The Traitor's Heir

by Anna Thayer

  As they passed he saw Mathaiah, accompanied by the band of children from the previous day. They dogged his steps. Eamon deduced that the cadet was the flavour of the moment.

  Dodging away from his companions, Mathaiah jogged towards him.

  “How are you feeling, sir?” The stick in his hand told Eamon that the morning’s activity had already included fencing.

  “Well.”

  To judge by Mathaiah’s smile, his reply was satisfactory. The cadet looked from Eamon to Ma Mendel and then back again. “You’re going to see him?”

  Eamon nodded. Mathaiah held his gaze uncertainly.

  “All will be well, Mr Grahaven,” Eamon told him, offering the young man a smile. “Your division of followers seems to demand your attention,” he added, gesturing to the impatient band of children.

  “Yes, sir,” Mathaiah answered.

  The cadet returned to the gaggle and was soon embroiled in a whirlpool of small boys.

  “Come along!” Ma Mendel called. “The King has many things to attend to this morning, and you are not the least of them!”

  With a swift apology Eamon returned to her side. Much to his bemusement she went on to describe the medicinal properties of the local flora and fauna. The commentary lasted up to the breed of plant that lined the lintels of the ruined building and how, if ground into water in the right quantities, the leaves would produce a thick drink that could aid stiff bowels.

  Despite his unsettled mood the Hidden Hall still amazed him. Once again he was brought through the great panelled doors. He expected himself to be announced, as before, and to find himself facing the same collection of hostile men. But the chamber was empty, quiet. Birdsong hung in distant eaves.

  Only Hughan sat at the table. He seemed deep in thought. Eamon glimpsed responsibility that he did not understand on the face of his childhood friend.

  “Lieutenant Goodman, sire,” said Ma Mendel.

  Hughan looked up, rose, and came quickly to greet them. “Good morning!”

  “Good morning,” Eamon answered hesitantly.

  “Shall I go, sire?” Ma Mendel asked.

  “Thank you,” Hughan nodded. “And thank you, Mrs Mendel, for your kindness to this man.”

  Ma Mendel beamed. “A pleasure, sire.” Curtseying, she left.

  As the doors closed Eamon trembled. He stood alone with the King.

  He looked uncertainly at Hughan. “What of your counsellors?”

  “Not many of them think you trustworthy,” Hughan replied with a small smile, “but they know you’re here.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that you would act without their knowledge,” he said, embarrassed.

  Hughan laughed. “I know you didn’t. I wanted to meet with you myself, Eamon. You have a lot of questions and I want you to feel free to ask them. Here,” he added, “come and sit with me.”

  Hughan gestured to the table. Simply fashioned, it glistened in the light.

  At Hughan’s invitation Eamon sank into one of the high-backed chairs. As the King sat beside him he grew increasingly restless.

  A tall jug stood before them. Hughan poured some of its liquid into a cup and then offered it to him – a warm mix of herbs and honey. They might almost have been sitting back at the Star.

  As Eamon’s fingers closed about the cup the mark on his hand seared all his nerves like lightning. With a startled cry he dropped the mug, his hand shaking before him.

  “Eamon?”

  “It’s… it’s nothing…” He tried to drive his hand under the table, to where it could not be seen, but he could not stop it trembling.

  The hideous voice crept into his mind, clearer than ever:

  You have no need of him to pour witless sympathies about your feet. He cannot help you, and would not if he could. Leave!

  Eamon rose to his feet.

  Hughan laid his hand on Eamon’s arm. “You needn’t listen to him, Eamon.” His eyes met and held Eamon’s own. “Do you want to sit?”

  “Yes,” Eamon whispered.

  “Then put the voice behind you, and be at peace.”

  At the authority of the King’s voice a growl thundered through Eamon’s skull. The voice within suddenly relinquished its hold and died away.

  Eamon gazed at his friend and sank back down in amazement.

  “H-how…” he stammered, blinking away tears. “How did you know?”

  “I know what the mark is, and what it does,” Hughan answered gravely. Eamon let out a deep breath.

  “Ma Mendel came to see me this morning,” Hughan said gently. “She told me that you were having nightmares. Can you tell me about them?”

  Words twisted in Eamon’s throat. “I…” Shaking, he tried again. “Hughan, he’ll…”

  The King had never once faltered in holding his gaze. “He has no hold over you here, Eamon,” Hughan told him firmly. “Speak, and be comforted.”

  Eamon gasped. On what authority could Hughan possibly think that the voice had no hold? Had it not already prompted him to attempt murder? Did it not fill him with strength and malice that he could not control? How could Hughan put them both at risk by asking him to defy it?

  The shake in his hand grew as he wrestled with himself; he folded his arms over his breast, trying to quell it. At last he looked at Hughan. The King had not moved and watched him kindly, as though they had at their disposal all the time ever fashioned. His hand was still on Eamon’s arm – an encouraging touch that kept the trembling from reaching the rest of Eamon’s body.

  Eamon looked into Hughan’s eyes and seemed to see the flicker of cool light in them. The throned had granted power to Eamon through the mark. But a gift, measured in grace and authority and bestowed by some power far beyond the throned, lay on Hughan. As Eamon watched his friend’s eyes he knew that the King bore the greater, truer power.

  The voice stabbed at him one last time:

  He will not believe you and cannot aid you. Whisper but a word to the Serpent, son of Eben, and you will see what you reap for your insolence!

  “Eamon.”

  “So much has happened to me, Hughan… I can’t…”

  “You can speak of it.”

  Eamon let Hughan’s gaze enfold him.

  Drawing a deep breath, he concentrated on the strange things that had befallen him since he had left Edesfield. Then he began to pour out his story, growing steadily in confidence as Hughan listened. While Eamon spoke to the King the terrible voice remained absent.

  When at last he had finished Hughan nodded thoughtfully.

  “You must understand, Eamon, that not every new recruit to the Gauntlet is affected by the throned’s mark as savagely as you have been.”

  “Not everyone hears… hears… Is it him I hear?” Eamon asked.

  “It is his voice,” Hughan answered.

  Eamon fell silent. Hughan looked at him firmly.

  “I cannot tell you that I fully understand it; I do not. All I can tell you is that you must not fear it. And do not believe it, for this much I do know: it will speak to you in perversions and half-truths. He is powerful, Eamon. He means to bait you with his voice, crushing your thoughts and aggrandizing your fear. By having you fear him and his power he would have you act according to his purpose. He wants to draw everything from you, and everything that you are, into his hands.”

  Eamon stared. “Why?” he demanded. “What can I possibly matter to him? I’m a bookbinder’s son!”

  “The throned enviously cleaves to all those whom he has claimed,” Hughan answered. “In that, you are no different to any other man serving him. But you are worth more to him than many others.”

  Eamon’s stare became a horrified gape. His flesh began to crawl with a fear that drove all warmth from him. “I don’t understand.”

  “You have said that when he speaks to you he calls you ‘Eben’s son’ – but Eben was not your father’s name.”

  “No,” Eamon whispered. His father’s name had been Elior.

  “The thron
ed knows something about you that you don’t know yourself,” Hughan continued quietly. “That is why he is trying to take such a firm hold on you. It is why his voice has tormented your dreams, as well as your waking.”

  Eamon’s breath quickened. Had Ma Mendel seen his dreams while he slept? “What do you know?”

  Hughan paused. His gaze gauged Eamon’s own.

  “The woman whom you have seen in your visions,” he began, “is Elaina, sister of Ede and queen after him. From her I descend. This much you know.” Eamon nodded. “When you saw her, lying wounded and near death in a place of battle, you saw a man with her. You saw him saving her with light, much as you then saved Mathaiah Grahaven. The man whom you saw was Eben.”

  “Son of Eben,” Eamon murmured dumbly; the name rang in his ears. “Who was Eben?”

  “Eben Goodman was Ede’s First Knight.”

  “Goodman?”

  “He was the King’s friend and confidant, riding to war at Ede’s side when there was war and, when war’s rumour was distant, he was the King’s closest counsellor, first protector, and upholder of the River Realm in the King’s name.” Hughan watched him steadily. “The house of Goodman had long performed that office for the house of Brenuin, and so did Eben. But he also betrayed the King.”

  The blood pounding in Eamon’s veins turned leaden. “Betrayed?” he stammered. “Why?”

  “What drew him to treachery is beyond my knowledge,” Hughan answered, “but he was led astray by the throned. It was at the throned’s command that Eben weakened Ede in the days leading to the battle of Edesfield. At the battle itself it was Eben who felled the King so that the throned might strike him.”

  There was a long silence. Visions of the battle and its treacherous stroke flitted at the edge of Eamon’s mind. He looked miserably down at his mug, trying to focus on the steam curling up from it.

  The blood in his veins was the blood of a traitor.

  “Eben was among the first to receive the mark of the throned,” Hughan told him, “and that same day was made the throned’s Right Hand, in recognition of his service to the Eagle.”

  Eamon looked at Hughan aghast. “How can you sit here with me?” he cried.

  “A child does not bear the guilt of his father’s deeds, Eamon,” Hughan told him gently. “Even if you share Eben’s blood you did not deal the blow.”

  Eamon nodded weakly. Hughan spoke again. “After Ede was killed, the throned led his army to Allera, his Right Hand at his side. Allera was Ede’s capital city and was besieged but it gave staunch resistance, led by the Duke of the West Bank. The duke was Ede’s brother-in-law, married to Elaina. It was December and the city was prepared for a long winter, so it held for a long time – much to the throned’s anger.

  “The duke tried to break the throned’s chokehold around the city. Eben was sent against him and the Right Hand seriously injured the duke, who was taken back to the city. The duke was the city’s hope and so in its hour of need his wife, Elaina, donned his armour and rode to battle in his place.

  “Soon after, the throned breached the city walls and sacked Allera. Her husband lay dying and Elaina had no wish to flee, but men still loyal to her house took her from the city by force. Elaina carried the only child of royal blood.

  “When the throned discovered her escape he dispatched Eben and his Hands to find her and kill her. She was wounded in that meeting; but as she lay dying Eben healed her.”

  Eamon had been listening with a burdened heart and looked up in astonishment.

  “Eben healed her?”

  “Eben Goodman remembered his promises and saved the King’s sister and her house. Her healing at his hands was the first time the ‘blue light’, as you have called it, was seen. After Eben healed Elaina many of the King’s followers began to exhibit this same light. Some called it ‘the King’s grace’, for it came to the King’s men for their protection and encouragement in their time of need. Exactly what it is we do not know, but it has enabled us to stand against the throned since those days.

  “The King’s men went into hiding, going about the River Realm by hidden ways – so becoming ‘wayfarers’. Eben Goodman restored his broken allegiance but returned to the city in the guise of Right Hand. He was there as the throned tore down Allera and was an overseer as Dunthruik was built in its place, stones over gardens. The city’s ancient quarters were awarded to the throned’s closest Hands and one of them, a seer, prophesied that Elaina’s line would overthrow the throned. Since that day, the throned has sought to extinguish it.”

  There was a long silence.

  “What happened to Eben?” Eamon asked with a dry throat.

  “I do not know why he returned to the city, nor what task he meant to perform for the King’s house in Dunthruik,” Hughan answered. “It is told that his treachery to the throned was discovered and that he was killed by the Hands.”

  “And now I carry the throned’s mark. Why did you permit them to bring me here, Hughan?” Eamon cried at last, terror in his heart. “I will become his tool against you! I have a traitor’s blood and the mark of your enemy.”

  “You do,” Hughan agreed, “but, like Eben, you also bear the King’s grace.” Eamon’s objections fell silent before Hughan’s quiet assertion. “The throned desires to make you his, Eamon, fully and completely; that is why his voice insists that you already are.”

  Eamon swallowed, sensing that there was more to come, and yet he did not feel that he could take another blow; his blood sang a song of treachery and discord that he could not quieten.

  “There is more, isn’t there?”

  Hughan looked at him gently. “The tongue that told that the throned would be overthrown by Elaina’s seed also declared that a son of Eben would go before Elaina’s heir. He would be a First Knight, just as the fathers of his house were of old.”

  The words took a long time to sink in.

  “You think that’s me?” Eamon whispered incredulously.

  “Yes.”

  Eamon gaped.

  “Before you knew that you were descended from Eben, you answered to it,” Hughan told him gently.

  Eamon fell silent, remembering how the name had felt in him when it had been spoken. First Knight.

  Shaking, he looked at Hughan again. “There must be hundreds of Goodmans on the River,” he whispered. “How can you be so sure that I’m the one?”

  Hughan looked at him once more, the depth of his eyes more than Eamon could fathom.

  “Eamon, men that bear the throned’s mark do not also carry the King’s grace. You are a Goodman whom the throned has taken a special interest in – and you bear both mark and grace. That is how I know.”

  “Even if that’s true, what difference does it make?”

  “Much.”

  “How?”

  “The house of Goodman is one of courage and compassion. The River Realm is in need of its First Knight now perhaps more than it has ever been.”

  Another long silence fell between them.

  “I’m sorry,” Hughan said kindly. “This is a lot to take in at once.”

  “Did you always know?” Eamon asked suddenly. To Hughan’s questioning look he added: “Did you always know that you were Elaina’s heir?”

  “No,” Hughan answered. “That’s why I was taken from Edesfield; to be told, taught, and prepared.”

  Eamon watched him for a long moment. “What will you do with me now?”

  “What do you feel about the wayfarers?”

  Eamon felt that much rested on his answer.

  “Is Giles one of you?”

  Hughan smiled sadly, as though he had anticipated the question. “Giles is trustworthy and hates the throned. He comes from one of the cities in Galithia. His family was killed in the border wars some years ago. I am sorry,” he added gravely, “for what he did when he took the holk. Though he had my authority to take all necessary steps to rescue Aeryn, and it was likely that men would be lost, he should not have taken the lives of prisoner
s who had tokened their surrender.”

  “You took a lot of risks to rescue her.”

  “She was being taken to Dunthruik for things that she knows,” Hughan replied, “about this place and about me. I wrote, asking her and Telo to come here.” Guilt passed over his face. “It was foolish of me. I wanted them both to be safe.”

  Eamon suddenly stared. “You mean… all this time, Aeryn knew that you were alive?”

  Hughan matched his gaze. “She knew.”

  Betrayal sliced through him like a barb. “Hughan, why didn’t you…?” Eamon shook his head in disbelief.

  “I wanted to,” Hughan answered. “But when I could and did send word to Aeryn, I learnt that you had already joined the Gauntlet. You were a cadet. I could not seek you then and was compelled to ask her not to speak of me to you. She did as I asked, despite her own misgivings, and I chose to trust that there would be a time when I could speak to you myself.”

  “I understand.” Years had passed between Hughan’s disappearance and the day Eamon had become a Gauntlet cadet; Hughan would have had no way of telling whether his childhood friend could still have been trusted.

  “It was no reflection of my heart for you,” Hughan told him. “It was a difficult choice to make, Eamon, one that rendered you less faith than you deserved. Of all the choices that I had to make at that time,” he added quietly, “none weighed upon me as much as that. It wronged you.”

  “No. You were right not to risk sending word to me.” He paused, his mind awhirl. In the silence that followed he fiddled with his cooling mug. Eventually he looked once more at Hughan.

  “If what you say is true,” he began, “and King Ede was killed by treachery, then the throned is not the lawful master of the River. In that regard…” He felt a pulse of heat near his palm and pressed it closed. “But I have sworn to serve the throned, Hughan,” he whispered, “with body, blade, and blood.” He swallowed, hating the words that came from his mouth. “My oath is binding.”

  “You can be released.”