The King's Hand Page 3

  “You’ll go back for them!”

  “He must see the King, Mrs Mendel,” Leon told her.

  “Then I shall go back for them,” Ma Mendel continued. “You must wear them, dear!” She stepped back, rubbed his hands vigorously, then hurried to pick up her discarded tray. “Something warm for the King and Lord Anastasius,” she explained, gesturing to it. “They both need it at this time of the morning.”

  “I’m sure they do,” Leon muttered.

  “You shall have some too, Mr Leon, and you shall be the happier for it.” Her eyes were on Eamon and she beamed. “Oh, I’m so pleased you’re here!” she told him again. “I was often thinking about you while you were gone.”

  “Thank you,” Eamon answered. She never once noted either his cloak or its colour. It was a wonderful relief.

  They reached the tent. Ma Mendel went in first to dispense of her tray, the contents of which steamed in the light. She emerged a few moments later.

  “He is ready for you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Mendel,” Leon told her.

  Ma Mendel smiled again at Eamon then hurried on her way, drawing a thick shawl over her head against the cold. Eamon followed Leon into the tent.

  Hughan was there, framed by the banner of the sword and star. He sipped at the small mug brought by Ma Mendel. Another man stood by him. His face wan, he had not drawn any drink. Eamon remembered him to be Lord Anastasius.

  “Eamon.” Hughan set his cup down and came forward. “Good morning, Leon.”

  “Sire,” Leon acknowledged, then turned to the Easter. “Lord Anastasius, Lord Feltumadas.”

  Eamon blinked, realizing then that there was a third man in the room. Like Anastasius, he was dressed in the blazing sun of the Easter armies. The man was young, likely in his late twenties, and looked uncannily like Anastasius.

  “Will you join us, Leon?” Hughan asked.

  “Certainly, sire.” He relaxed a little and took a place at the table. Eamon swallowed. The two Easters and Leon watched him darkly. Only Hughan smiled at him.

  “How are you feeling, Eamon?” the King asked.

  “Tired,” Eamon answered truthfully. “I didn’t sleep well.” One of the Easters snorted, but Hughan nodded compassionately.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Few of us sleep well in these times.” The King gestured the Easters to the table. “Please do sit, lords.”

  “You would have me sit with a Hand, Star of Brenuin?” Anastasius’s voice was scathing; Eamon feared the man’s anger at once. The second Easter said nothing, but Eamon was sure there would be no kinder response there.

  “I would have you sit at a table with me and with my First Knight,” Hughan answered, an undeniable strength in his voice.

  With silent acquiescence the two Easters sat, and Hughan gestured for Eamon to do the same. He sat nervously next to Leon.

  “I am sure that you have news of the city for us, Eamon,” Hughan began. “May I ask you about it?”

  “Yes,” Eamon breathed. Everything about Hughan inspired loyalty and devotion. He would gladly kneel before such a man, and give his life for him without a thought. It was Hughan’s justice and his compassion that made him strong.

  He drew breath to speak. “The throned is culling the city, trying to rid it of his enemies. The pyres burn constantly.” Eamon shuddered at the memory of them. “He does it because he fears you.” Why else should the throned move with such a hand against the people of the River Realm?

  “And what of Pinewood?” It was the younger Easter that spoke, his voice baleful in its anger. “Tell me of that, Hand.”

  “It was a mistake,” Eamon answered carefully.

  “Lord Feltumadas.” Hughan spoke the name as a caution, but the Easter relented little.

  “You know that he was in command of that mission, Star,” he said angrily. “He is both our enemy and yours, and I cannot stand for him to be seated here. He is a Hand and a Hand cannot serve you.”

  “He is my First Knight,” Hughan answered calmly.

  Eamon sighed. “That may be so,” he said, “but Lord Feltumadas is right: I served you most foully that day.”

  “And on many others,” Leon added.

  “I am sorry for it,” Eamon whispered, meeting his gaze. “It is not the least of what I have failed to do.”

  “Then why did you come here?” Anastasius spoke now. His voice had a calculated tone that reminded him of Cathair. “Was it to renounce your cloak and city?” the man added sarcastically.

  “I cannot renounce Dunthruik,” Eamon replied. His answer surprised him, but it was true. He knew its streets, its people, its towering palaces. They all formed a part of him. “It is where I belong.”

  “A traitor by his own admission!” Feltumadas cried, casting Hughan a dreadful, triumphant glance. “Do not endure him, Star! Let Leon kill him where he sits.” As Leon stiffened beside him, Eamon wondered if he would do it.

  “This man went to Dunthruik at my request, Lord Feltumadas,” Hughan spoke firmly, “and, whatever his misdeeds there, he has had my pardon and he has my faith.”

  The Easter grimaced. “Then perhaps it would be wise not to let him return to the city, Star.”

  “But I must return,” Eamon interjected. “That is why I came.”

  “There is little logic in that, young Hand,” Anastasius told him with a patronizing smile.

  “I have been charged with it by the Mast… throned,” Eamon faltered. Leon and Feltumadas stared at him; Anastasius simply watched him. He looked to Hughan for support. “If I do not do what he sent me to do, a hundred men, who have done nothing deserving such a punishment, will pay for my absence with their lives. I must be back in Dunthruik by nightfall on the twenty-seventh.”

  “Do you think you alone suffered losses at Pinewood?” Anastasius snapped. “What of the villagers that these men of yours slaughtered without mercy?”

  Eamon gazed at him, appalled. How did the Easter know of that?

  “You cannot let him return!” Feltumadas called, turning to Hughan.

  Hughan motioned for silence. “What is your charge, Eamon?”

  Eamon drew a deep breath. This, then, was the moment he had dreaded.

  “He bade me to bring back to him the head of the commander of the Easters’ army, as proof of my allegiance and a bartering piece by which to redeem the honour and lives of my men.”

  His words were met with a long silence. He saw Feltumadas staring at him in astonishment, as though his words were brazen beyond compare. Was there a touch of fear to the man’s face?

  “You were charged with taking back the head of my son?” Anastasius’s voice was thick with anger. “You will not have it.”

  “Men will die if I don’t,” Eamon answered, knowing that the answer was not good enough.

  “A hundred of the throned’s men, yes,” Anastasius retorted quietly. “And you?”

  “No.” Eamon felt ashamed.

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, Lord Goodman, but I am rather attached to my head!” snarled Feltumadas. Eamon gasped, alarmed.

  “I –”

  “It’s all right, Eamon.” Hughan looked to the Easter lords, both red with anger. Eamon’s task was horrific, and he saw how difficult a position it left Hughan in with his allies. Was that what the throned had intended? Were his words, and his presence, all that was needed? It might be enough to shatter alliances, if Hughan defended him.

  “I would have you curb your tempers, lords,” Hughan said.

  “And give over my head?” Feltumadas asked acridly. “To salve the conscience of a man who has betrayed you?”

  “We do not know that he tells the truth, sire,” Leon added.

  “You have no cause to trust this man, Star of Brenuin,” Anastasius continued. “He has long persecuted your servants, as he himself admits. His charge is abhorrent, and he may well have been sent with designs on your own life. If you will take my advice,” he said, glancing coolly at Eamon, “you will have him killed.” />
  “If that is what the King wills, then I will go willingly to it,” Eamon answered hotly. His words surprised Anastasius.

  “I trust this man, lords,” Hughan said, “and I do not decree death lightly to any man. Neither will I condone the sending of Lord Feltumadas’s head back to my enemy, so be at peace.” Eamon felt his hope falling – without a head, his men were lost. “Perhaps, however, we may find a resolution,” Hughan added. “I would be grateful if you would inform Lords Ithel and Ylonous of this matter, and return to me.”

  “Very well, Star of Brenuin.” Anastasius rose from the table and his son followed him. Both bowed to Hughan, and saluted Leon cordially. Eamon felt reduced to nothing as, without glancing at him, they left. After a few quiet words with Hughan, Leon went also.

  Eamon sat uncomfortably in the following silence. Hughan cupped his drink in his hands again. He watched it for a few moments. At last he set it down and rose. Eamon saw a thin silver circlet in the King’s hair. Awe washed over him anew.

  “Will you walk with me, Eamon?”

  “Yes.”

  Hughan moved from the tent. Hesitating, Eamon followed him. Hughan stopped and turned to him.

  “I asked you to walk with me, First Knight,” he said. “Will you not walk by me?”

  Trembling, Eamon met the King’s gaze. “Do you not fear me? Do you not fear that what the Easters say is true?”

  “That you have been sent to harm me?” Hughan shook his head. “No. I do not fear you, Eamon; I love you.”

  Eamon was astounded. Tears blinded him. “How can you love me?”

  “You are my First Knight, Eamon,” Hughan countered. “More than that, and long before we set our feet to the paths laid out for us, you were my friend. You are that still.”

  “Eben was Ede’s First Knight and friend.” Eamon shook his head again in disbelief. “Just like him, Hughan, I betrayed you.”

  “I do not deny it, and I will not deny that there were times when I feared that Edelred had truly broken you.” Eamon saw gravity on the King’s face. He imagined the fear that had been in the King’s heart. “Mathaiah sent news to me during the winter.”

  Eamon lowered his head in shame. “Everything I have done since I went to that city has been against you.”

  “No.” Hughan spoke with surprising firmness. “You have been a better servant for me in Dunthruik than you know, or than the throned would have you believe. Every kindness that you have done to any man was a service to me. Striving against your own doubts and fears was a service to me. Sending Lillabeth was a service to me. Going to Mathaiah in the Pit was a service to me.”

  Eamon’s eyes widened. “How do you know about that?”

  “I heard you singing,” he said simply. “Like Mathaiah, I always believed that you would see clearly again.”

  “I am sorry that my clear sight comes so late.”

  “But it has come.”

  Eamon looked at him in silence. Then, at Hughan’s gesture, he stepped to the King’s side.

  They walked together. Eamon felt as though every man watched him. But the soldiers bowed to the King, greeting him as he passed.

  As they went by a group of Easters a man started forward, a curious look on his face. Eamon gasped, recognizing him at once: the Easter who had spared him at Pinewood.

  “Good morning, Star of Brenuin.” The Easter bowed deeply to Hughan.

  “Good morning, Lord Ithel,” Hughan answered.

  “I can tarry but a moment – Lord Anastasius wishes to see me – but I must ask, Bright One: who is it that walks with you?” The Easter looked intently at Eamon.

  “His name is Eamon Goodman.”

  The Easter’s dark eyes took in Eamon for a long moment. Then he shook his head and laughed – a piercing sound that broke through the morning air and made Eamon jump.

  “You take me by surprise, Lord Goodman!” the Easter said. Eamon was thrown by the use of his title. The Easter smiled broadly at Hughan. “Star, you must know that the man walking with you was born of folly and courage. It was he who braved our archers at Pinewood, and all to rescue one injured man! In his bravery he is worthy of your banner, and it pleases me to see him here.”

  “He is of my banner,” Hughan answered with a small smile. “He is my First Knight.”

  Ithel laughed again and thrust out his hand. He took Eamon’s and clasped it. “I am glad to meet you in better circumstances, First Knight,” he said. “I thought it strange that a Hand should dare so much for so little. Now I understand it. What became of your injured man?”

  “He is faring better, Lord Ithel,” Eamon answered.

  “He survived to reach Dunthruik?” The Easter was astonished.

  “By some luck, yes,” Eamon answered.

  The Easter looked briefly across at Hughan. “I find it more likely that he reached it by the prayers of a King’s man.” He released Eamon’s hand and stepped back. “I am glad that I spared you.”

  “So am I,” Eamon replied. He was relieved that at least one of the strange men in Hughan’s camp should smile at him.

  They exchanged farewells and continued on their way. Eamon saw dozens of Easters, some of them likely men whom he had met at Pinewood, watching him as he passed in the King’s company.

  “You have many Easters here,” he observed. He remembered Cathair saying that Hughan had been in Istanaria garnering support from the Easters during the winter and that there had been a failed attempt on the King’s life.

  “They are my allies,” Hughan answered. “And they are valuable. They pressed in over the eastern border just before the winter, drawing many of Edelred’s men towards it, which allowed us to move more freely both on the East and West Bank. The Easters built the bridge on the River here, and every day they send us more supplies. Such things are hard to come by in these months.” Eamon nodded, marvelling at the fruit that the King’s winter work had borne.

  Hughan continued: “There are wayfarers all over the River Realm, but I have long known that we do not have the strength to take Dunthruik alone. It took a good deal of negotiating to gain their aid, but it has been well worth the effort. In part, the Seven Sons feel responsible for the throned’s mastery and hope that, by aiding me, they will atone for it.”

  “What part did they play?” Eamon asked.

  “He came from Istanaria long ago.”

  Eamon fell silent.

  Hughan led him to a small tent. “Come inside,” he said.

  There was an occupied bed inside the tent. An empty chair stood by it. Hughan led Eamon to the bedside. Eamon gasped.

  Giles lay there, quietly watching them as they approached. Eamon felt every muscle in his limbs tense to run. He trembled with the memory of what he had done to this man.

  “Good morning, Giles,” Hughan said.

  “Good morning, sire,” he answered, smiling and rising to his feet. The big man’s voice was strangely gentle and he bowed with difficulty.

  Overcome with sorrow, Eamon stepped forward. “Giles, I’m so sorry –”

  Giles looked at him curiously. “Who is this, sire?”

  “His name is Eamon,” Hughan answered. “He was there when you were hurt.”

  “Ah!” Giles nodded and turned to smile at him. Eamon wanted to weep. “I am getting better. Hughan has been very kind. I don’t remember much of what happened to me, but perhaps you can tell me?”

  Eamon stared, dumbstruck. “You… you don’t remember?”

  “I don’t remember many things about before,” Giles answered. “I remember being hurt in a battle, on the north borders. Near…” He fumbled. “Galithia. That was maybe three years ago. That’s where I met Hughan. I remember Galithia.” He frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t remember you. Have we met before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did I hurt you?” Giles paused reflectively. “I’m sorry, if I did.”

  “Thank you.” Eamon could barely comprehend what he was hearing. “Giles, I… You have to know that I… I
did this to you.”

  Giles looked at him curiously. “Did what?”

  Eamon glanced guiltily at his hands. “You don’t remember anything because of me. I did this to you. I’m sorry.”

  “Did I make you angry?” Giles smiled. “People tell me things, sometimes, about before. Most of them seem to agree that I often made people angry.”

  “You did, but I shouldn’t have… Giles, I am so sorry.”

  “Were we friends before?” The question was sudden; Eamon thought he caught a glimpse of the man’s old suspicion.

  “I’m afraid that we weren’t,” he answered slowly.

  “And was there a reason for that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well I don’t remember it!” Giles laughed out loud. Eamon offered a timid smile.

  “I will forget it,” he said. Relief washed over him.

  “Good. Why are you wearing black?” Giles asked.

  “I came from Dunthruik. I was serving there.”

  “Oh! What is Dunthruik like?”

  Eamon looked to Hughan. “You must have many things that you need to do,” he said. “May I stay with Giles for a while?”

  The King watched with a smile. “Of course.”

  Eamon stayed with Giles for a long time. He told the man about Dunthruik, about the towers, the city streets, and the Four Quarters, about the Hands and the Gauntlet. Giles listened intensely and asked questions about almost everything.

  “Are you a Hand?” he asked at last.

  “Yes,” Eamon told him.

  “But you serve Hughan?”

  “Yes.”

  Giles nodded, as though the idea was entirely acceptable. Eamon laughed.

  During the morning, Ma Mendel passed to bring Eamon his gloves. She stayed until he had put them on before leaving to tend to other business. A servant, sent by the King, brought them food at midday, and they ate together. Giles spoke about the borders and the cities that he remembered: crowded streets full of markets and small, lithe ships that danced along the coast to trade with the River Realm and the other merchant states. He told Eamon about the long years of unrest and war at the north borders, and about the day when he had first met the Gauntlet in battle. The enemy had surrounded a convoy of wood and demanded it. When the merchants refused, the Gauntlet had destroyed the line and taken everything.