by Anna Thayer
Eamon looked at him in silence for a moment. “Called you?” Hughan nodded. “You mean, like a voice?”
“Yes.”
Eamon regarded him with amazement. “You hear it too,” he breathed.
Hughan smiled. “I do,” he answered.
For a moment Eamon could not speak. He glanced wordlessly back to the King’s banner and then to the palace gates. He remembered how the King had stood before them – and the fury of the throned’s artillery – alone.
“Did you doubt your hope when you went against the gates?”
“I have rarely done anything that seemed so reckless,” Hughan laughed. “When I saw the weapons and men at the palace gates it was clear that we would not be helped by our own means; only a massacre would have seen us through. Such a thing would have been senseless – the day had already seen the shedding of too much blood.” He paused. “The hope and courage that took me before these gates was born of my confidence that the King’s grace went with me. I did not know for certain what would happen – and I am still not sure that I understand what did happen – I only felt sure that it would.”
Eamon watched him uncertainly. “Then… the King’s grace followed you?”
“No,” Hughan answered quietly. He met Eamon’s stunned gaze. “I do not know – and cannot command or contain – the full power of the grace that we both carry. What we call the King’s grace is beyond my understanding, but even so, it is not beyond us. The hope that it had seeded in my heart told me that it would make a way against the gates. I followed it. I knew that we had not been brought so far only to fall there.”
“That was conviction indeed,” Eamon said. He paused. “Is that all it takes?” he asked, frowning. “Conviction?”
“No; Edelred was a man of conviction,” Hughan told him. “So were his Hands. But they strove against the King’s grace, against what is right and what is good.”
“Then what of other men?” Eamon asked. “What of your men – men who held to you and to this grace with as much a heart and will as you? Why do so many who follow it, as you did at the gate, suffer? Why are they not aided?”
“Why are some healed, and not others?” Hughan added. “Why does the grace allow some to face death and yet delivers others from it with little but life? Why did it shield us at Edelred’s gates but did not shield the countless men on the battlefield – or those who died in the culls?” Hughan looked at him compassionately. “I have asked myself the same questions, Eamon, and more than once. I do not know the answer to them. We often do not see – or cannot comprehend – what the King’s grace does or doesn’t do. I do not think that our own eyes and wits could ever be enough to search its deepest workings. We cannot always be answered, because this grace does not answer to us. But this I know: even when it does not answer, it serves and saves, and what it does is for good.” He looked at Eamon. “I know,” he said gently, “that it saved you.”
Eamon drew a deep breath, remembering the agony of the blade that had driven into him, rupturing organ and vein to choke him with blood and steel. He remembered Ladomer’s face, lifted first in an ecstasy of victory and then seized by the pallor of death, and how, as that face fell, the King’s shining hands had come to rest upon his own brow…
Eamon tore open his eyes. He had begun shaking. “Yes,” he whispered.
Hughan was watching him quietly.
“But… thousands of men fought with you, Hughan,” Eamon said. As he spoke his mind filled with memories of the corpse-strewn battlefield where every colour was stained red. He remembered the injured men, the shattered limbs, and pale cadavers. His voice grew angry and he trembled. “Hundreds upon hundreds of them died – the King’s grace did not save them.”
“The cost of good is often a dear one,” Hughan told him. “I do not rejoice at that, but I am comforted because I know what the price was paid for.”
“Why had they to pay it?” In an agony of guilt Eamon sought the King’s eyes. “Out of all the lives there were to save, Hughan, why was mine saved and not theirs? Why should I be worth more than they?”
Hughan looked gently at him. “You forget, Eamon, that thousands of men also live, and not just here but all over the River Realm. Those that died will be remembered and honoured, and those of us who live should do so with greater hearts, knowing what was paid for our freedom. As to your ‘greater’ worth, I know that did not save you. In the same way, those men who lost their lives did not do so because they were somehow of ‘less’ merit or distinction than you are. Whatever the colour they wore to battle, they were loved no less than you.”
Eamon reeled. There would have been guilt enough in feeling that he had been saved for being worth more than another man – but at least such would have been a reason. That logic voided, he was left with nothing but the turmoil of the senseless fact. Agonized, Eamon stared at Hughan.
“Then why was I saved?”
“It is not that you were saved from death,” Hughan answered quietly. “Death comes to all men in time. It is rather that, by grace, you were chosen on that day to live. Even so, that appointed way had to be of your choosing.”
“I did choose,” Eamon whispered. There were tears in his eyes. “I followed a river. It brought me back.”
“And so you live.” Smiling, Hughan touched Eamon’s shoulder. “That you walk with me now is a gift to me and to this city. That you live, and that you chose to do so, are works of grace and goodness. Do not be ashamed of them.”
Blinking back tears, Eamon nodded.
The First Knight and the King went together through the palace gates and onto the Coll. The long road was filled with men, many in the King’s colours and some in the Easters’. Eamon heard working all over the city. In the distance, smoke rose from pyres. Eamon gazed at the billows.
“The bodies of many Hands were recovered from the palace rubble, and from the field,” Hughan told him. “They have been sent on to the pyres. Edelred and Arlaith will also be taken to the pyres.” A shiver ran down Eamon’s spine. Hughan’s eyes strayed down the Coll to the distant city gates. “Anastasius insists that they should both be displayed, stripped and upside down, at the Blind Gate. And I understand his reasoning.”
Eamon could feel his face turning in disgust; he understood it, too. It was important to show Dunthruik and the River Realm that Edelred was truly dead. But the thought of the two pale bodies being shown at the gate brought bile into his throat.
“It is,” he said, “what Edelred would have done to you, and most likely to me. Maybe it is what they do in the east, and maybe it has a place. But sire,” Eamon added earnestly, “it has no place at your gates.”
Hughan met his gaze and smiled gently. “That was my answer also,” he said. “The bodies will be taken at the proper time in a formal procession to the pyres. Before that, the Nightholt must be destroyed and that, too, will be done publicly.”
Eamon chilled; he had almost forgotten the Nightholt.
Hughan still held his gaze. “It holds only a little power now,” he said, “but until it has been destroyed, its effects will linger. Even a surrendering Gauntlet soldier would find it difficult to take a new place in this city with that mark still on him.”
Eamon glanced down at his palm. The mark had dwindled when Edelred was killed, but he knew Hughan was right; traces of the mark still remained in him.
It was an uncomfortable thought. “When will you destroy it?”
“When we have finalized the surrenders and disbanding of the Gauntlet.”
“Did any Hands survive?”
“In the regions,” Hughan returned, “but few in the city itself. Some who did not make a last stand at the palace gate fled the city. But they are few and scattered, and they will find themselves greatly impeded now that Edelred is dead; more so once we have destroyed the Nightholt.”
Eamon breathed deeply, his mind awhirl with images of Hands escaping into the River Realm, only to be found and wrathfully killed.
He looked
earnestly to Hughan. “The Hands must not become to us as the wayfarers were to them,” he said. “Neither must the Gauntlet; their names must not become bywords for slaughter, or excuses to cull a man without due cause.”
“I know,” Hughan replied. “We will do everything we can to keep it from happening.”
They walked a little further. Men paused and greeted the King warmly wherever he went, bowing and cheering. Hughan gracefully accepted their praise, greeting them in return. The domed roof of the Crown glinted ahead. The Brand and the West Quarter College were not far.
“There is one Hand being held,” Hughan said. “Perhaps you know him?”
“It is more than likely.”
“His name is Febian.”
Eamon looked at him in surprise. “Febian? He was made the West Quarter Hand after Cathair’s death.”
“His is an interesting story,” Hughan continued. “It seems that when Dunthruik’s men retreated back into the city, Arlaith sent Febian down to the Pit to slaughter prisoners being held there.”
Eamon blanched. “What happened?”
“He did not do it,” Hughan answered simply. “I went to the Pit,” he continued, “and I found him there. He gave himself, and the prisoners, over to me.”
Eamon gazed at him silently, astonished. “Why?” he breathed, marvelling at what a sight it must have been when the King went down into the Pit.
“I do not know what moved Febian’s mind to mercy,” Hughan answered, “but the Pit is no more. For the present at least, it shall not be used.”
“You closed it with the King’s grace,” Eamon guessed.
Hughan nodded. “I did. When a space of time has run its course, we may put it to some use, perhaps for storage. But it has been a place of ill and suffering too long. It, too, needs time to mourn what it has borne. When that time has passed, we will look to it again.”
Eamon nodded. There seemed little that he could say.
They reached the West Quarter College and Eamon paused to look at it. Its doors were busy with men moving to and fro. As they approached the steps together, Eamon imagined that every room in the place – including those that had once been his own – had been made into a makeshift prison or infirmary.
The air cooled as they stepped into the hall, and as he had always done, Eamon glanced up at the wall.
Overbrook’s map hung there still, but Waite’s Hand name-board was gone. As he wondered on this, Eamon felt an odd grief.
Men bowed to the King as they went through the corridors. Eamon marvelled that their gestures of service were so freely given, accompanied by smiles and heartfelt words. None spoke to him, though he felt their eyes on him.
Hughan enquired after Anderas and received direction from one of the men stationed in the corridor. As they moved on, they passed the doors of the room which had been Eamon’s own when he was a lieutenant; it now held a group of wounded men.
Anderas was in the officers’ mess, which had been transformed into a large holding hospital. As they approached the doors, Eamon half expected to see Alben, or Fields, or Best inside.
They were not; the room was filled with men, some in the remains of their uniforms and others, from the thresholders and militia, without them. The place was busy and so few noticed them entering at first, but it was not easy to miss the King. As he entered the room, silence fell on those nearest the door, and whispers ran down the walls like wildfire.
Eamon stood by as Hughan spoke to those about him. He scanned the sea of faces around him on every side. He wanted to see Anderas.
He found the captain away to one side of the room. Though pale, he was standing and speaking to an Easter, perhaps one of Feltumadas’s staff. A doctor was by him, wrapping a great swathe of bandage tightly about his shoulder and chest. Anderas winced as the material was drawn together. The doctor stepped aside and moved on.
Anderas, as though aware that someone watched him, looked up. His eyes searched the room for a moment and then alighted on Eamon. Anderas fell still and his jaw fell open.
With a great laugh, Eamon left Hughan’s side. The hall was long, and he had to pick and weave his way around the men within it. He pressed onward, laughing still.
Anderas only closed his jaw after Eamon reached him.
“First Knight,” he said, and moved to bow.
“Oh no you don’t, Andreas!” Eamon cried, joyfully but gently embracing him.
“They said that the Right Hand was dead,” Andreas whispered. His voice quivered.
“I was told the same about the captain of the East,” Eamon replied. He laughed, and stepped back to look at his friend’s face. “Do you like getting shot?” he added.
Anderas paused for a moment as though the matter necessitated some thought. “No.”
“You seem to make rather a habit of it nonetheless!”
“And you seemed to make rather a good rider for someone who claims that he can’t.”
Eamon beamed. “Were you impressed?”
“I was,” Anderas answered with a knowing smile. “Very.”
They watched each other for a moment. Aware of the men about them, Eamon lowered his voice and drew the captain to a slightly quieter part of the room.
“Why did Arlaith have you shot?”
Anderas’s face grew darker. “So they were Arlaith’s orders,” he murmured.
“They were.” Eamon could not bring himself to say how he knew.
“I had been encouraging the men to fight bravely but surrender rather than throw away their lives,” Anderas told him, pressing uncomfortably at the arrow wound on his shoulder. Though the bandage was fresh, traces of blood stained the fabric. “Not all the men were happy with my directive. Word must have reached Arlaith.”
“What happened?” Eamon said quietly.
The captain looked up, his face both anxious and determined.
“That night before the battle, Arlaith asked me to take some papers to the South Quarter,” he said. Eamon nodded; he remembered. “I was to meet one of the quarter officers. But it wasn’t a Gauntlet officer who waited for me. It was Lord Tramist.”
Eamon’s blood curdled.
“He cornered me,” Anderas continued somewhat haltingly. “He knew – about you. I think he was acting under Arlaith’s orders…”
Arlaith’s memory raced across Eamon’s mind: “I am sending him to you with papers tonight. Find out what he knows – and then take care of him…”
“Tramist said that he knew whom you served, and he demanded to know what you meant to do under those colours. He intended to kill you.”
Eamon stared at the captain in horror. “And you!”
Anderas blinked as though the thought had not really crossed his mind. He flexed his hand.
“It was a small room. He pinned me against the wall. He was going to breach me. I couldn’t draw my sword. I…” He drew a deep breath. “My hands were all the weapon that I had. I killed him.” He shuddered once and then, shaking, met Eamon’s gaze again. “I’m a Gauntlet captain, and I have killed men before. But never like this. Never with such fear, or determination. Because I knew that he could not leave that room, or you would die.”
Eamon looked at him with grief. While he delivered Edelred’s terms to the King, Anderas had faced Tramist – alone and unaided – in the cramped dark of the South Quarter College. He shuddered.
“I had to hide the body,” Anderas told him. “Fortunately, the South Quarter has a warren of rooms that I could use, and most men were occupied – or had gone to the walls to watch for your return from the parley. I was not discovered, but perhaps Lord Arlaith suspected what I had done.” He paused for a moment. “I told the King’s men where to find Lord Tramist’s body as soon as I could. It was taken to the pyres, along with those of other Hands.”
Eamon met the captain’s gaze again. “I’m so sorry.”
Anderas shook his head. “I do not regret killing Tramist, though it is true that I was, and am, afraid of what I did. But I have
never felt more certain that the taking of a life was necessary than I did in that moment.”
“You have done much, Andreas,” Eamon breathed. Overcome with grief by what the captain had borne, and relief that he still lived, Eamon simply gazed at him. “Thank you.”
“Lord Good…” Anderas stopped uncertainly. “I don’t suppose they call you that much any more,” he said with a quiet laugh. “What should I call you now?”
Eamon laughed. “You should call me as a friend would, Andreas – by my name.”
“Eamon,” Anderas said. As he spoke the name a smile broke on the captain’s troubled face. “We said we would hold fast.”
“And we did.”
They clasped hands in a moment of silence.
“So, when they said that the Right Hand was dead…?”
“They were right: Arlaith is dead.”
Anderas carefully surveyed his face. “Something tells me that there’s a little more to it than that.”
“There is,” Eamon replied heavily. “And I will tell it to you, in every detail.” He looked up at the injured and recovering men and the doctors that moved between them. “But not here,” he added. “It is a tale that will take some telling. When the time for it comes, we will sit somewhere warm together and talk until long after the last star disappears.”
“Yes…” The smile on Anderas’s face became a look of awe.
Hughan approached them, and then Eamon understood the captain’s expression. As Hughan walked across the hall, the glint of the silver coronet caught in his hair like starlight. The air of a King followed him.
As Hughan came to Eamon’s side, he smiled at them both. “Captain Anderas?”
Anderas seemed unable to answer. With a look of utter amazement he sank down to one knee before the King. “Sire,” he breathed.
Hughan smiled at him and gently touched his shoulder. “Rise, captain,” he said, and Anderas rose. “I hear that you have charge of the negotiations for the Gauntlet surrender.”
“Yes, sire,” Anderas answered.
“I know that the surrender of so many is due, in no small part, to your great courage,” Hughan told him. “It is a brave man who, for love of another, will go against the wisdom of the colours he wears. You have done me – and this city – great service. I thank you for it.”