by Anna Thayer
Eamon gaped. A wellspring of hope opened in the rocky places of his heart.
“I know that what I have told you is difficult to take in all at once, and I know the hold of the oath that you have sworn. But I would ask you to think awhile on all these things and then return to me. If, after you have considered them, you would be willing, there is a service I would ask you to render me.”
“You mean… become a wayfarer?” Eamon whispered. That was what rendering service to the King would entail, after all. Part of him recoiled from it, and part of him ached to take his stand with this man whom he had known, trusted, and loved in his youth. “Hughan, I…”
“It honours me enough that you consider it. I ask no more.” He held Eamon’s gaze, and Eamon saw that his friend, though young and learning still what he had to do, bore an aura of greatness.
At that moment the doors to the chamber opened and the counsellors began to enter, walking and striding according to their stature. Eamon might have started guiltily to his feet but he was caught and stilled by the King’s smile.
Giles was among the first of the entering group. His face broke into an ungainly scowl. “Sire!” he cried. “I protest at you closeting yourself with this verminous –”
“Peace, Giles,” Hughan answered, raising his hand.
“I will go, sir,” Eamon said quietly, “and I will return to you on this matter.”
Hughan nodded to him. “Thank you.”
Rising, Eamon bowed awkwardly to his friend and then hurried from the chamber. The cold glares of the counsellors rested on his back.
He was escorted from the Hidden Hall by one of its guards, and went back into the village and the sunlight. Nobody seemed to watch him as he passed, his hands driven deep into the folds of his shirt. He walked in silence and his heart pounded as he thought on all that Hughan had said.
Was Hughan truly to dethrone the Master and could it be that he, Eamon Goodman, was to be his help? He shook his head. Surely it could not be true. It was not for him to make a stand over such a thing. Hughan, he reasoned, had chosen the wrong man. Eamon’s place was in Dunthruik, the city to which he had been lawfully commissioned. He could not betray his oath to the Master. Who did these wayfarers think they were? They were dogs in the service of a youth scarcely old enough to bear a beard, let alone a sword. Hughan was barely a year older than Eamon himself.
His duty was clear: he had to make the hall known to the Master. It was to be cleared out, swept clean. The wayfarers would be crushed at a single stroke; Hughan had no heir and was the last of the line. There would be no King. Only then would Eamon Goodman redeem the treachery of his blood.
Better still, why not take a double oath and double cross this witless King? There was no release from the Master’s mark or from his service. Everything that the Serpent had told him was a lie. His reward in Dunthruik would be great indeed if he brought the Serpent before the Master. There would be public jubilation and a grand, humiliating execution befitting one that dared to wear dethroned colours. There was no King over the River Realm. History had written that story from the books long ago.
Eamon brought himself up sharply. His heart beat like a drum of war and his whole flesh seemed alive with fire. He felt stronger, thinking of such things. It would be so very easy to reach out and snap this self-styled King like a willow wand. He could redeem Eben’s betrayal and barter himself favour with the Master. He should redeem it. He would summon the Hands. They would come. The Master would laud and honour him.
He saw with other sight. Before him once more was the gaudy throne – no, not gaudy, for it was a great and glorious symbol of the Eagle’s power. A man sat there. As the darkling face smiled at him he found that he knelt before it. His lips were moving but he could not hear the words he spoke; as his voice tumbled out of him the smile of the grey-eyed broadened.
Suddenly a crushing pain went through his jaw, forcing him to open his eyes. He was kneeling in the mud by the well. He saw Aeryn, her hand drawn back. She had struck him. She stared at him with a white face. “What are you doing?” she hissed.
Eamon saw that every pair of eyes in sight was fixed on him. How they hated him. He surged to his feet like an angry tide. As he towered over her his hand darted out and grabbed her chin.
“How dare you!” he roared. She squirmed in his grip as it tightened. “Whoring snake!”
“Eamon!” Aeryn gasped. “Fight this, or I will fight you!”
Eamon could see her face and feel the terrible strength in his hand. Hughan had said he would be safe here, he had promised safety.
Hughan was the Serpent: he had lied.
“Eamon.” Aeryn pronounced his name as a warning. There were tears in her eyes. “Please stop.” Suddenly she grabbed his arm; something about it loosed his voice.
“Aeryn, forgive me!” He struggled to utter any words at all and with each syllable he spoke he felt as though a grip just as strong as his own sought to crush him. A crowd of people surrounded them but none of them moved to do a thing. Time was horribly slow. He was aware of men running from the Hidden Hall towards him and of Mathaiah appearing at the edge of the crowd, his face aghast.
Eamon looked back to Aeryn. There were twisting, cracking arches of fire along his arm. He could not quench it. But though the fire licked angrily about their flesh it could not pass the soft flicker of blue light about her.
“Fight it, Eamon!” Aeryn told him, her voice clumsy from the grip on her jaw. Eamon closed his eyes. Inside his lids he saw a vision of himself in the dark robes of the Hands, kneeling before the throne. Still the pale face that reigned there watched him, applauding, encouraging, enticing his service. Eamon’s knees were rooted to the ground in submission and while he knelt, the joins in the marbled floor about him pulsed with fire. The stones cracked like water on the verge of boiling, and the flames reached flickering hands towards him. The smile engulfed him:
You do well, son of Eben: son of mine.
Resistance kindled in his heart. Sickened, Eamon lifted himself to his feet before the throne. The flames hissed and clawed at him as he rose, meaning to drag him swiftly down to their mandrake embraces. But still he rose. He would not serve this man, creature more than master; he would serve the King.
He felt weak but his will grew stronger; he stretched out his hand and saw in it a bolt-bright sword – silver, stern, and true. The flames scattered from it.
Suddenly he felt his whole body being hurled downward. With a gasp he opened his eyes.
He had been thrown to the ground. Strong hands seized his head; the motion of them was to break his neck. Somewhere in the shouting he heard Mathaiah, calling for mercy.
But the fingers on him never administered the fatal twist.
“Giles.” Hughan had no need to shout.
Eamon waited for the hands to let him go, but they didn’t. Blinking, he saw that Aeryn also lay in the mud near him, likely knocked when Giles had battered him down. She shook with fear, and tears streamed down her face.
“This man is a threat to us all!” Giles yelled. Eamon felt the man’s anger pulsing through the hot hands round his neck. He struggled to breathe unobtrusively, lest the motion remind Giles of the thread that he could snap at a moment. “He cannot stay and he cannot go. We all know it. Give me but a word, sire, and the problem is solved.”
There was a tense silence; every eye turned to the King. Hughan’s face remained calm, unmoved by the man’s resolve.
“Let him go, Giles.”
Giles gawked. “Let him go? Did you not see what he was doing to Aeryn?”
“I trust him,” Hughan answered firmly. “Let him go.”
With a cry of disgust, Giles hurled Eamon down and stood. He spat at him. Spittle sprayed all over Eamon’s face as he lay, gasping, in the mud. Mathaiah rushed forward at once.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Giles glared at them both, then turned on the cadet. “You’re no better than the Grahaven my men felled at the borde
rs,” he snarled icily. “A bastard servant to a treacherous tyrant.” His glare grew grimmer. “Serving this man,” he hissed, hurling a condemning finger at Eamon, “or his oath, will buy you death, boy, as it did for the other, and you will have nothing but blood for your wretched accolade.”
Colour drained from Mathaiah’s face. Eamon sensed vengeance raising the boy’s hackles and saw fledgling murder in reddening eyes.
“Mr Grahaven,” he croaked. Then, more loudly: “Mathaiah!”
The boy turned, blinking back furious tears. His hands shook. “Sir?”
“Help me up.”
He leaned heavily on the cadet as he rose, not so much because he needed support but because he ensured a power of restraint. He looked across at Hughan.
“I thank you for your mercy, sir,” he said formally. “I will return to confinement. I ask that you keep me under constant guard. I will not walk abroad again unless summoned.”
“Very well, Eamon,” Hughan nodded.
Together, lieutenant and cadet hobbled across the square. Eamon heard Mathaiah choking back angry tears.
The lodge was calm and quiet. Eamon welcomed its seclusion after the dreadful exposure at the well.
They sat in silence while the noise outside grew into heated debate and then died away. Eamon watched Mathaiah nervously twist his fingers together, fidget restlessly, twirl threads of the rug round in his hands, and eventually get up and begin pacing the room. Both of them had been shaken that morning.
Eamon closed the shutters to keep them safe from angry eyes.
“Mr Grahaven?”
The cadet continued pacing. When he at last sat down he shook uncontrollably. “Sir.”
“I’m sorry about your brother.”
“Thank you, sir.” The cadet’s answer was curt.
Silence fell. As Mathaiah sat, his eyes clenched and his angry face faltered. He laid his head in his hands and wept, calling on the name of his dead brother until the name became a sob. Eamon knew of no way to console him.
Evening drew on and twilight crept between the shades.
Mathaiah slept in the chair, worn out with grief. Eamon had covered him with the blankets from the bed. He knew that he had much to consider but could not hold his thought steady for any length of time. The feel of the silver-blue sword that he had held returned unbidden to his fingers – what would he have done with it? He wondered why, after everything that he had shown himself capable of, Hughan still insisted on trusting him.
The night was deep when he heard footsteps by the door. He turned his head and held himself still.
Aeryn entered. Eamon laid a finger to his lips and gestured to Mathaiah. Nodding, Aeryn came to sit gently on the end of the bed.
“Are you all right?” She wore a penitent look.
Eamon shrugged. “I hardly know what being all right means.”
“Is… is he all right?” Her gaze was on Mathaiah. The cadet stirred in his sleep.
“No. But I hope that he is young enough that he will overcome it.”
He looked at Aeryn, who was reluctant to match his gaze. Calling on all his courage – he might not have the chance to speak to her again in his right mind – he said: “Aeryn, I’m sorry about what I did, I didn’t mean to –”
“No, I’m sorry,” she interrupted. “I spoke to Hughan. He told me about… about what’s been happening to you.” She looked at him. “Eamon, I have hated you ever since we left Edesfield, even though you tried to help me. A lot may happen in the days that are coming. Things are changing. I wanted you to know that I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too.” Eamon looked at her guiltily. “Aeryn, I didn’t want to breach you in the prison, or attack you today. I… I wanted to help your father.”
Aeryn reached across and took his hand. “You were in a difficult position,” she said. “I do not hold you accountable for his death. To be honest,” she added with a small smile, “I think, when you breached me, you were hurt more than I was.”
Eamon pressed at the back of his head where he had struck the wall. It was still bruised. “You may be right,” he said.
The air between them grew more relaxed. Eamon sighed.
“Giles is right, you know,” he told her. “Whatever Hughan says I am dangerous – to him above all. I shouldn’t be here.”
“Killing you will not answer anything,” Aeryn replied, “though it seems to be Giles’s answer to everything. I’m sorry,” she added, “about what happened on the Lark.”
Eamon nodded silently.
“How…” Aeryn faltered. “How is your back?” She looked haunted. Eamon wondered how much of the flogging she had heard from her confinement.
“Still painful.”
“You did a good thing. It was worthy of the Eamon that I know.”
There was a long pause. Eamon let her words sink in. He was unsure what to say and yet profoundly grateful to have her approval and encouragement.
“It was also worthy of a King’s man,” she added quietly.
“A King’s man?” he whispered. He blinked hard. Her words were as treasure to him, a treasure he could not dare to value. “Aeryn, I can’t… I’m not…”
“Eamon,” Aeryn began, “the throned wouldn’t be doing what he is doing unless he feared what you could become. Hughan is right about you.”
“What does Hughan say?” he asked suspiciously.
“That you are the First Knight.”
First Knight. Again the name called him, piercing his soul deeper than any mark he had known. Could it be true?
“What is it?” Aeryn asked, searching his face.
“I think… I think I could have regained myself today, if Giles hadn’t attacked me.” He looked at her, waiting for her to concur with him and hoping that she would. “Not that I blame him for doing it,” he added. “He was trying to save you.”
Aeryn said nothing for a long time. “Have you thought about what Hughan asked?”
Eamon bristled. “How do you know about that?” Was he jealous that tales of his private conversation with Hughan had got abroad so quickly? He reminded himself that he was a prisoner, not a confidant – and not a First Knight.
“He spoke with his generals.”
“You’re not one of them,” Eamon pointed out.
“He told me,” Aeryn answered, and she suddenly blushed. “Eamon, I… I couldn’t tell you before. I wanted to –”
“Hughan told me.”
“I mean, I couldn’t tell you before that…” Aeryn, normally boldly spoken, faltered again. Her face reddened. “I couldn’t tell you that he was alive, and I couldn’t tell you that I am betrothed to him.”
For a moment Eamon stared at her in disbelief.
Aeryn looked awkwardly away. He pressed her hand.
“That’s wonderful, Aeryn,” he said, and he meant it.
“You’re not angry?”
“No,” Eamon answered with a small laugh. “It does explain a few things, though.”
“So you’ve thought about what he said?”
“I’ve thought about it.” He sighed heavily. “I wish I could, Aeryn, but… how can I serve him? How could I dare? Look at what happened to me today – what happens to me on a daily basis! I can’t open Hughan to that kind of risk. And so Giles is right.”
“But you would serve him, if you could?”
Eamon gazed through the shutters at the quiet night. He would rather give an oath to Hughan than to a thousand thrones. But was that because Hughan was the King? He didn’t know. To love and serve Hughan for friendship’s sake could not be as binding as the fealty he had sworn to the throned. He had to believe, truly believe, that Hughan was the King and that the throned was a usurper, or his service would be vain and empty.
In his mind he saw again the shadows and flames about the throne and the grey-eyed man who sat upon it. How could such a man be good? Would he allow the throned to call him “son”? Would a Goodman bow again before that dreadful Master? Surely he had to un
do the treachery of his bloodline…
He felt a sudden, strange oppression in the air. Trying to suspend all his senses, he focused his mind on the present. Noticing the change in him, Aeryn leaned forward.
“What is it?” she asked. Her voice told him that she feared he was again being influenced, but he was in his right mind.
He could feel a horrific presence, enveloping him and driving into his skin like relentless needles.
“Something’s coming,” he said urgently. Words poured out of his mouth as he leapt to his feet. “We have to go to the Hidden Hall.”
“Eamon –”
“We have to go now.”
He bolted to the door. Aeryn gave a cry that woke Mathaiah. Both shouted after him as he rushed outside. Lights twinkled in the windows of the little houses. Breaking parole and promise, he raced into the heart of the village.
“To the hall!” he yelled, filling his lungs with so much air that he felt they might burst. “To the hall!”
He thought he saw faces moving behind the windows, but none answered him. No doors opened. He cupped his hands to his mouth.
“Something is coming! Get to the hall!” he roared.
Not a soul stirred.
Eamon stared at the shuttered windows and closed doors in disbelief. He pelted to the nearest door and hammered wildly on it.
“Open, open!” he yelled.
The door was opened by a woman; as soon as she saw him she gasped and tried to close it again, but he jammed his foot over the threshold.
“Please, wait.”
“Get out of my house!” The woman tried to force the door closed.
“Please,” Eamon said, “listen –”
The door closed. Undeterred, Eamon raced to the next house. Its door was already open: a man stood in it.
“Please listen!” Eamon said.
“Set a foot in my house and I will kill you,” the man growled. He was old, and probably didn’t have the strength to carry through his threat, but Eamon fell back from him.
“Please,” Eamon began, trying to keep calm as the pressure in the air mounted. “We all need to get to the Hidden Hall. We need to go now.”
“Why?”
But Eamon didn’t answer. He turned and yelled at the top of his voice: “Everyone to the Hidden Hall! Your lives depend on it!”