by Anna Thayer
You won’t remember, the voice spat. You can’t remember, Eben’s son.
He had to remember, he had to… Before leaving the Hidden Hall, Hughan had said…
He swore. He remembered nothing but the falsified events he had presented to Lord Tramist.
You do not remember!
He gave an angry cry; he would not lose Lillabeth on account of a voice in his mind!
“I will remember!” he retaliated. “As I am a King’s man, I will!”
The voice sneered. You are no man of his!
But his declaration dragged Hughan’s face through the mire of memories until it was crystalline before him. He was holding papers and stone, and hearing his friend’s voice as clearly as though it spoke beside him: “There is an inn on Serpentine Avenue in the South Quarter…”
The Serpentine! The inn was called the South Wall; he remembered Giles showing it to him. That was where he had to go. He would take Lillabeth there and speak to the landlord – somehow he would get her out of the city.
He would go to Alessia’s house and get the girl out. But he had to do it discreetly. He trusted some of the servants but knew others would talk at the slightest opportunity. He did not want his name mentioned when the Hands came looking for their snake.
He raced to Turnholt House. What would he do if the whore saw him? How could she have betrayed him as she had done? He had put all his trust in her. For that, Mathaiah would suffer and die.
It was his fault. He had made that exchange. His lusts and ambitions had done it.
He howled and ran on.
The tall windows of the house were mostly dark; only those at the lower levels were lit. So it was only the servants still about.
He did not go to the main doors. Skirting the stables, Eamon moved to the servants’ entrance. He drew his cloak tightly about his face and, breathing hard from his long run, pounded on the door.
At length he was answered by the house’s elderly matron. As the woman peered into the dark Eamon struggled to remember her name.
“Toriana!”
Seeing the hooded figure at the door she shrank back.
“My lord.” Terrified, she curtseyed low. Eamon relaxed – he counted her trustworthy. He let the cloak fall from his face. “Lord Goodman!” she said, surprised.
“Toriana, is Lillabeth here?” She frowned at his haste. “Answer me!” he snapped. “Where is Lillabeth Hollenwell?”
“She’s in the kitchen, my lord –”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes, my lord –”
“Then let me in and close the door. Bolt it. Take me to her.”
“My lord.” She latched and bolted the door behind him, then led him down the narrow kitchen passageway.
A low fire burnt in one corner and Lillabeth stood, setting a cup and jug on a tray. She looked pale, and shook with what seemed fatigue. One hand was pressed across her stomach and she leaned hard against the table.
“Oh, Lilly!” Toriana cried, hurrying to her. She sat the girl down in a chair. “Lilly,” she said, pressing her hands. “Lilly, are you well?”
“Yes.”
Eamon had forgotten the gentle tone of her voice, and was suddenly struck by her as never before. There was goodness and nobility in her, and unfailing service. How could he have forgotten that? She lived in Dunthruik and served the enemies of her King, and yet she bore it faithfully. How could he not have done as she had done? It shamed him.
“I am well, but Lady Alessia –”
“Lilly, Lord Goodman is here –”
“Lord Goodman!” Lillabeth cried, seeing Eamon for the first time. She tried to climb to her feet but was unsteady. The matron grasped her. “I’m sorry, my lord, I would have risen –”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Eamon told her. “I should be standing for you.”
Lillabeth stared at him with round, astonished eyes, and glanced at the silent matron before looking back to him. He could not guess her thought. “My lord,” she whispered.
“You have to come with me, now.”
“How can I trust myself to you?” Lillabeth demanded.
Eamon could only imagine what she thought of him.
There was no time to explain, but he had to try. “I have been a foolish man,” he answered, anguished, “and now hope to repent and make amends, at least in part. I can offer you no proof of that intent but my words.” He faltered. She watched him in silence. His forehead and palm burnt. “Lillabeth, they’ve arrested Mathaiah – they’ll come for you next. I can’t let that happen.”
Lillabeth sank down with a shudder. “Mathaiah.”
“I am truly sorry, Lillabeth,” Eamon told her. He understood her fear: however courageous Mathaiah was, her cover was as good as gone. The Hands would not be gentle with her when they found her.
The matron tried to check her shaking with soothing words. Eamon started forward.
“Please,” he said. “Please, Lillabeth; get a cloak and come with me. There isn’t time for anything.”
Shaking, Lillabeth rose. Toriana rushed to find a cloak. This she draped over Lillabeth’s shoulders, doing it up tightly at the front. She kissed the girl’s forehead. “Courage, Lilly. You knew it might come to this. Courage!”
“Is she trustworthy, Lillabeth?”
Lillabeth matched his gaze. “As I am.”
Eamon turned to the matron. “Toriana, on your very life I charge you to speak nothing of what you have seen tonight. You must not mention my name, and you must not tell Lady Turnholt anything. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord.”
At Alessia’s name Lillabeth started in anguish. “I cannot leave her like this!”
“But you will,” Eamon told her vindictively. Lillabeth stared; he realized how fiercely he had spoken.
He drew a deep breath, trying to temper, or at the very least swallow, the anger and urgency that he felt. “We must go now. Keep your charge, Toriana.”
“I will, my lord.”
The matron quietly unbolted the door. She glanced outside.
“It’s safe.” She took Lillabeth’s hand a moment. “Take care, Lilly.”
“Take care of Lady Alessia,” Lillabeth answered urgently. “There is some terrible grief on her tonight.”
Eamon grabbed Lillabeth’s other hand. “Come on.”
They went in silence, and far more slowly than Eamon would have liked; Lillabeth seemed weak. He pulled up his hood to disguise himself. As they passed the doors of the house he heard footsteps and weeping on the balcony above.
With a firm hand he pressed Lillabeth back into the shadows of the building. He heard his own heart pounding. Then a call broke the silence:
“Lilly!” it called, shredded with tears. “Lilly!”
The girl gasped. “My lady!”
“No!” Eamon hissed, forcing her back. What if Alessia had guessed his intent and meant to trap them?
“She needs me!” Lillabeth countered angrily, striking him away.
The lady called again. The voice was torn and desperate: “Lilly!”
Lillabeth drew breath to answer – Eamon drove his hand over her mouth.
“I said no!”
She glared at him with angry, suspicious eyes, and shook herself free.
“What did you do to her?” she hissed. Eamon could not comprehend the fierce love in the girl’s voice. “What did you do!”
“Lilly?”
Eamon seized the maid’s hand. Blocking Alessia’s weeping from his ears, he dragged Lillabeth out of the gates.
The moon lit the road. Eamon made sure that Lillabeth’s hood covered her face and looped her arm through his. He slowed their pace and hoped that anyone who saw them would not guess the identity of his companion. Lillabeth shuddered angrily. Eamon ignored it.
They followed the Coll to the Four Quarters. There, Eamon bore down Coronet Rise to the south and then onto the Serpentine. The streets were quiet, but he was anxious; he was not a frequent visitor to th
e quarter.
The Serpentine spanned a crumbling part of the city, showing few traces of former glory in its abandoned stones. The road snaked through the South Quarter, going almost diagonally across it from Coronet Rise to the Blind Gate. The houses were dimly lit and Eamon scanned each one, looking desperately for the sign that would proclaim the presence of the correct inn – the road had several. At each false sign the voice mocked him. He tightened his grip on Lillabeth’s hand. It would be there. It had to be.
At last his search was rewarded. A small inn stood halfway down the road, partially collapsed against the neighbouring building. Its sign showed a wall – appropriately, as the city wall was not far away. Eamon saw guards walking the misty parapets.
Keeping Lillabeth close he strode to the inn door. The windows were misted, and in the scant candlelight he could not tell how many people might be inside. Drawing his cloak tightly around him and his hood around his face, he opened the door.
He had no idea what to do. The few clients who sat at tables rose to their feet and bowed as soon as they saw him; he cursed his black robes.
He led Lillabeth to the bar. The innkeeper rose.
“You honour us, my lord.”
Eamon fixed all his hope on memory of Hughan’s words. Had the King not said that the innkeeper could help him, should he need to escape? Could not that warrant secure Lillabeth’s freedom also?
You are a fool, Eben’s son.
“Are you the proprietor of this inn?” Eamon deepened his voice to disguise it. He needed to speak to the man in private. But how…?
“Yes, my lord,” the innkeeper replied cautiously. “I have that little honour.”
The answer came to him. “Good. You will take us to the best of your rooms.” He scattered coins indolently across the table. Lillabeth stiffened. Eamon was sorry, but he saw no other way.
“At once, my lord.” The innkeeper dashed behind the bar, fumbled for a set of keys, and bade them follow him. Lillabeth was reluctant at Eamon’s arm but he made her follow. They delved into the inn’s smoky depths.
The man led them up a small staircase to a room. He unlocked the door with trembling hands and bowed again.
“I hope it pleases you, my lord.” Eamon saw the man watching Lillabeth pitifully. “You will not be disturbed here.”
Will you not do as he expects? The voice goaded him. Why not take her, son of Eben?
Eamon pushed Lillabeth roughly through the door. As the innkeeper made to leave, Eamon stopped him. “I require your services a moment more, keeper.”
The innkeeper looked petrified, but at the terrible look on Eamon’s face he stepped hastily into the room. Eamon snatched the keys from his hand, pressed the door closed, and locked it.
“My lord!” the keeper began. Eamon hissed for silence.
He prowled the room, examining its every part. The keeper and Lillabeth watched him fearfully – he knew it – and as he strode he strove with the voice that preyed on him.
You are angry, Eben’s son. Visit it on them. It will relieve you.
Eamon swallowed and focused. The walls seemed sturdy enough; the room’s window faced the street. He turned to the innkeeper.
“You are certain nobody will hear us here?”
“My lord, have pity!” the keeper cried, falling to his knees.
Eamon was stunned. What did the keeper think he meant to do? What had other Hands done before him?
“Please,” he whispered, stepping up to the keeper, “do not kneel before me.” He laid a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder.
“You’re… you’re not going to –?”
“I intend no harm either to you or to the girl. I am sorry if I misled you into thinking otherwise. A man in my position has many battles to fight, I fear, and must sometimes do so by indirect means. Good keeper,” he added kindly, “I have need of your service.”
“My service?” The keeper stared. “My lord, I don’t know what you mean –”
“I understand that this looks strange. Please. I come on behalf of a name higher than my own, and it is service to him that I require.”
“A higher name…” The innkeeper glanced at Lillabeth. She stood motionless. Wide-eyed, the keeper looked back to Eamon. “My lord… who are you?”
“I am the First Knight.” The words came boldly from his lips.
Lillabeth’s silent mouth fell open. The keeper was at a loss for words.
“You… you…”
“This lady serves the King,” Eamon continued. “She is now in danger. I would ask you to see her from the city.”
“How can you be the First Knight?” the man asked. He gaped at Eamon – and his black robes – incredulously.
“Will you help her?”
With odd dignity, the innkeeper rose to his feet. “Follow me,” he said.
He led them silently down the staircase and to the back of the inn, away from watchful eyes. He directed them to a storeroom filled with barrels, kegs, and sacks of grain hoarded against the remaining winter months. The door was closed behind them.
Kneeling down beside a collection of large barrels the keeper laboriously began to move them aside. Eamon helped him. For what seemed an eternity all that could be heard was the sound of wood scraping hard across the stone floor.
The barrels revealed a small trapdoor, wide enough for a man to slip down. The innkeeper ran his hands into a groove in the wood and lifted up the thick board. A wave of air ran up towards them, guttering the torches dying on the wall.
Eamon peered downward. He saw nothing in the darkness. “What is it?”
“Part of the old sewer system, disused for centuries, my lord, and in poor repair.” The innkeeper took a torch. “Go to the end of the tunnel. There are a few forks; go straight. There’s a dead end topped by another door. Knock. They’ll let you out.”
Eamon nodded. “Thank you.”
At the keeper’s direction, Eamon positioned himself in the trapdoor and lowered himself down the ladder that he found beneath his feet. It did not descend far; reaching the ground, he found that the tunnel was barely two hands above his head. The innkeeper passed down the torch, then helped Lillabeth. Eamon steadied her as she climbed down.
“You must go straight, always straight!”
Eamon thanked him again. He was turning when the man called after him: “First Knight!”
Eamon marvelled at the power of this title – his title. Just as a smile from him as Lord Goodman had made cadets and lieutenants beam, this name – a name of his that he had forgotten – seemed to draw out something from deep within him. Something that stirred hope and courage in him and bestowed them on others. He saw both then on the innkeeper’s face.
“Keeper?”
“Will I know you, if I see you again?”
Eamon was glad of the hood hiding his face. “Keeper,” he said at last, “you will know me when the King deems it time. Until then, treat all of my colour with the same caution you always have.”
Awestruck, the innkeeper nodded.
“The King’s grace go with you,” Lillabeth whispered to him.
“And with you!”
The keeper closed the gap. Eamon heard barrels being replaced over the trapdoor. The torch in his hand spat, threatening extinction; a tinge of claustrophobia gripped him. The floor was slippery and the torch smoke stung their faces.
He held out his hand to Lillabeth. “Come on.”
The tunnel was narrow, the air thin and stale. Stonework crumbled overhead and underfoot. Lillabeth stumbled repeatedly.
“Are you well?” he asked, steadying her. She was breathing hard.
“Yes,” she answered him. “I’m well. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t rush,” he told her as she struggled to gain her feet. Her face was pale, her eyes reddened by tears and smoke. He made her lean on him. Holding the torch high, they carried on.
They passed bends and gaping forks. Eamon ignored them. At length they reached the end of the tunnel. The straig
ht way, which curved slightly westwards, came to an abrupt end.
The torch was dying in Eamon’s hands. Trying not to panic, he held its spattering embers high. Where was the exit?
“There,” Lillabeth said suddenly, pointing upwards. Eamon looked. In the darkness above was a trapdoor. The wood was set in a channel in the stones, just out of reach. A plank of wood was below it.
Eamon passed the torch to Lillabeth and grabbed the plank. He lifted and angled it beneath the trapdoor before driving it upwards in three firm knocks.
He kept very still, listening. No sound of movement above. Lillabeth swallowed nervously. He strained and knocked again.
Nothing. Chilled sweat beaded his forehead. What if there was nobody above to hear them?
“The torch!” Lillabeth gasped.
It was sputtering. Hefting the plank he knocked again; the sound echoed the long length of the tunnel.
No answer. Eamon dropped the plank.
The torch died. He took it and cast it down, the last embers spitting and glowering before fizzling out.
Lillabeth shivered. Eamon wrapped his cloak about her.
“I’m sorry.” His voice echoed, like the dead knocks.
A faint noise. They both looked up. Something moved overhead. Suddenly the trapdoor ground to one side. Beyond were stars and torchlight.
“Who goes there?”
“Bearers of the King’s grace,” Lillabeth replied.
A rope ladder fell. Eamon steadied it for Lillabeth. She reached the top without difficulty. Drawing his hood over his face, he followed her. The torchlight was blinding as he emerged. He heard the River. They were beyond the city walls!
Even as he marvelled, blades were drawn and arrows knocked to strings.
“Hand!”
“Kill him!”
“No!” Lillabeth shrieked, throwing herself between them and him. “He is a King’s man!”
The men around them were dressed in green and brown, like those Eamon had seen in Hughan’s camps. They watched him fiercely.
“If he is a King’s man,” one growled, “let him show his face.”
“He can’t –” Lillabeth began.
“It’s all right, Lillabeth,” Eamon interrupted. Alessia had betrayed him; the Hands would already know everything. Showing his face could not hurt him now. He sternly met the gaze of the leading man. “You and your men will swear never to speak my name to any but the King.”