The Traitor's Heir (8 page)

With a cry of horror Eamon dropped the blade and let go of her. His chest heaving, he stared at her. She clutched her arm to her breast. A dark trail ran from her fingers to her elbow.

She bled.

“Aeryn?” he whispered dumbly, trembling.

She stared at him, corpse-pale. Eamon reached out to her.

“Aeryn, I'm sorry, I didn't –”

Before he could finish she was gone. He was left numb and alone.

With a shuddering breath Eamon looked down. The mark of the throned pulsed thickly in his hand.

He wasn't sure how long he stood amidst the crumpled sheets gazing vacantly at the doorway. He tried to recapture what Aeryn had said, but his thoughts always turned to her betrayal and her hatred of everything that he was. She had disavowed him. There was a ridge between them that he could not cross. His duty forbade it.

What was he thinking? Aeryn had not betrayed him, even if she had not warned him of what she knew…

But wasn't that exactly how she had betrayed him?

He shook his head. There were thoughts within his thought, thoughts that did not seem to be his own – could never have been his own. Why had he hurt her?

Her talk of marks was nothing but the talk of disaffected traitors. There had probably never been a king over the River. His father had told him they were just stories. Why should he disbelieve his father?

And yet…

And yet the town of Edesfield was all about him; in the cool midnight he could almost hear the stones speaking.

He left. However many ruthless opportunists had been on the prowl that night he saw no trace of them as he walked back down Bury's Hill.

He needed rest in his own bed. He would need to report to the captain in the morning, to get news of his posting if nothing else. Would he report what he had seen and heard that night?

He did not know if, when he faced Belaal's dark eyes, he would have a choice.

For the second time that night he reached his door and fumbled for his keys. He was just slotting them into the lock when he became aware of a figure in the shadow of the lane. He looked up warily.

“Who's there?”

A sequence of strange moaning noises came from somewhere in the dark. “The Beast of Mirewell!” came the theatrical answer.

As Eamon peered, Ladomer stepped up beside him. “It's only me, Ratbag!” he said, playfully doffing his shoulder. But Eamon could not smile.

“What's the matter with you?” Ladomer asked, assessing Eamon's face with concern. “You look as though death himself had been and shaken your hand as preliminary to his day's business!” Drawing himself up in a spectral fashion, Ladomer reached out and did exactly that.

At last, Eamon laughed faintly. “It's been a long night, Ladomer.”

“Telo?” Mournfully, Ladomer shook his head. “I wasn't there. Belaal sent me to run some messages to the post as soon as the swearing had finished. I'm glad I didn't have to see it,” he added, his face growing grim. “I don't know what I would have done.”

“No,” Eamon murmured. Guilt twisted its long knife another wrenching turn in his gut.

“Have you seen Aeryn?” Ladomer asked, his look a worried one. “I saw her briefly at the swearing, but with what has happened perhaps we ought to –”

The compulsion to lie was overwhelming. “I haven't seen her.”

“Well, she's a tough one,” Ladomer mused. “I dare say she'll bear it.”

“Assuming that they don't arrest her, too.”

“Eamon!” Ladomer laughed. “The Gauntlet wouldn't arrest someone unless they had reason to, and they won't arrest someone for family connections. Aeryn's record is spotless.”

“Yes.” Eamon blinked distractedly. “Ladomer, I need some rest,” he said, his strength seeping from his limbs like water from a cracked jug. “I'll see you tomorrow?”

Ladomer nodded encouragingly. “Of course. Sleep well. Oh,” he added, “congratulations, Ensign Goodman!”

“Thank you.”

Eamon watched as Ladomer left, then took himself inside his ramshackle room to his bed. He was exhausted and collapsed gratefully onto it.

Despite the weariness in all his veins, he could not sleep. When he did at last trespass into the realm of dream it was to the thick of a battle of long ago, where a shining king took arms against an eagle with a burning crown.

C
HAPTER
IV

M
orning came, the sun stumbling weary and cold to the horizon. The smell and sound of the fishmonger woke him. With a groan he dug his head deep under the blankets, pulling them tight about his ears. The fibres tickled his nose; he sneezed and moaned as he tried to clear his head. Dreams and visions faded from his mind; others returned to him in their place: Aeryn, the paper, the inn…

Sleep drained from his veins. He passed his hands through his hair and glanced about his small room. His uniform lay draped over a chair, casting long shadows.

“Fresh fish! Fresh fish!” The fishmonger's cry rent the morning air. Squinting, Eamon made a move to cover his sore eyes, pausing as his hands passed before his face. He stopped. He turned them over, comparing and examining them as well as he could in the sullen light. The mark on his palm seemed to have lessened; indeed, he spent so long searching for it that he wondered if he had not imagined the whole grisly affair.

Perhaps he had not sworn at all.

Tricked, he smiled with relief. But when he looked up, he saw the pin on his uniform. His heart sank.

“Fresh fish!”

He wondered idly whether the fishmonger's assertion was true.

He dressed slowly, unsteady hands slipping on the fastenings of shirt and jacket, then strapped his sword to his side. As he left, locking the rickety door behind him, he fondly reached out and patted the threshold. Pulling his jacket more closely about his neck to dull the morning chill, he began to make his way to the college.

A throng of new ensigns were standing on the college steps by the time he arrived. Built from great slabs of stone, the college was bedecked with columns and graceless statues gesturing ever upwards to where the Master's emblem, encased in gold, lay on the uppermost wall. The glint of light over the courtyard was like gold leaf, glinting austerely over the open iron gates.

He passed without hindrance, greeting a few of his colleagues on the way. Here he was, Ensign Eamon Goodman, ready to hear what service he was to give the Master. Perhaps he would be sent out to one of the more distant garrisons, or up the River, or maybe even to Dunthruik itself…

And in the city? The thought rolled before him like an awesome dawn. In the city he might be assigned to the ports, the streets, or one of the four quarters. He might even take his turn at the palace gates and, were he bold and fortunate, he might prove himself extraordinary and be sent on to become a Hand…

He shivered. Those who became Hands largely began by serving in the Gauntlet, but by exceptionally proving their Master's glory were taken from those ranks and given black to wear. Others might be drawn from the gentry, but rarely and only after outstanding service. Whatever their provenance, the Hands performed the Master's highest bidding and were deep in his confidences.

Sometimes Eamon had dared to picture himself in black, and for the briefest moment he did so again. But if what Aeryn had said was true… if Dunthruik was founded in blood, then Eamon was sure that the Hands had shed it.

He blinked hard. How could he think such things? It was as if there was a voice inside him, questioning his questions.

He shook himself. Did he not have the right to query the things he swore to? No, the voice told him. He had already sworn. Service questioned was no service at all.

“Watch out!”

Eamon looked up just in time to have his nose hit by the mane of a passing horse. A Gauntlet messenger cast a dark look down from the saddle as he rode by, muttering curses.

Eamon folded his arms deeply into his jacket and carried on up the steps. He forwent the liberty of aiming a well-kicked stone at man and horse.

“You look particularly dapper and grippingly miserable this morning, Eamon!” called a cheerful voice.

Raising his head Eamon saw Ladomer leaning on one of the columns. The lieutenant was already sweaty and dishevelled from a couple of hours of swordplay. Eamon smiled. He had borne enthusiasm like Ladomer's once, though hardly so well.

“Ladies like a young man in uniform,” he replied. “Why else do you think I joined but to look dapper?”

“You joined because you knew it was the right thing to do,” Ladomer answered. “I bet that they already have you marked out for the Hands,” he added, sheathing his sword and bowing with a courtier's finesse. “Your record is exemplary.”

“Have you already forgotten the other night? Don't be daft, Ladomer,” Eamon replied, giving him a none-too-gentle whack on the arm. “They'll look at you for a Hand before ever they look at me – and if they set us side by side then I think I would fare far the worse for standing next to you.” He continued walking; Ladomer bounded up to his side with a delighted grin.

“Me, join the Hands?” he laughed loudly. “Oh, I would like to, Eamon, but do you really think black would suit me?”

Eamon looked at him. Notwithstanding the ridiculous and arrogant pose that Ladomer had adopted for his Handiness to be judged, Eamon nodded. “I think it would,” he answered. “You are a better man than I.”

“I shall never be noticed in Edesfield,” Ladomer said sadly. “That's why I try to get out of it as often as I can. But you!” He took hold of Eamon's shoulder with a smile. “You are going to Dunthruik. Black would suit you.”

“I don't think it would.” Suddenly he grasped what Ladomer had said. “Going to Dunthruik? Where did you hear –?”

Ladomer's face creased with mirth. “There's some interesting talk in the officers' mess.”

“There is?” Eamon gaped.

“You know the officers, Eamon. We hear about things, like
placements
,” Ladomer put peculiar emphasis on the word, “before they are officially announced – sometimes our opinions are sought on the matter. Not that we're supposed to discuss it. We're not supposed to discuss impending promotions, either,” he added with an ever-increasing grin.

Even if Ladomer hadn't been smiling, the oddly delighted shift in his tone would have alerted Eamon to some hidden message. His jaw dropped. “Promotions?” he stammered.

“Seems that Captain Belaal might be thinking of elevating a couple of ensigns to lieutenants.”

Eamon frowned. “Isn't that supposed to happen at the same time as the swearing-in?” he asked haltingly.

“Yes. But there are a few protocols in place for elevating men outside of swearing ceremonies.”

“You mean, Belaal just pins an extra badge on someone's throat?”

“And says something meaningful while he's doing it,” Ladomer grinned. “That's more or less it, yes.”

“So who are these lucky men?”

The lieutenant's grin grew broader. “Interesting talk is never as precise as that, Mr Goodman.”

Their footfalls echoed in the college hall. The ornate floor was a stone mosaic with the Master's eagle at its centre. The hall itself was circular with gilded arches running round it like coronal summits. Each keystone glistened red.

“You should go and see Captain Belaal,” Ladomer told him. “He's been looking for you this morning.”

Eamon nodded, remembering all too well the stern, dark eyes that had commanded him the night before. “Is he in his office?”

“I imagine so; he's just finished inspecting some of the new recruits. They always come in in droves just after a swearing. Like bees to a hive. And what a hive!” Ladomer turned his grinning face upwards and Eamon saw it illuminated by the glow of the hall. Following his gaze Eamon noticed for the first time the shadowy spaces between the arches of the crown.

“I'll see you later, Ladomer,” he said.

His friend smiled. “Of course. I look forward to hearing all about your posting, Ensign Goodman!” Ladomer added, and waved as he departed.

Left alone in the middle of the hall, Eamon tried to compose himself. With all the talk of Hands and wearing black and Dunthruik and lieutenantships, he found that he wasn't thinking straight. He had only just become an ensign; it was far too soon to be thinking about anything else.

Besides which, he would need all of his wits when it came to dealing with Captain Belaal.

With Belaal's lieutenant nowhere to be found, Eamon decided to venture on to the captain's office. As he passed down the corridor he tried to smarten himself up.

The door to the office stood open and he could hear voices inside. A young-faced cadet was leaving so swiftly as Eamon approached that they collided in the doorway. The young man was pale and seemed shaken; he tripped and fell over Eamon's foot with a yell. There was a thud as the young man – whom Eamon recognized as the one who had wished him luck before the swearing the previous day – hit the floor and narrowly escaped driving his head into the wall as he rolled to a stop.

Filled with sympathy, Eamon went to help him up.

“I'm sorry, sir,” the boy managed.

“It's my fault – I tripped you! I'm sorry,” Eamon added, helping him to his feet. The boy – for it was a boy and not really a man at all – turned his face away in shame as Eamon steadied him.

Suddenly Belaal's voice barked from the office: “For Crown's sake don't apologize to him, and don't help him, either! A whingeing maggot like him doesn't deserve the place he has been given here, whoever's blood he has. Kick him down the corridor, Goodman, and get in here.”

The cadet tore away and disappeared down the hallway. Eamon watched him go for a few moments before stepping inside. A curt gesture of Belaal's hand indicated that he should shut the door.

“Sir,” Eamon began.