The Traitor's Heir (67 page)

There was a flash of red and he cried in alarm. Suddenly the throned towered over him, gripping him with the force of a raging sea.

“Your very heart stands in my power, and it beats or fails at my command.”

Eamon froze. He felt the power in the hand upon him. Terrorized, he waited for the obliterating wrath of the red light.

But no light came. Instead, the Master's fingers delved under his robes. They drew out the heart of the King.

The throned brought the cold stone towards him; the chain tightened. Eamon choked for breath.

The throned turned the stone in his hand. He laughed. His steely eyes met Eamon's.

“Please, Master –” Eamon gasped.

“You need not speak to me of this, Eben's son.” He pulled on the chain, forcing Eamon to rise to his feet. “From the east it came. I know its making and its history better than he who entrusted it to you – and you would dare to bear it before me.”

The throned looked long at the stone, smiling the smile of long remembrance. It remained dead and cold in the hand of the King's enemy.

A tremendous force hit his neck. He collapsed, half-throttled. The chain was broken, the stone clenched in the throned's hand. Red flames appeared in the Master's palm, a torturous, grievous light that burned so fiercely that Eamon could not see. There was an ear-splitting sound – Eamon cried out as it struck him, its intensity forcing him backwards.

The noise died away. Gasping, Eamon dared to open his eyes.

Blue-grey shards lay on the ground. Eamon bit back a cry of grief, but he dared not speak – and he dared not reach for the broken heirloom.

The grey eyes looked down on him. The Master's voice came, gentle and soothing, to his ear.

“You will serve me, redeem your honour, save the lives of your men, and claim your rightful place in this city, Eben's son.”

A cold thrill ran through him. How could he refuse? “Yes, Master.”

“Bear these shards to the Serpent. You will win his trust. You will seek out the commander in his camp that hails from the east, and you will take his life.” The commands had the force of iron bands.

“By sunset of the twenty-seventh, seven days from the next dawn, you will bear that man's head to me. If you do not, your men will lose their lives.” Eamon looked up in fear. The Master smiled. “Be sure of this, Eben's son: if they lose their lives they will not lose them to mere knives. Their deaths will be slow, left to the invention of Lord Cathair, and you will witness them.”

Eamon stood, dumbstruck. He could not let them die – they were many, so many… Not for his fault. He could not betray the throned.

But how could he betray Hughan again?

He forced his gaze to his Master's. The throned knew his heart – and knew he had no choice.

“The shards, son of Eben.” His voice was quiet again, as though he spoke to a child. “Then go, and glorify me.”

With trembling hands, Eamon took up the shards of stone and broken chain – emblems of a shattered oath. He rose, bowed low, and left the throne room.

He emerged in a daze, feeling as though he had been rent open, his tortured mind visible to all. Even the breeze chafed him. He heard the city living beyond the palace walls. It could not be more than the third hour. It seemed as though a whole day had passed.

A whole day…

His limbs full of fire, he ran back to the Hands' Hall. In his frenzy he stumbled, nearly dropping the shards. He gripped them tightly. He had to hurry.

He reached his own room. He entered, pressed the door shut, and rested his back firmly against it. The scars over his shoulders burned. The colours over his bed glared at him. He sank down to the floor, the shards of the precious stone crushed in his hands.

Tears streamed down his face.

The choice before him was terrible. It had, he realized, always been terrible. Though he had sworn oaths and been branded and named, it was the choice that he had never made. Now, when so much rode on his staggering heart, he had to.

How could he?

Eagle talons crushed him, constricting his bleeding heart. The eagle pushed him against a serpent, tall, coiled, and venomous on the dark plain. There was a sword in his hand. Again and again the eagle forced him to strike, and his name was screeched like a curse. The serpent endured his every blow, and each grisly strike revealed not stinking flesh but the flanks of a unicorn.

A final blow shed every scale. The unicorn blazed and the eagle was pierced by blue.

With an evil screech the eagle fled. He staggered to his feet, his breast ripped by claws and sorrows. The unicorn came towards him, inclining its head towards his bleeding heart. There was a star above its brow…

He woke, shivering and cold. The sky was darkening. His dreams pounded in his veins like things alive. He felt the talons about him still, their poison coursing through his veins.

The shards of the stone were still in his fingers. He lowered his head against them, pleading for comfort and courage.

He had to leave the city.

He put the shards into a small purse that he wore under his clothes. They felt heavy and dead.

As he passed through the Hands' Hall he met Ladomer. His friend's face was grey.

“I'm to tell you that there are fresh horses at the South Gate. I've sent a message ahead of you, so that when you get there at least one will be ready for you.”

“Thank you, Ladomer,” Eamon answered. He did not dare to ask who had sent Ladomer with such a message.

The sun was westering under the cover of a grey sky and a strong wind blew in from over the sea. Eamon shivered.

“I've been hearing some terrible rumours about you today, Ratbag.”

Overpowering weariness swept over him. What answer could he give? “I suppose you have.”

A flush of anger passed over Ladomer's face. He turned Eamon roughly round to face him. “Whatever possessed you to speak to the Right Hand like that?”

Eamon stared. “How do you know?”

“For pity's sake!” Ladomer retorted. “Everyone bloody knows, Eamon! You defied the Right Hand in front of a hundred people. Have you any idea the repercussions it will have for you? What kind of a fool are you?”

Stung, Eamon swallowed. “I'm a brazen fool, Ladomer,” he whispered. “I am paying for it.”

“I'll say!” Ladomer was explosive with ire at Eamon's folly. “The Right Hand will not forgive you.”

“I know.”

Ladomer forced himself to calm down. “What happened with the Master?” he asked at last.

“The Right Hand hasn't told you?” Eamon snapped.

“Yes, I have been told,” came the harsh reply.

“Then I'm sure you've heard enough.”

They stood together for a while. Eamon watched a company of Gauntlet soldiers pass by. He drove his hands over his face. “I'm sorry, Ladomer. I don't want anyone to die.”

“That was always your problem.” Though his tone was still harsh, his face grew kinder. “Honestly, Eamon! Did you think that this would be easy, that you could saunter around in black and take no responsibility for your command?” He laid his hand on Eamon's shoulder. “We both dreamed of becoming Hands, Eamon. You have been made one. For both our sakes, act like it!”

Eamon stared angrily. “Should the lives of those men mean nothing to me?”

“Despite the Serpent's best efforts, soldiers are still easy to come by, Ratbag.” Ladomer offered Eamon a faint smile, and pressed his shoulder. “Men like you – poetic, romantic, chilvalric men – are, I fear, little but a dying breed of quaint curiosities.”

The jibe somehow eased the tension that had been growing between them. Eamon shivered once. “I'm sorry, Ladomer.”

Ladomer nodded, accepting the apology. “Seven days?”

Eamon breathed deep. “Seven days.” There was little else to say.

Beyond readying a horse and gathering some provisions, there were no preparations to make. The Hands knew of his intended absence and he had leave from Cathair to be out of the city – he knew this only because Ladomer delivered the appropriate paperwork to him. Eamon had not been surprised at that. He supposed few of the high-ranking Hands – most of whom he had embarrassed in the last few days – would be in a hurry to see him before he left.

The day went on, and even though he seemed ready he could not bring himself to go. He could not think straight, and found himself nervously pacing and retracing his way through the Hands' Hall. At last he left it, thinking that walking to the Four Quarters and back would clear his mind. He knew that he looked nervous and he was sure that he was watched from every quarter, but he barely cared. The Master's voice was always in his mind. The throned knew everything.

He does not know about the ring, Eamon.

Eamon paused. How could the Master not know? And yet, if the throned had known about the ring would he not have called him to account for it? Would not the voice take back word of it?

Eamon: his voice is but his voice. It is a liar, an oppressor of thought. Nothing more.

Eamon reached into his pouch and drew out the ring. It was like a band of starlight on his palm. He looked at it for a long time – but the Master's voice remained silent.

The sea wind whipped about him, stirring his cloak like illomened sails. He saw the Blind Gate and, beyond it, the distant shimmer of the mountains. He stopped and watched mist veil the peaks in a dun haze.

He found himself going on into the East Quarter. He had not gone far when he heard the sound of an approaching horse. A familiar face: Captain Anderas.

The captain drew his steed to a halt. “Lord Goodman.”

“Are you well enough to be riding?” Eamon asked, surprised.

“I seem to be well enough to stand in a line,” Anderas answered. “The surgeons told me that riding a short distance would be beneficial to me.”

“Is it?”

“I've only come from the Ashen,” Anderas answered, gesturing over his shoulder towards the East Quarter's principal plaza. “It is a short ride.” He looked worriedly at Eamon. “Lord Ashway told me what you're to do.”

Did the whole city know of his shame?

Anderas touched Eamon's shoulder. It was a good hand; it would recover to wield a sword again.

“Be careful, Lord Goodman.”

Eamon glanced up. “You fear for your life, captain?”

Anderas laughed softly. “No, Lord Goodman,” he replied. “My life is but my life. I fear for yours.”

Eamon was swept away. “How can you –?”

Anderas smiled. “There is something about you, Lord Goodman, which inspires devotion. It is a fearful gift! I would not see you cast your life away – and I would not lose my friend. My wishes are not entirely selfless. But this city needs you. Thus, I say, take care.”

Unable to reply, Eamon nodded. Anderas saluted him and returned to the Ashen.

He drew his cloak about himself in a quandary. How could Dunthruik need him? The city was dense and rotten, ridden with the throned's malice and corruption. It was tangible, and the people of the city bore haunted looks. Even the gentry, he realized, were not free. They could laugh and dance, but the women were whored and the men betrayed or pawned in politics and war. The Gauntlet were blind in their service, working for the glory of their Master. The Hands enforced that law and all the while the city, a thing of splendour with eagles and carven crowns on every lintel, was foul and stagnant at its heart. And yet not all was evil. Anderas was there, and Waite, and Manners… Why was it not simple?

Beyond the city walls coils of smoke rose from the pyres. They had been stoked to deal with those taken in the first waves of the culling.

He realized that it was true: the city was founded in blood. The Hands and the Gauntlet were bound to it and in it.

The throned had mastered him. It was the natural consequence of being in Dunthruik. Surely that was the role allotted to him? His place was at the throned's side. Hughan had been wrong about him; there was nothing left in his blood but treachery, and the blood of a traitor could not be offered to the King. The King's grace had abandoned him, disgusted with his service, and the King's heart had been taken from him. Mathaiah was dead.

Eamon brought himself up sharply. Was the throned's influence over him so great that his own thoughts were twisted, even without the interference of the voice? Mathaiah was not dead! He was alive, and Mathaiah had stood against the man who called himself “Master”, just as Eamon had stood against the Right Hand. Though they had been punished, neither of them had surrendered. Surely that was worth something?

The silver ring was cool beneath his touch, driving away the heat in his hand and forehead. His mind was still his own.

Anger grew in his heart – but it was not the vile, burning rage that had driven him to attack Giles. This was a fierce, pure anger: it strove against the voice that had so often turned him against himself and all that he held dear.

You would fight me, heir of Eben?
Divested of all disguise, the voice openly mocked him.
You have not the skill for that. You are mine. Why do you resist?

Eamon shut his eyes. The voice penetrated like a hundred incisive blades. The plain shivered blackly around him. He was not alone – something hovered ghoulishly just beyond his ken.

“Get away from me!” he cried. His skin crawled with the sensation of something brushing past him, round him, encircling him.

You are sworn to me. I will not leave at your behest. Your oath is binding.

“Leave me!”

The black cloak seemed grotesquely large on his shoulders. His heart pounded and his whole body shook.

The voice laughed at him.

“Leave me!” he cried again, desperately.

Did you not hear? You swore yourself to me. Your blood is bound to my will. It has always been bound to me. None can free you from that. I command you, Eben's son! Learn it at last, and submit yourself to me. Serve my glory.