The Traitor's Heir (17 page)

“This is no prison house, cadet,” Eamon replied. “We seem to occupy a grey area between prisoner and guest, being neither one nor the other.”

“We shouldn't try to escape, sir?”

“At least not for now.”

Mathaiah nodded. The young man had clearly decided there and then to go by his officer's judgment.

“I'll follow you, sir. That's how it should be.” He paused. “Why are they keeping us at all, sir?”

Eamon faltered.

“I think we're here because of what I did on the holk,” he said at last.

Mathaiah rolled up his shirt to peer at his side, as though he had forgotten it. He prodded himself, seemingly concerned that the hale skin might be some parlour trick. He looked at his arm, but his search for a wound there was as ill rewarded as the search at his side. Increasingly confused, he looked back at Eamon.

“Sir?”

Eamon flexed his hand. Despite its fearsome show earlier the mark he bore was now nearly invisible.

“Was it –” Mathaiah began.

“The throned's mark didn't enable me to do what I did,” Eamon told him. He wondered that he chose the name “throned” over that of “Master”.

“So all those stories about the swearing…?” Mathaiah breathed.

Eamon cast his mind back to his own days as a cadet. The stories had been about the pride of committing to the Gauntlet and how some of those who did became more than what they had been before. He had never heeded such stories himself, feeling that a metaphorical interpretation of them sufficed. The barracks' favourite had always been of one Ensign Davin, who had apparently been able to read men's minds after his swearing-in and, through this knowledge, had captured a deadly insurgent in Dunthruik. It was also told that he had been able to move great distances seemingly at a thought, though quite what that meant Eamon had never understood. The important part of the story was that the ensign had served the Master's glory and had eventually become a Hand.

He looked back at Mathaiah. “They are true, cadet, in the sense that something happens to you. Something happened to me. Something… can influence me,” he blurted. “It has a voice that can speak in my mind. It plays on my fears. I can see things that aren't there and now… Now I can heal a wound that should have laid you beneath a headstone.”

“That came from the swearing?”

“No. No; it felt different. I was… graced and aided, not contorted.”

“Well, that's good,” Mathaiah mused.

“Yes,” Eamon answered, fairly sure that it was true. “Aeryn was right,” he whispered.

“Aeryn?”

Eamon realized that he had finally slipped but it didn't matter; he didn't see how he could ever go back to Edesfield or Dunthruik. Telling the cadet the truth could hardly harm either of them now.

“The prisoner,” he explained. “She's a friend of mine – or was, anyway. We grew up together. It was her father that was burned, back in Edesfield.” Barely a week had passed since that day.

“I'm sorry, sir.”

“It doesn't matter.” Eamon waved away his concern. “I'm sure she cares nothing for me now.”

“I'm sure you did everything that you could, to do rightly in regard to her and your duty,” Mathaiah offered.

Eamon sighed. How often he had told himself that.

During their “imprisonment” Eamon spent a lot of time with Mathaiah. Both of them felt that they were waiting for something, though it was unclear what. Eamon could only assume that at the appropriate time they would be summoned. They were granted permission to walk about outside the lodge, as long as they didn't stray too far. That provided some change – though Eamon often noticed that Giles was not far away. The giant man seemed to keep a constant watch on them and always wore a grimace. Eamon did not think that Mathaiah noticed their grisly guardian, and decided not to draw attention to him.

Unable to sleep late, Eamon walked in the mornings. He told himself that it aided his thinking, even if Giles sat menacingly in the background. Though he tried not to let it show, the lack of clarity over his own status was gnawing at him, and he couldn't understand what relation the villagers were to the wayfarers, either. They were a disparate group of people. On the second day he had seen a group of men leaving the Hidden Hall. They bore the emblem of a green sun against an orange banner and Eamon realized that they had to be Easters, though which of the Seven Sons the men represented he could not be sure. He wondered what they could possibly be doing in a village so far west of the Algorra Peaks – the mountain range that separated the River Realm from the east – and wondered why they should part from Hughan with warm handclasps.

Eamon and Mathaiah spent some time in swordplay. They didn't have swords, of course, but it was not hard to gather together a few long branches. Mathaiah was a fine young swordsman and Eamon felt that the practice did them good.

On the second afternoon of their strange confinement they were engaged in just such a practice. Eamon was particularly pleased with the stick he had managed to find and felt well equipped to give his young friend a thrashing. The only problem was that Mathaiah seemed reluctant to comply with Eamon's victory. Every thrust and jab was thrown back at him, and Eamon had to work hard to even get close to touching the cadet with his impromptu blade.

“Come on, sir, you can do better than that!” Mathaiah quipped, parrying a blow that was feeble, especially by Eamon's standards. “Do I have to go more gently with you?”

“Nonsense! The only one being gentle around here is me!” Eamon lied, though he struck back with renewed vigour. The reward was good; he landed a blow on Mathaiah's arm and disarmed the cadet with a second stroke. The boy's stick landed a few feet away where a crowd of children had gathered. At first they had eyed him discreetly, pretending to be looking elsewhere. But over the last half an hour they had dropped even the pretence and stood watching the duel with fascination. It reminded Eamon of his own childhood, spent sitting on a wall in Dunthruik watching the Gauntlet exercising.

One of the children fetched Mathaiah's stick and enthusiastically offered it back to the cadet.

“Thank you,” Mathaiah smiled.

“Can you help me beat him?” the boy asked, pointing at Eamon.

Mathaiah grinned. “He's a right devil with his stick, but I bet we could beat him together. What do you say?”

The boy's face lit up. He ran to fetch a stick of his own and took up a childish stance. Eamon pursed his lips and chuckled at the little swordsman.

“I care not!” he pronounced, as arrogantly as he could muster. In his mind was a childhood of courtyard adventures with his father. “I can fight you both at once. Do your worst, gentlemen!”

The fight took off again. Eamon had forgotten the advantage that the very short gain over their taller opponents, but he always insisted afterwards that his loss in that particular duel was intentional. It was a good match but he was soon overthrown, fiercely jabbed in the knee by the child and disarmed by a fine turn from Mathaiah. That turn also saw Eamon slipping in a swathe of mud and landing hard on his back.

“I yield!” he called in between gasps of pain and laughter – his scars aching from his fall. “I yield, cede, and surrender!”

“Then we shall be generous, sir,” Mathaiah answered.

The little boy came over and looked down at him, the fallen foe.

“They say you're one of the Gauntlet,” he said seriously, “and that you're a bad man.”

Eamon met the child's gaze evenly. “What do you think?”

“I think you're a good loser!” the boy answered, offering his hand.

The boy was welcomed as a hero among his peers. The children hurried off together, laughing and jibing at Eamon's expense. He didn't mind it.

As he watched them go Eamon rubbed at his wood-marked hand. Chuckling, Mathaiah went inside the lodge to get some water, while Eamon gathered the discarded sticks. He was picking up the last when he saw a shadow hanging over him.

It was Giles. The man bore an angry look. Rising, Eamon faced him.

“What do you want?”

The great brute gave out a low rumble. “I want you to know that as soon as the King disavails you of his personal protection, I will kill you. It is his will, and his will alone, which ensures that you wake each morning.”

Eamon matched the glare. “Then it is only his will that keeps me from avenging my crew. You are a murderer and will be repaid in the same coin.”

Giles smiled a long, bitter smile. Eamon saw Mathaiah standing quite still on the steps of the lodge. Giles nodded gruffly towards him.

“What's your cadet's name?”

“Grahaven,” Eamon answered. The smile on Giles's face grew broader.

“Grahaven,” he repeated. Then, more softly: “Ah!
Grahaven
.”

The man walked away, no doubt returning to whatever haunt would best serve him. At least he would not be within arm's reach.

Eamon felt tension slipping away from his shoulders and rolled them back; the movement creased his scarred back. Mathaiah came to his side, wiping his hands down his shirt to dry them.

“What did the beast want?”

Eamon shook his head. “I don't know.”

He went to bed that night with a heavy heart. He left the shutters ajar so that moonlight could stream in with the autumn breeze. Birds nested in the trees that overhung the lodge and in the arched branches he heard an owl. Folding his arms behind his head he gazed at the ceiling and tried to think.

He had a mark on his hand and some other kind of mark that left no trace. How could he have the fiery mark of the Master and be called a “King's man”? And what would the wayfarers do with him? Plainly he could not stay in the lodge for the rest of his life.

What were the wayfarers doing? Why the Easters, why the stockpiled collection of arms and supplies? What had Hughan meant when he had said the name “First Knight” – and why had that name spoken so deeply to him? How was he supposed to respond to the friend whom he had so long thought dead, now that he appeared to be the long-lost King of the River Realm? Were they even still friends? Where had Hughan been for the last eight years? What would happen to Mathaiah, neither Gauntlet nor King's man? Why did Eamon keep seeing strange visions? Where was Aeryn, and had she known that Hughan was alive? How long would it be before Giles attempted to throttle him in his sleep? What would he do to the man, if he tried?

He didn't know the answer to any of this. It rattled him.

Heaving a deep sigh he closed his eyes.

He was expecting to see accustomed inky darkness scattered with coloured dots. What he felt was a sudden lurch, as though he had fallen a dozen feet, and a burning sensation in his hand.

He saw a long room; its enormous marble floor was like a reddened pool that flamed in the brazier-light. The walls were pale and bare, though heavy red curtains hung behind the dais at one end. On this dais stood a great throne, laden with plush cushions steeped in gems. A crowned eagle was etched in jewels onto the throne's back so as to imbue the sitter with a choking mane.

A man with grey eyes and flaming hair stood before the throne. An arched crown perched on his head, and he bore a dagger and a dark, heavy book.

A group of men dressed in black were there: four standing and one kneeling – Eamon could not make out his face. The young man's hands and brow began to burn as the man who ruled the throne moved towards him.

Suddenly Eamon was there, kneeling on the fiery floor. The flames on hands and brow were on his own and the grey eyes bored into his.

My mark redeems you and your quailing line, son of Eben.

Eamon recognized the voice; he had heard it in his mind. It had stolen his tongue on the strange plain.

Speak.

Eamon didn't answer. The blaze in front of him was overpowering. What could he tell? He knew nothing.

He began to cobble together ideas of resistance but in the same moment pain engulfed every nerve in his body. He did not know how to stop it. The fire grew stronger and suddenly the book in the man's hands flew open. The writing on its pages seared his eyes. The angular script seemed to twist before him, forming words in his mind that he could not understand – he only knew that they were terrible.

In agony Eamon gripped his hands over his ears. “I don't know anything!” he screamed. “Let me go!”

But you are mine, son of Eben!
The voice laughed.
Mine by your blood.

The grey-eyed man pressed his hand to Eamon's brow. He screamed; something was reaching deep into his mind, reaching and searching, and every thought that it touched burned…

“Sir!”

Hands were shaking him and light was near his eyes: soft, sweet candlelight.

Eamon tore his eyes open with a cry. Ma Mendel and Mathaiah peered down at him with anxious faces. He felt tears on his cheeks, and on his hand he saw the burn of the mark. He felt a flaming hand reaching for his mind.

“No!” he cried in terror.

Ma Mendel laid cool fingers over his. Pain and vision subsided. Eamon lay still.

Mathaiah touched his shoulder. “Are you all right, sir?”

“I… Was I asleep?”

“Yes,” Mathaiah answered. The hesitance in Ma Mendel's eyes suggested that she might not have given the same reply.

“You should rest, Mr Goodman.”

Mine by your blood.
The unutterable words broke into his mind again. He looked fearfully up at her. “I can't sleep!”

Ma Mendel smiled. “Of course you can, Mr Goodman. You trot back off to bed, you young thing,” she added, gesturing to Mathaiah. “I'll sit here with your lieutenant.”

“You'll wake me if there's trouble?”

“I will.”

Mathaiah looked reluctant, but acquiesced and went to bed. Eamon steadied his breathing. The wind outside seemed shrill and full of noise.