The Traitor's Heir

by Anna Thayer

  Eamon’s throat was dry. The man’s eyes fell on the letter. Mr Overbrook became quite still.

  “Might I come in, Mr Overbrook?”

  The cadet’s father nodded dumbly. “Y-y-yes,” he stammered, “I suppose you had better.”

  The afternoon brought a cold, shrill wind and the threat of rain. Cadet Overbrook’s remembrance was short and his corpse was escorted to the college pyre by a procession of cadets. They held their blades high while the palled body was set upon the bier, and Eamon spoke a few words, recognizing Overbrook’s service and heroic death. As the pyre was kindled and the cloth took to flame, a fanfare played.

  “This life was given to his glory, and crowned in that glory he shall be.” It was an infinitesimally small comfort, Eamon thought, to the boy’s father, who wept as the flames snapped at the pall.

  The Third Banners were silent when they returned to their duties; there was an empty place in the room where they studied that afternoon, and unused books upon it.

  Later, Eamon went to the Third Banners’ dormitory to go through Overbrook’s belongings. His map of Dunthruik, exquisite in every detail, lay untouched on the communal table. It was littered with inks and compasses.

  Slowly, Eamon shuffled the instruments aside. It was a paper worthy of honour. He decided to suggest to Waite that it be framed and hung in the hall. Overbrook would have appreciated the gesture.

  Waite was in the hall. Eamon entrusted the cadet’s remaining things to Lieutenant Best, who proceeded to escort Mr Overbrook home. The old man’s shoulders were hunched with grief as they went down the college steps into the rain.

  Eamon joined the captain.

  “We buried two men today, Mr Goodman.”

  “Sir?”

  “He lost his wife when he fled the Breusklian border,” Waite observed morosely. “He has no other sons, and his daughters live far away.”

  Eamon turned to gaze after the man. There seemed to be nothing to say.

  As they faced the Brand a dark figure stepped up. Although he walked a little stiffly, Lord Cathair seemed to carry no other trace of his new wound. The West Quarter Hand was accompanied by a series of other men – some Hands and some Gauntlet officers, captains, and draybants from other quarters. Eamon hoped to see Anderas among them and was not disappointed: the draybant walked by Lord Ashway, and was among the last to mount the steps. The very last to come tumbling in from the rain was Ladomer. His old friend grinned at him.

  “I’m taking notes,” he said, answering Eamon’s unspoken question as he passed.

  “Welcome, my lords; gentlemen,” Waite said, clasping hands with each of them in turn. “I hope you will find the college here suitable to the task.”

  “My quarters will be ample,” Cathair answered. “I apologize that no other venue was available. The Right Hand had some important business to attend to that could not wait, and I am afraid he cannot join us. Lieutenant Kentigern will be keeping notes for him during the meeting.” To hear Ladomer referred to by his surname brought back memories of Edesfield. How in the River Realm had Ladomer managed to land such an important role? And how could his friend stand being an administrative officer rather than an active lieutenant?

  “Follow me, gentlemen,” Cathair said.

  “You too, Mr Goodman,” Waite added.

  Cathair led them to his quarters, then down long corridors lined with bookshelves. At last they came to a large, ornate room. A grand table stood at its centre, laden already with maps and circled with chairs enough for the number attending.

  The room filled with Hands, captains, and officers from all over the city. The groups representing each quarter sat together along one side of the table. Eamon found himself sitting next to Ladomer.

  “You all right, Ratbag?” his friend whispered while the others were taking their places.

  “No.”

  “Your cadet?”

  “No.” For a moment he felt that everything would come flooding out of him. The accursed fire was in his hand; he clenched his fingers over it and trembled. He could not tell Ladomer – not now…

  Cathair saved him: the Hand rapped his fingers on the table for silence. Ladomer fell studiously to his note making. Eamon watched the curling script out of the corner of his eye.

  “His glory,” Cathair began. The room echoed the words back to him. “Gentlemen, let me begin by assuring you all that the Master’s full authority is behind me in this meeting, and that it is at his request that it has been called. Mr Kentigern, please keep your notes for the Right Hand accurate; they will be archived for reference at a later date.”

  “Yes, Lord Cathair.”

  “As you know, gentlemen,” Cathair continued, “last night Mr Goodman, some others, and I went to investigate the rumours that we have been receiving as to this Serpent army. Word reached us weeks ago that this self-styled heir to the so-called house of Brenuin had himself been to Istanaria during December, and that the Easters had pledged some kind of alliance to him. Our agents did try to assassinate the Serpent while he was in the city, but the attempt miscarried. Our agent was lost, but the last word we received from her indicated that Easters would be coming to join the Brenuin forces in some numbers. This has since been confirmed thanks to the efforts of some excellent breachers here in Dunthruik – my thanks especially to Mr Goodman in this regard; he has been indispensable to me in the last few months while we have been trying to track this encampment down.”

  Eamon accepted the praise with a bowed head. It felt surreal to him: he was sitting in a room filled with Hands, hearing about spies he had never known existed and hearing Hughan referred to by the name of the royal house fallen with Ede. That name filled the room with stillness and Cathair seemed wary to speak it.

  Hughan Brenuin. As he sat there Eamon suddenly remembered the day he had thought Hughan lost. He had searched the fields outside Edesfield, the day the snakes had come, searching the bodies left behind for the boy who had been his closest friend. He had searched until the earth was cold and clammy, crying out the name he loved and knowing that no answer would come to him. He remembered Hughan and Aeryn, standing together in the Hidden Hall watching him leave; they had pinned their hopes on his shoulders. Past and present seemed to coalesce into an indistinguishable mass, broken only by Giles’s face.

  He had failed.

  “The Serpent keeps at least one camp on the West Bank, between Hoefield and Lower Ashford,” Cathair continued. “It has tributary access to the River and is well protected by Ashford Ridge to the north. Some details have been noted of its layout, but we were unfortunately unable to make as thorough an account of it as we should have liked, due to a small skirmish.”

  Eamon stiffened. Would no mention be made of Overbrook’s sacrifice?

  “Mr Goodman, however, was successful in breaching the leader of the skirmishers and has some interesting information to offer us. It is on this information that I wish to have your opinions, gentlemen. Mr Goodman,” he added, “if you would be so kind?”

  Eamon reddened as all eyes, some of them awed, some of them envious that the upstart officer should have distinguished himself yet again, turned to him. Lord Tramist in particular glowered.

  “Lords and sirs,” he began at last – what choice did he have but to tell them? “There are convoys going to the encampment, supplies and weapons coming up the East Road.” He paused, heart stinging. Cathair raised an eyebrow at him. Eamon guessed that he had spoken much more aloud when he had breached Giles; he could not now refuse to say it. Cathair had already heard it once.

  “Go on, Mr Goodman.”

  Ever more mired in the filth of his broken oaths, Eamon went on to detail what he knew of halls, supplies, and alliances. “The Serpent himself hopes to take Dunthruik in the spring,” he finished at last. “His support is great in every quarter of the River Realm. He is confident.”

  A general murmur rounded the table. With every word spoken it was as though a vice tightened around him, wrenching his gu
t. He had betrayed Hughan’s plans, and worse, those plans had been taken by force, torn from Giles without pity. What hope was there for him now?

  “And we are unprepared,” murmured Ashway, drumming his fingers. “Lords, I propose that the power of the local Gauntlets in the provinces be extended; they must take in anyone suspected of wayfaring tendencies. The Serpent’s brood is great enough and we can ill afford for it to take further hold.”

  “If you would excuse the interruption, Lord Ashway, such a proposal has already been sanctioned by the Master,” Ladomer put in. Eamon looked at him; his friend’s eyes were shining. “There will be a culling.”

  “Thank you for your timely mention, Mr Kentigern,” Cathair nodded. “The jurisdiction for such measures in Dunthruik will fall to the Quarter Hands, and full orders should be ready for implementation in the next week. Captains, you will prepare your colleges accordingly.”

  Eamon saw a grave look pass over Waite’s face.

  “The Master wishes to break up the Serpent’s encampment before it grows out of proportion, hopefully scattering or eliminating any allies that have already gathered. A group has already been sent out to deal with the camp at Ashford Ridge.”

  Horror seized him. Hughan would have no warning! The King’s men would be slaughtered.

  “Convoys will also be interrupted,” Cathair continued. “Should these measures not prove effective enough, however, the quarters will turn to the walls.”

  “Are we expecting a siege, my lord?” Anderas asked.

  Cathair smiled, his green eyes twinkling. “Keeping a house, Mr Anderas, necessitates a little spring cleaning from time to time. Should this Serpent by some chance reach the spring alive, he will find our house quite clean. A precaution, if you will.”

  “Yes, Lord Cathair.”

  Eamon listened as they discussed cull strategies for the city and provinces. Tempers grew heated, were abated, and fired again. All the while he heard Ladomer writing beside him. At times his friend shook his head with a sigh or a quiet laugh. In his place, Eamon would not have dared.

  It was dark when the meeting concluded. The officers dispersed to await or implement orders. Waite was held back by Cathair; when he emerged he granted Eamon an avuncular smile. Eamon bowed solemnly to the leaving Hand. His whole world whirled about Giles’s scream; nothing else could hold beside it in the vortex. Everything reminded him of it, and of what he had become.

  He wanted to lose himself, to absolve his grief and clear his churning mind from Overbrook and Mathaiah and Alben and Giles and Cathair and Hughan, who took turns to glare and cast him into consuming shadows. There was only one place he could go.

  The servants admitted him without question, greeting him with a cordial good evening. They offered to take his jacket. He declined.

  “Is Lady Turnholt here?”

  The old woman, one of the kitchen servants, shook her head. She wiped her hands carefully down her apron. “No, sir. She was invited to dinner at the palace.”

  “Will she be back tonight?”

  “Yes, sir, but late.”

  “May I wait for her?”

  “Of course, sir. Would you like some supper, sir?”

  Eamon nodded dumbly.

  Supper was laid for him in the dining room. He ate swiftly, wolfing the fine food and washing it down with wine – more wine than he would normally have drunk. He drained his cup as though the thick red liquid could somehow quench his burning conscience. It did not. He drank until his head throbbed.

  When he had finished eating he was escorted to the drawing room and invited to await the lady’s return. The servants were kind to him. Eamon rested heavily in a cushioned chair and watched as Lillabeth lit the fire. He felt awkward in her presence. He waited in silence, twisting his fingers together.

  “May I offer you any other service, Mr Goodman?”

  “No,” he told her curtly, waving her away. Curtseying, she did as she was bidden. He was left alone.

  The drawing room was a grand affair, with great paintings on the walls and marble busts on pedestals in the corners. There was a balcony but its doors were closed. Even so the curtains moved slightly in a breeze that crept through the casement.

  Eamon sat close to the fire, trying to let it warm him; he was tired and every part of him ached. The light cast over his skin mocked him, and he could not silence the sounds in his mind.

  He heard screams and felt convulsions as though they moved through his own bones. Power crawled in his skin – the voice was there. He saw the long throne room, its stones filled with nightmarish shadows, but still he knelt before the flaming figure from whom the voice came.

  You have done well, Eben’s son, and you will be rewarded. He deserved the death that you delivered him.

  “He’s not dead! I didn’t kill him!”

  Shadows leapt. Could Hughan’s camp already be under attack? And a cull was being prepared for the city – all because he had delivered news to Hughan’s enemies. He had done it as blithely as he had delivered the Nightholt to the Hands. The tears on his face burnt as though formed from molten metal.

  “He’s not dead!”

  You do no wrong in killing the Serpent’s brood, the voice soothed. Your blood is cleansed in shedding theirs, Eben’s son. I know your blood: I know its taste, its smell. I know you, better than you know yourself; and I know you serve me. It is right that you kneel before me, that you glorify me. You can do no other!

  The shadows clawed at him and in the fire was the Master’s face. The mark on his hand answered; he could not shy away.

  Everything you are, Eben’s son, you are because I made you thus. Did you truly think to exchange your fealty to me for that to a Serpent? Eben destroyed that House and you will complete his work for me. You will strike and breach and break as many men as I command you to, Eben’s son, and you will glorify me.

  “No!” The mark on his hand burned and burned. However much he struggled it would not let him be free. “You lie!”

  You are mine.

  Eamon started in his chair. The house was quiet. Alessia had not returned. It was late.

  He tore off his jacket and hurled it across the room. Through misted, stinging eyes he looked down at his palm: it burned with a glow ruddier than flame. He loathed it.

  The crown mocked him. He could not bear this mark – he would not bear it. He had to free himself of it. How he rued the day that he had sworn!

  Suddenly he was on his knees by the fire, dagger in hand. If he could just force the eagle from his flesh he would be free. He could renounce all oaths to every man. He could renounce his blood, take another name, and flee to the south or to distant merchant states across the sea. He would destroy the heart of the King and carve this mark from his flesh. Then he would be free!

  He felt and did not feel the pain of the dagger’s point driving into him, just as he believed and did not believe that he could remove the mark. He did not know how deep it ran or how deep he cut, but he felt sure that he could destroy it. He pressed the blade under his skin; it ran red in the light.

  Eamon.

  The voice reached out to him, staying his hand. He fell back on his haunches and wept thick, hot tears. Hand and blade were marked with blood.

  There was a step, then a gasp at the door.

  “Eamon!”

  The door slammed shut and feet ran to him. Cool, light fingers wrapped about his and Alessia knelt beside him. But he did not look at her; he could barely see. All he could feel was the blade where it lay in his bleeding hand.

  Alessia laid her hand on the dagger. “Eamon,” she said gently. “Don’t.”

  “Stay away!” he sobbed. Rage welled up inside him but he could not drive her away – he could not take the dagger out of his hand and he could not push it farther into his bloody palm. The grim voice he knew so well mocked his incompetence. He fairly howled as it laughed at him.

  “Make it stop!” he cried, hanging his head against her shoulder. “Make it stop, please!
”

  “Eamon, Eamon.”

  Alessia’s fingers touched his face, brushing at his tears. He did not stop her as she drew the blade out of his hands. He sobbed and trembled as she bound a handkerchief about his wound. Laying the dagger carefully to one side, she clasped her beautiful hands over his.

  “My love, what have you done?” she whispered.

  He turned to look at her. Everything churned in his mind, toying with him and goading him, and there were was no one he could turn to. He could tell no one. But to live with what he had done… he could not. Sobs wracked through him. He could not lead a double life alone.

  “I’ve lied to you, Alessia.” His voice was contorted with terror in the knowledge of what he had to do.

  She was smiling at him. Her grip on his hands tightened. “I can’t imagine you doing that,” she said lightly. “Let’s worry no more about it. You’ve just had a difficult day.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him so hard that he could barely breathe. For a moment he lost himself there. What did he need to say to her? Nothing, nothing… he could stay forever in that kiss.

  No, he would no longer lie to her – or himself. He pulled himself away and took her face between his hands, as he had done what seemed so long ago – that first night he had loved her.

  “No, Alessia, you have to listen to me,” he said urgently. Were there tears in her eyes? It grieved him that he was the cause of them. He had to seem a madman, and perhaps he was.

  “It’s all right,” she told him. “You need say no more than that you love me.”

  Eamon quaked. “I do love you, Alessia. You are all I have. I can tell no one else but you, and I must speak before it destroys me.”

  She fell silent and raised her hand to his against her cheek. Blood showed on the handkerchief, dotting the crest embroidered there. She looked at him with deep, suffering compassion on her face. She was everything to him, and he treasured the profound nature of those eyes that truly, deeply loved him.

  “I love you,” she breathed, a tear trailing down her cheek. “Speak freely, Eamon. Freely.”

  There was courage, and the promise of release from his torment, in her loving eyes. He loved her; he wanted her to know the truth. That was all that mattered.