The Traitor's Heir (9 page)

“It's none of your business,” Belaal answered. “Your salute, man! Is all decorum to go out the window?” The captain gestured irately to the large pane of glass behind him; it obligingly cast his formidable shadow forward. As Eamon drew his hand flat over his heart in the Gauntlet's swordless salute, he suspected that the whole room had been designed with the sole function of casting formidable shadows.

“That's better,” Belaal told him, laying aside a quill. He drew a breath and seemed to put whatever the cadet had done behind him. “Very fine work at the pyre last night, Goodman; showed your determination in service. I appreciate that the circumstance was not an easy one for you.”

Eamon wasn't sure what to say. There was an odd glint to the man's eyes. “Thank you, sir.”

“It is in recognition of that service that I've called you here this morning.”

A thread of lightning anticipation ran through him. He watched as Belaal picked something up from the desk and came forward. Eamon caught the glimpse of a pin in the captain's hand.

“Ensign Goodman,” Belaal said, “your blood, blade, and body speak of the Master's glory; will you command men for that glory?”

“His glory,” Eamon answered.

“Then for his glory it is given to you to command men.”

Eamon's breath was short in his throat as Belaal lodged a pin there. Its heaviness surprised him.

The captain stepped back and smiled. “You show some promise, Lieutenant Goodman,” he said. “The Gauntlet rewards promising men.”

“Thank you, sir.” He did not know what else he could say. Whatever “promise” he had shown, he did not think he warranted promotion – far from it.

“Fortunately for aspiring ensigns, we do not seem to have exhausted the number of insurgents in this miserable town,” Belaal said bitterly. “I had a few teams root a couple more of them out of hiding during the night; Spencing distinguished himself and will be duly rewarded, just as you have been.”

Eamon swallowed. So Spencing was to be made a lieutenant, too. He did not know which disquieted him the more: Spencing's promotion or wondering how exactly the man had earned it.

Belaal proceeded to make a very careful study of his face. “You're to be stationed in Dunthruik, lieutenant.”

Eamon steadied his nerve and kept his eyes on the window.

“To his glory, sir,” he whispered.

“You'll board one of the holks going down the River tonight. They need men like you in Master's city.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your assignment will be made clear to you when you arrive. Before all that, I have another job for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr Spencing, among others, brought me some vile specimens of snakes during the night. We pressed many, but most died rather than answer very simple questions. One of the remaining prisoners persists in withholding information.” Belaal laughed oddly. “Very resistant to our measures, this one, and feisty with it, which makes for some entertainment.” He looked at Eamon with a disturbing smile. “Extraction of such information was one of the many talents you exhibited during training, Mr Goodman – so you will try it.”

Eamon frowned. He got the feeling that something was being withheld from him. He tried to gauge that hidden knowledge in the captain's dark eyes – but dark they remained.

“Come with me, lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

Belaal walked with the stride of a man who had earned his position through intimidation and the will to carry through his threats. A tall, gaunt figure, his heels clicked at every pace, sending those in his path scuttling for cover. The captain didn't speak but seemed to be singing something just under his breath and somewhat out of tune. Some old patriotic hymn or other, if Eamon was any judge of tone. He followed in Belaal's steps, trying not to mind the eyes that gazed after them or gaped at the new emblem at his throat.

The captain led the way back across the central courtyard, ignoring each and every salute with which he was greeted along the way. Moving briskly out of the hall's light into one of the darker arches of the colonnade, they came to a door at which stood two guards, who promptly stepped aside for them.

Eamon paused briefly at the doorway, knowing full well that it led to the college holding cells. He had been down many times during the course of his training and, since he had been weaned from heroic story, he had come to know that prisons were barren, sordid affairs, plagued with disease, rats, and a hanging darkness more severe than any sentence. In the prison below him, Eamon had learned of the arts of interrogation.

He knew that it was rare for ordinary men to withstand even the threat of torment. He had learned to threaten, to lie to, and intimidate a man until he would reveal his secrets without ever having to resort to torture. He had been good at it. That skill – and the feeling of power over another that it brought with it – disquieted him.

These dark thoughts loomed threateningly inside the doorway. He could not disobey the captain; he was sworn.

“Goodman!” Belaal bellowed.

Eamon dashed down the stairs.

The stairwell was damp and muggy. A couple of torches lit the curve of the steps. Belaal had taken up one of these and bore it before him, striking with it from side to side to frighten away the occasional large spider. Sounds of scurrying creatures, their spindly legs scraping stone, made Eamon shiver. Thick cobwebs cast chain-like shadows along the stonework. Etched into some of the stones was the Master's crown, emblem of the Gauntlet.

After what seemed like eternity the steps reached their deep end. The air was heavy with every terrible smell that Eamon thought he could name, and some that he couldn't. Discreetly, he raised his sleeve to his nose and mouth.

Two other ensigns were at the bottom of the stairs; they drew themselves up smartly.

“Where's the snake?” Belaal demanded.

“Last cell, sir. Still not a word.”

“We'll soon fix that,” Belaal snorted and plunged off. Cautiously, Eamon followed.

As the light passed, faces – wraith-like, pallor-wreathed – crept forward. They wailed, or howled for the light to go. Some stood in silence, and only looked.

Belaal turned a deaf ear to them all and did not pause or blink. Eamon tried to steel his heart to do the same. He wore the uniform of the Gauntlet. He was a lieutenant. Snakes and villains deserved the darkness. The faces slipped away.

At last they came to the far end of the holding tunnel, where the cells were cramped and twisted under the bulk of the earth. It would have been wholly dark were it not for the light that Belaal bore.

Stopping in front of the bars the captain peered mockingly into the last cell. “And how is my scaly traitor this morning?” he asked coolly.

Silence.

“You won't speak to me?” With a smile Belaal rattled his fingers over the bars. “Come, come now! I've brought you a visitor. He'd very much like to talk to you.”

Eamon hung back. There was still no reply from inside the cell. The captain's smile remained as he hooked the torch into a ring on the wall. It cast a devilish glow. He stooped down again.

“If you won't play nicely I shall have to play foully, my dear.”

Neither word nor breath came in response.

Eamon wasn't sure what happened next. Belaal raised his palm towards the bars and for a second he seemed to see a glowing mark on the captain's hand. It grew red-hot and there was a squeal from the cell.

An instant later a body was hurled with ferocious speed against the bars as though flung across its prison by a winter squall.

Eamon was stunned. The mark – Belaal had it too!

“That's better,” Belaal crooned, while the hunched body moaned. “Now we can all see each other and speak properly.” He gestured to Eamon. “Come here, Goodman, and see what happens to wayfaring scum in this town.”

Eamon's heart caught as he gaped; he already knew who he would see when he reached the bars. He knew the shape of the face, even beneath its ample bruises. He did not dare to think what had been done to her, and could not allow himself to wonder if he might free her.

“I'm sure that this wily sample will be a fine test for Dunthruik,” Belaal commented, gesturing callously at Aeryn.

Eamon felt crushing hatred for his captain.

“She knows something about the snakes,” Belaal told him. “We know there's a list of names, and the name of a place.” There was an iron edge beneath his smile. “One of her companions revealed that much to me, most kindly, before he left us. Lord Penrith is eager to hear more about it.”

Eamon saw Aeryn clench hooded eyes.

“I want to know where the list is, Goodman,” Belaal growled, “and I want the names. You will get them for me.”

For what seemed an unspeakably long time Eamon simply stood still. He looked down at Aeryn and her dulled, knotted hair. Her face was purpled, but her eyes were unmistakably firm. He realized that there was no torture that could ever force her to give up what she had hidden from him the night before. She would die before revealing it.

Belaal was asking him to be an executioner.

There had to be another way…

He forced a mask over his face and bore into his friend's eyes with as merciless a look as he could muster.

“I will deliver them, sir,” he said. “Leave it to me.”

He waited, hoping that the captain might take that as a cue to leave him. But Belaal did not move.

“I have always enjoyed watching you work, lieutenant.”

Eamon bit the inside of his lip and stepped up to the bars.

“Will you not speak?”

Aeryn shook her head.

“Then,” he heard himself say, “my resolution shall speak in place of yours.”

He lifted his hand and the mark on it became unmistakable. He did not know what he was doing or on what his thought was bent, only that there was power and it was in his hands. He forced his flaming palm against her forehead.

Suddenly he stood on a high plain. A red sky brewed around him; thunder rumbled in the distance. He saw Aeryn before him and found in that instant that he could hear, and almost see, her every thought. He felt her terror, anger, and betrayal.

“Eamon!” she screamed. “What are you doing?”

Thunder swallowed her words. Eamon thought suddenly that the strange place where they stood would allow him to speak to her, to explain that he meant her no harm – that he wanted to help her to escape, not because she was a wayfarer but because she was Aeryn.

But as the thoughts bubbled into his mind they were pushed under by another presence, one that grew steadily more powerful. He had no dominion over the voice that suddenly spoke with his lips.

“Tell me the names!” it demanded. He tried desperately to stop it but could not wrest back his tongue.

“I will not speak to you!” Aeryn yelled.

“Then I will take what I need.”

Eamon fought to keep his hand limp at his side but saw himself lifting it. A red glow gathered around his fingers, and with a strike like lightning it burst towards Aeryn's form. The screeching torrent of energy wheeled forwards, shattering the air. Eamon suddenly felt sure that if the light struck her she would be destroyed.

“No!” he screamed.

Only seconds before the blast hit, a sheet of blue-white light fell from the sky, dropping like a cloak around her. Touching it, the flames howled and died; a searing pain cracked through Eamon's skull as the light blinded him.

When he next opened his eyes he was back in the holding tunnel in Edesfield.

Aeryn knelt at the bars, trembling and sobbing. Eamon realized that the pain in his head stemmed from the fact that he had been thrown back against the other wall. He blinked hard and when he closed his eyes he could still see the awful, flashing light in his lids. He stared at Aeryn in horror.

“The King's own are protected from the throned's fire,” she whispered.

Eamon gaped. Sure that he had his own voice again, he drew breath to bawl out an apology. Belaal hauled him to his feet.

“I see that you're a breacher,” the captain commented with a smile, “a fine gift to be given at swearing. But she's too much for you.” Belaal leered at her through the bars. “You will go to Dunthruik, girl. Make no mistake about it: Lord Tramist will get everything from you that the Master desires.” He laughed cruelly and took the torch from the wall. “Goodman!”

Trembling, Eamon followed. Aeryn sobbed quietly in the darkness behind him.

He walked unsteadily back into daylight. As he followed Belaal back to the captain's offices he knew that he clung only barely to the ground beneath his feet. Where had he been? What had he done?

Belaal seated himself once more in his little dais.

“You did well, Mr Goodman,” he said. “I had another breacher on her during the night, and one or two dreamers, too, to try to trick her into revealing what she knew. None of them even connected to her.” He looked up with a serious smile. “Breaching is one of the rarest – and most valuable – gifts that the Master bestows upon his own. Dunthruik will be glad to count you among its number.”

Eamon swallowed. “Thank you, sir,” was all that would come out of his dry throat.

“I will see you at parade this afternoon, lieutenant. Dismissed.”

Sickened, Eamon saluted and left.

It was about lunchtime. Scarcely able to think, Eamon wandered the college in search of Ladomer. He checked at the officers' mess but his friend was not there. Feeling shaken, Eamon continued in his search.

He found Lieutenant Kentigern at last in one of the college courtyards, cleaning his blade. As soon as Eamon approached, Ladomer leapt first to his feet and then straight into detailed descriptions of his morning's activities, which he illustrated by brandishing his half-polished sword energetically. Eamon found it a useful distraction while he tried to settle his own mind.