The Traitor's Heir (19 page)

“The King's men went into hiding, going about the River Realm by hidden ways – so becoming ‘wayfarers'. Eben Goodman restored his broken allegiance but returned to the city in the guise of Right Hand. He was there as the throned tore down Allera and was an overseer as Dunthruik was built in its place, stones over gardens. The city's ancient quarters were awarded to the throned's closest Hands and one of them, a seer, prophesied that Elaina's line would overthrow the throned. Since that day, the throned has sought to extinguish it.”

There was a long silence.

“What happened to Eben?” Eamon asked with a dry throat.

“I do not know why he returned to the city, nor what task he meant to perform for the King's house in Dunthruik,” Hughan answered. “It is told that his treachery to the throned was discovered and that he was killed by the Hands.”

“And now I carry the throned's mark. Why did you permit them to bring me here, Hughan?” Eamon cried at last, terror in his heart. “I will become his tool against you! I have a traitor's blood and the mark of your enemy.”

“You do,” Hughan agreed, “but, like Eben, you also bear the King's grace.” Eamon's objections fell silent before Hughan's quiet assertion. “The throned desires to make you his, Eamon, fully and completely; that is why his voice insists that you already are.”

Eamon swallowed, sensing that there was more to come, and yet he did not feel that he could take another blow; his blood sang a song of treachery and discord that he could not quieten.

“There is more, isn't there?”

Hughan looked at him gently. “The tongue that told that the throned would be overthrown by Elaina's seed also declared that a son of Eben would go before Elaina's heir. He would be a First Knight, just as the fathers of his house were of old.”

The words took a long time to sink in.

“You think that's
me
?” Eamon whispered incredulously.

“Yes.”

Eamon gaped.

“Before you knew that you were descended from Eben, you answered to it,” Hughan told him gently.

Eamon fell silent, remembering how the name had felt in him when it had been spoken.
First Knight
.

Shaking, he looked at Hughan again. “There must be hundreds of Goodmans on the River,” he whispered. “How can you be so sure that I'm the one?”

Hughan looked at him once more, the depth of his eyes more than Eamon could fathom.

“Eamon, men that bear the throned's mark do not also carry the King's grace. You are a Goodman whom the throned has taken a special interest in – and you bear both mark and grace. That is how I know.”

“Even if that's true, what difference does it make?”

“Much.”

“How?”

“The house of Goodman is one of courage and compassion. The River Realm is in need of its First Knight now perhaps more than it has ever been.”

Another long silence fell between them.

“I'm sorry,” Hughan said kindly. “This is a lot to take in at once.”

“Did you always know?” Eamon asked suddenly. To Hughan's questioning look he added: “Did you always know that you were Elaina's heir?”

“No,” Hughan answered. “That's why I was taken from Edesfield; to be told, taught, and prepared.”

Eamon watched him for a long moment. “What will you do with me now?”

“What do you feel about the wayfarers?”

Eamon felt that much rested on his answer.

“Is Giles one of you?”

Hughan smiled sadly, as though he had anticipated the question. “Giles is trustworthy and hates the throned. He comes from one of the cities in Galithia. His family was killed in the border wars some years ago. I am sorry,” he added gravely, “for what he did when he took the holk. Though he had my authority to take all necessary steps to rescue Aeryn, and it was likely that men would be lost, he should not have taken the lives of prisoners who had tokened their surrender.”

“You took a lot of risks to rescue her.”

“She was being taken to Dunthruik for things that she knows,” Hughan replied, “about this place and about me. I wrote, asking her and Telo to come here.” Guilt passed over his face. “It was foolish of me. I wanted them both to be safe.”

Eamon suddenly stared. “You mean… all this time, Aeryn knew that you were alive?”

Hughan matched his gaze. “She knew.”

Betrayal sliced through him like a barb. “Hughan, why didn't you…?” Eamon shook his head in disbelief.

“I wanted to,” Hughan answered. “But when I could and did send word to Aeryn, I learnt that you had already joined the Gauntlet. You were a cadet. I could not seek you then and was compelled to ask her not to speak of me to you. She did as I asked, despite her own misgivings, and I chose to trust that there would be a time when I could speak to you myself.”

“I understand.” Years had passed between Hughan's disappearance and the day Eamon had become a Gauntlet cadet; Hughan would have had no way of telling whether his childhood friend could still have been trusted.

“It was no reflection of my heart for you,” Hughan told him. “It was a difficult choice to make, Eamon, one that rendered you less faith than you deserved. Of all the choices that I had to make at that time,” he added quietly, “none weighed upon me as much as that. It wronged you.”

“No. You were right not to risk sending word to me.” He paused, his mind awhirl. In the silence that followed he fiddled with his cooling mug. Eventually he looked once more at Hughan.

“If what you say is true,” he began, “and King Ede was killed by treachery, then the throned is not the lawful master of the River. In that regard…” He felt a pulse of heat near his palm and pressed it closed. “But I have sworn to serve the throned, Hughan,” he whispered, “with body, blade, and blood.” He swallowed, hating the words that came from his mouth. “My oath is binding.”

“You can be released.”

Eamon gaped. A wellspring of hope opened in the rocky places of his heart.

“I know that what I have told you is difficult to take in all at once, and I know the hold of the oath that you have sworn. But I would ask you to think awhile on all these things and then return to me. If, after you have considered them, you would be willing, there is a service I would ask you to render me.”

“You mean… become a wayfarer?” Eamon whispered. That was what rendering service to the King would entail, after all. Part of him recoiled from it, and part of him ached to take his stand with this man whom he had known, trusted, and loved in his youth. “Hughan, I…”

“It honours me enough that you consider it. I ask no more.” He held Eamon's gaze, and Eamon saw that his friend, though young and learning still what he had to do, bore an aura of greatness.

At that moment the doors to the chamber opened and the counsellors began to enter, walking and striding according to their stature. Eamon might have started guiltily to his feet but he was caught and stilled by the King's smile.

Giles was among the first of the entering group. His face broke into an ungainly scowl. “Sire!” he cried. “I protest at you closeting yourself with this verminous –”

“Peace, Giles,” Hughan answered, raising his hand.

“I will go, sir,” Eamon said quietly, “and I will return to you on this matter.”

Hughan nodded to him. “Thank you.”

Rising, Eamon bowed awkwardly to his friend and then hurried from the chamber. The cold glares of the counsellors rested on his back.

He was escorted from the Hidden Hall by one of its guards, and went back into the village and the sunlight. Nobody seemed to watch him as he passed, his hands driven deep into the folds of his shirt. He walked in silence and his heart pounded as he thought on all that Hughan had said.

Was Hughan truly to dethrone the Master and could it be that he, Eamon Goodman, was to be his help? He shook his head. Surely it could not be true. It was not for him to make a stand over such a thing. Hughan, he reasoned, had chosen the wrong man. Eamon's place was in Dunthruik, the city to which he had been lawfully commissioned. He could not betray his oath to the Master. Who did these wayfarers think they were? They were dogs in the service of a youth scarcely old enough to bear a beard, let alone a sword. Hughan was barely a year older than Eamon himself.

His duty was clear: he had to make the hall known to the Master. It was to be cleared out, swept clean. The wayfarers would be crushed at a single stroke; Hughan had no heir and was the last of the line. There would be no King. Only then would Eamon Goodman redeem the treachery of his blood.

Better still, why not take a double oath and double cross this witless King? There was no release from the Master's mark or from his service. Everything that the Serpent had told him was a lie. His reward in Dunthruik would be great indeed if he brought the Serpent before the Master. There would be public jubilation and a grand, humiliating execution befitting one that dared to wear dethroned colours. There was no King over the River Realm. History had written that story from the books long ago.

Eamon brought himself up sharply. His heart beat like a drum of war and his whole flesh seemed alive with fire. He felt stronger, thinking of such things. It would be so very easy to reach out and snap this self-styled King like a willow wand. He could redeem Eben's betrayal and barter himself favour with the Master. He should redeem it. He would summon the Hands. They would come. The Master would laud and honour him.

He saw with other sight. Before him once more was the gaudy throne – no, not gaudy, for it was a great and glorious symbol of the Eagle's power. A man sat there. As the darkling face smiled at him he found that he knelt before it. His lips were moving but he could not hear the words he spoke; as his voice tumbled out of him the smile of the grey-eyed broadened.

Suddenly a crushing pain went through his jaw, forcing him to open his eyes. He was kneeling in the mud by the well. He saw Aeryn, her hand drawn back. She had struck him. She stared at him with a white face. “What are you doing?” she hissed.

Eamon saw that every pair of eyes in sight was fixed on him. How they hated him. He surged to his feet like an angry tide. As he towered over her his hand darted out and grabbed her chin.

“How dare you!” he roared. She squirmed in his grip as it tightened. “Whoring snake!”

“Eamon!” Aeryn gasped. “Fight this, or I will fight you!”

Eamon could see her face and feel the terrible strength in his hand. Hughan had said he would be safe here, he had
promised
safety.

Hughan was the Serpent: he had lied.

“Eamon.” Aeryn pronounced his name as a warning. There were tears in her eyes. “Please stop.” Suddenly she grabbed his arm; something about it loosed his voice.

“Aeryn, forgive me!” He struggled to utter any words at all and with each syllable he spoke he felt as though a grip just as strong as his own sought to crush him. A crowd of people surrounded them but none of them moved to do a thing. Time was horribly slow. He was aware of men running from the Hidden Hall towards him and of Mathaiah appearing at the edge of the crowd, his face aghast.

Eamon looked back to Aeryn. There were twisting, cracking arches of fire along his arm. He could not quench it. But though the fire licked angrily about their flesh it could not pass the soft flicker of blue light about her.

“Fight it, Eamon!” Aeryn told him, her voice clumsy from the grip on her jaw. Eamon closed his eyes. Inside his lids he saw a vision of himself in the dark robes of the Hands, kneeling before the throne. Still the pale face that reigned there watched him, applauding, encouraging, enticing his service. Eamon's knees were rooted to the ground in submission and while he knelt, the joins in the marbled floor about him pulsed with fire. The stones cracked like water on the verge of boiling, and the flames reached flickering hands towards him. The smile engulfed him:

You do well, son of Eben: son of mine.

Resistance kindled in his heart. Sickened, Eamon lifted himself to his feet before the throne. The flames hissed and clawed at him as he rose, meaning to drag him swiftly down to their mandrake embraces. But still he rose. He would not serve this man, creature more than master; he would serve the King.

He felt weak but his will grew stronger; he stretched out his hand and saw in it a bolt-bright sword – silver, stern, and true. The flames scattered from it.

Suddenly he felt his whole body being hurled downward. With a gasp he opened his eyes.

He had been thrown to the ground. Strong hands seized his head; the motion of them was to break his neck. Somewhere in the shouting he heard Mathaiah, calling for mercy.

But the fingers on him never administered the fatal twist.

“Giles.” Hughan had no need to shout.

Eamon waited for the hands to let him go, but they didn't. Blinking, he saw that Aeryn also lay in the mud near him, likely knocked when Giles had battered him down. She shook with fear, and tears streamed down her face.

“This man is a threat to us all!” Giles yelled. Eamon felt the man's anger pulsing through the hot hands round his neck. He struggled to breathe unobtrusively, lest the motion remind Giles of the thread that he could snap at a moment. “He cannot stay and he cannot go. We all know it. Give me but a word, sire, and the problem is solved.”

There was a tense silence; every eye turned to the King. Hughan's face remained calm, unmoved by the man's resolve.

“Let him go, Giles.”

Giles gawked. “Let him
go
? Did you not see what he was doing to Aeryn?”

“I trust him,” Hughan answered firmly. “Let him go.”

With a cry of disgust, Giles hurled Eamon down and stood. He spat at him. Spittle sprayed all over Eamon's face as he lay, gasping, in the mud. Mathaiah rushed forward at once.