The Traitor's Heir (18 page)

Ma Mendel pulled the shutters to and rearranged his blankets. “You lay yourself down, and don't worry about a thing.”

Her tone relaxed him. Breathing deeply he closed his eyes again. The woman sat beside him; he felt her hand on his. It was cool to the touch, and with each passing moment the droning pain eased. Ma Mendel began to hum quietly: an old lullaby that Eamon's mother had often sung to him when he was young.

He caught one last glimpse of his unlikely guardian before he slept. The song wove through his thought, and Eamon saw that where Ma Mendel's hand held his, a shimmer of sweet, blue light held against the dark.

C
HAPTER
VIII

E
amon woke from a deep, dreamless sleep. Ma Mendel was gone. Trying to get rid of a terrible itch, he upset one of the scars on his back. The grip of the remembered lash hummed through his flesh and he saw Spencing's face with all its petty vengeance.

Spencing was dead. All that watched him were the crooked eyes of the shutters.

Not long later Ma Mendel returned, still singing. She looked as though she had been up for several hours already and no less cheerful for it.

“How are you feeling, Mr Goodman?”

“A little better.” He noted something new in her darkly rimmed eyes. Perhaps wariness?

She opened the shutters, flooding the room with light. He felt like a boy again.

“The King wants to see you this morning.” Light poured into his eyes; he raised his hand to shield them. “He's the best man for all your questions,” Ma Mendel continued. “Now, come along. Much of the morning is gone already.”

Eamon got up and tried to straighten the creases in his clothing. He had no other things to wear apart from those that he had borne on his arrival, and he had no wish to don them again. As Ma Mendel chivvied him along with all the brightness of a lark, his uniform stared at him from the corner. Turning his back on it, he followed his guardian as she bustled out of the door.

Outside, Eamon saw the villagers moving about their morning business. Groups of women stood together near the well, bearing jugs and pitchers of every size, their faces close in secretive laughter as gossip was passed from lip to lip. Old men sat on the porches of their houses, watching while their wives worked and complained about the lack of help. It was a typical picture of small village life. Eamon wondered how many of the menfolk were employed at the Hidden Hall.

As they passed he saw Mathaiah, accompanied by the band of children from the previous day. They dogged his steps. Eamon deduced that the cadet was the flavour of the moment.

Dodging away from his companions, Mathaiah jogged towards him.

“How are you feeling, sir?” The stick in his hand told Eamon that the morning's activity had already included fencing.

“Well.”

To judge by Mathaiah's smile, his reply was satisfactory. The cadet looked from Eamon to Ma Mendel and then back again. “You're going to see him?”

Eamon nodded. Mathaiah held his gaze uncertainly.

“All will be well, Mr Grahaven,” Eamon told him, offering the young man a smile. “Your division of followers seems to demand your attention,” he added, gesturing to the impatient band of children.

“Yes, sir,” Mathaiah answered.

The cadet returned to the gaggle and was soon embroiled in a whirlpool of small boys.

“Come along!” Ma Mendel called. “The King has many things to attend to this morning, and you are not the least of them!”

With a swift apology Eamon returned to her side. Much to his bemusement she went on to describe the medicinal properties of the local flora and fauna. The commentary lasted up to the breed of plant that lined the lintels of the ruined building and how, if ground into water in the right quantities, the leaves would produce a thick drink that could aid stiff bowels.

Despite his unsettled mood the Hidden Hall still amazed him. Once again he was brought through the great panelled doors. He expected himself to be announced, as before, and to find himself facing the same collection of hostile men. But the chamber was empty, quiet. Birdsong hung in distant eaves.

Only Hughan sat at the table. He seemed deep in thought. Eamon glimpsed responsibility that he did not understand on the face of his childhood friend.

“Lieutenant Goodman, sire,” said Ma Mendel.

Hughan looked up, rose, and came quickly to greet them. “Good morning!”

“Good morning,” Eamon answered hesitantly.

“Shall I go, sire?” Ma Mendel asked.

“Thank you,” Hughan nodded. “And thank you, Mrs Mendel, for your kindness to this man.”

Ma Mendel beamed. “A pleasure, sire.” Curtseying, she left.

As the doors closed Eamon trembled. He stood alone with the King.

He looked uncertainly at Hughan. “What of your counsellors?”

“Not many of them think you trustworthy,” Hughan replied with a small smile, “but they know you're here.”

“I didn't mean to imply that you would act without their knowledge,” he said, embarrassed.

Hughan laughed. “I know you didn't. I wanted to meet with you myself, Eamon. You have a lot of questions and I want you to feel free to ask them. Here,” he added, “come and sit with me.”

Hughan gestured to the table. Simply fashioned, it glistened in the light.

At Hughan's invitation Eamon sank into one of the high-backed chairs. As the King sat beside him he grew increasingly restless.

A tall jug stood before them. Hughan poured some of its liquid into a cup and then offered it to him – a warm mix of herbs and honey. They might almost have been sitting back at the Star.

As Eamon's fingers closed about the cup the mark on his hand seared all his nerves like lightning. With a startled cry he dropped the mug, his hand shaking before him.

“Eamon?”

“It's… it's nothing…” He tried to drive his hand under the table, to where it could not be seen, but he could not stop it trembling.

The hideous voice crept into his mind, clearer than ever:

You have no need of him to pour witless sympathies about your feet. He cannot help you, and would not if he could. Leave!

Eamon rose to his feet.

Hughan laid his hand on Eamon's arm. “You needn't listen to him, Eamon.” His eyes met and held Eamon's own. “Do you want to sit?”

“Yes,” Eamon whispered.

“Then put the voice behind you, and be at peace.”

At the authority of the King's voice a growl thundered through Eamon's skull. The voice within suddenly relinquished its hold and died away.

Eamon gazed at his friend and sank back down in amazement.

“H-how…” he stammered, blinking away tears. “How did you know?”

“I know what the mark is, and what it does,” Hughan answered gravely. Eamon let out a deep breath.

“Ma Mendel came to see me this morning,” Hughan said gently. “She told me that you were having nightmares. Can you tell me about them?”

Words twisted in Eamon's throat. “I…” Shaking, he tried again. “Hughan, he'll…”

The King had never once faltered in holding his gaze. “He has no hold over you here, Eamon,” Hughan told him firmly. “Speak, and be comforted.”

Eamon gasped. On what authority could Hughan possibly think that the voice had no hold? Had it not already prompted him to attempt murder? Did it not fill him with strength and malice that he could not control? How could Hughan put them both at risk by asking him to defy it?

The shake in his hand grew as he wrestled with himself; he folded his arms over his breast, trying to quell it. At last he looked at Hughan. The King had not moved and watched him kindly, as though they had at their disposal all the time ever fashioned. His hand was still on Eamon's arm – an encouraging touch that kept the trembling from reaching the rest of Eamon's body.

Eamon looked into Hughan's eyes and seemed to see the flicker of cool light in them. The throned had granted power to Eamon through the mark. But a gift, measured in grace and authority and bestowed by some power far beyond the throned, lay on Hughan. As Eamon watched his friend's eyes he knew that the King bore the greater, truer power.

The voice stabbed at him one last time:

He will not believe you and cannot aid you. Whisper but a word to the Serpent, son of Eben, and you will see what you reap for your insolence!

“Eamon.”

“So much has happened to me, Hughan… I can't…”

“You can speak of it.”

Eamon let Hughan's gaze enfold him.

Drawing a deep breath, he concentrated on the strange things that had befallen him since he had left Edesfield. Then he began to pour out his story, growing steadily in confidence as Hughan listened. While Eamon spoke to the King the terrible voice remained absent.

When at last he had finished Hughan nodded thoughtfully.

“You must understand, Eamon, that not every new recruit to the Gauntlet is affected by the throned's mark as savagely as you have been.”

“Not everyone hears… hears… Is it him I hear?” Eamon asked.

“It is his voice,” Hughan answered.

Eamon fell silent. Hughan looked at him firmly.

“I cannot tell you that I fully understand it; I do not. All I can tell you is that you must not fear it. And do not believe it, for this much I do know: it will speak to you in perversions and half-truths. He is powerful, Eamon. He means to bait you with his voice, crushing your thoughts and aggrandizing your fear. By having you fear him and his power he would have you act according to his purpose. He wants to draw everything from you, and everything that you are, into his hands.”

Eamon stared. “Why?” he demanded. “What can I possibly matter to him? I'm a bookbinder's son!”

“The throned enviously cleaves to all those whom he has claimed,” Hughan answered. “In that, you are no different to any other man serving him. But you are worth more to him than many others.”

Eamon's stare became a horrified gape. His flesh began to crawl with a fear that drove all warmth from him. “I don't understand.”

“You have said that when he speaks to you he calls you ‘Eben's son' – but Eben was not your father's name.”

“No,” Eamon whispered. His father's name had been Elior.

“The throned knows something about you that you don't know yourself,” Hughan continued quietly. “That is why he is trying to take such a firm hold on you. It is why his voice has tormented your dreams, as well as your waking.”

Eamon's breath quickened. Had Ma Mendel seen his dreams while he slept? “What do you know?”

Hughan paused. His gaze gauged Eamon's own.

“The woman whom you have seen in your visions,” he began, “is Elaina, sister of Ede and queen after him. From her I descend. This much you know.” Eamon nodded. “When you saw her, lying wounded and near death in a place of battle, you saw a man with her. You saw him saving her with light, much as you then saved Mathaiah Grahaven. The man whom you saw was Eben.”

“Son of Eben,” Eamon murmured dumbly; the name rang in his ears. “Who was Eben?”

“Eben Goodman was Ede's First Knight.”

“Goodman?”

“He was the King's friend and confidant, riding to war at Ede's side when there was war and, when war's rumour was distant, he was the King's closest counsellor, first protector, and upholder of the River Realm in the King's name.” Hughan watched him steadily. “The house of Goodman had long performed that office for the house of Brenuin, and so did Eben. But he also betrayed the King.”

The blood pounding in Eamon's veins turned leaden. “Betrayed?” he stammered. “Why?”

“What drew him to treachery is beyond my knowledge,” Hughan answered, “but he was led astray by the throned. It was at the throned's command that Eben weakened Ede in the days leading to the battle of Edesfield. At the battle itself it was Eben who felled the King so that the throned might strike him.”

There was a long silence. Visions of the battle and its treacherous stroke flitted at the edge of Eamon's mind. He looked miserably down at his mug, trying to focus on the steam curling up from it.

The blood in his veins was the blood of a traitor.

“Eben was among the first to receive the mark of the throned,” Hughan told him, “and that same day was made the throned's Right Hand, in recognition of his service to the Eagle.”

Eamon looked at Hughan aghast. “How can you sit here with me?” he cried.

“A child does not bear the guilt of his father's deeds, Eamon,” Hughan told him gently. “Even if you share Eben's blood you did not deal the blow.”

Eamon nodded weakly. Hughan spoke again. “After Ede was killed, the throned led his army to Allera, his Right Hand at his side. Allera was Ede's capital city and was besieged but it gave staunch resistance, led by the Duke of the West Bank. The duke was Ede's brother-in-law, married to Elaina. It was December and the city was prepared for a long winter, so it held for a long time – much to the throned's anger.

“The duke tried to break the throned's chokehold around the city. Eben was sent against him and the Right Hand seriously injured the duke, who was taken back to the city. The duke was the city's hope and so in its hour of need his wife, Elaina, donned his armour and rode to battle in his place.

“Soon after, the throned breached the city walls and sacked Allera. Her husband lay dying and Elaina had no wish to flee, but men still loyal to her house took her from the city by force. Elaina carried the only child of royal blood.

“When the throned discovered her escape he dispatched Eben and his Hands to find her and kill her. She was wounded in that meeting; but as she lay dying Eben healed her.”

Eamon had been listening with a burdened heart and looked up in astonishment.

“
Eben
healed her?”

“Eben Goodman remembered his promises and saved the King's sister and her house. Her healing at his hands was the first time the ‘blue light', as you have called it, was seen. After Eben healed Elaina many of the King's followers began to exhibit this same light. Some called it ‘the King's grace', for it came to the King's men for their protection and encouragement in their time of need. Exactly what it is we do not know, but it has enabled us to stand against the throned since those days.