by Anna Thayer
“I’m very creative, you know.”
“You’ve been spending too much time with Lord Cathair,” Eamon countered playfully.
“Too true, too true,” Ladomer laughed, ceding victory. “Going to the college?”
“Yes indeed.” Eamon yawned and arched his shoulders back in his jacket. They were stiff and sore, but he did not mind.
“Want to carry my papers for me?”
“No.”
“It was worth a try.”
“Yes, it was.” Eamon laughed, then yawned again.
“Tired?” Ladomer fell into step beside him.
“Yes and no.”
“Perhaps you have been spending too much time with your lovely lady, Mr Goodman?”
“Perhaps!”
“Then ’tis little wonder that you’re tired!” Ladomer winked.
Eamon thumped him. “None of that, Mr Kentigern!”
“Come now, you deserved it. It would certainly be why I was tired, if she were mine!”
“If you want to know, we were actually only talking,” Eamon told him, mock-petulantly.
“I can’t believe that for a moment!” Ladomer chortled. “What about?”
“Mind your own business!”
“I am.” Ladomer adopted a pretentious tone. “The personal conduct of officers, down to the goriest detail, is of great interest to the Master.” He smiled. “The Master’s business is the Right Hand’s business, and the Right Hand’s business is mine. I am, as you see, his personal papershuffler – a duty I execute with utmost efficiency and pride.”
“My talk was of a personal nature, and of little interest to the Right Hand.”
“Sweet nothings or no, I fear I shall have to take you both in for questioning. How do you fancy the Pit, Mr Goodman?” he added brightly. “I hear it’s very pleasant at this time of year!” The latter had been spoken with every inflection of sincerity, but unable to keep it up Ladomer burst into great-lunged laughter. Magnanimously, he offered to drop the subject.
If Eamon had taken much longer to reach the college he would have been late for parade. As it was he arrived as the cadets were drawing up and swiftly took his place among them. Each offered him cheery good-mornings; he smiled in return. He even smiled at Mathaiah. His ward stared at him, surprised.
As he watched Waite inspecting the ranks and giving the morning’s news, he reflected that as he meant to get news to Hughan his ward was still the best way to do it. He wanted to laugh out loud: he was going to speak to Mathaiah! In that moment it held no dread for him. He could still prove himself. He could become what Hughan had seen in him.
“There’s one last piece of news, gentlemen.” He tried to concentrate on the sound of Waite’s voice. “You are all aware that Mr Goodman was engaged in action against the wayfarers two days ago. He comported himself with extreme dedication in that effort, and once again rendered invaluable service to the Master in the endeavour.”
Eamon flushed with embarrassment. One or two Third Banners cheered. Waite hushed them with his hand.
“In view of this effort,” he continued, “it is my proud duty to announce to you all that Mr Goodman will, as of today, sadly no longer be with us.”
Eamon froze. What did Waite mean?
Waite was smiling at him. “Gentlemen, I have here a note from the Master himself, approving a recommendation from Lord Cathair. Let me read it to you:
“‘It is our august will that Eamon Goodman, first lieutenant under Waite, captain of our own West Quarter, should this day be summoned from that station and elevated to the rank he deserves. Let him be made a Hand.’”
Waite turned the paper so that all could see the eagle that sealed the bottom of the parchment. It glinted. “Congratulations, Mr Goodman!”
There was a split second of silence. Then, as though with one accord, the whole yard erupted into a cacophony of cheering and applause, and cadets and ensigns were calling his name. For a Hand to be chosen from their ranks brought honour on every man there. Waite fairly beamed as he applauded. Any semblance of an orderly parade vanished as man after man came to clasp Eamon’s hand; the other officers, no doubt secretly pleased that the appointment would raise one of them to his place, clapped him round the shoulder.
Then Waite himself was among them; he took Eamon’s hand and clasped it with vigour and warmth. “Well done, Mr Goodman!”
Eamon couldn’t think, could barely hear, and almost couldn’t see. So many faces around him, so many calls and cries – it was overwhelming.
But one sight remained with him: his ward’s face, grey amid the cries of joy.
He stood in the hall, dressed in the finest jacket that the college had. His shirt had been pressed, each pin at his collar polished until the flames fairly burned. As he stood he watched while a carpenter diligently carved into the wooden board: First Lieutenant Eamon Goodman, made Hand on the 9th of February in the 533rd year of the Master’s throne.
Above the board hung Overbrook’s map. Waite had had it framed and set there with a memorial plaque.
Eamon’s heart beat so quickly he almost couldn’t distinguish it from the strokes of the carpenter’s chisel. He was to be made a Hand that very afternoon. The initiative for the Handing, inspired by Eamon’s selfless and unfaltering service over the last few months – one that had reached its peak when he had breached Giles – had been Lord Cathair’s. The Master had been similarly impressed and was rumoured to have ratified the suggestion in moments. The voice within counselled him that he richly deserved the reward being offered to him. So tenderly did it speak that he scarcely noticed it, and he did not stop to wonder what the Master’s lightning ratification might imply.
He saw sudden movement in the corridor as a cadet scurried past, his head lowered.
“Mr Grahaven!”
Eamon had called out before he had even thought about it. Perhaps, had the dictates of rank not forbidden it, Mathaiah might have kept walking.
“Sir.”
“Would you lend me your company a moment, Mr Grahaven?”
Reluctantly, Mathaiah walked across to him. The young man had a wary look and seemed terribly conscious of the name being marked onto the board. His glance flicked to it as he saluted formally.
“How may I be of service, sir?” His tone was cool.
Eamon suddenly found that he didn’t know what to say. What could he say? That he had told Alessia everything, that he felt restored, that he was going to be a better man henceforth – perhaps one deserving of the name Hughan had given him?
He could say that Mathaiah had been wrong. He could confess his sudden fear about being made a Hand; the pronouncement had laid a strange hold of joy and terror on him. He could ask Mathaiah to take news to Hughan. He should do that at least, and do it at once, while he had the chance.
Most of all he wanted Mathaiah to know that he had been wrong about Alessia.
“Sir?” Mathaiah asked. “Was there something? I have duties to attend to.”
“Yes, Mr Grahaven, there was something,” Eamon began lamely. Where was his courage now? “I wanted to tell you –”
“Mr Goodman! Good afternoon!” The voice that called his name was loud and familiar. Eamon turned and smiled.
“Lord Cathair,” he answered and bowed low. He was aware of a dark look passing over Mathaiah’s face as he did the same.
“Well, I have to hand it to you, Mr Goodman,” Cathair smiled. “You’ve made a fine spectacle of yourself this time. One might almost say a handsome spectacle!”
“One might,” Eamon returned, reminding himself that he was not Cathair’s equal.
At least, not yet.
“Ah, and Mr Grahaven too, looking fit to race the length of the Serpentine and back before I can count to ten!” Mathaiah bowed again. “A fine young man, very fine. What a pleasure to see you, Mr Grahaven.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Mathaiah answered. “I was congratulating Mr Goodman on his appointment. He will be sorely missed by those of
us who looked to him in this college.”
Eamon glanced at him; there were traces of bitterness in the last.
“You may look to him still, Mr Grahaven; he will be a Hand of the quarter under me, and all the more worthy of looking to!” Cathair laughed again. “I shall go and gather Captain Waite, Mr Goodman – he often needs gathering these days, but I have luckily had much practice in it – and we shall go to complete the formalities. You may await us here.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Cathair disappeared down the corridor. The chiselling stopped and the carpenter descended his ladder for some tool or other. Eamon smiled.
“You were wrong about her, Mathaiah,” he said. He turned to speak to his ward, then stopped.
Mathaiah was gone.
Glancing round the empty hallway he felt sudden despair. If he could not reach out to Mathaiah, to whom he had once been so close, how could he expect to reach out to Hughan?
He stood numbly until Cathair and Waite joined him. Then he followed them to the shadows of the palace.
He remembered the long corridor that led to the throne room. He remembered the portraits, the coats of arms, the awful banners and emblems that lined the walls in cascading rivers of red silk. He remembered the peculiar ring of the paving stones underfoot, the glitter of gold in every arch and high window, now lit with drifting sunlight instead of burning torches. He remembered the doors, great, oaken lumbers, and the strange writing that adorned them.
Waite and Cathair walked either side of him, each one solemn as they approached their goal, the throne room itself.
Cathair turned to him. “Many are overwhelmed when they first stand in the presence of the Master,” he said. “I expect you to be among their number.” Eamon swallowed. “I also expect you to behave in a way that befits you, honours me, and glorifies the Master,” Cathair added. “Is that clear, Mr Goodman?”
“Yes, my lord,” he whispered.
“Good.”
Eamon looked back to the great doors. He thought of Alessia, and wished for her hand in his.
A man dressed in red – perhaps from the throned’s own servants – admitted them. The throne room’s mosaics filled Eamon’s eyes with light, blinding him as he came onto the molten lake of stone. Before him was the throne’s dais. It rose to a great height, and as Eamon walked the length of the hall he knew that all around him the man with red hair looked down; only now, the eyes did not mock but rather welcomed. Eamon found his eye drawn again to the unicorn, and to the grisly snake that fled its breast.
Hands stood on the steps that led to the throne in two sombre black lines. They were the Quarter Hands: Ashway stood to the right, Tramist and Dehelt to the left. Above them, nearest to the throne, stood the Right Hand.
It was then that Eamon saw his face clearly for the first time. Like Cathair’s it was pale, but more youthful. There was something strange about it – Eamon felt almost as though he knew it. And yet he also knew that he had never seen that broad forehead or the deep, fierce eyes. He knew only the clasp of his hand and the stirring voice: perhaps those were enough.
Cathair and Waite stopped at the foot of the steps and Eamon halted a few paces behind them. Sweat had broken out on his brow and he fought the urge to wipe it away with his sleeve.
“Who is it that approaches?” called a voice: the Right Hand’s. Eamon remembered that voice and how the crowd had answered it at the majesty. It demanded him.
“Lord Cathair of the West Quarter and his servant, Captain Waite,” Cathair answered solemnly. Eamon realized with a start that the ceremony had begun. “We have come to lay a new servant before the Master.”
“Then the Master will test him,” the Right Hand replied, turning to face the throne. He bowed low; all the Hands and Waite dropped down at once to one knee. Eamon followed them.
The long curtains behind the throne stirred. Eamon risked a single glance and then dropped his head.
He was there.
The Master. His fiery head bore a crown and his steel-grey eyes shone more keenly than the thick jewels upon his brow. He was like a pillar of fire, red and roaring in the light, and a great cloak, rimmed with black, hung from his powerful shoulders. A sword hung at his side, its scabbard encased in glinting jewels, and dark writing – the same writing as in Nightholt and Hands’ Hall – adorned the top of the blade’s length.
“Rise.”
They rose. Only the Right Hand met the Master’s dreadful gaze.
“Master,” he said, “a new servant is brought before you.”
“I will test him.”
Every nerve in Eamon’s body went stone cold. The voice coursed through him, robbing him of strength and filling him with fear. He knew that voice – how he knew it! – and it knew him.
He began to tremble. He could not go through with this! They would kill him, and strike at Hughan, and the house of Brenuin would be razed from the earth. It would be his fault for letting himself be made a Hand. There was no courage in his limbs and no cry in his throat. He was lost!
“Test him, Master,” Cathair said. There was something close to adoration in the Hand’s voice. “Test him and make him true.”
All except the Right Hand sank to one knee again. Eamon tried to kneel. His knees were so weak he feared he would fall. He could not bring himself to do it. He was struck immovable by the terrible grandeur of the one by the throne.
The Master came to stand before him, his hair like wreaths of living flames and his face, though pale, terrifying, showing not weakness but indelible strength. Eamon quailed. How could Hughan, of mere flesh and blood, hope to stand against this being? The grey eyes were on him, driving into his very heart.
“Will you bow to me, Eben’s son?” The voice was glorious and hideous.
“Yes, Master,” Eamon stammered. He staggered to his knees until the hem of the throned’s robes were before him, and still he felt as though he stood too tall.
He heard the unsheathing of the great sword. He shut his eyes, pressed his face against the ground, and quivered.
“Will you renew your pledge to me, Eben’s son?”
“Yes, Master,” he whispered. He reached out and touched the pommel of the sword that he knew was stretched towards him. He laid his injured right hand over its eagle, feeling pain as sore flesh and metal touched.
“I renew my pledge.” He felt the throbbing red light growing around the mark in his hand but he dared not look up. His hand shook. “My blood, my blade, and my body are all given in your service.”
“Will you swear a new oath to me, Eben’s son?” The Master’s voice seemed both within and without his mind. It permeated him, reverberating through every pore and fibre.
Eamon nodded speechlessly.
“Will you swear to be mine and mine alone, a hand swift to avenge me, obedient to and glorifying none but me alone, forsaking all other oaths and service, even to the end of your days? Will you be as my Hand in this city, and in these lands?”
“My hand is witness to my pledge; I ratify it,” Eamon answered, holding his hand aloft.
“You cannot serve them both,” Alessia’s voice warned. But a new vow was weaving its tendrils round him. He could not shake himself free. It was too late.
Suddenly the throned’s hand was on his forehead; it was a cool hand, bearing power.
“I will test your service, Eben’s son.” Eamon knew with dread certainty what would follow: he would be breached.
The ground fell from under him. His whole world became the hand pressed hard against his head. He opened his eyes and gasped.
He did not see the plain.
He saw a broad expanse of tangled woodland in the arms of a valley. Men lay dead there; some wore blue, others red. Their arms and shields were unfamiliar to him, but on some he saw the sword and star and on others the Master’s eagle. Men fell around him. A watchtower was in the distance, its roof and pennons caught in a torrent of flame. The charred stonework spewed a guttering coil of smoke. Th
e nearby woods burned, filling the night with ash as well as blood and death.
He saw a man ride through the press of the dead. His sword lifted high, the heavens seemed to light the blade. His bright helm was ringed with a shining crown. The rider called and men rallied to him.
The King, for so he was, rode down the narrow field. There was a man before him, seemingly wrapped in flames. The man laughed, red hair shaking about him like a mane. His face was violent with delight.
The King rode on towards his foe. There seemed to be no force that could stop him and no power that could stand against the piercing brightness of his sword. But the riding King did not see the man who suddenly rose from among the fallen dead, and he did not see the stroke of a reddened blade arching towards him.
With an unearthly scream the King’s steed plummeted to earth in a froth of fear and blood. The King was thrown down hard. As he fell his helm was cast aside and he saw the man who had struck him.
It was the First Knight.
Even as the King fought to regain his feet the flaming man came upon him, sword long and terrible in the light.
The blade plunged down, piercing the throat of one that called still upon the name of his First Knight.
“Even thus are you mine, Eben’s son.”
As the vision began to fade the throned was before him. There were sobs of anguish in his throat. Burning tears rushed down his cheeks and he shivered with cold fear. The Master was over him, an unbreakable tower of fire and steel.
“You will never undo that stroke. The house of Brenuin is fallen and the service of your house is given to me. You are bound to me. You will be true to me.”
Eamon lowered his head. His hope lay, shattered and bleeding, like the broken corpse in the valley of Edesfield.
“I am true to you, Master,” he whispered. Inwardly, he wept.
He felt a searing pain on his forehead and resisted the urge to cry out. The throned was withdrawing his hand. The fingers left a new, heavy mark upon him, one that he could never remove. Broken and bound, he knelt before the throned.
The Master stepped back.
“I have tested my servant, Eben’s son, and found him true.” The voice was victorious. “Let him be my Hand, in this city and over the River.”