The King's Hand Read online

  How was it that he had been seen?

  Eamon fixed the Easter with a sudden and suspicious glance. The Easters had built the bridge. What if – however unlikely it might be – the bridge had been poorly made? What if the fault belonged to the Easters and they were simply looking for someone to blame? They distrusted and hated him – perhaps they meant to scapegoat him.

  Though he knew little about Anastasius, already he felt sure the man was no liar. The smouldering Easter lord was an ally of the King – Hughan would not ally himself to evil men. If Anastasius said that he had seen Eamon destroy the bridge, it would be the truth… but how could it be?

  Whatever the case, Hughan could not choose to sacrifice his alliance with the Easters by believing a Hand over an Easter lord. Eamon and Anastasius both knew it, just as they both knew that the price of Eamon’s treachery would be death. Anastasius sneered with triumphant disgust.

  Run, the voice told him. Break your bonds, strike down this witless fool, and return to me. I will give you the strength, Eben’s son. The words made him shiver. I will show you mercy.

  Eamon shook his head. He felt his vision flickering as though he neared the plain – he would not go.

  “The King’s grace protects me!” He did not care who heard him. “You can no longer counsel me, voice of Edelred!” He called it by the name that Hughan had given it. Though there was treachery afoot, he had not committed it. There was no need to run; he would face the King.

  The voice fell silent, as though it reviled being recognized and loathed Eamon’s submission to the King. Then it was gone.

  Eamon looked up with clearer sight to see Anastasius again. The Easter watched him still, but now Eamon felt able to bear the accusatory stare.

  He heard cries outside. As men passed into the tent, the smell of burning wood wafted in on the wind.

  It was then that Hughan came, wet and muddied, smoke caught in his clothes. As he saw Eamon, bound and kneeling before Anastasius, anger filled his face. Eamon bade his heart hold firm.

  “This is the man responsible, Star of Brenuin.” Anastasius sounded calmer. His statement was presented factually to the King. “I saw him with my own eyes.”

  Hughan shot his ally a fearsome look. Anastasius received it, barely flinching, and then both men looked at Eamon, the lord with anger and the King with unreadable blue eyes. Eamon pinned all his hope on the latter.

  “Follow me, Eamon,” Hughan said, his voice quiet.

  Why hasn’t he unbound you? He thinks you guilty, Eben’s son!

  Eamon turned from it. Steadying himself, he rose to his feet and followed Hughan out of the tent. Anastasius stayed close behind him.

  The King led him into the night air. The reek of burning was strong now. Eamon was struck by a sudden, painful memory of the pyre where Aeryn’s father had been bound. He remembered the feel of the faggots in his hands.

  Not far away he saw light. Hughan led him towards it. He followed until the King halted but paces from the site of the destruction with which he was charged. Eamon stopped and stared.

  Where the bridge – a broad line of planked and anchored boats – had stood but hours before, Eamon saw ruins and flames. Broken timbers lay everywhere, shattered as though a tremendous force had ripped them apart. The spokes of a cartwheel lay forlorn on the far bank. Flames still burned on the splintered wood, and screams and moans filled the air, for the banks were flooded not just with water but with men. Some bore torches, necessary now that the initial blaze had died down. Others stood half in the freezing water, dragging out men who had fallen from the pontoon. Men lay shrieking and burned on the bank; others lay pale and still. They would never call again. Eamon guessed that a number had been dragged away by the River, though he could not guess how many. He saw the wretched body of a horse snagged in a tangle of trees and branches, its mane bloodied and blackened. His stomach turned.

  He looked back to the rescue efforts in the water and saw a man surging up out of it, dragging with him the broken body of a soldier. Eamon could not help but stare as he recognized the rescuer: Feltumadas. His dark hair was slicked back with sweat and muddy water.

  The Easter lord passed the soldier he was half-carrying to one of Hughan’s men, then waded back into the water, calling for help as he spotted more men struggling in the cold.

  Eamon’s being was filled with the howls of the wounded, the smell of smouldering flesh and wood, and another bitter smell which he did not know. They choked him.

  For a moment he doubted himself. What if the voice of Edelred had usurped him utterly, even just for a moment…?

  No. He would not have destroyed the bridge – he could not and did not do it. As his racing thoughts stilled he felt Anastasius glowering. Dimly, he became aware of Hughan watching him.

  “Did you do this, Eamon?” The King’s voice was soft, neither accusing nor excusing him.

  Eamon turned to look at him.

  “No, sire.” He did not falter. “I did not.”

  There was a long silence. Anastasius watched him with a glare that might shred flesh, but he would not retract what he had said. He had told the truth.

  Hughan held his gaze for what seemed an interminably long time. Eamon matched it, feeling as though the King was searching and testing his soul. Doubtless Hughan had also heard – and maybe seen – that a Hand had destroyed the bridge, and that the only Hand in the camp was also the King’s First Knight.

  As First Knight, Eamon was answerable to the King alone. Still, he was painfully aware of the men on the banks staring at him and his heavy black cloak.

  “Murdering, black-robed bastard!” one screamed.

  “Murderer!”

  Others joined the chorus until the air was rife with cursing. Eamon could not hide from the words; each utterance fell upon him like a blow. He tried to steady himself against them. Every man believed that he was guilty, that his innocence was inconceivable. He had been tainted by Dunthruik and could never be redeemed.

  “Death to you, and your bastard house!”

  “Enough!” Hughan’s voice cut across the air, his eyes filled with anger. “Wish death on no man’s house. Even if he is guilty, his sons are not.”

  Silence fell. None answered the King.

  Awed, Eamon held his breath as the King turned to him.

  “I did not do this, Hughan,” he whispered. “I swear it to you.”

  At last, the look in Hughan’s eyes softened. Eamon breathed out in relief. For the King, his word was enough.

  “You believe him?” Anastasius stood, ashen with anger. “You believe him!”

  “Yes, Lord Anastasius. I do.”

  “He was seen at the bridge by dozens of men – scores of men… yet you believe him?”

  Eamon turned to him. “You question the King?” he cried. The words had left his mouth before he even knew what he was saying.

  “Peace, Eamon,” Hughan told him softly. “It is his right to speak just as it is yours.”

  Eamon hung his head in disbelief. The throned would never offer such words. In Dunthruik, Anastasius would have easily lost his life for such insolence.

  “And I speak this,” Anastasius answered grimly. “He is a Hand. He is responsible for what has happened here. Perhaps you have no care for the lives of your allies,” he added darkly, “but you should have a care for your own dead, Star of Brenuin.”

  Eamon turned cold. He was a divisive element in the King’s camp. While he remained in it, he was a threat to Hughan’s alliance with the Easters.

  Leon appeared, wet and stinking, at Hughan’s side. Eamon marvelled that the men with the power of command had themselves been aiding the dead and wounded. He could not imagine Cathair or Ashway doing the like.

  “You sent for me, sire?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Hughan’s voice was quiet. He and Anastasius watched each other. “Please escort Eamon to some secure quarters.”

  “Yes, sire.” Leon did not sound enthused with his charge.

&n
bsp; Anastasius came forward suddenly. “He will be bound,” he snarled. “He will be guarded. He will be killed if he so much as steps out of place.”

  Hughan looked across at him. “Eamon, will you agree to be bound and guarded?”

  “Yes,” Eamon replied, shaking in the face of Anastasius’s anger. “I will, if you ask it.”

  “I ask it,” Hughan answered. The firelight touched their faces, but Eamon felt chilled to his core.

  “I will go with Leon,” he said quietly.

  Hughan laid his hand on Eamon’s shoulder for a moment. “I promise you that you will not be harmed, First Knight,” he said, and looked firmly at the Easter lord. Anastasius bristled.

  “Come with me,” Leon said.

  Eamon nodded to the King and then allowed Leon to lead him away from the hellish remains of the bridge. Anastasius raised violent protests behind them. He wondered what Hughan could ever say to allay that anger.

  As they walked he knew that every man they passed watched him, some murderously. It seemed to make no difference whether he strode through the streets of Dunthruik or whether he was led through the heart of the King’s camp: looks of anger, jealousy, suspicion, and fear followed him. The sensation gnawed at him.

  He glanced at Leon, who was drenched and muddied up to his shoulders. Eamon wished the man would say something to him – anything. Away from Hughan’s support and even Anastasius’s outrage, his confidence quailed.

  Leon led him to the tent where he had slept the night before. Guards approached it – doubtless his guards. Their number was now greater – and grimmer – than it had been before.

  “One will sit inside with you,” Leon said quietly. His voice was hoarse.

  Eamon nodded. He did not speak for fear of betraying the terror that marked his limbs.

  “The others will wait outside. Stay here until the King sends for you.”

  Eamon swallowed. Leon’s civility chilled him. He felt the man’s sharp eyes driving into him. Did Leon think he was guilty?

  Leon escorted him inside and gestured to the bed. Eamon went across to it, his hands still bound. Still, he counted himself fortunate that he was to be permitted to rest there, rather than being chained to the tent’s central pillar for the night.

  Another soldier, this an Easter, entered. Leon acknowledged him, bade Eamon a curt good night, and left.

  Eamon stood for a few moments, staring at his guard. The man was tall and slim, with an angered look. Could he trust such a character not to kill him in his sleep?

  The King’s protection was over him. Surely, as long as the King’s name held, none would dare to touch him or do him harm?

  He offered the Easter a tired smile, uncomfortably twisted his bound hands, and tried to settle to sleep.

  CHAPTER IV

  He heard crying. While not broken, the voice was not as defiant as it had been when it had last touched his ears. It was burdened with the unyielding press of pain.

  He was on the plain. Mist moved round him, obscuring his sight yet sharpening none of his senses in return. There were eyes in the dark, foes in the mere, watching him. A voice spoke to him, but he could not hear it clearly. There was no light.

  Shadows passed; some jeered. One wore his own face, like a mask.

  The mist parted, revealing a line of broken, bleeding bodies. They were cadets and soldiers, each familiar to him. As he gaped at them, a flaming river appeared and swallowed them, whirlpooling them away with the blackened remains of a bridge.

  He reeled before that churning tide. The distant, crying voice was Mathaiah’s.

  He woke with a terrible start, drenched and shuddering. He murmured a name and reached out for something that was not there: her hand. He fell still in the heavy dark.

  She was not there. She would never be again.

  Somewhere nearby, he heard his guard breathing – the quiet breathing of an attentive watchman. He was glad the man could not see his face, for hot tears streamed down it. His hands throbbing against his bonds, he drew them up to where he had once kept the heart of the King.

  He had grown accustomed to dreadful dreams, but this one lingered. His face marred with tears, he waited for the dawn.

  The light outside grew grey. He did not know how long he lay there, clutching his breast and staring at the doorway – a threshold that he could not cross. His whole world was held in walls of canvas. In the half-light he saw the guard watching him. What thoughts passed behind the man’s steady face?

  You can discover them, the voice urged.

  He rolled over and clenched his eyes shut. He would not breach the man. His stomach turned at the thought of it. He never wanted to breach any man again.

  But you will, Eben’s son. And you will glorify me.

  At last he heard movement outside but still he did not move. He did not want to get out of bed until he was sure that he was being summoned. He did not want to face his guard. He could speak no word without it being misconstrued.

  The man who came for him was not Leon. His face was grim. Neither fact was encouraging.

  The man looked at the guard. The Easter rose to his feet. Eamon noticed with a start that it was a different soldier from the one who had watched over him the night before. How could he not have heard a change in the watch?

  “Has he given you any trouble?” The newcomer’s voice was gravelled, as though he had not slept.

  “No, sir.”

  The man looked keenly across at Eamon. “Follow me, Lord Goodman.”

  Eamon drew a deep breath and followed his escort.

  They went again to the King’s tent, Eamon conspicuous in his black trappings. He looked up at the fading stars and felt his blood run cold: it was the twenty-third of February.

  In silence he followed the man into Hughan’s tent, where a row of stony faces awaited him, all in the varying colours of the sun-marked Easter lords. He recognized Anastasius, Feltumadas, and Ithel – the former two struck him with a lethal glare.

  Hughan stood at the head of the group, his face stern. He did not smile as he met Eamon’s gaze. Eamon grew even more uncomfortable. Most of those in the tent were strangers to him, and Eamon was alarmed to see that some of them shook as he was brought before them. He suspected the source of their fear.

  His escort dismissed, Eamon stood, alone, before the enemies of the throned.

  Silently, he bowed down on one knee before Hughan. All words left him, but one thing he knew: he would not say that he was guilty.

  “Sire,” he breathed.

  The King was before him. “Will you stand, Eamon?”

  Eamon looked up. Something about the King’s face induced a sweeping wave of terror. “Is this a trial?” His voice was faint even in his own ears.

  “It is a hearing,” Hughan answered. He nodded encouragingly, and Eamon rose slowly.

  The King turned to the other men. “I know that this exercise will seem fruitless to many of you,” he began. “To most, this man was seen working treachery against us and that should be reason enough for me to command his death without delay.”

  Eamon could see Anastasius bristling angrily and wondered how many times the Easter had brought those very words against Hughan during the night. He held his breath, as though his life hung by a thread.

  Hughan’s firm gaze passed over them. “To all of you, this man is a Hand, and a Hand alone. But still would I have you hear his words, treating them as you would treat the word of any man here.” The King turned to him. Eamon’s heart raced. “Eamon, tell us where you were yesterday evening.”

  “I was with Giles during the day. Yesterday evening, I was walking with Lady Connara.”

  Shocked looks passed through the gathered men.

  “What business does a Hand have with the Star’s bride?” Feltumadas spat indignantly, his gaze smouldering.

  Eamon drew a deep breath. Feltumadas’s powerful gaze drilled into him. Meeting it, he knew that much rested on his answer.

  “She knew me long befo
re I first knelt to the throned,” he answered softly.

  “Your queen would count a Hand among her friends?” Anastasius’s chilling voice rose above the outrage of the crowd.

  “He is my friend also,” Hughan told him evenly.

  Anastasius gave no reply.

  King and Easter watched each other for a fractious moment. Panic welled inside Eamon.

  “My lords,” he hastened, “any bonds of friendship between Lady Connara and me, or between me and the King himself, do not cloud this matter. That I was with Lady Connara is proof that I was not near the bridge and proof that I am innocent of the charges you bring against me.”

  “Innocent?” Feltumadas answered with a snapping sneer. “Yes, innocent. As this is a ‘hearing’, let us also hear this man’s opinion.” He matched gazes with one of the unknown Easters by him. “Is this the man that destroyed the bridge?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And what did you see?”

  “Red light, and an explosion, lord,” the soldier answered. He shook. “I was struck by debris when the bridge was hit, lord. Many with me were hit, too. While I was tending to them, I saw a man dressed in black running from the River to the camp.” The man faltered.

  “And of what stature was this black-clad man?” Feltumadas asked, staring acridly at Hughan. “Was it, by any chance, equivalent to that of the man before you?”

  The soldier nodded. “It was, noble lord.”

  Eamon gaped open-mouthed. “Lord Feltumadas –”

  “And you,” Feltumadas continued, calling forward another man; “what did you see?”

  “I saw him going to the River just before the bridge collapsed, lord.”

  “And you,” Feltumadas turned to the next man; “what did you see?”

  The soldier looked nervously back at him. “I saw him standing at the bridge with the Star, after the fires,” the man said quietly. “I never saw him before that.”

  Feltumadas scowled.

  One by one, a further seven gave their accounts. Most had witnessed the explosion of red light that had broken the bridge. Some of them had seen Eamon at a distance; some hadn’t seen him at all.