by Anna Thayer
Even as they walked, a procession left the palace. It passed quietly from the gates, bearing no torch in the grey light, and went silently along the Coll. It was formed of sombre men in blue. The King went at its head and before its load.
Eamon went at his side, feeling the stillness and quiet of the city all around them. He thought of the hundreds of times that he had walked the Coll or seen the streets and alleys of Dunthruik. Long before the grey light revealed them, he knew the roof of the theatre and the shapes of the houses running along to the gates, and he knew also the Blind Gate and the mountains which loomed behind them, masses on the horizon cloaked by the half-light.
He had walked the Coll as a lieutenant, a first lieutenant, a Hand, a Right Hand, a King’s man, and even a First Knight. That day he walked it as a witness – one who went with the great palls being brought down from the palace gates.
The procession wound down the road towards the Four Quarters. Eamon saw the tall statues up ahead, and between each quarter the shape of the buildings and roads. Gaps in the buildings looked east to the plain, north to the hills, west to the sea, and south to the River. The Four Quarters were the heart of the city. Eamon wondered whether the whole of the River Realm might not have its heart there.
Traffic did not move through the quarters that day, nor did battle roll across its stones. That day the Four Quarters were filled with people – men and women, young and old, noble and servant, Gauntlet and King’s man. The procession came before them into the quarters and they watched it in silence and in awe.
A platform had been raised in the centre of the quarters. To this Hughan made his way. The two long palls borne by the procession came after him. A great red banner covered one; the other was shrouded in black. Dunthruik saw them, and was silent.
Eamon watched as the palls were set upon the platform and the King stepped up between them. With the still twilight all about him and the silver coronet on his head, the King stood upon the bank of an ancient shore, like a man from time forgotten.
Hughan Brenuin looked towards the east, and towards the watching city.
“People of Dunthruik,” he said, “the city in which you live, which you have served and which you love, had of old another name. Its name was Allera, a name given to it by the first of the house of Kings. To that same house, the people of the River and of this city gave loving allegiance.
“That house was the house of Brenuin, a house of stars, of swords undrawn, and promise. To it had been given the kingship of the River and its lands. The house pledged itself to keep them in prosperity and peace. That pledge was made by the first Brenuin, between himself and the people of the River; in return, the people swore service to his house. He was given lordship over the land, as had been promised to him, and the pledge that he made became known as the King’s Covenant. For many years it was kept and this land prevailed against many evils.
“Becoming sure and reckless in their strength and in the Kings who governed them, the hearts of the people of the River Realm changed, and the promises made to them, promises bound in the King’s Covenant, were forgotten or abused. In place of courage and goodness came arrogance, weakness, and oath-breaking.”
The crowd fell utterly still.
“It was in that time that an Easter, Aras, son of Amar, learned of the King’s Covenant. He was a learned man and he was keen of wit. He understood that the protection over the River Realm had grown weak, as the laws on which it was founded had fallen by the wayside, and he understood also how he might gain from that weakness.
“He came to the River Realm’s borders openly, but with a hidden heart. Into Allera he came, and by deceit he took the King’s Covenant and in its place he wrote his own, seeking to bind land and people to his will by words of his own devising. No promise had been made to him; he had made no pledge with the people nor had any lands been given into his hands, and yet he desired them. So he claimed that by the ending of the house of Kings, and the destruction of the King’s Covenant, his own house would take their place.
“He drew men away from the King, making them his servants, promising them strength and power, and binding them to him. Among these men he also drew the King’s First Knight, through treachery and deceit. When the last battle between Aras and King Ede was joined, it was the First Knight who brought the first strike against his King. Betrayed, King Ede was killed.”
Some gasped – perhaps they had not known the story. Eamon inhaled deeply, wondering if their eyes turned to him. Then he exhaled: he was no longer bound by the fate of his forebears.
The King once more took up his tale: “The King’s Covenant was destroyed and the King lay dead. Aras took another name – Edelred – and Ede’s First Knight became Edelred’s Right Hand. Those men who had followed Edelred witnessed the raising of the tome in which Edelred had set his will for the land. He deemed that it should serve him in body and in blood, receiving nothing in return. This covenant was one of blood and suffering, holding dark and hidden things, the fruit of Edelred’s own thought. He called it the tierrascuro; his closest, who would be called his Hands, named it the Nightholt, and none could see it or change it but he alone.
“Edelred marched to Allera in the power of his will and waged war against the city until it was taken and its people were laid to waste. Edelred claimed sole hold of the city, renaming it Dunthruik, and an eagle was set over the River Realm.
“The men who had served Edelred on the field of battle became known as the Gauntlet. Along with the Hands, they received the power which had been promised to them, for it was marked into their flesh with fire.” In the crowd, some rubbed at palms or tucked hands away. “By that mark they worked Edelred’s will, and receiving it, they feared him, for he bound their own blood to his power. The River bowed, and trembled.
“Edelred’s power was in the Nightholt, and Edelred was secure as long as none could gainsay him. To this end he sought to blot out the last of the royal line. But the First Knight remembered his vow and saved Elaina Brenuin, last of her house, from the Eagle’s grasp.
“It is from that last daughter of the house of Brenuin that I descend. I have come to take up again the rights of my house and to undo the bonds of the Nightholt, to which this land and its people have been unlawfully bound.”
Eamon listened to the King’s words as though under a spell. Suddenly Hughan’s eyes were upon him.
Gathering all his courage, he stepped out from among the King’s men. The men and women in the quarters stared at him as he moved like a shadow across the square. He knew that many of them would recognize him; they knew who he had been, and now they knew the story of his house. As he went forward, garbed in the cloth of a King’s man, they could also see who he had become.
Slowly he climbed the steps of the platform where the King stood. Behind him the long swell of the Coll led west to the sea caught up between the tall posts of the Sea Gate. To either side of the King lay the two draped hearses; the sight of them cooled Eamon’s blood.
There was a bag in his hands – his blood money. In the moment of silence as he met Hughan’s gaze, it felt heavy.
“Let this stand against the blood that I have unjustly shed,” Eamon said. He pronounced the words loudly, though his voice shook. “By it, let peace come between me and the people of the River Realm.”
In silence he held the bag out towards Hughan. It was everything he had, but he relinquished it into the King’s hands without a second thought. The King set the bag aside on a broad dish. By it was another, filled with water.
Hughan looked back to Eamon. As he did so, Eamon spoke again.
“I, Eamon Goodman, who was Lord of the East and Right Hand to Edelred, do hereby renounce all bonds between himself and me. His will is not my own, and shall no longer hold over mine.” He struggled to keep his voice steady. “As it is for me,” he said at last, “so let it be for the Hands.”
Looking up he found that the King watched him keenly.
“Hold up your hand, Eamon.
”
For a moment Eamon looked at him in confusion. Then, not daring to guess or to hope at what might follow, he silently lifted his right hand and held it out towards Hughan. It shook in the growing light. Hughan took hold of his palm. The King gently pressed his own fingers against Eamon’s hand. Light appeared about them – light that felt as cool and clear as a mountain spring. Eamon gazed on in wonder. Hughan drew his finger in a firm gesture over Eamon’s palm, striking through the mark of Edelred. Then he took Eamon’s hand and gently set it in the basin of water. The King cupped water in his own hand, and with it he washed Eamon’s forehead. Eamon was unable to breathe for sheer wonder.
The King raised Eamon’s hands from the basin and brushed the last drops of water from his brow. The mark of Edelred, and all its lingering fire, went with them.
Tears ran freely down Eamon’s face as the King stepped back from him.
“Thus are you released from all oaths to Edelred,” Hughan said. “As it is with you, so may it be with every Hand.”
“Thank you,” Eamon whispered.
Hughan smiled at him. “Stay here with me.”
Shaking still, Eamon stepped back to one side of the platform. Blinking tears from his eyes, he watched as Waite came forward from the gathered Gauntlet. The general also bore a bag in his hand: coins chinked inside it as the man climbed the platform.
Waite held the King’s gaze for a long moment.
“Let this stand against the blood which I have unjustly shed,” he said at last. “As it is with me, so shall it be with the Gauntlet. Let there be peace between the Gauntlet and the people of the River Realm.” Wordlessly, Waite handed the bag to Hughan. The King nodded to him and set it aside. Waite paused for a long moment, and Eamon felt the man’s eyes meet his across the platform.
At last Waite spoke. “I, Alduin Waite, who was general of the Gauntlet, do renounce all bonds between Edelred and myself. As it is with me, so let it be for the men under me.”
Hughan reached out and gently touched Waite’s hand; light flickered on the King’s fingers. Astonished fear swept across Waite’s face as the King laid the general’s hand in the water and washed it. Eamon understood the man’s look: Waite had joined the Gauntlet in his youth and he had borne the throned’s mark upon his palm through all the long seasons of his life. Now, the light in Hughan removed it in a moment.
Waite shook as Hughan let go his hand. The King smiled kindly at the trembling man.
“Thus are you, Alduin Waite, released from all oaths to Edelred,” he said. “As it is with you, so let it be with the Gauntlet.”
As he said it, sounds of surprise erupted from the men that watched. Many touched their hands in alarm or astonishment. Some had tears on their faces; others merely stared.
Eamon looked back to Hughan with renewed amazement. At Hughan’s words and gestures, the mark had been lifted from the Gauntlet.
Waite stepped back and descended the platform. As he did so, Eamon saw more movement among the King’s men. Leon came forward. The King’s man also held a bag in his hands.
“Let this stand against the blood which I have unjustly shed,” he said, his voice firm and clear in the morning light. “As it is with me, so shall it be with those who served the King in the long months before open battle. Thus let there be peace between the wayfarers and the people of the River Realm.”
Dunthruik watched in amazement as Leon solemnly handed the bag to the King then bowed low and left the platform.
At a look from Hughan, Eamon went and stood by the King’s side. It was then that Anastasius climbed the platform towards them. The Easter had something spread across his hands – a black cloth lay over it. Anastasius halted before the King. Hughan slowly uncovered what the Easter bore.
Eamon’s blood chilled as he saw what lay beneath the dark fabric, for he knew it at once. He knew its touch, its feel, its bitter darkness, and the writhing letters wrought upon it.
On the Easter’s hands, fell but still in the grey light, lay the Nightholt.
For a moment Eamon could only stare at it, but then he felt Hughan’s eyes on him. He understood why the King had asked him to stay.
In silence, Eamon stepped across to Anastasius and took up the book from his outstretched palms. The Easter gave a small sigh of relief as Eamon held the tome in his own hands. Eamon had drawn it out of Ellenswell, he had taken it from Arlaith’s treacherous grasp, and he had rendered it into the hands of Edelred himself. Now Eamon turned, and before the gaze of the whole of Dunthruik, he carried the Nightholt to Hughan.
With the book in his hands, he stood before the King. Then he opened it across his palms so that the tome’s very heart and spine lay exposed to Hughan. The weight of the pages writhed against his hands, but Eamon held it resolutely. Though the pages strove against him, there was no longer any mark upon him, and they could harm him no more.
“This is the Nightholt of Edelred,” Eamon said, his voice ringing clearly between the stones of the city’s heart. “Hands and Gauntlet both have renounced its bindings as unlawful. To the King we commit it, hoping in the line of Brenuin, and trusting to the grace vested in that house. O King,” he said, going down onto one knee, “let the Nightholt be unbound, and its hold undone.”
A terrible and breathless silence fell over the watching men and women. Eamon’s hands trembled.
Hughan Brenuin laid his hand upon the pages of the Nightholt. The letters on those pages tried to flee before the King’s fingers, yet they could not.
“For this land and for its people I speak,” Hughan said. “We have seen the ill that has been done through the will of Edelred; we have renounced it and its works. We will not be beholden to a false covenant. Let us, then, be loosed from it, and return to the first things of this land, in full and lawful hearts.” He looked at the book and the silence deepened.
Eamon’s heart and breath fell still. The King’s bare palm was set against the pages, and the presence of the King’s grace thrilled through Eamon’s every pore and stirred the air all around him, like the thousand singing voices in the faraway city he had once seen.
“In the power of the promise and grace given to my house, and sealed still in the King’s Covenant,” Hughan said, “I declare this work undone.”
Suddenly the light came. It erupted about the King’s palms like a cascade of streaming, living water, filling the air and covering the Nightholt with its brilliance. In the midst of the rushing splendour, the tangled letters on the Nightholt’s pages grew disfigured, distorting under the inundation of light. For a moment, as the light soared and danced over and about him, the King shadowed forth in fearsome brilliance, a mirror to a King of old, a glimmer of a King to come.
The light and vision faded. As Hughan withdrew his hand, Eamon felt again the weight of the book in his hands – but now that weight was dull and lifeless. The pages lay limp. The letters, and all they had held, were gone.
Hughan slowly took the book from Eamon’s hands and raised it high, showing the now blank pages to the staring city.
“People and realm of the River,” he called, “you are beholden to Edelred no more.”
Lowering the book, the King took the cloth that Anastasius still held. He carefully wrapped the Nightholt in it once more. Then, turning, he laid the black-bound book down on the breast of the red-clothed hearse. So doing, Hughan slowly drew back the pall from the face below. Eamon looked at what it revealed, part in fear and part in hope.
The pale face beneath was Edelred’s. Red hair lay about it like a pool of frozen fire, the grey eyes closed forever.
Hughan stepped across to the black hearse and also pulled back the cloth. Eamon stared in surprise. The face that lay beneath the black shroud was Arlaith’s. It was as though Ladomer had never existed.
As the King stepped back a pace, a group of Easter drummers in the quarters beat a solemn march. Each long hearse needed six men to bear it. The King, Anastasius, and Waite went to Edelred’s; each of them was matched by a wa
yfarer, an Easter, and a former Gauntlet. Eamon himself went to Arlaith’s pall; Feltumadas and Rocell did the same, and men of their colours matched them.
As the drums beat on, the palls were lifted. Eamon felt the weight of the wooden frame and the body upon it as it bore down on his shoulder. The King led Edelred’s pall down from the platform and towards the Coll. The men and women of Dunthruik fell back before it.
Drawing a deep breath, Eamon set his steps to the beat of the drums and led the Right Hand, in Edelred’s wake, from the Four Quarters towards the East Gate.
The march went slowly down the Coll. Eamon’s world shrank to the weight on his shoulder, to the beat of the drums, to the gate before him. The long road was lined with people, with faces pale and staring in the half-light, who stood in silence, watching Edelred and his Right Hand pass by. Marching feet, like the beat of a thousand drums, followed behind the procession. No word was said, no song was sung. Dunthruik watched its fallen Master as he passed.
The procession came steadily to the Blind Gate. That morning the damaged gate stood open, its broad expanse looking out towards distant mountains where the hidden sun climbed.
Through the gates they passed, going on from the city to the plain where pyres once burned. The city’s plain was marked with hundreds upon hundreds of graves on either side of the East Road. A small group of standards marked them. To the north stood red banners for the Gauntlet and the knights, while to the south stood blue and orange for the King’s men and Easters.
The pyres had grown still in the days leading up to the battle, but they had also grown after it. A great mound of kindling had been set before them.
It was to this mound that the procession headed. Hughan and his group laid Edelred’s pall down upon the kindling; Eamon and his men set Arlaith’s hearse down at its side. Eamon’s hands trembled as he came down from the mound.