by Anna Thayer
Tears broke on Eamon’s cheeks. He reached into his pouch. The silver ring came forth on his palm with a glowing shard; he held both towards the young man. It seemed a piteous gesture, but he did not falter.
“I brought this,” he whispered, “to return it to you.”
Mathaiah gasped. Eamon closed his eyes, feeling his heart upon a precipice. He had laid himself before the young man whom he had held above all other friends; he could only wait.
A hand reached out and clasped his own, its grasp firm. Eamon opened his eyes. Mathaiah knelt with him. His breath died in his throat. The cadet’s eyes searched his. Then Mathaiah smiled.
“Eamon!” His voice was washed with joy that went beyond his frame. Eamon’s name had scarcely sounded as dear to him as it did in that moment.
They began to laugh and cry, overcome and overjoyed. They embraced each other, and in their joy their voices rose up again to join the peal of song in every cranny of that darkened place:
“Let darkness try me if it can!
I shall burst through every band,
Darkness cowers, for I sing
Of the coming of the King!”
Light erupted from the pouch at Eamon’s breast; startled, he covered his eyes, but when he looked he could see light, blue light, flowing along every wall and rising upwards towards the Pit’s opening. It gathered strength from the song, which carried it up with awesome speed.
The walls began to shake and then to rumble. The Hands above cried out in alarm. Suddenly there was a great crack and stones sheered away from the narrow entrance. Then the roof of the mire was shattering to dust, tumbling into the Pit beneath. That dust neither hurt nor blinded, but fell as a gentle rain to cover all the filth and torment that had lain below. Torchlight flooded down from the cavern above. The prisoners cheered and the blue light struck out of the Pit with a startling clarity.
Then it was gone. The song lingered in the air behind it.
There was a long silence. Eamon saw the light at his breast falling still again, and though torchlight reached them it seemed poor compared with the light that had been. He could just make out Mathaiah’s awestruck face before him.
Eamon knew it would not be long before the Hands ventured to the lip of the shattered Pit seeking him. He grasped his friend’s hand.
“You were right.”
“I was right about you,” Mathaiah answered, eyes shining with joy. “I knew you would come back. But I was so afraid –”
“I meant that you were right about Alessia.”
Mathaiah faltered. “I’m sorry.” He seemed genuinely grieved.
“No, I am. You never deserved what I dealt you. I don’t have much time,” he said suddenly. “I’m going to the King, Mathaiah.”
“What?” Mathaiah whispered. “How?”
“My own foolishness – but perhaps it will work to the good.” Eamon looked nervously up to the roof of the Pit – were the Hands coming? “The King’s grace is with you. Hold fast, Mathaiah. I will come back for you.”
“Don’t fear for me,” Mathaiah answered firmly. “They can do nothing to me. But for you they are still laying traps. They have been trying to break you far longer than me. They will not stop. They have some design for you – something ancient, twisted. Please, Eamon…” He placed his hand on Eamon’s shoulder. “Be careful. And hold to the King.”
“I will.” His promise was given, and he meant to keep it.
A voice came down from above, choked and distressed. “Lord Goodman! Lord Goodman!”
Eamon pressed ring and shard into Mathaiah’s hand.
“Where did you –?”
“They are yours.”
“I wanted to tell you –” Mathaiah began.
“You will tell me.” Eamon raised his voice: “Ropes!” He looked back to Mathaiah. “You will tell me, when I come back for you.”
“Yes… sir.”
Eamon embraced him, then rose from the sludge and dust. It was in his hair and clothes; his skin was plastered and his boots were filled with filth, but his heart was clear.
“Ropes!”
The shadow of the rope appeared above him. Eamon took hold of it. Then he was hoisted up in fits and starts. As he reached the crumbling lip of the Pit he realized why: the Hands were hauling him up themselves. The pulley system was snapped and hung precariously overhead. As he staggered out into the upper chamber, Eamon still felt the reverberating song. It thrilled him.
“Are you well, Lord Goodman?” The Hand’s face wrinkled in distaste at the state of him, an expression that made Eamon want to laugh. Just in time, he remembered to perform a fierce scowl.
“Do I look well to you?”
“What happened?” The Hands shook, and Eamon realized that what they had witnessed – the awesome power of the King’s grace – was terrifying.
“I was trying to do my work, and I was interrupted,” he snapped. “Report the matter to Lord Cathair,” he added tersely, striding away from the lip of the Pit. “I have business to conclude.”
“But Lord Goodman, how do we explain –?”
Eamon rounded on them. “It would seem that the singing started it, so I suggest that you do something about the singing. Tell Lord Cathair that I breached the snake to help me with my task and that I bid him a most cordial farewell. He may discuss the matter with me on my return.”
The Hands gaped. Eamon treated them to another angry scowl and snatched up his cloak and sword. With song and light echoing in his heart, he left the Pit.
It was nearly the second watch when he reached the South Gate. He barely believed what he had done.
Mathaiah had forgiven him. He did not know what dark roads they would both tread before they next met, but it gave him hope and courage. Perhaps Hughan would forgive him, too.
The guards at the gatehouse were expecting him. They expressed surprise at his state. He did not explain it to them. He was able to exchange his stinking breeches for a pair of standard Gauntlet issue. His black shirt he left as a rag for the gate guard’s litter of puppies. The guards happily supplied him with an old, white, officer’s shirt, of the kind intended for wear under ceremonial uniforms. It was not practical, but it was clean. He kept his back away from them as he changed, to hide the marks of his flogging.
He was brought a horse – a dark creature with a patch of white on its broad nose. It breathed softly and patiently in the darkness. It little guessed where they would go – or that it carried the man who had chosen to be First Knight.
He rode to the gate, a group of men in its shadow. One stepped forward: Manners, jaded with fatigue. A few other Third Banners were with him.
“Shouldn’t you be at college, gentlemen?” Eamon asked quietly.
“Yes, sir – my lord,” Manners corrected himself. He had a haunted look. “Will you – you will come back, my lord?” he blurted.
Eamon met and held the cadet’s gaze. “I will return, Mr Manners. You have my word.”
Manners searched his eyes. “Thank you, my lord.” The Third Banners saluted. Their drawn swords shimmered, marking Eamon’s moonlit passage.
It was early on the twentieth of February. He glanced up at the gate, so tall it seemed to touch the clouded sky. By the twenty-seventh he had to have returned, bearing with him the head of Hughan’s ally. It chilled him. It seemed impossible.
He tightened his grip on the reins. He would not fail. There would be a way. He would go to Ashford Ridge – where Hughan’s camp had been, where he had breached Giles, and where Dunthruik had lost almost two hundred men. If he rode hard, he might reach the ridge by the next evening. He would reach it. He had to. Hughan would receive him, forgive him, help him.
And if he did not? Or if King and camp were gone – if there was nothing to find but the bodies of the Master’s dead… what would he do then?
“Good luck, Lord Goodman!” Manners called.
Eamon grimaced. He needed more than luck.
“Courage,” he murmured to himself.
“Courage.”
He urged his horse into a canter and clattered out of the city gates.
Eamon Goodman’s journey continues in Volume II of
The Knight of Eldaran: The King’s Hand.