The Traitor's Heir (68 page)

Eamon froze. This was it: the moment he feared had come. He tried to hold to Mathaiah's defiance but the memory was blown away by the darkness. All he remembered was the cadet's body writhing on the ground.

Do not delude yourself. You are the traitor's heir. You can have no choice.

There, in flame-bound darkness, Eamon felt his whole heart inclining, submitting all to the voice that had known him longer than he had been made.

Come, Eben's son. You yearn after me; you know where your place lies. Bind yourself to me.

Courage, Eamon!

His will and heart rose to the call. Rising above the insidious, crawling din of the unseen beast that hounded him, he made his choice:

“In the name and grace of the King, get behind me!” Eamon yelled. “Do you hear? Behind me and hence!”

The darkness was gone. His hands met the walls of a building on Coronet Rise. A cat crouched near him. He steadied himself against the stone. Blood raced in his veins.

The dreadful voice was gone. He tentatively awaited its resurgence but found nothing in his mind but silence. His own thoughts returned to him clearly.

He did not know what would happen when he left Dunthruik or how he could do what had been commanded of him. But he would try. And there was something that he had to do before he left. He might not have another chance.

Go, Eamon.

His heart washed with courage, he returned to the palace. Men fell back before his determined stride. He stopped for none; his will laid clear the road before him. Reaching the Hands' Hall, he passed through the guarded passages without a moment's hesitation.

He went to the Pit.

There was a small antechamber at the foot of the case where trailing torches blackened the walls. The doorway to the Pit stood open, its smell overpowering. Eamon steeled himself against it and strode inside.

The gaping fissure in the cavern stood open. The system of ropes and pulleys suspended over it hung motionless. Two Hands stood guard there, masks drawn over their noses and mouths to lessen the choking stench. As Eamon entered they rose from the table where they sat alone. It was late. Lord Cathair was not there. Eamon knew it at once: none of the doors leading to the smaller chambers were open. Cathair liked others in the Pit to hear the nature of his work.

“Lord Goodman.” The Hand seemed uneasy in his presence. Eamon imagined that his name had run before him.

“I come from Lord Cathair,” Eamon told him. “I will address Cadet Grahaven.”

“Good luck to you, my lord!” the other Hand sniffed, muffled by the mask. “None can get anything from him. Lord Ashway practically hurled the boy back down there this afternoon; he spent three hours trying to break him.” Eamon shuddered. The throned had ordered further questioning of Mathaiah?

He laughed grimly. “I have breached this man. He will not elude me.”

“Do as you will, Lord Goodman.”

Eamon stepped up to the stinking welt in the cavern floor. His stomach pressed at him, but he gagged it and choked it back down. He heard coughs and desperate cries below. One was being quietened by the indistinct words of a firm, gentle voice. Eamon knew it at once: his ward's. He felt a surge of pride.

The Hands seemed uninterested in his doings; they had returned to their table and were engaged in conversation. Eamon heard them laughing together. However uninterested they looked, he resolved not to take any chances.

“Grahaven!” He forced his tone to fury. His hands shook. “Grahaven!”

Silence fell below.

“I am Grahaven,” came the reply at last. “To whom do I speak?”

“You will know me well enough when I repay you for your insolence!” Eamon roared.

“You can only repay it to my body, Lord Goodman,” Mathaiah answered. “And you shall be no better at that than your so-called Master.”

Eamon turned to the Hands. “Bring him up,” he commanded.

The Hands looked at each other uncertainly. Eamon heard laughter down below.

“I will not come up!” Mathaiah's voice was clear and bright.

One of the Hands shuffled uncomfortably. “Lord Goodman, he cannot be brought up.” The Hand lowered his voice. “The light cannot hold him.”

He remembered the red light that had drawn the arching, agonized body of Clarence's screaming son up from the Pit – the way it had crackled and burned like furnace irons. It could not hold Mathaiah? He was astounded.

“Very well – then I will go down.”

He said it without thinking. The two Hands glanced at each other in alarm.

“Lord Goodman –”

“I will go down,” Eamon repeated forcefully. The Hands did not move. Eamon glowered at them. “Oppose me, and you shall answer to Lord Cathair! Prepare the ropes.”

The Hands began to work the ropes, bringing across a strung ladder that could be lowered into the orifice. The contraption looked flimsy; Eamon dreaded how climbing on it would be. But he had to go down; he could not leave the city until he had done so.

As the Hands worked he took off his cloak. He laid it aside and stood, shivering, in his remaining garments. He unbuckled his sword.

The Hands stared at him, but obeyed. They had steadied the ladder and let it hang into the Pit. It was carefully attached to one of the pulley systems so that they would not have to bear his weight as he climbed.

“You will bring him up?”

Eamon set his hands and feet into the first rungs. “If I must,” he answered. “But my business can be conducted as well there.” One of the Hands shivered at his grisly tone. They knew that he was a breacher, and what that entailed. They would not interfere. He smiled slickly. “I will call you when I have concluded.”

He began descending the ladder. The climb was longer than he expected it to be; he remembered Cathair's insinuation that the Pit was much larger below than its narrow entry suggested. Cathair had certainly been truthful in one thing: it was completely dark. Eamon could see nothing as he fumbled down. The sounds of human suffering grew louder. He fought the urge to retch.

Suddenly a voice below burst forth. For a moment Eamon could barely distinguish the sounds, for the darkness and the terrible smell distorted them. But then they reached his ears like the notes of silver trumpets.

Eamon's heart soared. How well he knew that voice and how strongly it sang!

More rallied to Mathaiah's song, until all other sounds were drowned by the bounding power of the melody:

Eamon reached the ground of the Pit. It was slippery with excrement and vomit; the reek threatened him with fainting. He forced himself to breathe. Singing voices surrounded him in the dark. Most were faint, some old, some young. The song reverberated everywhere. None noted him as he descended – he was just one more shadow in a pit of hell. Straining his ears he listened to the voices, trying to pick out Mathaiah's.

Eamon stumbled towards the cadet's voice. Filth soaked into his breeches; his very boots filled with it. But there was such strength and joy in the song that it drove him forward.

Mathaiah's voice was right before him now, unfettered and resounding. He imagined the cadet standing with his defiant head raised to the unseen reaches of the starry sky.

Suddenly joy was in him and the song was on his lips – though he neither knew it nor clearly heard what he sang in the dark. One voice near him faltered as he lifted his own, for it recognized him and fell silent. He did not care; he sang as though his one voice could break all the darkness in the world:

He felt something warm at his breast – and his eyes seemed to see. It was no deception: streams of light, faint but true, escaped from the shards bound in the pouch. Suddenly he saw Mathaiah. His ward stood before him, eyes wide in fear and amazement. The singing was strong around them.

Eamon sank to his knees before his friend. The sludge was thick. He bowed his head to his breast. Fear threatened him: what if his ward would not listen to him? What if, after all he had done, he could not be forgiven?

“Mathaiah,” he breathed. He began shaking uncontrollably. “I'm sorry.”

Tears broke on Eamon's cheeks. He reached into his pouch. The silver ring came forth on his palm with a glowing shard; he held both towards the young man. It seemed a piteous gesture, but he did not falter.

“I brought this,” he whispered, “to return it to you.”

Mathaiah gasped. Eamon closed his eyes, feeling his heart upon a precipice. He had laid himself before the young man whom he had held above all other friends; he could only wait.

A hand reached out and clasped his own, its grasp firm. Eamon opened his eyes. Mathaiah knelt with him. His breath died in his throat. The cadet's eyes searched his. Then Mathaiah smiled.

“Eamon!” His voice was washed with joy that went beyond his frame. Eamon's name had scarcely sounded as dear to him as it did in that moment.

They began to laugh and cry, overcome and overjoyed. They embraced each other, and in their joy their voices rose up again to join the peal of song in every cranny of that darkened place:

Light erupted from the pouch at Eamon's breast; startled, he covered his eyes, but when he looked he could see light, blue light, flowing along every wall and rising upwards towards the Pit's opening. It gathered strength from the song, which carried it up with awesome speed.

The walls began to shake and then to rumble. The Hands above cried out in alarm. Suddenly there was a great crack and stones sheered away from the narrow entrance. Then the roof of the mire was shattering to dust, tumbling into the Pit beneath. That dust neither hurt nor blinded, but fell as a gentle rain to cover all the filth and torment that had lain below. Torchlight flooded down from the cavern above. The prisoners cheered and the blue light struck out of the Pit with a startling clarity.

Then it was gone. The song lingered in the air behind it.

There was a long silence. Eamon saw the light at his breast falling still again, and though torchlight reached them it seemed poor compared with the light that had been. He could just make out Mathaiah's awestruck face before him.

Eamon knew it would not be long before the Hands ventured to the lip of the shattered Pit seeking him. He grasped his friend's hand.

“You were right.”

“I was right about you,” Mathaiah answered, eyes shining with joy. “I knew you would come back. But I was so afraid –”

“I meant that you were right about Alessia.”

Mathaiah faltered. “I'm sorry.” He seemed genuinely grieved.

“No, I am. You never deserved what I dealt you. I don't have much time,” he said suddenly. “I'm going to the King, Mathaiah.”

“What?” Mathaiah whispered. “How?”

“My own foolishness – but perhaps it will work to the good.” Eamon looked nervously up to the roof of the Pit – were the Hands coming? “The King's grace is with you. Hold fast, Mathaiah. I will come back for you.”

“Don't fear for me,” Mathaiah answered firmly. “They can do nothing to me. But for you they are still laying traps. They have been trying to break you far longer than me. They will not stop. They have some design for you – something ancient, twisted. Please, Eamon…” He placed his hand on Eamon's shoulder. “Be careful. And hold to the King.”

“I will.” His promise was given, and he meant to keep it.

A voice came down from above, choked and distressed. “Lord Goodman! Lord Goodman!”

Eamon pressed ring and shard into Mathaiah's hand.

“Where did you –?”

“They are yours.”

“I wanted to tell you –” Mathaiah began.

“You will tell me.” Eamon raised his voice: “Ropes!” He looked back to Mathaiah. “You will tell me, when I come back for you.”

“Yes… sir.”

Eamon embraced him, then rose from the sludge and dust. It was in his hair and clothes; his skin was plastered and his boots were filled with filth, but his heart was clear.

“Ropes!”

The shadow of the rope appeared above him. Eamon took hold of it. Then he was hoisted up in fits and starts. As he reached the crumbling lip of the Pit he realized why: the Hands were hauling him up themselves. The pulley system was snapped and hung precariously overhead. As he staggered out into the upper chamber, Eamon still felt the reverberating song. It thrilled him.

“Are you well, Lord Goodman?” The Hand's face wrinkled in distaste at the state of him, an expression that made Eamon want to laugh. Just in time, he remembered to perform a fierce scowl.

“Do I look well to you?”

“What happened?” The Hands shook, and Eamon realized that what they had witnessed – the awesome power of the King's grace – was terrifying.

“I was trying to do my work, and I was interrupted,” he snapped. “Report the matter to Lord Cathair,” he added tersely, striding away from the lip of the Pit. “I have business to conclude.”

“But Lord Goodman, how do we explain –?”

Eamon rounded on them. “It would seem that the singing started it, so I suggest that you do something about the singing. Tell Lord Cathair that I breached the snake to help me with my task and that I bid him a most cordial farewell. He may discuss the matter with me on my return.”