Eamon hung back and briefly wondered, as his guide pressed resolutely forward, whether she might be mad.

“Come, sir, come.”

Uncertainly, Eamon stepped through the door.

There was no clearing on the other side. He stopped and stared.

He stood in a plain hall, its stonework old but well tended. Tall windows allowed light to fan in from outside, and he saw the village through the eastern-facing pane. Several doors led from the hall and over one of them a great banner hung. The banner was of mid-blue rimmed with dark blue and showed an eight-pointed silver star. Before its lowest point was an upright sword. Both sword and star seemed to shine in the light. Guards stood in the hall and many others passed to and from the various doors, carrying trunks or boxes of supplies and weapons. These they seemed to be depositing in large rooms, indicative of some kind of stockpile. The guards spoke loudly to each other, yet Eamon knew, as he glanced back at the doorway, that they could not be seen or heard from beyond it.

He stood agog and laid his hand against the stone. The hall was real. His fingers touched the cool walls and his sight changed: he saw the house as it had been of old. He saw the woman from his vision on the holk. She still wore the same cloak and she was accompanied by the same man as before, as well as by many others. Eamon watched the man lay his hand to the posts of the hall, to the place where Eamon's own palm was set, and suddenly every part of the stonework shivered with ripples of silvered light…

His guide's voice recalled him to where he was. “You may stare at the Hidden Hall later, sir; for now there's business to attend to!”

Eamon started and began to follow her again. Some looked at him as he passed and he found himself staring at the tabards borne by the guards. Whose token was the sword and star?

At the far end of the hall was an antechamber set behind a magnificent oaken door that had been engraved with a motif of trailing leaves. Eamon would not have dared to touch it himself – it was too awesome for the likes of him – but, after knocking sharply, the woman pushed the doors open and led him inside.

The moderately sized chamber beyond was well lit. Within was a slightly raised platform on which stood a table. About a dozen men sat there, each dressed in blues or greens, a few eyeing him with curiosity, a couple with virulence. On the wall above them, where the sunlight fell, hung a simple banner like that in the hallway, showing sword and star. Beneath it, another showed a unicorn.

Eamon stopped in the doorway, staring. His companion spoke to a guard inside the door. The next thing Eamon knew was his name on the air:

“Lieutenant Eamon Goodman, sire,” the guard announced.

One of the men at the table pushed back his chair in a fit of rage.

“I won't stand for it!” he yelled as he stood. “You cannot let him in here!”

“Sit down, Giles,” said several voices, some more forcefully than others.

“I'll not sit!”

Eamon swallowed nervously as Giles threw down the papers he had been holding and tore down from the table to the door. As he stalked past, his face was drawn in a fierce scowl and Eamon feared that the man might strike him. Instead Giles turned.

“You will regret it, sire! The mark is the mark and this man bears it.” Then, glowering at Eamon, he stormed out. The door shuddered behind him.

There was a moment's silence. Then the woman whom Eamon had followed curtseyed.

“Lieutenant Eamon Goodman, sire,” she said, gently. She offered Eamon an encouraging smile and then left.

Eamon found himself alone in the great hall. Well, alone with a dozen strange men, which was, he reasoned, not really alone. But the woman had been a support to him and, without her, he felt adrift in a terrifying world. Drawing a deep breath, he resolved to take whatever was to follow like a man if he could.

A man not much older than him rose from the centre seat at the table and came forward. As he rose all the others did the same; every eye followed him. Eamon felt smaller the closer the man came. He was tall, elegant, and lordly. A beautiful sword hung by his side and about the man's face was an aura of something that took Eamon's breath away; he did not know what to call it, but it spoke of justice and of valour.

Eamon stared awkwardly, knowing no words to say. Suddenly a burning pain shot up his arm. He saw again the face from his dreams, watched it writhe and become a crowned eagle; the pain in his hand grew greater.

Clenching his eyes shut Eamon fought away sudden dizziness. Nausea gripped his stomach and his mind flared, demanding that he leap upon the peasant parading before him and choke him without a moment's delay.

Will you trust this Serpent who makes his lair in hidden places of the earth and condones the murder of boys? Strike him,
the voice urged.
Strike and kill him swiftly!

Eamon trembled as his mind assessed; if he moved now, and moved fast, he could likely seize the blade at the man's belt and run him through before anyone could stop him.

The eagle in his palm burnt with blinding fire. Cries of alarm would come from the table as the other men rushed forward, drawing their own swords to stop him. But they would be too late; there was fire in his hand and at any moment he would strike with it, the Master's fire, and there was nothing that the puny, self-styled king before him could do to save himself…

King? There were no kings…

Suddenly, over the din in his ears, thunder in his mind, and fire in his hand, a voice spoke to him: “First Knight, hear me.”

The name fell on his ears, unknown yet carved in a hidden place in his heart. It drove the murderous voice and fire far from him, leaving him master of himself once more. As his eyes cleared he saw that the stranger's hand was clasped over his palm, quenching the embers there.

“Eamon,” the man said, his voice jubilant.

Eamon looked and at last clearly beheld the face before him. Bright blue eyes gazed back at him, as clear and deep as the sky itself. The hand that was over Eamon's own bore a small scar. Eamon laid his fingers on it in disbelief. He knew the source of that scar far too well: stealing apples from an old lady's tiny orchard more than a decade ago.

Trembling, he searched the face before him. A name he had thought lost forever came to his lips.

“Hughan?” Fearing that what he saw was some spectral vision, he firmly clasped the hands that lay on his, but they did not melt or fade.

The bright-eyed man smiled at him. “You remember me.”

“Remember you?” he breathed. “How could I not?”

With a delighted laugh Hughan embraced him. Eamon shook, his tears mixed with laughter, as he returned it.

“All these years! All these years, you were alive and I…” He pulled back and stared at his friend. “But they found your body. How…?” He shook his head, stunned, then pressed Hughan's hands in his. “Hughan,” he whispered, “where have you been?”

“There is hardly a place where the River runs that I have not been,” Hughan answered with a wry smile. “I had much to do, and I have not finished yet.”

“Much to do?” Eamon frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

“That's hardly a manner in which to address the King,” called another voice.

Eamon blinked and remembered that there were a dozen others in the room, all of whom stood nearby watching him suspiciously. The man who had spoken was older than Eamon and had the stride of a horseman.

“The King?” Eamon repeated, hardly able to believe what he heard. “What do you mean, ‘the King'?”

“Just that, lieutenant,” the man answered.

“No,” Eamon breathed, shaking his head. “No; there is no king.”

“There was,” Hughan answered softly. “He died at the battle of Edesfield, a long time ago.”

“Aeryn told me,” Eamon whispered.

“His name was Ede.” “His name was Ede,” Hughan nodded, “and I descend from his sister, Queen Elaina.”

Eamon thought at once of the woman in his visions.

“That's who I saw,” he murmured. He felt suddenly unsteady. “Then… then you are…”

Hughan looked at him kindly.

“I'm sorry, Eamon,” he said. “You are tired and this is not the manner of meeting that I would have chosen. We have much to discuss and there will be much that you want to ask, and much that I must tell you, but perhaps I have called you here too soon: you are not yet enough recovered.” Eamon nodded dumbly. He certainly didn't feel recovered; relapsed might be a better description. “I will escort you back to the lodge.”

“Please,” Eamon said quietly, “can I see the cadet who was brought with me?”

“Of course,” Hughan, his lost friend – the King – answered. “He is quite well.”

He offered Eamon his arm and Eamon steadied himself, allowing his old, dear friend to lead him from the stares of the hall, under the banner, through the hidden threshold, and back into the dazzling sunlight and the small village, where life continued as though it knew nothing of the wonder hidden in the crumbling stones. There were a million questions in Eamon's mind; none of them could reach his tongue.

Hughan led him back to the lodge and delivered him into the care of the woman who had first brought him to the hall. Eamon turned to him.

“Is this a dream?”

Hughan smiled at him. “It isn't,” he answered. “Ma Mendel will look after you,” he added, gesturing to the woman. “Take some more rest, Eamon. Then we'll speak.”

Eamon nodded. “Thank you.”

Hughan left soon after. Eamon watched him cross the village and go back towards the hall. It was as Hughan crossed the small square that Eamon saw a young woman go confidently down the muddy track towards the King. Hughan stopped to wait for her, a broad and loving smile on his face. The young woman reached his friend, warmly kissed him, and then slipped her hand delicately into his.

With a strange feeling, Eamon watched as Hughan and Aeryn made their way back towards the Hidden Hall, hand in hand.

It was a long time before he remembered the woman at his elbow. She had followed his gaze and perhaps guessed some of the tumult of his thought.

“Come and rest, Mr Goodman,” Ma Mendel told him. “You'll soon have much to do.”

Ma Mendel took him through the narrow corridor of the lodge to the door that was his.

“Madam,” Eamon began.

“None of that nonsense!” the woman chided, clicking her tongue. “Not for me. Call me Ma Mendel.”

“Mrs Mendel,” Eamon tried again, “Hughan said that I could see the cadet who was brought here with me…”

“He also said that you needed rest.”

“I would rest better having spoken with him.” He had not yet paused to consider everything that had happened to him in the last day; the events of the last hour would terrify him as soon as he faced them. He needed a familiar face.

Ma Mendel relented.

“Well, if the King said so… you're sure you're not tired?” She still sounded hopeful of discharging him safely to bed.

“Yes,” Eamon answered. Her tone implied that it might well be a three-day hike traversing rivers of fire to wherever Mathaiah was.

“Very well,” Ma Mendel sighed. She turned to the door opposite and knocked. Eamon stared; the ridiculous simplicity of it nearly induced a fit of laughing in him.

A quiet voice granted admission. Ma Mendel grandly allowed Eamon to pass inside.

“You just give me a shout when you're done, Mr Goodman.” Eamon was about to interject that he did not think he would lose his way to his room when she smiled at him, stepped outside, and pulled the door to behind her.

The cadet's room was identical to his but inverted. Mathaiah Grahaven sat on his bed dressed in the clothes their hosts had left them. He looked worried; Eamon wondered if the boy had slept at all.

“Sir!” Mathaiah cried. “Thank goodness it's you. I didn't know what to do…”

Eamon came and sat in the chair next to him.

“I'm not sure that there is anything we can do,” he answered. From where he sat he could see through the small window; he felt sure there was a burly figure lurking there, whose shape neatly approximated Giles's. It did not comfort him.

Mathaiah looked at him, bemused. “I'm sorry, sir, I don't follow you.”