by Anna Thayer
“Thank you, sire.” For a long moment Anderas stood speechlessly before him. Then he found courage to speak again. “May I make a bold request?”
“You seem like a bold man,” Hughan answered. “Could I gainsay you, if your request was good and you had set your heart on it?”
“You could not,” Eamon told him.
Anderas looked up at them both. “It is my place, sire, to stay with the Gauntlet, and with the men from the East, until such a time as the Gauntlet is disbanded. It is not only my place; it is my duty and my choice. But if after that there is a chance,” he whispered, “I would like to wear your colours openly, and serve you still.”
Hughan pressed his shoulder once again. “At that time, captain, your service would honour me greatly. I would welcome you to it with open arms.”
Anderas’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, sire,” he said.
As Hughan withdrew his hand, the captain winced and moved his injured shoulder.
“It hurts you?” Eamon asked.
“An arrow strike doesn’t just disappear,” Anderas answered.
“But it could,” Eamon returned.
Anderas looked at him strangely. “You would heal me? Like you did at Pinewood?”
“Yes,” Eamon answered, “but not I: the King’s grace.” He reached out with one hand but Anderas stopped him.
“Eamon,” he said gently. “My arm will heal of its own accord, given time. Despite a raging battle and a plot against my life, I was brought alive from the field. Is that not also a grace?”
Eamon paused. “Yes.”
“Then let us let the King’s grace be a grace, and not a tool.”
Slowly Eamon withdrew his hand, looked up, and smiled. “As is so very often the case, Andreas,” he said, “I think you’re right.”
Anderas smiled wryly. “The question is: will you ever learn it?”
“Perhaps I never will,” Eamon confessed with a grin.
With a laugh Anderas looked to Hughan again. “Sire,” he said, “it is a rare man that serves as your First Knight.”
“I know it well,” Hughan replied.
Eamon turned to Hughan. “There is someone else you have to see,” he said.
Hughan looked enquiringly at him. Eamon scanned the hall for a moment and then, unable to see the man he looked for, turned back to Anderas. “Is there a Lieutenant Manners here?”
Anderas looked blankly at him. “West Quarter?” he guessed.
“He was already in the infirmary before the battle,” Eamon answered.
“Then you’d best ask the doctors.”
Eamon turned and called to the nearest doctor. The man moved across to them and bowed deeply to Hughan as Eamon spoke. “I’m looking for a Gauntlet lieutenant,” Eamon began. “He was here before.”
The doctor, an Easter, paused thoughtfully for a moment. “Do you mean the ‘sleeping one’?” he asked.
“‘Sleeping one’?”
“He was in the infirmary already when we arrived. He has not once awakened in the time since – and it has not been for want of trying to wake him on our part.”
Eamon nodded. “That’s probably him.”
“He is being kept separately from the wounded, in the third side room just off the corridor.”
Eamon thanked him and turned to Hughan. The King watched him with a curious smile. “Will you come?” Eamon asked.
“I will.”
Eamon looked back to Anderas. “You won’t get shot again while I’m not looking, will you?”
Anderas rolled his eyes. “This is an infirmary, Eamon.”
“Ah, but if anyone can get shot in an infirmary then I suspect that it is you.”
A warm smile crept onto his friend’s face. “Then I shall endeavour to be careful.”
Eamon embraced Anderas once more. Parting from him, he went with Hughan into the corridor that led out of the hall.
They followed the corridor to the small room that the Easter doctor had spoken of. The room was unattended. Inside it was a small bed.
Manners lay on it, his still face peaceful in the light from the window. His chest steadily rose and fell to the pattern of his breathing and no noise or light seemed able to stir him. His wounds had been bound but his lieutenant’s jacket, which was laid over him like a small blanket, was still marked with blood.
Hughan followed Eamon into the room and looked at Manners.
“This is Rory Manners. He was badly hurt when the port was attacked,” Eamon explained, “and I could not heal him then. He also serves you.”
“You won the hearts of many men for me,” Hughan said, a proud smile on his face.
Eamon lowered his gaze, a little embarrassed. “Will you wake him?”
“Would you not do it?” Hughan asked him.
Eamon looked once at Manners’ face, then slowly shook his head. “I am but the First Knight. He waits for you.”
Hughan held his gaze a moment more, and Eamon nodded to him. Then the King stepped forward to the bed and knelt down by the low frame. He reached out and lightly touched Manners’ brow. Light stirred between the King’s fingers, and it threaded itself about the young man’s face.
After what was both forever and no time at all, Hughan spoke.
“Rory.”
The lieutenant’s eyes came slowly open. They rested on the King. For a moment the young man simply watched him, a look of deep peace on his face.
Manners smiled a great smile. “You came.”
“Yes,” Hughan answered, “and so did my First Knight.” As he spoke he turned a little so that the lieutenant could see Eamon. Manners beamed.
“Hello, sir,” he said. His voice croaked from lack of use.
Eamon gazed at him speechlessly. “Hello, Rory,” he answered at last. “It’s good to see you.”
“And you, sir,” Manners replied. He looked back to Hughan. “You won?”
Hughan laughed gently. “Yes,” he said. “But there is still much to do.”
Manners nodded. “Yes, sire.”
A moment later one of the doctors entered the room. The doctor took one look at Manners, awake and with the King kneeling next to him, and nearly fainted.
“Sire,” the doctor said, bowing.
“Please make sure that good care is taken of this man,” Hughan told him. “I suspect that something to eat and drink may be in order.”
“Yes, sire,” the doctor answered. He vanished from the room with a bow.
Hughan rose from the lieutenant’s side. Eamon pressed Manners’ hand.
“You’re all right, sir?” Manners asked.
Eamon breathed deeply. “For the most part,” he answered. “Yes.”
Manners smiled.
A moment later the doctor returned with a bowl of soup. Eamon nodded encouragement to Manners before he and Hughan left the room, leaving the lieutenant in the doctor’s care.
Hughan and Eamon passed together into the college corridors. The sun was strong on Eamon’s face as they returned to the hall.
“Thank you for going to him,” he said quietly. “He is a good man, and will serve you heartily.”
Hughan smiled at him. “Mathaiah always sent good words about Rory Manners,” he said.
Eamon looked at him in surprise. “He did?”
“Always,” Hughan repeated with a kind laugh. “I am glad to have met him at last.”
As the words sank into Eamon, he almost glanced back over his shoulder towards where Manners lay. He wondered just how long Lieutenant Manners had been a King’s man.
“Well done, Mathaiah,” he whispered.
CHAPTER XXIV
It was just after midday when they returned together to the palace. As they passed into the halls, weariness flooded through Eamon. He was overjoyed that Anderas and Manners both lived, but he knew that the King was right – there was still much to be done. The thought of it weighed strangely on him.
Hughan gazed at him. “Are you well, Eamon?”
; Eamon blinked back an errant tear. “I am tired,” he answered. He could put no other words to what he felt, and knew that those he spoke could not describe it.
Hughan touched his shoulder. “You should rest for a while.”
“I promised that I would,” Eamon answered. “I will return to my chamber and do so.”
Hughan held his gaze for a moment. “Then I will send someone with food for you.”
“Thank you.”
They parted and Eamon made his way slowly to his room. To walk the corridors and see no flash of black, nor feel the creeping fear of the throned behind him, was strange. He walked lost in thought.
He was alive. It was the first thing he did not understand. He did not know how close to death he had come when Ladomer had struck him, or where he had wandered when the darkness fell over him. The thought of the silver river shivered through him and he tried to recapture the sounds of the songs that he had heard; they seemed beyond his grasp.
He had chosen to return from that place, and the King’s grace had undone all that had been done to his body. To a looking eye he had to seem whole and well, healed and graced, and yet he did not feel it.
Did it matter how he felt? The King walked in Dunthruik. Had that not always been what he had dreamed of seeing? He thought once more of the blue banner caught atop the palace tower and of the blue that he himself now wore. Had that not been what he had always wanted? Had he not achieved what had been asked of him?
He had. And yet in his heart a brooding disquiet lingered, and to it he could give no name.
Wearily he paused in the corridor, catching his breath by a window. The air was filled with the sounds of the city – sounds different from any that he had heard before. The smell of the sea wafted towards him.
Hughan had spoken of the long way that they had yet to go. Victory was short, and as Eamon thought on it – on the dead who lay upon the field and in the city, and on Ladomer’s bloodless face – he wondered whether it could ever be sweet.
He sighed and let the air from the window pass over him. Perhaps it was not Hughan’s victory that was bitter; perhaps it was his own heart. But should he not be content? What cause had he, First Knight to the King, for bitterness?
More, his burdened heart answered him, than he would like to confess.
He shook the burgeoning thoughts from himself as a man might ward away a chill. Coming to the last stretch of corridor he stopped again.
Why should he not go to her?
He found himself retracing his steps along palace corridors, threading his way past servants and King’s men and towards those quarters where he knew the women would be. Surely, if Alessia was anywhere, then she would be near Aeryn?
He stepped out into the last hall separating him from the women’s rooms. Then he froze, slipping back into the shadows of the doorway.
A group of women spoke quietly to each other, encased in light from the tall embrasures. He could not hear what they said. Their voices melted into the warm air.
She was there. She was smiling.
His body froze, turning his limbs to those of a statue. What could he possibly say to her? And…
How was it that she smiled?
A deep ache seized him. Weary beyond his years, he left the hall.
He returned to his room and sank onto the bed, dazed. He didn’t know how to approach her. What if she spurned him? What if, even after hearing him, she still would not allow him to make amends?
What if all he brought her was pain – how could he do that to her again? The thoughts stoked his sorrow.
Not long later there was a knock at his door. Ma Mendel came in, bringing food on a small wooden tray.
“Am I disturbing your rest, sir?”
“No,” Eamon answered, grateful for the distraction. Ma Mendel set the tray down on the small table.
“It isn’t much, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sure it will be more than adequate,” Eamon answered. He knew too well that the city’s reserves were low following the blockade. He was impressed that Hughan had managed to get any kind of food distribution going at all.
“I’ll leave you to eat and rest then,” Ma Mendel said.
Eamon nodded. “Thank you, Mrs Mendel.”
The smiling lady curtseyed to him and then left. Eamon gazed at the closed door for long moments in silence. He resolved that the best thing he could do was to press Alessia from his mind. He needed time to think.
It was when he looked down at the tray that he found that, in the silence, he had been rubbing the palm of his hand.
The palace halls were busy that afternoon when Eamon passed down them back towards the King’s meeting room in the East Wing. He nervously resettled the cloak on his shoulders.
He was warmly greeted by the guards at the room’s doors, and more heartily received by the men already gathered inside. The room was still in a state of movement as the King’s advisors and allies arrived, a shifting sea of blue and orange and green, a universe of suns and stars. It stole his breath away.
As Eamon paused and looked at them, Ithel stepped over to him.
“It promises to be an interesting afternoon,” the Easter told him.
“How so?”
Ithel tilted his head. “There are some differences in opinion,” he answered, before excusing himself and going to take his place at the table.
Eamon frowned. Before he had time to ponder the Easter’s words further, the King stood beside him. “Are you feeling better?”
“A little,” Eamon replied. “Where would you have me sit?”
“Next to me,” Hughan answered, gesturing to a place at the right of the table’s head.
Eamon felt a terrible press in his heart as he looked at the empty seat. Part of him, being commanded by the King, would take it and sit for the sake of the command, without accepting the honour and love of him who gave it. Part of him looked at the place, and while asking whether he could dare sit in it, also asked another question: Was he now simply Hughan’s right hand, to be used no differently to Edelred’s?
“Eamon?” Hughan watched him intently.
He blinked and met the King’s gaze.
“Are you well?”
“Sire,” Eamon answered uneasily, “I don’t feel that I can…” he trailed off then shook his head angrily. “This is ridiculous, Hughan,” he whispered, turning so that the others in the room could not see the anguish on his face. “I have every reason for joy. Why is it that I am plagued with fear? How can I sit at your right hand when these…” his words failed him and he spread his hands in frustration, “these thoughts will not permit me to do so with a clear heart?”
Hughan flinched neither from his tone nor his words. He touched his shoulder.
“The battle for the heart of Dunthruik begins here, in this room, on this day,” he said quietly. “It will be a more difficult battle than any fought upon a plain, or in a city, or in the passages of a darkened wing. When men march to battle on a field, they have swords in their hands and banners to fly above their heads; they know their enemy and they know what they must do. When the field becomes a room of men, when the banners are hung on the walls and the swords are sheathed, knowing what to do – having a clear heart – is more difficult. But, perhaps more than the first, it is also a place for courage.”
The King’s gaze held Eamon. “First Knight,” Hughan told him, “the seat I offer you is a place of honour, but it is no place of rest. There may come times when speaking from it is more difficult than anything you have ever done for me. Yet be encouraged; there is no man more clear-hearted to whom I would rather entrust it.”
Eamon watched him for a long moment. To stand for Hughan had taken almost every part of his courage; to sit for him would take as much, and maybe more.
Nodding once, he quietly moved to take his place at the King’s right, men watching him as he did. The other Easter lords and King’s men stood behind their chairs. Five, set at the far end of the table, stood empty. Ea
mon realized that they were reserved for the Gauntlet’s representatives.
Hughan lifted his voice towards the guards posted just inside the door. “Call in the Gauntlet speakers.”
Moments later they came. Eamon turned to see them – five men, each of them wearing the Gauntlet’s full insignia. He recognized all of them. The five men stood behind the empty seats.
“Would you give your names?” Hughan asked. One of the notaries at the table began to write.
“Captain Andreas Anderas of the East Quarter,” said Anderas, the first in the line. “I speak for the East and for each regional division stationed in it prior to the battle.”
“Captain Tomas Longroad of the North Quarter,” spoke the second. Eamon was glad to see him alive. “I speak for the North and each regional division stationed in it prior to the battle.”
“First Lieutenant Ronnel Fletcher,” spoke the third, “former lieutenant to the Right Hand. I speak for the South Quarter, from which I came, for each division stationed there prior to the battle, and for those who served in the palace guard.” Eamon wondered whether the man had been promoted on the field. He remembered the way that Fletcher had armed him for battle. The man could never have imagined whom he armed, or for what purpose.
“General Sir Enbern Rocell,” spoke the fourth. “I speak for the knights and nobles at arms of this city.”
“General Alduin Waite,” spoke the last. He stood proudly, his head raised. His arm hung in a sling and his determined face looked pale. “I speak for the West Quarter, and for any division stationed there prior to the battle. As commander of the Gauntlet, I also speak for any divisions not present in the city at this time.” Waite did not meet Eamon’s gaze. It turned his heart with sadness.
Hughan gestured to his own men: Alnos and Leon. Both men had several aides with them. The Easters were also a formidable presence at the table: Anastasius, Feltumadas, Ithel, and Ylonous. Last of all was Eamon himself. He tried to keep his voice steady as he gave his name: