The Traitor's Heir (2 page)

“No –”

Goodman seized the man's throat and hauled him bodily to his feet.

Goodman smiled. “The hunt is up,” he said. But it wasn't.

Someone rushed at him from behind; the unexpected force of the impact shocked through him. A sudden arm latched about his throat.

With a cry he struck at it with his dagger. He drew blood. But before he could follow up the blow, his arm was seized and wrenched harshly backwards.

The fugitive fell from his grip. Goodman spun back and to one side, trying to free himself. He was too slow; both his arms were caught and driven up behind him, wresting his dagger from his hand. He saw the glint of his blade, a shrinking shard of the moon as it disappeared into the trees.

A blow forced him to his knees and he was thrown to the ground; mud plastered his ears and mouth.

He heard men speaking softly to the wounded man. He knew there was torchlight nearby and would have struggled wildly to make a noise – but it was as much as he could do to breathe. Some of his captors disappeared into the woods; they were moving south.

South!

The hiss of a blade being unsheathed. He stiffened. His heart lay in his throat.

Strong hands seized his. He lay still, fearing the worst; but the new hands violently bound his own together.

“Lucky little Glove!” laughed a snide voice. Its keeper delivered him a belittling pat on the shoulder before shoving his face down.

Goodman heard the last of the men vanish as he writhed and gasped in the mud. He did not think about how nearly he had lost his life, nor did he wonder how it had been spared; all he could think was how easily the men would slip through the Gauntlet's northward-roaming line.

Driving his hands into the mud he slipped and slid them together, trying to escape the ropes. He lost both gloves in the process but eventually drew them free. Shivering with cold and rage he tore his hands across his face, peeling mud from his eyes.

The fugitives were gone.

Staggering to his feet, not stopping to recover gloves or dagger, or to wonder where Spencing was or whether he should return to him, he turned and hurtled through the trees.

His feet brought him swiftly back to the fields. The lines still combed the hillside, moving north towards the River. With a cry of immense frustration, he ran on.

His lieutenant, Ladomer Kentigern, stood with Captain Belaal and Lord Penrith. He could not imagine how he looked to them, a mud-spattered cadet racing madly across the field, but he knew only too well how they would look on him when he delivered his news.

He tripped to a slipping halt before them, only just remembering to bow before Lord Penrith, the Master's chosen Hand over the town and province of Edesfield.

“His glory,” Goodman panted. At least while he bowed he did not have to meet their eyes.

“Mr Goodman.” Captain Belaal's voice was icy as the biting wind.

“The fugitive, sir,” he spluttered, gesturing wildly behind him. “He's aided, he's gone south.”

“South?” Belaal repeated harshly, incredulous. The faces of both Hand and lieutenant echoed it.

“I swear it, sir!”

“Leave your swearing until tomorrow, Goodman,” the captain retorted. “That's if any of you will merit the swearing.” Sensing his displeasure, his horse fretted unevenly. The captain drew his reins tightly into his hand. “By your leave, Lord Penrith, I will redirect search parties immediately.”

The Hand nodded silently. With an angry grunt Belaal wheeled his horse to the side and spurred it towards the northward-roving torches.

Goodman's chest was still heaving as the Hand's gaze settled darkly on him.

“You let him escape.”

Goodman blinked hard. “My lord, I was taken by surprise and –”

“Taken by surprise?” the Hand replied contemptuously. “How could that be so, when you were searching in pairs? Unless you disobeyed an order.”

Goodman stopped. He had – and with good reason. But he could hardly say that to the Hand.

“Did you disobey an order?” The Hand's tone had grown as pitch as the night about him.

“My lord –”

Ladomer flashed him a warning look.

Goodman quailed. He swallowed hard. “Yes, my lord.”

There was an agonizing silence.

“Name, cadet,” Penrith commanded.

“Eamon Goodman, my lord.” He did not meet the Hand's gaze; he did not dare.

The Hand raised a mocking eyebrow. “The bookbinder's boy?”

Goodman felt Ladomer Kentigern's gaze on him, commanding him not to speak out of turn; he obeyed it. “Yes, my lord.”

“So, after three years of cadet training, you are woefully vulnerable to surprise and are incapable of obeying orders? You are a disgrace to your dead father, to yourself, and to your captain, Cadet Goodman,” the Hand spat. “You'll be lucky to swear tomorrow.”

“Yes, my lord,” the cadet answered. It took all his will to keep insolence from his voice. They could not take his swearing from him! He had worked so hard…

“Where's your dagger?”

Goodman looked up. The Hand's gaze pierced him; he knew how condemning his reply would be.

“I don't know, my lord,” he said at last.

“I can see that Gauntlet work is best left to the Gauntlet,” he hissed. His ire was crushing. “You're of no further use here, cadet. You will not present yourself at college until you've found your dagger.”

Goodman gaped. Quivering in every limb, he bowed low. “Yes, my lord.”

The Hand turned to follow Captain Belaal. Goodman remained bowed until the sound and feel of hoof-beats receded. He was reeling as he straightened; breath fled from him in ragged bursts.

A firm, kind touch alighted on his shoulder. “Are you hurt, Eamon?” Ladomer asked.

Eamon turned his stinging eyes out over the fields and hills. “No,” he answered as the lights passed by.

C
HAPTER
I

I
t was a September morning in the 532nd year of the Master's throne. In distant fields the sun was rising, stirring all the world to gold, the sky so clear and crisp that an upward glance might yet catch sight of hidden stars.

But Eamon had eyes for none of it; all his look and thought was bent fastidiously on the filthy dagger in his hands. With a grim sigh he tried to scrape more mud from the details of the small hilt; he had not yet dared to assess the state of his boots or uniform. As he scrubbed furiously at the weapon, fatigue sapped his limbs.

For over five hundred years the River Realm had lain in the charge of the Master and, from Dunthruik – the city that had always guarded the river-mouth – the Master's power had kept the land strong against its enemies. To the north, south, and, across the sea, the west lived merchant-lords with whom a grudging peace was sometimes granted by trade; to the east in the land of the Seven Sons roamed strange lordlings who were little more than inbred, misfit chieftains. The Master had held against them and their like and, since the River Realm had been bathed in the glory that emanated from the Master's throne, none had dared to come across the mountains from Istanaria.

The strength and endurance of that power was seen in the Master's Hands and in the Gauntlet, the ancient and noble legion of soldiers that kept his law. To bear their uniform was to be marked as the Master's own, and to serve him was the greatest honour that the River Realm could afford. Though there were regional militia forces across the land it was to the Gauntlet that men aspired: this was the Master's eyes and ears, his blade and blood. To run them was a dangerous business indeed.

There were few young men who did not dream of setting their hands in the Master's Gauntlet. Training was long, arduous, and fierce; it was not uncommon for cadets to be killed in their extensive preparation, but the families of such men were well honoured. Men who glorified the Master in the Gauntlet guaranteed honour for themselves and for their heirs; the exceptional were promoted and made draybants and captains, and some were taken from the Gauntlet's ranks to join the Hands.

For most, dreams of the Gauntlet were enough. Many young men sought to realize them, and Cadet Eamon Goodman of Edesfield was no exception. He had joined the Gauntlet later than most others, and at twenty-three he was one of the oldest cadets that hoped to take their oath that day in Edesfield province.

But as he sat in the yard of the smithy where he lived, Eamon despaired of it. He had sold his hope in a futile act the night before. He had lost everything with it. How could he have been such a fool?

“Eamon?”

A young woman was passing the yard. She had auburn hair, pulled back in loose tresses. As he met her gaze her look grew worried. He realized that his pale face was stained with tears.

“Good morning,” he tried, hoping that his tone might mask what his face could not, but his voice sounded frail and hopeless even to himself. He rubbed a dirty hand across aching eyes.

“I've been looking for you since last night.” His friend sat down on the wall beside him. As she cocked her head at him her hair flashed like gold in the light. “Have you slept at all?”

“No.” He fell silent, staring angrily at his dagger.

“Eamon?” she prompted. “What happened?”

“What happened?” He looked at her, unable to form words. “I ruined everything, Aeryn!” he spat at last. “That's what happened!” He flung the dagger aside, willing it to disintegrate.

Aeryn didn't flinch. “I don't believe that.”

Eamon looked at her incredulously. “They're not going to let me swear!”

His words hung in the air. “That's not the drying of the River,” Aeryn replied gently.

“Not the drying of the River?” Eamon could only stare at her. “How can you say that? You know how much this means to me!” he cried, pointing to his uniform, its distinctive Gauntlet red barely visible between rips and mud. Eamon let out a cry of disgust.

“I know what you think joining the Gauntlet means,” Aeryn told him.

“Do you? Put yourself in my place for a moment, Aeryn!”

“Eamon –”

“You know this is all I've ever wanted!”

Aeryn pursed her lips. “That's not true, Eamon. I've lost count of the number of times that you told me your mother wanted you to go to the university.”

“Don't bring
her
into this, Aeryn!” Eamon snapped. “She's been dead for more than a decade; if she was alive I'd still be in Dunthruik, not this forsaken backwater!”

“I'm just saying that it hasn't always been your dream,” Aeryn placated.

Eamon glared at her. “How would
you
know? How could I go to the Gauntlet when my father was alone? How could I even talk about it?” He gripped his dagger hard. “He needed me. He wanted me to learn his trade. And we got by without dreams.”

Aeryn laughed. “You more than got by, Eamon! You loved it. The smell and the feel of the books, the taste of story on your tongue? Your father practically had to force you to come and play with other children; all you ever wanted to do was read! That was how I first met you – sobbing, because he had taken your books away and sent you outside.” Her eyes shone. “Don't you remember?”

Eamon did not answer her. He remembered. The books had seemed his only comfort in a world that had shorn him of home and mother in a night. He had loved them. He had loved sharing them with his father.

“Yes, I loved it. I loved being the bookbinder's son – even after my father died. I was still a boy, but I scraped by. Perhaps I would have been happy binding books all my days, despite my struggle to buy bread. But the fire finished it all.”

She looked at him sadly. “I know –”

“No, Aeryn,” he retorted. “You don't. My father and his books were all that I had left. Everything I loved, everything I had worked for, my home and my livelihood…”

Aeryn touched his hand. “You still had hope.”

Eamon scoffed angrily. “Being taken in by a kind-hearted smith and given work isn't hope, Aeryn. The Gauntlet was my hope – a chance to do something better, be someone better. A chance to start again. It's been taken from me, just like everything else.” He could not meet her gaze. “I've been forbidden to swear.”

Aeryn watched him hard for a moment. “What happened last night?”

He paused, and suddenly he was pushing through the trees, the smell of blood and fire in his nostrils.

“You want to know what happened to me?” he said. “I was sent to hunt for a man in the woods and I disobeyed an order to search in groups. I found the fugitive and I lost him. He got away from me and nobody caught him. And because I brought the news of his escape to Captain Belaal and Lord Penrith, and lost my dagger in the process – thus making an idiot of myself –
they won't let me swear
.” His hands began to shake. “I've made a fool of myself and I've lost everything,” he said bitterly, “as I always do.”

Gently, Aeryn reached across and touched his arm. “You're not a fool, Eamon,” she said. “If Hughan were here, he'd say the same.”

“How do you know what he would say?” Eamon retorted.

“You used to listen to him,” Aeryn answered.

“Yes,” Eamon said, and fresh, wrathful tears leapt into his eyes. “But Hughan's been dead for eight years! For Master's sake, Aeryn!”

Aeryn looked at him strangely. “Don't swear by him.”

“Don't start with that,” Eamon snapped.

“Hughan never thought the Gauntlet was where you should be,” Aeryn said quietly.

“Hughan's
dead!
” Eamon cried, and then fell silent. The memory of Hughan stung at him in the long quiet. He pressed his hands into his eyes. “Ladomer thought I could do it,” he whispered. “He told me I could do it…”

“Ladomer is a Gauntlet officer,” Aeryn pointed out. “Isn't it possible that his opinion is biased?”