by Anna Thayer
Giles’s face contorted in agony; it squirmed and writhed beneath his hand, but the struggling man refused to cry out.
“Bastard!” Eamon yelled, and pushed harder.
Giles’s whole mind lay before him. He saw in intricate detail what the wayfarers had been doing in recent months. He saw Hughan travelling beyond the mountains to the eastern halls, braving hidden, treacherous passes, and receiving a pledge of loyalty from a leader, a dark-haired man with a thin face and keen green eyes, who spoke of their common cause and a disgrace to be undone. He saw the locations of Hidden Halls up and down the River where the wayfarers had been stockpiling weapons for months. He saw the beginnings of cavalry, hundreds of horses stabled by Stonemead. He saw that, even in the next few days, wagons of weapons, the very wheels of war, would be travelling towards the ridge camp. He saw hundreds of people in towns and villages all along the River being won over by Hughan and his messengers. The wayfarer cause was growing, preparing for an assault on Dunthruik. Hughan planned to move in the spring.
He cared little for all this. Most of all, Eamon felt Giles’s violent, burning hatred of him. Everywhere he looked it lashed at him like lightning, and it lashed in vain, for he was more powerful. It incited his rage. No blue light came, and there was no defence for Giles against the growing pain that he inflicted with each piece of information that he extracted.
“Stop it!” Giles yelled at last, wild agony in his eyes.
Eamon leaned close to him. “Why should I pity you?” he laughed, and plunged on.
Still he waited for the blue light, still it did not come, and still he tore through the strata of Giles’s mind. He saw the man fighting in the border wars where the merchant state of Galithia had clashed with the River Realm, fighting to avenge his murdered parents and stolen patrimony; scores of Gauntlet soldiers fell before the man’s sword. And at last he understood why the light had not come.
Giles was no King’s man. His support for Hughan was a tool for vengeance, a marriage of convenience. Giles did not care if Hughan was a king, and did not care if there had ever been a house of kings over the River.
You know all that you need, Eben’s son. Break him.
With renewed vigour, Eamon did as he was commanded.
At last Giles erupted in a blood-curdling scream. But Eamon did not pull away his hand. Instead, he tore away layer after layer of the thoughts that he saw, and as he read and rent them he cast them aside; the fire from his hand destroyed them utterly. The more Giles screamed the harder he ripped, and with each cry Eamon felt gruesome satisfaction lodging in his blackened heart.
“How many more shall I destroy, Giles?” he roared furiously. “Tell me to stop, if you can! Surrender your sword to me, if you can. I won’t spare you!”
Giles screamed.
Eamon.
The voice cut through his thought, stripping away the flames. He shuddered. It was not the fiery voice that he knew. It was gentle and grieved.
Eamon.
On, son of Eben!
Eamon.
With a shuddering cry he opened his eyes. He tasted blood in his mouth. Giles’s dagger was on the grass, festering in steaming blood. Red light was dying among the trees and the Hands were hurrying towards him. Were the King’s archers dead? His swirling sight struggled to grasp the trees.
“Mr Goodman!”
He scarcely heard Lord Cathair. Suddenly Eamon looked down, choked on a cry of horror, and staggered violently to his feet.
Giles lay there. His arms and legs were braced in twisted, gut-wrenching positions, and his pale face was plastered in sweat and blood. His fingers were dug into the earth. As Eamon watched, the man clawed, gibbering blood and spittle from a torn, incomprehensible mouth. His eyes were palled with a white sheen that seemed unnaturally bright in the darkness. The now silent air was punctuated by his shrill, quivering gasps.
Eamon stood motionless, a scream begging to be released from his cavernous lungs.
“What have I done?” the words tumbled out of his mouth. His burning hands trembled. They were muddy.
“You’ve done well, Mr Goodman,” Cathair advised. He held his side as he spoke; Eamon was aware of blood on the Hand’s uniform. Was Cathair injured?
“It seems that you are a very fine breacher indeed,” Cathair added, seemingly unperturbed by either his wound or the dead. “I heard talk of supplies?”
Eamon started. Had he spoken out what he had seen? He had done it, sometimes, standing before Cathair in the rooms by the Pit, but he had always controlled it. This time he had not even made a choice.
He shook.
“This is not the place to discuss it,” Cathair told him suddenly. Torchlight was running up the treeline. “We must go.”
The Hands hastily grouped themselves together and the mover raised his hands. Giles still twitched on the ground; his back was arched and his arms withered. The sight transfixed Eamon hideously.
“Mr Goodman.”
Eamon looked away. He saw Overbrook’s body on the ground. He could not leave the cadet.
“My lord –”
“Very well, but hurry up.”
They hauled the bodies of cadet and Hand into their circle. Eamon grabbed Overbrook’s map with trembling hands. As he passed, Giles screamed, shied away, and shook convulsively.
Eamon staggered away. The lights were near on the hillside. The Hands were about him and Overbrook’s face gawked palely at him in the light.
What had he done?
He buried his face in his hands and the ground under his feet was swept away.
They watched him, early in the morning of the eighth of February. They watched him in the streets, from windows and doors of the West Quarter; they watched him as he turned his shaking steps along the Coll to the college. Some shrank back, some gaped. Others looked once and shrugged, for such things were to be expected in the Gauntlet.
They watched him as he went leadenly into the college. They watched him in the hall. Salutes crumbled and good mornings went unsaid, for when they watched him the cadets, the lieutenants, the servants, and the clerks also looked at what he led: Overbrook’s body, stretcher-borne. They knew that it could so easily have been, and might yet prove to be, their own.
Captain Waite met him in the corridor. He held papers in his hand – drafts of orders, requests to be ratified. He saw what followed Eamon, and lowered his eyes.
“Good morning, sir.”
“I see we have a condolence to write.”
“Yes, sir.” His lip trembled. Had he worked all winter to save Overbrook from the fever for a bloodied map and a punctured gut on a cold hillside?
Giles’s twisted face danced before him – he tried to force it away, but he could not. Tears gripped his eyes, and the whole world watched him as he led Cadet Overbrook’s body to the infirmary.
The companies at the college paraded quietly that morning, the air that rested over them like the pall that covered Overbrook. Though an official statement had yet to be made, the news of wayfarers and a stab in the dark had spread.
Eamon felt that the whole college watched him at parade. Manners stood next to him and, by him, Mathaiah. Both had pale faces though both, like all the Third Banners, seemed careful not to watch him too closely. Of that, at least, Eamon was glad. He was shaken to his very core and the mark on his hand – the flames – seemed unbearably clear. He felt his exultation over Giles’s pain and could still smell the stench of blood, the wreck of a mind destroyed – the memory was so strong that it almost had a smell of its own. They had carried Overbrook away, but what would become of Giles?
What would Hughan think?
How could Hughan ever know that he had done it? And yet even as he offered the cold comfort to himself he knew that the King would know. He felt anyone that looked at him could tell it at a glance – his very being betrayed it. Could they not smell it on him? He had become a monster that night. He was terrified that what Giles had said was true and that there was no way back
for him. He had betrayed the King, and yet… What power he had had in return for that treachery! And what strange joy he had felt in the use of it.
He shook his head and glanced across at Mathaiah, yearning to confess what he had done. But he could not tell Mathaiah; if he did that Hughan would certainly learn of his evil. He and Mathaiah had stopped speaking long ago.
Eamon watched as Waite climbed the small platform at the head of the parade ground. He fixed his eyes on the captain as though it could somehow save him from floundering in Giles’s blood. Waite was solid, real… he surveyed his men without a trace of his usual humour. It had been months, Eamon thought, since Waite had joked. That, surely, was Hughan’s doing – and he felt a surge of anger towards the King.
“At ease.” Waite spoke solemnly. His look was weighted and the ranks, unaccustomed to being asked to stand at ease at parade, stood nervously.
“I’m afraid we have unpleasant tidings this morning,” Waite continued. “Third Banner Cadet Overbrook, a friend and fellow to many of you, was killed in action during the night. He was a dependable man and will be sorely missed. There will be a remembrance for him this afternoon.”
Eamon didn’t follow much that Waite said after that, for the thought of a remembrance brought back to him uncomfortable memories – of Alben in his hearse, his sallow face falsely composed. Waite had presided over that office. Overbrook had been one of Eamon’s own men. He would have to lead the service, just as Waite had for Alben.
About mid-morning he found himself near Waite’s office. The captain was labouring under a perpetual pile of papers. “Mr Goodman?”
“Sir?”
“Might I have a moment?”
Obligingly, Eamon entered. He snapped a salute as best he could. His hands had not yet stopped shaking. “Sir.”
Waite did not speak immediately; he was writing the letter of condolence that would go to Overbrook’s family.
Eamon tried to wait patiently as the captain continued to write. He was nervous and Giles’s face still twisted before him. Beyond that was his fear of the voice that had held him back. What might he have done, had it not?
Waite put a flourish to the end of the letter and laid his quill aside. With great care he folded the parchment and sealed the malleable wax with the mark of the West Quarter College.
“I’d like you to deliver this to Mr Overbrook and invite him to the remembrance. It will be this afternoon, at the tenth hour.”
Chilled, Eamon nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“I have written that Cadet Overbrook glorified the Master in his stalwart service and, in his final hour, brought us news with which we may strike against the wayfarers. Lord Cathair told me about what happened. He said that he will come to interview you after the office.”
“Will you be there, sir?”
“Yes,” Waite answered slowly. He paused for a moment. “Is everything all right, Mr Goodman? You seem agitated.”
Eamon’s head was swimming. He hated himself for what he had done to Giles, hated himself for taking Overbrook to his death, and was terrified about what Hughan must think of his First Knight now. And Aeryn! What would she think of him when Giles’s body was brought back to the camp?
He suddenly longed to spill out his guilt to Waite, to purge himself of its weight. But for that release he would have to give himself up, reveal his long treachery, and lose the captain’s trust just as he had lost Hughan’s…
Why shouldn’t he? If he confessed himself to Waite now, fully and utterly, his impeccable record with the Gauntlet might save him. He could be forgiven and welcomed with open arms by the Master, before being drawn into the fold that had always longed to hold him. He could prove himself against the wayfarers; they could never trust him now. Let them laugh at him! They would not laugh when he was the Right Hand and he exacted a cruel vengeance from them for their mockery.
His thoughts shook him. When he looked up he saw that Waite watched him still.
“Mr Goodman?”
Eamon struggled. “Overbrook was a good man, sir. I feel… responsible.”
Waite smiled sympathetically. “I know. Unfortunately it is the burden of command that we bear. The loss of any man is deeply felt, especially when he is your own. But you must remember that he is one man, and there are many that you lead. You must be strong for them. To your business, Mr Goodman.”
Eamon took the letter, saluted, and left the room.
He listened to his footsteps echo in the corridors. Soldiers and officers were moving towards their messes for lunch. Eamon caught sight of Mathaiah and Manners speaking together. As he passed by they glanced at him. Manners offered him a smile, but Eamon could not match Mathaiah’s gaze. It bored into the dark parts of his soul.
He hurried from the hall.
The clerks told him that Overbrook’s father lived alone near the South Quarter, attended by a few servants. He was an old man. Eamon did not know if he had any other children or whether his son’s death would at a single blow rob him of the prop of his age and house.
Eamon felt the letter in his hand but his thoughts could not hold there long. Giles – always to Giles they turned. How could he live out his life bearing it? And what choice would he have but to tell all that he had learned to Lord Cathair? What redemption could there be for him now? He called down curses on himself as he walked the Coll.
Your redemption, son of Eben, lies in my service. The voice was strong in his mind, a firm counsellor. In that service you will redeem your blood from its ancient treachery.
Eben had betrayed the throned. Eamon shook angrily. Had Eben not done so, Hughan would never have lived and Eamon would never have found himself in this situation. That treachery trapped him. He reviled Eben Goodman.
What kind of man had Eben been? Incapable of staying either course, he had been traitor once to Ede and then to the Master. Had Eben known the oppression, the weight and conflict that beat relentlessly in him? Had Eben known it and chosen it as the inheritance of his house? If Eben Goodman had had but the resolve to keep one vow – just one – none of what Eamon now faced would lie before him. How long, he wondered, did he truly expect to live as he was living?
Give yourself to me, son of Eben, and you will atone for your house and live.
He had walked to the Four Quarters. From the heart of the city he could see straight to the Blind Gate.
“First Lieutenant Goodman!”
Some passing Gauntlet and militia – led by a striking draybant – saluted him. Eamon met gazes with the man. The stranger nodded courteously to him.
“Draybant Anderas, to his glory.”
“His glory,” Eamon answered, saluting. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”
The draybant smiled broadly. “The pleasure is and shall remain mine, Mr Goodman. I hope you’ll not think me jealous for saying so!”
They clasped hands in greeting. The stranger seemed only five or six years older than him – young for so high a Gauntlet post. Draybant Anderas was clear-skinned and smiling. His eyes were blue and his hair a dusty gold.
Eamon tried to place him. “South Quarter?”
“I suppose we aren’t all as famous as you, Mr Goodman,” the man replied good-naturedly. “East Quarter College; I report directly to Lord Ashway. We recently lost our captain to the fever – the Hands are yet to ratify his replacement.”
“My condolences,” Eamon said, grateful for the distraction that the meeting provided him from his own sorrows.
“On serving the Lord Ashway, or the loss of a captain?” Anderas asked, and laughed. “I jest, Mr Goodman, I jest! Captain Etchell was a fine man, and your wishes are well received.” He smiled, his eyes falling as he did so to the letter that Eamon carried. He turned his head to one side. “Condolences?”
Eamon nodded wordlessly.
“I’m sorry,” Anderas replied. “I’m sure he was a good man.”
“He was, sir.”
“I had better let you to your business: condolences are best not left
long.” He seemed about to move his small squadron along, but then paused. “Might I ask a question, Mr Goodman?”
“Yes, sir.” How different this man was from Alben, from Fields, from the lieutenants and draybants he had known since he had joined the Gauntlet! Was this not how all Gauntlet should be?
“We’ve heard all about you in the East Quarter, of course, and envied the tales of derring-do.” The man smiled, and where others might have lowered their voices in asking what he then did, Draybant Anderas did not. Eamon admired him for it. “Is it true, Mr Goodman, that you surrendered your sword?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It is a matter of curiosity – I hope you will forgive my prying. Might I be so bold as to ask why you did so?”
Eamon saw the men in the patrol gazing at him. “I wanted to save my crew,” he answered with a sad smile. “They were also good men.”
The draybant nodded as though he had suspected the answer, and flicked a pleased gaze towards his men.
“A noble endeavour, Mr Goodman. Inspiring leadership.” Anderas was silent for a moment, as though enjoying the righteousness of the intent. Then he reached out and clasped Eamon’s hand again, warmly. “I have had the pleasure today of making acquaintance with a legend in the making, Mr Goodman, and I thank you. I hope we shall meet again.”
“Thank you, sir. I shall look forward to it.”
The draybant gathered his men and they marched towards the East Quarter. Eamon remembered leading his own cadets along that road, the day that he had been to capture the Lorentides.
A draper by trade, Mr Overbrook lived very near the Four Quarters. The family house was well kept, speaking of modest wealth. Eamon knocked on the door with a heavy hand.
Some moments later Mr Overbrook appeared. His eyes, blue as his son’s had been, took Eamon in at a moment and counted the flames at his collar before speaking.
“Good afternoon, first lieutenant. His voice carried the intonation that Eamon had known in the young cadet. “How may I be of service to you?”