The Traitor's Heir (66 page)

“Come forward, Eben's son.” The voice brooked no defiance and expected none.

Eamon could barely breathe. Quivering, he crossed to the dais. Every step sounded in the interminable length of the hall.

Reaching the throne, he dropped to his knees.

“Your glory over all things, Master.” He felt as though he were dissolving in fear.

At last the Master spoke, his voice filled with a father's indulgence for a wayward child.

“There is an unspeakable, high-minded impetuosity in your blood, Eben's son.” The voice cracked down Eamon's spine. The throned laughed – a sound that rocked Eamon to his core. “And to dare my Right Hand! He could have killed you where you stood and left your carcass to glut a raven's brood.” The eyes grew as keen as knives. The Master's voice rose with wrath that might part flesh from bone.

“When you defy my Right Hand, Eben's son, you also defy me.”

Eamon's tongue clove to the roof of his mouth and neither breath nor word could venture forth. How could he not have seen where his defiance would lead? Now he could only await the Master's fury.

The throned's face was touched by a smile. “It has been long since anyone defied the Right Hand.”

Why was he smiling? The Master's eyes glistened.

Receiving that look, Eamon did not know whether to feel relieved or terrified. As he tried to calm his heart he felt memories of Alessia and Lillabeth being tugged to mind. Those thoughts beat wildly about him.

The throned was watching him – was he watching his thoughts? With a desperate effort Eamon forced his churning mind to be still. Being in the presence of the Hands was terrible enough, but to be alone with the throned – as he suddenly realized he was –threatened to shred his very soul. He tried to rally his courage but trembled wretchedly in every limb. He knew the throned could see him shaking.

The Master stood. “Rise, Eben's son.”

Eamon glanced up: it felt akin to peering into the heights of the heavens. Meeting the grey eyes, he could only obey. He rose. The Master seemed a giant who had deigned to gaze upon some crawling worm beneath him. His pale face was proud and strong, limitless in power, and the grey eyes showed forth a shrewd and domineering mind.

Any sense of victory that Eamon had felt was torn from him, like a veil from a maiden, as he rose before the Master.

“Good,” the Master smiled. “Walk with me.”

Eamon stared at him for a moment, utterly incapable of comprehension. The throned stepped down from the dais. The Master never once looked behind to see if his order was obeyed. Eamon stumbled after him.

Whether by arcane powers or hidden hands, the great doors opened before the Master. He was lord of all that surrounded him. It seemed that the stones trembled to bear such mighty feet.

The throned passed through his great hall to the Hands' Hall. Guards, Gauntlet, servants, and Hands dropped to their knees or bowed down before him, falling still in their places with calls of: “Your glory!”

Eamon realized that his name would be on the lips of every man in the palace by the end of the day. First he had defied the Right Hand, then he had walked alone with the Lord of Dunthruik. All eyes watched in horror and awe as he followed the Master. The throned sailed past them all, noticing neither their obeisance nor their homage.

Lord Cathair was in the hall, speaking in agitated tones to one of his servants. As the Master's shadow passed over him the Hand fell suddenly silent.

“Your glory, and an unexpected grace, Master,” he said, bowing.

The throned nodded and passed by. Eamon followed, flinching back from the gaze with which Cathair crushed him.

Gradually, Eamon realized where they were going. He remembered the times that Cathair had taken him through those halls, to make him an actor of deeds he had not always wanted to commit. He remembered Clarence's screams of agony, the tortured look on the faces of both father and son. The power of the memory nearly forced him to his knees.

Clarence forgave you, Eamon.
A voice spoke clearly in his mind. It was not the voice of the Master. It surprised him, and he faltered.

The throned looked back sharply. Eamon bowed low in terror. “Your glory, Master.”

A smile grew on the throned's face. “Do you know where we are going, Eben's son?”

Eamon nodded – they were going to the Pit.

The smell touched him long before anything else; it had haunted his nightmares. Blood, waste, rotting flesh. How could he have forgotten it? And yet he had done so. It was more terrible than the smell after Pinewood, or the stench of the village that had been destroyed thereafter. It was more terrible than the smell of the blood spilled by the Right Hand but half an hour before. It was the reek of torment and suffering.

The throned led him to one of the rooms adjoining the Pit. Several Hands were there. They bowed with lightning reflexes. Eamon heard raised voices coming from a chamber beyond the room.

“Your glory,” spoke the Hands in unison.

“Call them out.”

The Hands moved at once. Eamon stood, his limbs trembling. Why had he been brought there?

Men emerged from the chamber. One was Ashway. The Hand wore a look of utter rage and swore vilely. Eamon did not recognize the other Hand, nor did he care to; all he saw was that the second Hand dragged someone roughly forward. The victim was thrust before the throned.

It was Mathaiah.

Eamon stared in horror. His ward had been stripped. Added to the crusting scar on his face the young man bore welts, bruises, cuts, and burns. He seemed injured everywhere, except for his hands and face.

Eamon gaped at the marks of torment. What had they done to Mathaiah? He dared not think on it. And how could the young man have endured so much? Exultant defiance shone in the cadet's eyes. Eamon was awed by it. Mathaiah faced the flame-haired throned without a trace of fear on his quiet face. How could he?

“What have you to tell, Lord Ashway?” demanded the Master.

“But little yet, Master,” Ashway answered, glancing at Eamon as though he were dirt. “No more than that of which you are already aware.”

The throned turned to Mathaiah. “You will bow down.”

Eamon silently willed the young man to obey. Retribution would be unspeakable if he did not!

Mathaiah raised his head. Though he trembled slightly, he did not flinch.

“I will not.”

His answer stole Eamon's breath away.

“You will crawl on your knees before the Master, snake!” The Hand holding Mathaiah dealt him a series of blistering blows. Mathaiah staggered, but he did not kneel.

“There is no man here to whom I may bend my knee!” Mathaiah gasped, eyes clenched against the pain.

The Hand hit him again.

“Lord Goodman,” commanded the Master, “tell your ward to kneel.”

Mathaiah saw him for the first time and drew shocked breath. He quickly averted his eyes, as though the mere sight of him was worse than any torture he had endured. Eamon took it as a blow, but he could not speak. The Master stood by him, his face framed in the hellish mane of red.

Eamon bent to meet Mathaiah's gaze as resolutely as he could. He forced fear from his voice. “Do as the Master bids you, Mr Grahaven.” The beating had opened some of his wounds – Eamon saw the Hand's bloodied fist ready to continue, felt Ashway's glare upon him, and the throned's will behind him. He swallowed. “Kneel.”

Mathaiah stilled. For a moment his gasping was all that could be heard. Eamon wanted to call him by name, to beg of him to do as he was bidden. Did he want to die? He only needed to kneel…

His ward met his gaze. Without uttering a single word, Mathaiah Grahaven shook his head.

The Master held out one hand. He laid it on Mathaiah's bare shoulder. The boy wrenched back, as though it brought with it intolerable pain. Red light roared about the Master's fingertips – Eamon choked back a cry. Mathaiah howled as the light scoured him, broken sobs from cracked lips.

“I am the Master of the River Realm and the Lord of Dunthruik. You will obey me.” The red light, stronger than bands or flames, increased, and suddenly Mathaiah was cast onto his knees. There was a horrid crack as they struck the cold, hard floor.

The throned withdrew his hand. The light vanished. Mathaiah crumpled, writhing. As he choked on his agony his eyes found Eamon's; they burned with anger.

“You may break my body, or make it kneel,” he gasped, “but you will not have my heart. I am a King's man.”

The throned regarded the young man silently, machinations marching behind his grey eyes. None dared to move.

“Eben's son, tell me what you see on the table.”

Tearing his eyes from Mathaiah, Eamon forced his gaze to the table. There were some papers and a small bag of coins on it. At least one of the papers appeared to be a letter written in Mathaiah's hand. By it lay a small silver ring.

“There are coins, a ring, and a letter, Master,” Eamon answered.

“Bring me the letter.”

With shaking hands, Eamon handed the parchment to the throned. The Master turned to the cadet.

“This letter was for your father.” His voice had the roar of fire. Mathaiah gasped and squirmed, as though the voice alone hurt him. “He will learn how you have served his name.”

The throned held the paper before Mathaiah's reddened eyes. “Parchment can be read. It is pale; it can be burnt and torn.” He slowly tore the letter into halves, then quarters, letting the shreds fall before Mathaiah's eyes. “Even so can a woman.”

For a moment, Mathaiah gaped, his face riven with horror and despair. His breath quickened, becoming almost uncontrollable as the Master's grey eyes held him; his hands trembled where shreds of the paper had fallen among his fingers.

Suddenly he fell still. He closed his eyes and pressed his hands about the paper. “You do not have her,” he answered simply, “and I am not afraid.”

Eamon glanced at the ring with terrible foreboding. What did he not know?

“Have you nothing that you would say to Lord Goodman?” the Master asked. “In my name and for my glory he brought you here. All that you suffer – everything that she will suffer – is due to his work.”

Mathaiah looked at Eamon with unbearable ire. Eamon steadied himself. Mathaiah would speak and betray him – betray them both!

There was a long silence. They watched each other across the small chamber, Mathaiah still panting. Eamon's heart beat hard.

Slowly, the anger in Mathaiah's eyes turned from scorn to pity, and from pity to regret and sorrow. “I have nothing to say to Lord Goodman,” he whispered.

Eamon reeled. Not one word? Was he not worthy even of Mathaiah's anger?

The Lord of Dunthruik cast a withering gaze on the cadet. “Then you have outlasted your purpose. Lord Ashway, send him to the Pit.”

Ashway bowed quickly. “Your glory, Master.”

The Hands dragged Mathaiah to his feet. The cadet was beaten, gasping and bleeding. Scraps of parchment were pressed between his fingers while the Hands hauled him away. As the doors opened to let them pass, tortured cries issued from the Pit, pain percolating the air. Mathaiah clenched his eyes shut.

The door closed. Again Eamon stood alone with the Master. The torn remains of the letter lay like ashes about their feet.

“Follow me, son of Eben.”

Eamon followed. Mathaiah's silver ring glinted in the light. The throned's back was on him – no one would see. Silently, he took the ring. He slipped it into his pouch and followed the Master.

He was led back to the throne room another way. Eamon followed the length of the hall to the throne. The Master sat. Eamon sank at once to his knees before him. He kept his eyes low and tried not to think of Mathaiah.

“Fear not, Eben's son. Your erstwhile ward may be strong now, but he will be broken.” It was as though he offered salve to the tormented mind of a child. “Though there may be little use for him other than death, he will glorify me just as you do.”

Eamon nodded. Yes. It was right that Mathaiah should be broken for his insolence. No mercy should be shown to such a man.

“Yes, Master.”

What was he thinking? Eamon tried to eject the insidious thoughts that masqueraded as his own. The cadet would never glorify the throned. Mathaiah Grahaven was sworn to Hughan, willing to prove that service on his body and with his life. Eamon knew too well what horrors the Pit held – to think of Mathaiah being cast to its torments grieved his whole heart.

Eamon blinked back tears. The young man whose life he had once saved, who had spoken against Alessia and unswervingly kept his oath to Hughan, the young man who was even then being committed to the bloody embraces of the Pit, was a man whom he loved. How could he have forgotten it?

He became horribly aware of the throned's gaze upon him – were his thoughts being sifted? His brow burnt, and his thoughts turned involuntarily from Mathaiah to Lillabeth. Terrified of what might be happening he tried to stop himself remembering the inn on the Serpentine, the tunnel, and the wayfarers to whom he had entrusted Alessia's maid…

Suddenly the burning became an intolerable band of fire. With a gasp he raised his hands to his head – and found that the throned's were already there. His gasps became cries as he struggled to hold his own. The Master watched him.

“Tell me, Eben's son, did you think to strike against me?”

All indulgence was gone and a strange, quiet tone, more deadly than the fiercest poison, took its place. The voice grew darker, the pain greater.

“Did you think that I would permit it? Your little treacheries have been tenderly endured. They will be so no longer.”

Panic seared his veins like lightning. He had feared it all along, and now he saw that it was true. The throned knew everything – he had always known it.

“You will serve me, son of Eben. You will glorify me.”