The Traitor's Heir (33 page)

Fire rushed in his palm. Closing his fingers he dropped down to one knee.

“My lords,” he breathed, wishing to be very far from there.

“Lord Cathair and Captain Waite have spoken much of you,” the speaker continued. “The Master wished to meet with you himself but that must wait for the present. Know that we, his Hands, act in his name and with his authority.”

“His glory,” Eamon answered.

The speaker descended from his chair and strode to where Eamon stood. He had brown, hollow eyes in a face so pale that it stole Eamon's breath. In comparison to this man, Cathair beamed with health.

“I am Ashway, Lord of the East Quarter. Show me the papers.”

Not daring to rise, Eamon handed them to Lord Ashway.

He's a seer
. Eamon's blood ran cold as Waite's words ran through him. His hand burned. What would happen to him if Ashway discerned that the papers were false? Would it not surely be wiser to confess now, and live?

Words were bubbling to his lips but he somehow held his tongue. Ashway's eyes danced swiftly across the words before he laid his hand over them: the mark on his palm began glowing through the parchment. Eamon held his breath. When their gazes met, the man's face was unreadable.

“The stone, Lieutenant Goodman.”

Eamon bowed his head so as to pull the chain up over it. The heart of the King came out from his jacket. It blazed a brilliant blue.

Ashway set his fingers to it and fell still. An expectant silence waited on him. Eamon tried to still his throbbing heart. At last, the Lord of the East Quarter turned to the Right Hand.

“It is the stone, my lord.” His voice seemed breathless.

The Right Hand nodded once. Eamon had barely had time to take in the gesture when a spectral face flashed past him and fingers clasped his brow. The Hand's touch was lightning.

Searing pain drove into his head. His vision changed.

He saw the plain – but now the sky was blackened. He found that he still knelt and that he was bitterly cold. Pressure and pain beat in every part of his head and he could not fend it off. His hand roared with flames and the eagle rose on his palm, pulsing in his living flesh. All about him seemed fire – all but the heart of the King. It lay against his breast, a beacon.

Eamon clenched his fist in alarm. It stopped neither burning nor pain nor light. He forced himself to look up and saw that visions moved in the rushing wind, fleeting impressions of places and people he knew. They were his impressions, his own memories.

He was being breached.

Striving, Eamon rose to his feet. A figure was in front of him. The face was pale, its eyes aflame, and the figure's black robes guttered in the driving wind. The shape before him was all he could discern.

“My lord,” he quivered. “What would you know?”

“Whether you are true.” The Hand's voice shuddered in his ears. “Show me the holk.”

Suddenly they stood on the holk, or in his memory of it. Eamon saw himself speaking with the captain. He could not stop it. The Hand watched, unmoving, as events unfolded.

Eamon saw at once how this breaching would end: with his secrets revealed and his incarceration, torture, and grisly death. All this was likely to be followed by the chilling testimony of his severed head impaled on a pike over the Blind Gate. Driven by fear he tried to tear away.

A rush of pain as the Hand wrenched his memory in another direction. Recoiling, Eamon gaped.

He had not been prepared for this – what could he do? He could wait as much as he wanted for the King's grace to save him, as it had saved Aeryn, but that would reveal him as effectively as any breaching. The Quarter Hand had to be the city's greatest breacher. How could he hope to hold against such a man? There was no escape. Was he to fail before he had even begun?

Desperate, Eamon stared at the shadowy figure. The Hand's eyes were transfixed by the memories unfolding at increasing speed before them. He saw everything. Eamon's whole mind lay open.

Was it a two-way process?

The thought snapped through his pain. Forcing focus, Eamon stared earnestly at his assailant. A memory appeared – not one of his own. He caught a glimpse of the Quarter Hand, his fingers gripped about Mathaiah's forehead and his powers frustrated by something that he did not understand. This Hand had tried – and failed – to breach Mathaiah.

Scarcely daring to breathe, Eamon glanced at the Hand again. His incursion seemed to have gone unnoticed.

He looked back to his own memory and saw himself rushing onto the deck of the
Lark
to face Giles. In only moments his healing of Mathaiah would be shown and all would be lost. He had to do something. Eamon drew together the tangled thoughts about them, fixed on them with all his heart and willed another vision.

It was that simple. He watched with delight as Aeryn leapt forward and healed Mathaiah in his stead. The Hand looked across at him and a sharp twist of agony ran through him, but Eamon did not falter. He wove his design subtly through his own memories, showing them as they needed to be seen. As Mathaiah had done in his telling of their capture, Eamon was careful to highlight Giles and the man's brutality towards him. It was not hard to do. What damage would twisting and changing do? He did not know and he had no choice. Every thought and word, every single moment was vetted until they reached the present. He trembled with the effort.

The sweeping visions disappeared. There was a final pulse of pain before his own sight was restored. The brain-grinding pressure left his head and he collapsed to his knees, crippled with fatigue. His eyes seemed dark and he could barely think.

The breaching Hand returned to his seat. He seemed to speak to the others but Eamon could not hear them. He was sensate only of the Right Hand's gaze. The Hands' forms flickered around him, brushed by an unseen wind.

“Lord Cathair will see you to your warding.” Crawling across his shaking flesh was the voice that belonged to the Right Hand. “Keep the stone for the present, Mr Goodman. Use will be made of it and you very shortly.”

“Thank you, my lords,” Eamon managed.

He staggered to his feet and bowed, blinking feverishly in an attempt to clear his vision. Leaving the hall, light burned his eyes. He flinched from it with a miserable groan.

His sight slowly returned to him. The first thing he saw was Lord Cathair, surveying him with piercing interest.

“‘Any kind of man bear I, save he whose skill is like to mine'.”

Cathair laughed at Eamon's obvious shock. “It would seem that a promising breacher does not relish encounters with his own kind?”

Eamon shook his head. He couldn't speak.

“Not every man is breached by Lord Tramist on his second day in Dunthruik, Mr Goodman,” Cathair told him. “I trust that you found the experience informative.”

Eamon shivered. He realized then that the Hand who had breached him was the same man to whom Belaal had meant to send Aeryn.

Cathair smiled. “Come with me, Mr Goodman.”

Lord Cathair led him back to the West Quarter College and to its raven-marked buildings. They passed through the well-lit entrance hall and into a pillared corridor to another set of rooms. Despite being in a Hand's quarters these doors were not marked with the strange red stones. Through one open door he caught a glimpse of an achingly large library.

They came to a corridor lined with marble benches. Mathaiah, resplendent in a new uniform, sat quietly on one of them. The cadet fidgeted with the sleeve of his jacket, and every now and then glanced at the door in front of him. Eamon thought that he could hear Waite's voice inside.

As they approached, Mathaiah leapt at once to his feet and bowed low. “His glory, my lord.”

Cathair treated the cadet to a round smile. “I will go and prepare for you, gentlemen.”

The Lord of the West Quarter disappeared into the doorway, pulling the door closed behind him. Soon his voice mingled with Waite's. After listening to the indistinct sounds for a few moments, Eamon sat carefully next to Mathaiah.

“Cadet,” he acknowledged warmly.

“Sir,” Mathaiah smiled.

Eamon looked at him, wondering what he could possibly say. “Are you feeling better?”

“Much restored, thank you.”

Cathair reappeared and gestured for them to follow him.

“There's just a small formality, gentlemen,” he advised, “and a disproportionate amount of paperwork.”

The room held a desk and a few rows of chairs. A notary was behind the desk, shuffling his quill and papers. Several other Gauntlet officers were also in the room, among them Captain Waite and the West Quarter College's draybant, Mr Farleigh – distinguished by his four flames.

Lord Cathair led Eamon and Mathaiah to the desk where the notary was seated.

“We will begin.”

The notary began to write.

“Gentlemen, you are here to ratify and witness the assignment of Cadet Mathaiah Grahaven as ward to Lieutenant Eamon Goodman. Captain Waite,” Cathair continued, “do you confirm that Lieutenant Goodman is under your command?”

“I do, my lord.” Waite's voice was grave enough but had the manner of one who had been through the ceremony a thousand times.

“And do you pledge as to the competence of Mr Goodman?”

“I do, my lord.”

“Lastly, will you pledge as to his good faith and service?”

Waite smiled. “I do, my lord,” he answered confidently. Eamon's gut twisted guiltily. “To all these I pledge my word.”

“Mr Grahaven.”

Mathaiah bowed. “My lord.”

“Do you confirm that you seek this appointment to give glory to the Master, and do you pledge to be obedient and attentive to Mr Goodman in his instruction?”

“I do, my lord,” Mathaiah answered. How could he pronounce the words so steadily? “To these I pledge my word.”

“Mr Goodman,” the green-eyed Hand turned his glinting gaze to Eamon. “Will you pledge to instruct Mr Grahaven always with a view to glorifying the Master, and do you pledge of your own ability and good faith in this task?”

Eamon felt sick. “To these I pledge my word.”

Captain Waite stepped up beside him and took up his right hand; he laid it firmly against Mathaiah's brow. Eamon felt the first tremors of flame in his palm. By the cadet's slightly creased brows he thought that Mathaiah could feel it, too.

“You shall be the ward,” Eamon heard himself say, “and I the warder. With my own hand I pledge it.” Flames sparked suddenly about his palm, leaping through his fingers to Mathaiah's forehead. Eamon almost jerked his hand back, but before he could the light was gone and Lord Cathair was speaking.

“Thank you, gentlemen, all very swift and proper. I will take the signatures of the witnesses and then you may all go about your business.” He smiled. “Congratulations, Mr Goodman, Mr Grahaven: ward well!”

Captain Waite clasped their hands in turn. “Ward well,” he said. “Mr Goodman, you're required by Lords Cathair and Ashway this afternoon and have been exempted from regular duties until second watch at the palace this evening. I'm sure I don't need to tell you to do exactly as they ask you.”

“Of course not, sir,” Eamon replied.

“Mr Grahaven,” Waite continued, “you will accompany Mr Goodman, but you need to sign one or two things first.”

“Yes, sir.” At Waite's gesture Mathaiah made his way to the desk where the notary indicated on what and where he should lay his signature. Waite turned and fixed Eamon with a serious gaze.

“Mr Grahaven has great potential in him,” he said in lowered tones. “Keep a good eye on your ward, Mr Goodman. You are to be held responsible for unleashing that potential now.”

Eamon remembered his own vision of Mathaiah: a terrifying Hand walking the shadows. He wished no part in that metamorphosis. “I will, sir.”

Waite clapped him on the arm in an approving fashion and then excused himself. As the witnesses began to disperse, Mathaiah returned to Eamon's side, his fingers ink-stained.

“I never could keep a quill straight enough,” he murmured. “I was the bane of my tutor's existence, sir.”

“He might think differently of you today, Mr Grahaven,” Cathair interjected, appearing – as he often did – seemingly out of nowhere. “Gentlemen, we have work to do. Mr Goodman, have you the stone you so kindly brought back from your little expedition?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Very good,” Cathair smiled. “We shall have need of it.”

C
HAPTER
XIV

L
ord Cathair escorted them back to the Royal Plaza where half a dozen other Hands met them. Eamon recognized the terrifying gaze of Lord Ashway. What if these Hands knew what he truly was?

The other Hands chatted as any group of men might, Ashway and Cathair exchanging pleasantries before speaking quietly together. Eamon felt out of place, barred from the strange black world by his red uniform. He was glad to have Mathaiah at his side.

At a command from Cathair the group moved on in silent procession. Eamon grew tenser and tenser but Mathaiah did not seem to feel it. The cadet was too busy eagerly filling his eyes with everything they passed, from the greatest height of the palace to the patterns traced by the cobbles at his feet.

Sweeping across the plaza Eamon was conscious of his every step echoing on the stones, of the expanse of the Master's balcony, and the murmur of voices and music drifting from some distant hall. Flags snapped overhead like the beating of eagles' wings. Yet what he felt most keenly was the stone against his skin. It was cool and still.

They entered the palace below the balcony. The doorway devoured them, the jaws of an enormous beast.

The grand entrance was a huge, open space; all around him staircases led in glittering waves down to the tiled floor. Tapestries bearing crowned eagles boldly worked in red, black, and gold hung from every wall. Eamon cast his gaze up into the face of a great roof: his eyes were met with a roaring splendour of gems that worked dizzying patterns in the sunlight, pouring cascades of coloured light down across the floor below; as they crossed the hall Eamon saw his hand coloured red and gold by the falling shafts of light.