The King's Hand

  To

  The City of Palermo

  Text copyright © 2014 Anna Thayer

  This edition copyright © 2014 Lion Hudson

  The right of Anna Thayer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Published by Lion Fiction

  an imprint of

  Lion Hudson plc

  Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Road

  Oxford OX2 8DR, England

  www.lionhudson.com/fiction

  ISBN 978 1 78264 077 6

  e-ISBN 978 1 78264 078 3

  This edition 2014

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Cover illustration by Jacey: www.jacey.com

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Copyright Page

  Map of the River Realm and its World

  Map of the River Realm Towns and Provinces

  Acknowledgments

  The Story So Far

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Just as with its fellow, the publication of this book would not have been possible without the support of a great many people.

  Thank you to Peter Gladwin, for helping to get me in touch with the right people at the right time. A real kairos moment!

  I am particularly indebted to Tony, Jessica, and Julie at Lion Hudson; for their overwhelming enthusiasm for Eamon and his world, and the countless hours they have spent in the final labour of love that is editing a book (let alone three!) for publication.

  Colleagues and students have for years been a source of immense encouragement, and I am grateful to them for helping to keep me going on what has, at times, been a daunting endeavour. Special mention has to go to the “Tardis crew” who, despite their changing faces, have been the best colleagues that a teacher, writer, and new mother could ask for.

  Finally, I wish to thank my wonderful husband, Justin, and my son, Leopoldo – the one for his tireless dedication to reading, re-reading, thrice reading, and editorial input, and the other for sleeping just enough to let me finish the manuscripts. The discerning reader may decide which thanks goes to which gentleman!

  THE STORY SO FAR

  It is the 532nd year of the Master’s throne. The Master is lord over the River Realm, ruling in unassailable might from his capital, Dunthruik, and asserting his authority by means of his army – the Gauntlet – and his elite servants, the Hands.

  But things were not always this way. There are rumours of wayfarers up and down the River – pernicious snakes who claim that their leader is the descendent of the ancient House of Brenuin, and rightful heir to a throne stolen by the Master.

  Since the death of his parents, Eamon Goodman has always longed to swear his allegiance to the Gauntlet – to dedicate his life to protecting and serving the people of the River. Living in the small town of Edesfield, his hopes for greatness – of going to Dunthruik and becoming a Hand – seem slim.

  Everything changes on the day that he swears his oath to the Master. He finds his flesh marked with a fiery eagle, and his mind filled with a voice that commands his thought. Worse, Telo, the father of his childhood friend Aeryn, is revealed to be a wayfarer – as is his daughter. After Eamon has been forced to burn Telo at the stake, Aeryn reveals to him her true nature – and is captured by the Gauntlet. Compelled by his captain to interrogate her, Eamon discovers that the mark on his palm has granted him a strange new ability – that of breaching a person’s mind, entering it and tearing through it to reveal their inmost thoughts and secrets. But he also discovers that Aeryn is protected from him by a mysterious blue light – a light that she attributes to her devotion to the King.

  For his service in capturing wayfarers in the town, Eamon is promoted from cadet to lieutenant and sent on a holk downriver to Dunthruik to deliver his prisoner – Aeryn – to the city’s greatest breachers. Torn between his friendship and his oath, Eamon attempts to discharge his duty – but finds himself troubled by Aeryn’s allegiance.

  On board the holk a young cadet under Eamon’s command, Mathaiah Grahaven, miscarries his duty, allowing Aeryn a chance at escape. Rather than see the young man suffer, Eamon volunteers to take the punishment – a flogging – in his place, creating a strong bond between them.

  Just before the holk reaches Dunthruik, it is overrun in a nighttime attack by wayfarers intent on rescuing Aeryn. These men, led by a man called Giles, refuse Eamon’s offer of surrender and furiously butcher all on board. Mathaiah takes a killing blow in Eamon’s place, and, as Eamon cradles the dying cadet, he finds blue light in his own hands. He uses it to heal the young man, unwittingly saving his own life in the process – this light is the mark of a King’s man.

  Sole survivors of the holk’s crew, Eamon and Mathaiah are taken back to the wayfarers’ camp where Eamon makes a series of startling realizations: there is a King, Hughan Brenuin, a childhood friend of Eamon’s whom he thought dead in a wayfarer attack. Hughan reveals that Eamon’s ability to be both sworn to the Master and carry the blue light is an inheritance of his house – that Eben Goodman was once First Knight to the last Brenuin King, and the man who betrayed the King to the Master. Hughan invites Eamon to become First Knight once more.

  Tormented by his oath to the Master and his desire to give fealty to Hughan, Eamon swears to serve the King: as part of his new oath, he will go to Dunthruik and act as Hughan’s spy in the city. He concocts a subterfuge with Hughan: he returns to the city with a group of Hands who have come seeking Aeryn, carrying with him forged papers and an ancient stone, to prove his “loyalty” to the Master. Mathaiah – who has also sworn an oath to serve the King – travels with him.

  Doubly sworn, Eamon arrives in Dunthruik and is assigned to the city’s West Quarter college under the leadership of Captain Waite. Persistently baited by Hands and officers, Eamon struggles to remain true to his oath to Hughan. His temptation to become a Master’s man is made stronger when he is promoted to first lieutenant and becomes the lover of one of the city’s most powerful women, Alessia Turnholt.

  Using the stone he has brought from Hughan, Eamon leads a group of Hands into the city’s ancient library. There, he and Mathaiah recover a book known as the Nightholt – one which Mathaiah feels certain he can read, despite its arcane script – and give it over to the Hands. I
t is a deed which fills Eamon with misgiving. He and Mathaiah arrange to send news to Hughan via their contact, Alessia’s serving-girl Lillabeth.

  Eamon is nominated to become a Hand; spurred on by his captain, his lover, and the Master’s Right Hand, Eamon begins working against Hughan, capturing and torturing wayfarers and doing everything in his power to be formally recognized as one of the Master’s elite. Mathaiah warns him that he is being baited and pulled from his true oath of service, and that Alessia is in the Master’s pay. Angered and incited further by the voice which increasingly holds sway over him, Eamon shuns Mathaiah utterly.

  Eamon turns his back on the King, aspiring instead to become Right Hand – a desire which he confides to Ladomer, an old friend who has won a position in Dunthruik as lieutenant to the Master’s second.

  After a winter of working to the Master’s glory, Eamon is taken on a mission by Lord Cathair to see if rumours of an amassing wayfarer army have any truth to them. They discover that Hughan has garnered many allies. On this mission, one of Eamon’s cadets is killed by Giles. The man confronts Eamon with the extent of his treachery to Hughan. Furious, Eamon violently breaches Giles, learning the location of the King’s army and many details pertaining to its logistical support and allies. It is when he sees Giles broken by his hand that Eamon realizes what he has become. Unhinged with shame and guilt, Eamon returns to the city and confesses everything to Alessia. He resolves that he should become a King’s man once more.

  The sensitive information that Eamon acquires from Giles clinches the decision to make him a Hand. He is given command of a mission to halt one of the King’s supply convoy. What should be an easy mission ends disastrously and Eamon leads his men back to Dunthruik in disgrace.

  Back in the city, Alessia invites Eamon to the theatre where the Right Hand, Arlaith, joins them unexpectedly to espouse his views on how betrayal should be answered. Alessia reveals to Eamon that she was ordered to court him by Arlaith, she has been breached, and now the Hands know everything. When she tells Eamon that Mathaiah is being arrested he spurns her and rushes to try to save his friend, but arrives too late.

  Eamon realizes that Lillabeth is in danger and smuggles her out of the city. The following day Arlaith takes retribution by ordering a decimation of all those who have served under Eamon. Eamon defies him by leaping to take another man’s place in the line, and demands to see the Master.

  Eamon is taken before the Master. Edelred gives him seven days to leave the city and return with the head of one of Hughan’s allies. If he succeeds his men will have their honour restored – if he fails, they will all be killed.

  Eamon goes to the Pit where Mathaiah is imprisoned and asks for his friend’s forgiveness. It is granted. With this as his only comfort, and with the lives of men that he loves resting on him, Eamon leaves Dunthruik.

  Dread now seemed all his yesterdays,

  Grave folly each tomorrow;

  Yet courage on that blackened field

  Sought he, and still he followed.

  The Edelred Cycle

  PROLOGUE

  The chill, grey sea was to the west, its waves rolling to meet the outpour at the River’s mouth. Cold drove against his face and whipped his cloak behind him. Upward glances showed him the eerie half-light, and he knew that the sun loured behind the swell of the horizon.

  He cursed it.

  He clung to the dark. It fled from him, unheeding. The stars, caught high in the fading black, were as faint as his hope.

  A day had passed since he had challenged the command of the Master’s Right Hand. Just a single day since he had seen the Lord of Dunthruik shatter the heart of the King and set him on this desperate task.

  Was it really a day since he had seen the Pit riven with light?

  He rode on. He could not think of rest.

  It was the twentieth of February. The day pressed against his heart with the keenness of a blade.

  Seven alone remained.

  CHAPTER I

  Agrim dawn was already dunning the sky when he found himself crossing the River by ferry and then following one of its tributaries to the south. If only he could fly down the valley – ride with the force of tempests, striking clods and stones with the speed of lightning, leaving dust fulminating in his furious wake… then his task would not be so forlorn.

  Ladomer had always been the rider… Why wasn’t he swift and strong, like Ladomer?

  Why had he been so foolish?

  With soft words and a tug at the reins, Eamon bade his horse stop and then dismounted. Fatigue coursing through his limbs, he leaned for a moment against the patient creature’s side. It indulged him in his weary moans.

  How could he ever hope to find Hughan in time?

  Eamon pressed his eyes shut. Faces lurched before his mind – of militiamen, cadets, ensigns, officers, and a dear captain…

  They had all been placed in his hands by the Master, to be impossibly bartered for the head of the King’s ally.

  He paced, trying to force blood back into frozen limbs. He had to go on – he had to find the King.

  And if he did – what then?

  Hughan could never grant him the head of an ally; Eamon could not save his men without it. His task was as farcical as it was hopeless – and the Master knew it.

  Groggily, Eamon took his bearings. Crossing the River he had come down into the province of Southdael. Ashford Ridge was in the heart of the region, farther south. Though Dunthruik lay a hard ride behind him, the Master’s shadow was still his saddle-mate.

  Eamon stared at the struggling sun, haunted by his thoughts. His failure was certain – but his return? If he did not return… he would never have to face the deaths of his men – or what Cathair left of their corpses.

  He pressed his hands into his eyes as though to drive away a mist. There was no question of not returning. He had given his word, to Anderas, Manners, Mathaiah – and the throned.

  He drew a deep breath. The Master’s glory was forged from such things.

  Quivering, he strode to the nearby stream. The smell of the Pit, dire and fetid, clung to him. As his horse watched him quizzically, he removed everything that he wore and then threw himself into the water before he could change his mind. A thousand needles pierced his skin.

  His whole body pulsed with the pain of submersion, but when he came up he at last felt some touch of the sun.

  The morning was not old when he set off once more. Eamon saw the sea, though more distantly, to the west. He used it as a bearing as he pressed south towards Ashford Ridge, where the King’s camp had once stood. He wondered whether the King’s ill-fated harriers had stalked him through these same valleys.

  He rode throughout the day, stopping more regularly than he would have liked. Further south groups of fallen men, some Gauntlet, others wayfarers, littered the roadside.

  He continued more cautiously then, fearful of encounter. If he did not meet the wayfarers, how would he find the King?

  In the agony of his thought, he rode on.

  It was nearing evening when a dark line materialized before him. Eamon made out the spires of a forest over a ridge. He recognized it, and the particular glint of the River behind him. He remembered Overbrook, lying in his own blood, and Giles, writhing.

  He shivered.

  As he approached the eaves he began weaving a slow path through the trees that guarded the hollow beyond. The trees soon grew too thick to ride through, and he dismounted. He took hold of his mount’s bridle and laboriously picked his way towards the edge of the ridge. The disappearing sun elongated his shadow until it melted into the forest floor.

  His horse snorted, disapproving of the terrain. Murmuring encouragement, Eamon urged it on.

  They reached the ridgeline. Eamon gazed into the twilit hollow below. It took him a few moments to register what he saw. His hope fell, stillborn.

  The camp was gone.

  The shadowed hollow stared vacantly at the sky. It was not entirely empty. Where standa
rds had blown but two weeks before, a long line of turned earth lay. Above it was a pole carrying a length of blue cloth, a meagre memorial to the men who had lost their lives there.

  He wished he could feel sorrow at the death of men who served the King, or joy that some had lived to bury their dead in honour. But he felt only despair.

  He only had seven days to return to Dunthruik. And Hughan was gone.

  Trembling, Eamon led his horse down a small path on the hillside. It wound unsteadily to the hollow. As he went, the graves became clearer. Spoiled prints of man and beast, wagon and cart, were everywhere. The tracks led to the hollow’s southern entrance, where Eamon had seen Easter banners joining the encampment.

  In that narrow mouth were other shadows. He walked towards them.

  More colours – a torn red tabard hung against a tree.

  Looking beyond, Eamon saw what easily numbered a hundred mounds of earth, many more than had lain beneath the King’s colour. His heart churned.

  He knew that the Gauntlet had tried, and failed, to take the King’s camp – he had never stopped to think of the dead. Perhaps it was a mercy that the commander of this wreckage had been killed. Cathair would have taken more than the man’s head in vengeance for the humiliating defeat.

  A dark copse marked the far edge of the valley. More shadows lay by it. Eamon realized that there was no turned earth there. Beneath the trees was a group of ruthlessly discarded bodies, rotting. They wore black.

  The ground beneath him seemed to churn. His reeling thought conjured the cries of the dying in the gloom.

  He ran his hands over his eyes and shivered. Hughan could never forgive him for the evil he had done in Dunthruik – all that he could be worthy to receive from the King was a death sentence. How could he have thought otherwise? He had been a fool to imagine that he and Hughan could be reconciled just because he had gone to Mathaiah in the Pit. His place was among the sable corpses: bruised, bloodied, broken, and with no standard to mark it.

  He shook his head. Whatever Hughan might do to him when they met, his task remained that of finding the King.