by Anna Thayer
Eamon laughed, for her delight was infectious. “It is.”
They came into some of the palace’s broader halls. Ma Mendel led him through one to a corridor and then to a low archway which led into a series of small rooms. Voices inside, mostly of women, spoke quietly, sometimes laughing. Through the curve of the entrance arch, great rolls of thread and reams of cloth in varying colours were laid out. Eamon was surprised to see traces of black among them. It reminded him for an awful moment of Edelred’s tailors.
The moment passed. A servant went and took up a great spiral of blue cloth, then carried it to the speaking women.
Ma Mendel paused in the doorway as though remembering something, and looked to him.
“If you will wait here a moment, sir, I’ll just see if she’s here.”
“Of course,” Eamon answered. Although he had seen women in the palace during the last few days the sight and sound of them still astonished him; never as a Hand had he heard it. He was content merely to listen to their voices as Ma Mendel disappeared through the arch into the curved room beyond. Eamon stared after her for a moment, and then stepped to one side as a young woman carrying a wide collection of coloured threads passed within. The room felt curiously off-limits to him and he resisted the urge to sneak a quick look past the arch into the strange world beyond.
He was on the verge of yielding to his curiosity when Ma Mendel reappeared. “She’s just coming, sir.”
“Thank you,” Eamon answered. Ma Mendel had an even broader smile on her face, and he frowned to see it. “I’m curious, Mrs Mendel,” he began. “What is it that delights you so?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t tell you!”
Eamon laughed. “I shall resign myself to it nobly.”
“I knew that you would, sir.”
Lillabeth came out from the room. An odd wash of emotion ran through Eamon at the sight of her, one made up of grief, joy, hope, and sorrow all intertwined. She seemed somehow greater, in courage and in years, than when he had last seen her, on that night when he had led her from the city to the safety of the King’s men. He remembered the tunnel down which they had struggled and the terrible darkness within it, and how she had spoken for him, a Hand, against those same King’s men.
All this he thought as he bowed low to Mathaiah’s wife. “Mrs Grahaven,” he said.
Lillabeth smiled at him. “First Knight,” she said. The title came joyously from her lips and she laughed as she stepped forward and embraced him briefly. It astounded him, and he gazed at her in amazement as she stepped back again. “You’ll forgive me if I do not curtsey,” she added, setting one hand apologetically over her swollen belly.
“I would not ask you to,” Eamon answered. He realized that though he had learned much about death and destruction in Dunthruik he understood little about life and restoration. Somehow the sight of Lillabeth – and the knowledge that she bore a child that he might one day live to see grow into a man – filled him with awe.
“I am sorry that I have not come before,” he began. “I have wanted to speak with you. Would you mind walking with me for a short while?”
“Or perhaps sitting?” Lillabeth asked. Eamon blushed, and was about to apologize to the smiling lady when Ma Mendel stepped forward.
“There’re some benches in the garden just here,” she said, gesturing to an arched doorway which led from the passage where they stood out into the bright afternoon light.
“Then, Mrs Grahaven, would you sit with me for a few minutes there?” Eamon asked.
“Of course,” Lillabeth answered.
Eamon looked to Ma Mendel. “Thank you, Mrs Mendel.”
“Sir.” Curtseying low and smiling at Lillabeth, she turned and returned to the palace corridors.
Eamon and Lillabeth went together into the shady courtyard across the hall. As they left the cool stone walls the heat beat down on them. Eamon was glad to see that the stone benches were shaded.
It was to one of these that he led Lillabeth, lending her his arm despite her quiet protests, so that she would not slip and fall on any of the stones. When they reached the bench he helped her sit, and then stood, watching, for a moment. As she expectantly met his gaze he suddenly felt awkward.
Lillabeth touched his hand, calling his mind back from where it wandered. “It’s good to see you, Eamon,” she said, smiling at him, “and it is better still to see you safe.”
“Thank you,” Eamon answered. “Were you doing something important?”
“A little sewing,” Lillabeth answered, and suddenly the smile on her face was brilliant. “I am afraid that I can’t tell you anything else,” she added with an enigmatic curve of her mouth.
“But I’ll know it when I see it?” Eamon guessed. He imagined that the sewing involved a wedding dress for Aeryn, though that did not explain the black he had seen among the cloth and thread.
“You will,” Lillabeth encouraged him. Her hand was still on his, and as she smiled at him he drew a deep breath.
“You wanted to speak to me?”
At last Eamon sat down beside her. “I received something this morning,” he said. “I knew it at once…”
He trailed off but knew that he could delay no longer. Lillabeth watched him curiously as he drew out the ring. For a long moment he held it, hidden, in the palm of his hand, but then at last he matched her gaze again. “I knew it,” he whispered, “and I knew also that it had to go to you.”
Silently he opened his hand before her. Her eyes fell to what he held, then astonishment and sorrow crossed her face. Reaching out, Lillabeth laid one finger to the band, tracing it in disbelief, then looked at him.
“How did you find this?” she whispered.
“It has passed my hand several times,” Eamon answered. “Even so, I can only tell you a little of its story.” He met her gaze, assessing her face and grief, and knew then that he had to tell her as much as he knew.
“I know that it was taken from your husband when he was imprisoned. I then took it from his keepers, and when I went into the Pit I returned it to him.” He paused, remembering how he had embraced Mathaiah and the song that had shaken down the walls of the Pit. “I can only think,” he whispered, “that he somehow knew which ascent from the Pit would be his last and that, to defend us both, he gave this ring into the hands of one whom he trusted.
“Where it was then held and hidden, I do not know. This morning I received it with a letter from Lord Febian, who surrendered in the Pit on the day this city was taken. Febian’s letter told me that it came from the hand of a prisoner, with instruction that it should be given to me.” He swallowed, feeling a horrid grief in his throat. “That instruction must have come from your husband, and I am sure that he meant for me to bring it to you.” He paused, trying to hold her gaze steadily, but his strength failed him and he looked away.
“I promised you once that I would return him to you,” he whispered. “It was a foolish promise to make, and it grieves me to have broken it. Your husband was dear to me, and I would have given my life to save him. Yet he is gone, and this,” he said, looking at the ring on his palm, “is all of him that I can bring.”
Lillabeth’s eyes misted with tears as they followed his own to the ring. Gently she then took it from his hand and weighed it in hers. She wore her wedding ring openly now. The two silver bands glinted together in the light.
Lillabeth suddenly looked up at him. “What happened to him, Eamon?”
Eamon paled.
“I don’t think I…” He faltered and met her gaze. She was the one with the most right to know what had befallen Mathaiah, but as he looked at her he feared for her, and for the child that she carried. If he had scarcely been able to bear the news, how could she?
“Lillabeth,” he said gently, “you deserve to know, and know in full, yet I am afraid of what might happen to you should I tell it.”
Lillabeth looked down at the ring in her hand for a long moment, then back at Eamon. “The King’s grace was wit
h him to the very end,” she said. “It will also be with me as I listen.”
Eamon measured her gaze. It was stalwart, though afraid.
“You know of the Nightholt?” he asked at last. Lillabeth nodded. Eamon belatedly realized that she would have seen it on the day that it was destroyed.
“When Mathaiah and I first came to Dunthruik we were sent to find it,” he said. “We had no idea what it was. I knew that it was evil – I could hardly hold it. But Mathaiah could read it.”
Lillabeth nodded again. “He spoke of it,” she said.
The news did not surprise Eamon.
“They took him because he could read it.”
“Why should they have needed him to read it?” Lillabeth asked. “Surely Edelred could read it himself?”
“It was not Edelred who took him,” Eamon answered. “It was Arlaith.”
Lillabeth’s eyes widened in surprise.
“One of the Right Hand’s chief responsibilities was to find the Nightholt. At Arlaith’s command, it had been found.” Eamon’s heart grew heavy as he saw another facet of how deeply Ladomer had used him. “But Arlaith did not give it to Edelred; he kept it for himself. He conspired to overthrow Edelred, and the only way he could do so was by tampering with the Nightholt. But Arlaith could not read it. Neither could the other Hands, and when he learned that Mathaiah could, Arlaith took him and tried to force him to do it.”
Lillabeth’s face grew pale and Eamon trembled. Suddenly it was all so clear to him: Cathair, and maybe even Ashway, had thought all along that Arlaith’s commands about Mathaiah and the Nightholt had come from the throned, but they had not. Arlaith had put all the blame of his backfired scheme onto Cathair, the only one left who could have gainsaid him. It was why the Left Hand had been so keen to see Eamon return in victory from the Raven’s nest.
How could he not have understood it sooner?
“Did they torture him?” Lillabeth asked.
“He was held in the Pit, which was torture enough for most men. While they hoped that he might be made to read, the worst they did was beat him and lie to him that they held you and tortured you, Lillabeth. You must know that he did not fear the former and never believed the latter. They tried to breach him but they could not, and when they could not breach him they tried all that they could to break him.” He fell quiet. “I do not know whether they then killed him because he would not surrender to them what they wanted, or whether Arlaith feared that he would be discovered, or whether Cathair killed him to strike at me and unwittingly worked against Arlaith. Your husband was blinded.” Suddenly he was in the Four Quarters as the cart moved past him in the chill night. “He was blinded and they took his hands. But they never took his hope.”
“You saw him,” Lillabeth breathed. Perhaps she saw in his face a ghost of what he had seen.
“I saw his body,” Eamon answered. “And I am glad, Lillabeth, I cannot tell you how glad, that you did not. As for him…”
It was then that his heart was filled with singing, and he remembered – with clarity that his mind could scarcely contain – the river and the city where he had tarried, and the one who had met him there.
He looked back to Lillabeth and a smile filled his face. “I saw him again.”
Lillabeth looked at him in amazement. “What do you mean?”
“There was a place,” Eamon began, “a place I went to, after I fell. I cannot describe it! It was bright, Lillabeth, and it was beautiful and radiant… and so was he. He was there – whole and full of joy.”
Tears filled Lillabeth’s eyes and she shook. Eamon reached across and took her hand.
“I know that he loved you,” he said.
There were tears on Lillabeth’s face. She closed her hand about the ring and pressed it close to her lips in sorrow.
Eamon gently touched her shoulder. “Lillabeth,” he whispered. “Mathaiah gave his life for the King, for this land, for this city, for me and for you and for your child; peace is his prize. And you and I will both see him again.”
Swallowing back her tears, she looked up. “Thank you for telling me all of this,” she said. “The news is grievous, Eamon, but knowing what happened comforts me, and knowing that he…” Dashing a tear from her eyes she looked up at him, and pressed his hand. “I am sorry that you had to bear it, in the fullness of its horror, and with none to comfort you. I know you loved him.”
“I have been comforted,” Eamon answered. “I love him still.”
They sat together in silence for a long moment. A flight of birds winged past. The sun struck the underside of their wings with silver. For a moment Eamon was lost in it. Suddenly, he remembered that he had not said everything that he had come to say.
He looked at Lillabeth. Her own face was pale and tear-marked, and Mathaiah’s ring was held tightly in her hand. Eamon’s breathing quickened. Mathaiah’s voice filled his mind as clearly and freely as the soaring birds:
“Then she shall name him…”
He closed his eyes.
Lillabeth’s eyes came to rest on his face. “Is something the matter?”
Eamon realized that he had been biting his lip and drew a deep breath. “I have not yet told you everything,” he said quietly. He swallowed hard and folded his hands together to keep them from shaking. “Mathaiah was sent down into the Pit because of me…”
“I – I know. If it is forgiveness you seek, know that you already have it. I do not blame you for whatever part you feel you played. Mathaiah only ever spoke well of you.”
At last he matched her gaze. “Thank you. That means much to me, but there is more. The last time I saw Mathaiah alive,” he said, “I took him news that I had seen you; I told him that you bore his child.”
Lillabeth’s face opened with surprise. “You told him?”
“Yes,” Eamon nodded.
Lillabeth gazed at him in joyous wonder. “Thank you.”
“Lillabeth, when I took him news he told me…” He faltered. “He asked me to bring you a message.”
“What message?” Lillabeth asked gently.
Eamon knew that he could delay no longer. Drawing all his courage he forced himself to look at her, and not to shy from her gaze as he spoke.
“Mathaiah said that his child… should bear my name.”
Shame flushed through him as soon as he said it. Lillabeth looked surprised, and for a moment he feared that her face would turn to outrage or to hatred. He drew breath at once to apologize, to tell her that she need not do it and that he was sorry he had mentioned it at all.
“Lillabeth –” he began.
Lillabeth’s still eyes silenced him. “Mathaiah loved you,” she gently told him. “He would be proud of you and of what you’ve done.”
“Lillabeth –”
“If my child’s father was a righteous man, and his namesake were to be that of a good man…” She paused, and then smiled. “Then I do not think that I could give him a better legacy or hope than to give him the name chosen by his father. Yours is a good name, Eamon, and – assuming it’s a boy – my son’s will be a good name, too.”
Eamon gazed at her in wonder and tears stung his eyes.
“You have amazed me since the very first day I met you.”
“You have amazed us all,” Lillabeth replied.
They sat together for a moment, letting the breeze run past them. Eamon breathed deeply.
He sat silently for a long time. His thoughts stilled. Suddenly he looked at her. “How is she?” he asked quietly.
Lillabeth looked at him with a small frown. “You mean…?”
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, and rubbed a hand across his face. “Forgive me, I… I think of her often.”
“As does she of you.”
His heart leapt. Could it be true? Lillabeth’s steady face told him that it could. He forced down a tremor in his hands. “Lillabeth, could you… could you take her a message from me?”
“You would not rather take one yourself?”
> “I would. But I have left things too long, and now… now I do not know what I must do before I can go to her again.”
Lillabeth nodded. Perhaps Alessia had already confided in her the entire conversation he had tried to have with her before. “I will take her a message from you,” she promised.
“Then, could you tell her…” He pursed his lips in thought. What was the one thing that he most wished he could say to her?
He knew it at once. “Lillabeth, would you tell Alessia that I know now that I wronged her, and that I am sorry. I hope, one day, to say as much to her myself.”
Slowly, Lillabeth nodded. “I will tell her.”
It was more than he could have hoped for. “Thank you.”
They were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Manners walked briskly down the path. The young man looked satisfied to see Eamon and smiled as he stopped near them.
“I’ve found you, sir,” he said. “Anderas said that you weren’t well.”
“I’m a little better now,” Eamon answered.
“I didn’t expect to find you here,” Manners added, “but I was assured…” He suddenly started in surprise. “Lillabeth!”
“Rory,” Lillabeth answered, rising to her feet and embracing the astonished young man. “It’s good to see you.”
“And you,” Manners answered, stepping back with a laugh. “I didn’t know you were in the city, Mrs Grahaven, else I would have…” He shook his head in delight. “How are you?” he finished.
“Well,” Lillabeth replied. Manners still stared at her and his eyes then fell to her belly.
“Lillabeth,” he stammered, “are you…?”
“Yes,” Lillabeth replied, then smiled at the First Knight. “Mathaiah’s child. If it is a son, his name will be Eamon Grahaven.”
Manners blinked, stared at Eamon for a second, then looked back to Lillabeth, then shook his head in bemusement.
“I… What can I say? That’s wonderful.”
Lillabeth looked at Eamon again. “Thank you for everything you’ve told me.”