by Anna Thayer
Blood.
“What has happened?” he asked.
Slater stepped, trembling, through the kitchen doorway and then shrank back against the wall and pointed. A ghastly cry left his lips. Eamon followed the direction of the gesture and then felt his heart stop.
Slumped in the corner of the kitchen was a figure. It was crumpled in a pool of its own blood and glistened hellishly in the firelight. There was no sound other than Slater’s cry.
“No,” he breathed, but then even his breath was taken from him.
It was Marilio Bellis.
CHAPTER XXXII
The dawn came grey and mournful to the city, bringing with it gritty drizzle that struck the stones like so many beating hands. Eamon stood in the courtyard of the Handquarters with his cloak drawn thickly about him against the rain. The drops slid down over his face and through his hair, rendering his cloak futile, but still he held it about his dripping throat.
In a line behind him stood his household. Several cadets were with them. Wilhelm Bellis’s ravaged face was clear among them. Cara stood by him, her fingers knotted tightly through his own as he tried to keep back his tears. Many of the household wept. A cart had been brought into the yard where they stood. Two ensigns guarded it like graven images.
The beat of the rain was broken by the sound of footsteps coming down from the doors, from which four servants emerged solemnly. They stepped out into the rain, bearing a stretcher between them.
The stretcher bore Marilio’s body; it had been swathed in a funerary pall, hiding the devastating violence of what had been done to him. Tears burned the back of Eamon’s eyes. His mind was filled with Slater’s anguished howls. When he blinked, he still saw the bloody kitchen.
Silently, he stepped forward to face the household. The stretcher and its bound load were set down before him. He could not look down at the body upon it; the swaddled mass bore no resemblance to the man he knew. Eamon lamented that it was the last sight Wilhelm would have of his father.
He looked up at the servants and their pale faces, blurred by the rain. The words he spoke came haltingly and the sound of pounding rain vied with his quavering voice.
“In life and in death Marilio Bellis served the Master. As was his coming, so is his going to the Master’s glory. Let ours be also.”
“To his glory,” the household answered. He barely heard them.
Eamon nodded once to the pallbearers. The stretcher was raised from the wet ground and delivered safely onto the cart. Eamon trembled as he watched. Tears streaked his face. There would be no noble resting-place for Wilhelm’s father; all the city could offer to a servant was a place in the pyres.
The cadet in charge of the cart urged the horse on, and it stepped into a slow pace. The whole household watched as the cart ran out of the yard, into the Ashen and the rain.
Eamon looked back to the servants. “Return to your duties,” he told them. They obeyed him.
Turning, he stepped quietly across to Wilhelm. Cara pressed the young man’s hand in encouragement before she followed the other servants into the house. The cadet stared in anguish through the empty door to the Ashen, no doubt seeing his father’s last journey over and over again in his mind.
“Mr Bellis,” Eamon said softly.
The cadet looked up, his eyes red with tears. “My lord,” he answered. He had to force himself to speak, and his voice shook as he tried to make it sound stronger than he felt.
“I am deeply sorry for your loss, Mr Bellis. Your father was dear to me.”
In his memory, Eamon felt Marilio’s blood thick on his hands as he checked the body for signs of life; felt the grief that lodged in his breast as he realized that he had come late – too late to do anything but weep…
“Who did it, my lord?” Wilhelm’s voice trembled with anger. Vengeful grief filled the young man’s eyes. “Who did it?”
“I don’t know,” Eamon answered.
But it was not true. He believed that it had not been just any hand that had slaughtered his servant. He believed it to have been the Right Hand, or at least someone in his service. Arlaith had every reason to loathe Eamon, and Eamon knew all too clearly that the Right Hand would come back against those near to the Lord of the East Quarter.
He looked back to Wilhelm. “Mr Bellis,” he said gently.
“My lord?”
“I need you to promise me that you will not take this matter into your own hands.”
Wilhelm shook, whether with rage or the surfeit of some other emotion Eamon did not know.
“You have been violated and I appreciate your desire for justice, even for vengeance. But when a man strikes against my servants he strikes against me. It is therefore right that I deal with this matter. For a man to strike against me he must be powerful indeed, and I would not have you pit yourself against such a man.”
“With all due respect, my lord, I couldn’t care how powerful the villain is.” Wilhelm’s eyes flamed as he spoke. “I wouldn’t care if he were the Right Hand himself –”
“Mr Bellis,” Eamon spoke firmly and the cadet quieted before his tone. “You have lost much this day, but by pursuing vengeance you stand to lose even more.” The young man’s eyes glanced up to the household where the last of the servants entered the building. “You must think of those who love you.”
Wilhelm drew a shuddering breath. “Yes, my lord.”
“Your father was indisputably faithful to me, and he was a good man. I see his heart in you, Mr Bellis. I will do everything in my power to bring whoever did this to justice,” Eamon told him. “Promise me that you will let me do that. I will not lose your life as I have lost your father’s.”
The cadet was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded, giving his tacit agreement. “Yes, my lord,” he said.
Relief coursed through Eamon’s veins. “Do you want to take some time off duty?”
“No, my lord.”
“Very well, Mr Bellis,” Eamon replied. “You can return to the college. Report as normal.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Wilhelm bowed low and left by the doorway through which his father had lately gone.
Eamon stood for a long time, thinking, until the rain penetrated through his cloak to his skin.
It had been Arlaith. He was certain of it. As he shivered in the cold, Eamon wondered whether it was a strike of vengeance or a warning, and whether Marilio would be the last to die.
Later that day, the rain still falling in sheets, Eamon visited the kitchens to see how the servants fared. The place where Marilio’s body had been discovered was impeccably clean and fearfully avoided.
Despite still being unwell, Mr Cook returned to duty. He stood over the fire, fixed on his task with concentration that betrayed fraught nerves. Eamon joined him, watching as Cook’s hands steadily plied the pots and pans of his trade.
“Mr Cook?” he said at last.
“My lord.”
“Do not bear something beyond what is yours to carry.”
The cook set down his ladle with trembling hands, and closed his eyes. “If I hadn’t been ill…”
There was a long pause.
“What happened isn’t your fault,” Eamon said gently.
“How will his son ever forgive me?”
“He does not blame you. Neither do I. Do not blame yourself.”
The cook looked over at the corner where the body had lain; tears filmed his eyes. “He was such a good man, my lord. There is no justice in it.”
“I know.” Eamon laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. The cook shuddered beneath his fingers. “You are also a good man, Mr Cook.”
The cook nodded wordlessly.
Eamon also made a point of seeking out Slater. He found the head of the household in the dining room. The man had laid out all the Handquarters’ cutlery on the table and was in the process of cleaning it. As Eamon walked in, the servant set aside his cloth with a tremulous sigh.
“Mr Slater.”
Slater looked up with a start, trying rapidly to compose himself. “My lord, I –”
“Be at peace, Mr Slater.” The man looked back at the knives and forks on the table, and Eamon smiled at him. “You’ve been doing some good work here,” he said kindly.
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Be sure you take some rest.”
“Yes, my lord.” He breathed deeply and looked up at Eamon. “Lord Goodman…” He paused. “I’ve served in Dunthruik for a long time, Lord Goodman,” he said. “I’ve served Hands for a long time.”
“I am sure that you have been a great boon in every household that you have served,” Eamon told him.
“My lord, I’ve never seen…”
“I wish you had never seen its like, Mr Slater,” Eamon said quietly, “but, having seen it, do not fear it.”
Slater was silent for a moment. “Perhaps,” he said at last, “a Hand is more accustomed to the realities of war against the wayfarers…”
Eamon carefully hid his surprise. “Wayfarers?” Was that the rumour that went with Marilio’s body as it trundled out of the city to the pyres – that wayfarers had done it?
Slater nodded. “Perhaps they meant some harm against you, my lord…”
Much as Eamon desperately desired to tell the man that the wayfarers would not do such a thing, and certainly not to someone in Eamon’s house, he could not.
Slater breathed deeply and then looked at him with a quivering lip. “Where do you find such strength, my lord?” Eamon looked at him enquiringly. “I mean, the strength to look at such things, yet still carry on?”
“In the one I serve,” Eamon replied.
Slater looked at him and nodded. “So shall this house, my lord.”
Eamon retired early to bed, his mind in a trance-like state. In a strange way, his house had never been closer to him than it was now in grief. How could he tell them he was to leave them? They were so vulnerable.
He lay still for a long time, his thoughts moving heavily. Already a day had passed, and he had made no preparations. He had spoken to no one and he knew that he must. Perhaps it was fear that made him delay. He feared to see the disappointed faces, feared to speak from his own lips words that would seal him to the Master’s will, and draw him away from a part of the city that he loved. He had not liked the idea of being a Quarter Hand at first, and yet it was in the East Quarter that he had found companionship and strength to do the King’s work better than in any other place. Now, that all had to change: he had to leave all the people he loved behind him to walk unfamiliar new halls, to become once again the stranger who learned the ropes. It terrified him, but to whom could a Right Hand turn for guidance? Eamon knew that as the Right Hand he would be reliant only on the Master and on that smile, which looked on him as though he were a son…
He shook the thought from himself with a shudder of revulsion. How could he exchange his household and his college for that? He did not want to become Right Hand. Yet he had no choice. Would he be able to work for the King, even there?
He did not know. He could only hope that he could.
There were things in the quarter that he had to safeguard against Arlaith’s arrival. He had to speak to Anderas.
As his thought turned to the captain, his stomach churned. Anderas needed to know. More than that: Eamon realized suddenly that he had to tell the captain everything, the whole truth.
Why? The voice’s question was cold. You will earn nothing from that, Eben’s son, except loss.
Eamon sighed. Surely having Anderas alive – and having his friendship – was more important than the truth? Was it not the captain’s friendship that he wanted to preserve, even though they would be driven apart? If he told Anderas the truth, then the captain’s life, and even his own, would be in danger.
Eamon, how can he know you if he does not know who you are? The words spoke deeply into his heart. Would not knowing the truth save his life? How can he be a true friend to you if he does not know whom you serve?
The grim voice laughed. If you value his friendship, son of Eben, then you will say nothing to him. He will not love you for what you are. He will reject you, totally and utterly. He will betray you, even as she did.
Eamon did not answer but set his resolve sternly against the voice of Edelred. He had to speak to Anderas, and not just because of his friendship with the man. Did the captain not also deserve the chance to serve the King?
And if he rejects you, Eben’s son? The voice relished the thought. If he rejects you, you cannot then let him live.
Eamon’s blood ran cold. If Anderas, despite the weeks and months that they had spent working together, despite the fact that they had saved each other from death and despair… if Anderas were to turn against him, what other choice would he have but to take the captain’s life?
The idea haunted him. He could not sleep.
Take heart, Eamon.
At last he sat up. Stacking the cushions up behind his back he set himself upright in his bed and reached across to his table for the Edelred Cycle.
Have you not yet understood? You will learn nothing of value there, Eben’s son, the voice of Edelred told him.
“I certainly won’t if I don’t read it,” Eamon answered, somewhat petulantly. Carefully flicking the book open, he leaned it against his legs, drew a deep breath to drive the voice away, and continued reading.
He had already read a large amount of the work, which went to great lengths to describe the Master’s skill, cunning, and greatness against his enemies. From what Eamon had understood from the poem, Edelred’s aim was that of liberating the River Realm from a deluded king, although Eamon could not see how Ede might have fit such a description. The king he had seen in his visions had seemed noble, though troubled.
He had read how Edelred had gone as a diplomatic envoy to Ede’s court and wooed a lady, Liana. This lady was sister to the King’s closest counsellor, and Eamon’s skin had crawled when he had realized that this lady had been the sister of Eben, and of his own blood.
In the poem the King (who disapproved of her love for Edelred) had struck down Liana – this was framed by the poem as proof of the King’s wickedness. Eben was drawn, reluctantly but steadily, to Edelred’s cause until he became the man’s staunchest supporter – a shift of loyalties that filled Eamon with anguish and revulsion. The poem’s words opened up the way to the battle at the watchtower wherein Edelred asked the King to relinquish his tyrannical hold over the River Realm, and Ede had rashly and arrogantly refused. The battle was joined and then Eben, in a moment of brazen courage, landed a blow against Ede’s steed, allowing Edelred to take the King’s life.
Eamon read the text carefully, knowing that the words did not tell the truth, or at least not the whole of it. He wondered what had truly happened.
He set his eyes to the text once again as he found his place. Edelred defeated the King, and went on to make a lengthy speech which lasted a number of pages and – in the manner of the best poetry – said little that was truly relevant. It took every part of Eamon’s resolve to read, rather than skip over, the words. It was as well that he had nearly finished the book. Had he spent much longer reading it, he would not be overly surprised to hear himself speaking in the poet’s eight-syllable verse.
At last the speech concluded. Eamon drew a deep breath, hoping that the end of the speech might signal a return to something of note. His eyes were blurred. He rubbed his hand across them before quietly counting the scant number of remaining pages.
Perhaps the voice of Edelred was right: perhaps there was nothing for him to find. Perhaps he wasted his time.
With a great effort of will he turned his eyes back to the verse. While there were still pages left to read, he would not abandon his hope.
An odd chill crept down his spine. The words on the page before him crystallized. As he read them they painted vivid pictures in his trembling thought:
Cracked was the Serpent’s helm and shield.
His blood;
bleak on the ground it spread
And there, where sword and shield lay strewn
Beneath the watchtower’s gaze, and hewn
From flesh and breath of men was all
The road to Allera’s last hall
Stood Edelred, whole wreathed in flame
While dark skies echoed back his name.
And in his hand aloft – Dark Tome!
Great covenant to claim the throne!
Its witness were those shattered fields
Where Serpent’s right was made to yield.
Eamon’s pulse raced. His thoughts fell back in on
themselves in wonder and dismay. A dark tome.
All at once he felt the weight of the Nightholt in his fingers. He saw the grim, angled writing on its pages, smelled the scent of death erupt from them, and remembered his vision of Eben, weeping as he hid it deep in Ellenswell.
He drew a deep breath. Surely, by a “dark tome”, the poet could mean nothing but the Nightholt?
Eamon stared at the words again, scanning them, re-reading them, trying to interpret them in as many different ways as possible, but he came again and again to the same terrifying conclusion: the Nightholt had been at the battle of Edesfield. More than that, somehow it seemed to validate Edelred’s rule. Why else should it make the Serpent’s “right” yield? What other right had a king, other than that of governance?
He sat back in dismay. What, then, could be written in the Nightholt? And why was it so vital to the throned to have it? Having it, what danger did it pose to Hughan?
He did not know, but in one matter alone he was left in no doubt. Eamon again read the line about Edelred being wreathed in flame. His flesh crawled – the red light. Eamon’s palm burned.
The throned’s mark had begun there, at that moment. Eamon remembered Hughan say that at Ede’s death the King’s grace had also shown itself. Lights, tome, King, and throned… somehow all things met in that moment at Edesfield.