The Traitor's Heir (45 page)

“The land is crowned in glory,” came the cry. Eamon was astounded to find that his lips moved to the words of Dunthruik's liturgy.

“The glory is the Master's, for he has cast down the Serpent's brood. Serve him. Behold the majesty of him who delivers you from the broken house whose star has set. Behold him, and rejoice.”

“His glory!”

A great light erupted on the balcony, blinding all below. Eamon's eyes were caught upward as the chant continued:

“His glory! His glory!”

Fire moved in the air, a burning crown on every palm exultantly raised, hungrily stretched towards the balcony.

“His glory!”

There, bathed in the light of the burning crowd, stood a figure in crimson with red hair, his brow a crown of living fire. As he raised his hand in benediction the chanting reached an untenable volume, yet still it grew:

“
His glory! His glory!
”

The fiery figure lifted his head and spoke in a voice like the roaring wind: “I call forth these strong hands to serve me.”

A shiver cracked with crippling force down Eamon's spine. He gasped: how often had that voice – that selfsame voice! – spoken in his mind?

“Of the North Quarter Oldin, Tulloch's son; of the East Quarter Richart, Dromel's son; of the South Quarter Vintan, Grinward's son.”

Eamon's heart quickened to an unbearable pace; he knew the eyes of the distant, flaming man were on him. Loving and mocking in their intensity, they pierced him through. Could it be? He desired – and dreaded – to hear what would be spoken.

“Of the West Quarter Eamon, Eben's son.”

Eben's son! And so he was. His whole soul burned and the jubilant crowd roared about him, their one voice universally acclaiming his worthy proclamation, and his alone. The Master had called him by name and he had answered.

He had been nominated to become a Hand.

The grey eyes saw and welcomed his skill, offering power in return for service. What else could he desire?

The Master laid a benediction over the people and disappeared from the balcony, followed closely by the Right Hand.

Eamon's cadets whooped in delight and poured praise on him. Among the tiers of seated nobles in the plaza his eyes suddenly picked out Alessia. She smiled. The fire in his heart grew greater.

“Congratulations, Mr Goodman,” said a voice at his side. It was Cathair's; it no longer seemed hateful to him. “Did I not say that you would be rewarded?”

Elation nourished strange thoughts. Congratulation was all around him and he barely had a moment to think. Yet in the web of his victory he was conscious of Mathaiah's troubled face. Eamon scowled. What did Mathaiah understand of such reward?

The procession soon devolved into a general party; many departed in search of wine and women. The candles burned bright on the steps and the music played into the night.

Eamon found himself by Mathaiah.

“Congratulations, sir.” The boy's face was worn with worry. Eamon rolled his eyes.

“Whatever's the matter with you?” he asked, noting with only a touch of alarm that he did not really care for the answer. What did it matter, the voice asked him?

“Nothing, sir.”

Mathaiah did not approve. It was obvious. But he didn't understand. “Don't you see what an opportunity this will be? If I can become a Hand I will be able to learn much.” And what power he would have! He might even become Right Hand himself…

“Yes, sir,” Mathaiah consented. His look remained. “Sir, doesn't it worry you that –?”

“Mr Goodman!”

Eamon's heart soared: Alessia! The wondrous lady was walking across to him, her crimson dress fluttering in the evening breeze. Reaching him, she kissed his cheek.

“Congratulations, Mr Goodman!” she whispered, her voice close by his ear.

“If you'll excuse me, sir,” Mathaiah said quietly, “I think I will retire for the night.”

Eamon glanced at him with guilty eagerness. “Already?” With Mathaiah gone, he would be free to go with Alessia. All he could think of was her touch on his skin.

“I've seen enough for one day,” Mathaiah told him. Was that an agitated tone to his voice? “Goodnight,
first
lieutenant.”

Eamon frowned. What should the word “first” mean to him?

Alessia tugged gently on his arm. “Mr Goodman,” she said, “would you accompany me home?”

Eamon smiled, delighted by her radiance and thrilled by the kiss that lay still upon his cheek. “It would be my pleasure, lady!” he replied gallantly.

Together they walked the red-lit streets towards the North Quarter and turned from there into the gates of the Turnholt estate. Alessia flooded him with compliments; her eyes and hands upon his inflamed him utterly.

They reached her doors. She turned and smiled at him.

“Won't you come in, Mr Goodman?” she asked. “I have something for you; a gift of congratulation, if you will.”

Part of his heart cautioned him to stay his step, to consider the import of crossing the threshold on that night in answer to those words. But it was only a very small part of his heart. His veins sang with the Master's acclaim, drowning out the warnings.

He stepped over the threshold and followed her.

She led him up the staircase and along the upper passageway. Dozens of rich paintings gazed down at him and every wall bore an eagle that clasped a crown-bearing shield. The eyes of that noble predator, great bird and mark of a great family that served the Master, watched him as he followed her who was heir to that same crest.

They met no servant and all about was quiet. They came at last to a doorway at the far side of the house. Even the sounds of the majesty's revels seemed far away. Smiling still, Alessia opened the door and stepped inside. Past her slim figure Eamon could see a bedchamber.

His heart stopped.

Seeing him pause, she came back to him. She took his hand. “Come, Mr Goodman.”

He followed her. The room held a great bed over which hung the eagle and the shield. Tall windows that overlooked the garden lined one side, curtains draped about them. From those windows the reflected light of the majesty, of a thousand candles burning in the night, filled the room with a low glow.

Eamon trembled. Fear and passion clashed in his heart like mighty armies.

Alessia gently closed the door. She stepped back to him, caressing his fingers in hers. He knew what gift it was that she intended. He longed to receive it, and yet…

He pressed her hands. “My lady,” he whispered, “you honour me – how you honour me! – but I cannot –”

Alessia laughed. With a fairy grace she pulled his face down to hers. She kissed him and Eamon felt his whole being driven to answer it. How could he not? He pressed himself against her, drinking in her loveliness, feeling her face and hair with his hands.

She stepped back from him, lingering her lips on his, and as she smiled at him she seemed surprised. He burnt – how he burnt! – with greater ardour than the mark on his palm had ever burned.

In the ruddy half-light he saw that one sleeve of her crimson dress had slipped from one white shoulder. Abashed, he reached to set it back; she stopped him. There was sudden seriousness in her face. Eamon saw something deep in her – far deeper than the seductive smile that had drawn him to her chamber.

“Three nights ago, you asked me to dance with you,” she breathed. “How we danced!” She looked at him anew, her eyes now soft and shy. Her fingers trembled as she guided his hand to her bare shoulder.

“Eamon,” she whispered. How sweet his name sounded, pronounced by her sweet lips! “Eamon, will you dance with me?”

And he did.

C
HAPTER
XIX

H
e woke in the grey light, when the world waited for dawn to rise in bridal splendour. He, too, joined the waiting, thinking nothing but that the dawn had to come and that, when it did, it would be beautiful.

Slowly, he gathered his senses. The long, red drape over the casement stirred in the breeze. A mirror gazed at him from the far wall. In it was the reflection of the bed in which he lay. He saw himself, roused from a dream to find that it had not been a dream.

He heard breathing beside him, the slow, deep breathing of sleep untroubled by any shade or shadow. A hand with warm, slender fingers was curled in his. Dark hair lay all about him, showing streaks of forgotten gold. The gentle scent of perfume was by him, and it was this that made him turn his head at last to see what he, in his bliss, had almost forgotten: Alessia. Her resting face, still and wondrous, lay near his.

Long he looked at her, tracing every contour of her dear face with his eyes and memorizing its every shape. He reached out and passed an awed touch across her forehead. She was so very beautiful. How was it, he wondered, that such a beauty had seen fit to bestow herself on him? That she had chosen to do so made him love her all the more.

The thought startled his waking mind – was what he felt for her love? And yet, having given all of himself to her, what else could he call it?

The first streaks of the dawn appeared at the window, casting ruddy light over his discarded uniform. Eamon looked to it and remembered his duties.

He eased his hand from Alessia's and slipped out from between the bedcovers. The floor was cold beneath his feet and he moved to stand on the crimson rug. As he dressed, his eyes strayed often to the lady as she lay in her bed.

At last he set his jacket over his shoulders and buckled his sword to his belt. Alessia had not stirred. Her hand was curved still in a phantom of his as she lay sleeping. He leaned over and kissed her forehead, feeling its warmth beneath his lips. He wished that he might stay with her.

He went at last to the door. He slipped through it and pulled it closed behind him.

A cool air lay in the house. Far away he heard the sounds of servants in the kitchens, stoking the fires. It was late September. The smell of baking bread rose to his nostrils and he heard a voice singing. As he went silently down the stairs, fastening his jacket, the voice came closer. He looked up.

Lillabeth stood on the steps, a jug of steaming water in her hands. Hearing movement she had looked up and now she saw him.

The jug nearly slipped from her hands. Officer and maid froze upon the stairs, each transfixed by the astonished gaze of the other. Eamon gave no explanation for his presence: his bearing told his story intimately, without the utterance of a single word.

He fixed the last fastening on his jacket and offered Lillabeth a nervous smile.

“Good morning, Miss Hollenwell.”

She neither smiled nor answered him.

Eamon hurried down the stairs and disappeared into the grey morning.

He worked his way swiftly from the house onto the Coll. He was to be at parade in the college for the second hour and his absence would be unacceptable. If he was to become a Hand, he would have to earn it. He remembered Alessia's voice in his ear, praising him and exhorting him to fulfil himself in his service to the Master. Like so many others, she had seen that Eamon Goodman would be great. As a man and as a Hand, he could have no equal before the throne.

Eamon struggled to focus his thoughts on something, anything – the early calls of the Gauntlet as the watches changed, the frosty cobbles crunching beneath him. But all he could see was Alessia's face tilted towards his own, and all he could feel was his heart, burning, as he held her.

“Good morning, first lieutenant.”

Startled, Eamon looked up. Lord Cathair came down the Coll, a piece of night that the sun could not drive away. The Lord of the West Quarter wore his accustomed smile as deftly as his black robes.

“My lord.”

“Up a little late this morning, aren't we, Mr Goodman?” Cathair inquired pleasantly. Eamon flushed.

“Yes, my lord.”

“I do adore the morning, Mr Goodman,” Cathair continued. “It speaks to a deep and most poetical part of my soul.” The Hand spread his arms, as though to encompass the whole morning in his dark embrace.

The sun was just appearing on the horizon and the Hand smiled at it. “Ah, Mr Goodman!” he called. “‘Dawn steals from secret bowers and rises, inflamed by her passions, to light the day. Does she know what colours her fellow wears until he comes to her again? She does not. But she rises and is content.'”

Lord Cathair's poetic mood alarmed him. Cathair seemed not to notice. “Perhaps this work is also unknown to you?”

“I regret that it is, my lord.”

“Again, you disappoint me. Perhaps you should ask Cadet Overbrook.”

“Thank you, my lord; I will.”

The Hand gestured once to dismiss him. Bowing low, Eamon turned and began to hurry on down the road. As he was leaving, Cathair called after him:

“You will find the fruits of your labours of yesterday in the Brand, Mr Goodman. Be sure to inspect them.”

A chill coursed through his veins. His pace quickened. Smoke… charred flesh.

He ran. The Brand was before him. Eamon stopped.

Three stakes stood at the centre of the square, exhausted kindling stacked all about them. Blackened, disfigured remains were caught in writhing about the poles. One was smaller than the others. Dark smoke still emanated from them.

People milled around the square, darting in and out of shuttered buildings. All avoided the gruesome centrepiece bar a lame, welted dog and carrion birds that had not yet dared alight upon the faggots.

Eamon's eyes stung. He went slowly towards the poles like the crows. Wretchedly, he halted at the edge of the kindling by a wooden board. A notice had been fixed to it, telling of the crimes committed against the Master by the grisly remains. The notice bore Lord Cathair's seal. It stoked the hatred in his heart.

Those who break the law deserve death,
spoke the voice within him.
Be proud of what was done here, Eben's son, and for your part in it; you glorified me.