The King's Hand Read online

  “No!” Eamon screamed, outraged.

  In a heartbeat he was by the Easter, and in his hand was the sword that he rarely bore. It flashed silver and cut swathes of light through the dark. As he brought it over the Easter it shattered the red.

  “You will not take this man!” Eamon cried.

  His vision changed, but he hardly dared look back to the world where he now knelt. He panted hard. His neck felt sticky and slick with blood. He opened his eyes.

  The Easter lay still on the ground before him, eyes closed. No sound left the man’s throat. Nothing on the pale face indicated either life or death.

  “What have you done?” breathed a voice quietly behind him: Giles’s.

  Eamon blinked hard and shuffled the heavy cloak on his shoulders. He did not know what he had done, only that he had done it too late.

  Leon knelt beside him and looked at the Easter. After a moment of stillness he swiftly drew a length of cloth from a pouch at his waist.

  “He’s alive,” he said.

  Eamon blinked in disbelief then watched as Leon bound the cloth about the man’s leg. The Easter still bled, but he lived.

  A wave of relief flooded Eamon. He rested on his haunches, overcome by trembling.

  Leon turned to one of the other soldiers. “We will escort them both to the infirmary.”

  Eamon rose unsteadily and stumbled. He had not lost much blood, but he reeled with shock. Giles steadied him. He looked up at the man with deep gratitude.

  “What were you doing here?” he asked. As the collapsed Easter was taken out of the tent, Giles led Eamon from it.

  “I asked after you this morning,” he said quietly. His face seemed perplexed. “Mrs Mendel told me that you were being confined, so I decided to come and offer you some company. I’m supposed to be recovering, but Hughan lets me walk about the camp, helping with jobs sometimes. So I thought that sitting with you wouldn’t be too taxing.” He flexed his hands. His eyes flicked back and forth slowly, remembering what he had done.

  “Was I a good fighter before?” he asked.

  “One of the best I ever met,” Eamon answered.

  Giles nodded soberly.

  It took all of Eamon’s will to keep still while one of the infirmary’s doctors daubed his wound with skin-searing alcohol. It was like returning to the Lark, and his treatment following his flogging. Giles stayed to see that Eamon was properly assisted and then quietly excused himself. Eamon watched him go.

  The Easter was laid in another bed not far away, his face pale. Eamon saw Leon standing nearby. The man watched him with interest.

  The doctor was finishing his work when the King arrived. Hughan came swiftly to the bedside.

  “How are you?”

  Eamon smiled. “I’m fine.”

  A moment later the doctor finished. Hughan thanked him. The doctor bowed once before the King and left.

  Eamon watched him go and then looked quizzically at Hughan. “I’m surprised – but not displeased – that you have an infirmary,” he said, his mind on the blue light and the power of healing that he knew it bore. “Surely, with the King’s grace, you have little need for doctors or for infirmaries?”

  “The nature of grace is to meet each man at the pass where he stands,” Hughan told him quietly. “Many prefer the skill and hand of a doctor or a surgeon; they too bring healing.”

  Eamon looked at him in surprise. “But it would heal them,” he said, “just like it healed Mathaiah.”

  “The grace cannot be commanded,” Hughan told him. “The wise cannot fathom what it does,” he added, “and so to trust in it is difficult, even for the best of men.”

  There was a moment of quiet. Hughan sighed deeply. “What happened?”

  Eamon lowered his gaze. How could he tell Hughan that an Easter had tried to kill him without endangering the fragile alliance even more?

  “I…”

  “An Easter tried to kill him, sire. Had the look of a hired hand, if you’ll pardon the idiom.” Leon shot a deft look at Eamon. “The man in question is one of Feltumadas’s guard. Feltumadas is hot-headed, sire, and I could believe that he sent the man, given this morning’s altercation.”

  “I don’t believe that even Feltumadas would try to kill a man under my explicit protection,” Hughan answered heavily.

  “He didn’t,” Eamon interrupted.

  “Then who did, Goodman?” Leon’s voice was stony.

  “You believe he acted alone?” Hughan asked quietly. “Without Feltumadas’s approval?”

  “Certainly without Lord Feltumadas’s approval.” Eamon paused. How could he explain? “Hughan, I went into his mind.” Leon stiffened, but he persisted. “It was dark… When I found him, he was surrounded by red light, calling for help. I have seen its like before. I do not believe that this man acted from his own volition.” How the red light had taken hold of the man, he did not know.

  Hughan watched him for a moment. “I’m sorry, Eamon,” he said at last. “You’re in danger here.”

  Eamon offered him a wry smile. “No more than in Dunthruik. But here, I endanger you.” His smiled faded. The Easters would not take this latest occurrence well. Feltumadas would likely claim that Eamon had staged the affair to mire the King in treachery.

  Everything he did – and even the things he didn’t do – was being played against the King. None of the fractures in Hughan’s vital alliances would have been caused if he had not come to the camp.

  When he looked up to meet Hughan’s glance, he saw the King read his thought.

  “He’s using me, Hughan,” he whispered. “That’s why he sent me. I can’t stay here.”

  “Stay or go, First Knight; but do not do it for fear of Edelred. That is how he uses you.”

  Eamon knew that it was true.

  Hughan watched him. “Eamon, I can’t give you a head to take back.”

  “I know.” Eamon’s heart waxed heavy, grieving. His men would die. His only achievement would be discord among Hughan’s allies. The throned would reap a great victory.

  Silently, he laid his head down in his hands. How could he not act in fear of the throned, when the throned held so much over him?

  “I know what grief it is to lose men.” Hughan spoke softly. “I do not rejoice that you will know that grief, whatever colour your men wear.”

  “Thank you.” It seemed of small comfort.

  “Eamon.” Hughan touched his shoulder. “I know that I have asked much of you and that Dunthruik weighs on you. There are many men who serve me, and perhaps it is true that, measured against their service, yours is the most difficult of all. But I should not have asked it of you if I did not think that you could bear it. I believe,” he added, “that you can bear it still. Even so, if you would bear it no longer, tell me.”

  Eamon’s mind turned. He could be free to not go back to Dunthruik? The thought was strange. He could leave? Hughan offered him release – such sweet, simple release! – from all that tormented him.

  And yet…

  He could not renounce Dunthruik. He knew and loved the city. He was needed there.

  Hughan watched him with confidence.

  “You will need me there,” Eamon said quietly. “Dunthruik is the place of my service. I will go there for you, to prepare the way.”

  “That is why the throned strikes you much,” Hughan told him gently. “Make no mistake – he will keep striking at you. When you return to the city he may strike at those close to you.”

  “Those close to me?” Eamon frowned. Who was there left in Dunthruik at whom the throned might strike?

  Then he understood. “Mathaiah.” His heart churned as he thought of Lillabeth. But Mathaiah had known that risk; they had both known it. He knew it.

  He looked up at the King once more. “Should it come to pass,” he breathed, “I will bear it. I am your First Knight.”

  “I know you are.” Hughan paused. “Your heart, Eamon, is your great strength, and the foundation of all that you do. It is
a gift of your house. Men see it and are drawn to you, for it looks to them like a great light; it gives them hope and courage.” Hughan looked firmly at him. “Though you are First Knight your battles are not yet on an open field; they are in your heart, and it is your heart that the throned will strike, because it is there that he must conquer you. Should the worst befall Mathaiah, do not bear it alone. Do not let the throned work your love against you. As it has been with others of your house, your heart is both your strength and your weakness.”

  Amazed, Eamon nodded. “Yes, sire,” he whispered.

  Hughan smiled. “I will speak to the Easters. We must arrange for you to go. I do not think that you should leave before tomorrow; you need time to rest.”

  “Yes.” His throat throbbed.

  Hughan pressed his shoulder. “Courage, Eamon,” he said. “These days are dark, but they are not without end.”

  CHAPTER V

  The rest of the day passed slowly, Eamon spending much of it under a doctor’s vigilant charge. After his initial treatment he was kept well apart from others in the infirmary and supposed that the precaution was wise – in part because he most likely terrified them, and in part because any one of them might possibly try to finish what the Easter had begun. Of the man who had attacked him, he heard nothing. He wondered what Hughan had told the Easters about the event and whether it had shaken them at all.

  Towards evening Leon returned and silently performed his accustomed escort duty. They did not go to the same shelter as before – Eamon guessed that the risk of attack was still thought too high.

  “How are you?” Leon asked as they walked.

  Eamon was startled – Leon never spoke to him! “Better,” he said at last.

  Leon nodded, seemingly contented.

  At last they reached the tent. Leon gestured for him to go inside. Eamon was about to, then turned. “Will you not bind me?”

  Leon shook his head. “The King does not wish it. Good night, Goodman.”

  Entering, Eamon was comforted to see that Leon remained outside; he hoped that the man would remain there throughout the night.

  He slipped into the welcoming warmth of the bed and soon fell into a dreamless sleep.

  He woke suddenly, for no reason. He was alone. Grey light showed outside. All around him was silence, and still, cold air.

  Eamon rubbed sleepily at his face and sat up. He rose slowly, thinking to pull on his cloak and speak to Leon; he wanted to know what had been decided.

  As he rose he heard someone entering behind him. Assuming it to be Leon he turned with a greeting on his lips, and then stopped in surprise.

  Standing before him was Feltumadas. The Easter lord glared at him sourly, his face a picture of terrible rage. He held a curved dagger. Eamon could not imagine how he had passed the guards, and, as he thought it, he realized there were no guards outside the tent. The blade glinted in the grey light.

  Panic welled inside him.

  The lord advanced, his lips pulled back in a sneer. Eamon backed away but there was nowhere for him to go. He looked straight into the eyes of the Easter and then stopped cold. His eyes saw Feltumadas; his heart saw something else.

  Scarcely daring to breathe, he held his place while the man advanced dangerously close. There was a flicker – faint, so faint! – about his form.

  With a start, Eamon remembered his dream: men wearing his own face, like a mask. Then he understood.

  The man before him was not Feltumadas.

  A memory from a day long before came to his aid. Lord Cathair had spoken of one who had won the Master’s masque by attending “as a woman”. Looking at “Feltumadas”, Eamon became eerily certain that the same man stood before him.

  He dared to watch the armed man come closer. A smile crept to his face.

  He, too, could wear a mask.

  “Good morning!” he said. “Tell me, Lord Rendolet – have you come to finish your botched work?”

  The man bearing the form of the Easter lord froze and stared at him.

  “The West tells that you are a breacher, not a seer.” The voice was in every detail that of Feltumadas, but it was not he. The man standing before him was a Hand.

  Changer. The word leapt into Eamon’s mind. He understood at last how so many men had seen him at the burning bridge.

  His enraged blood curdled, but still he smiled.

  “The Master greatly blesses those who greatly serve him,” he answered. He turned his gaze to the knife, and then let his eyes fall coolly on the startled Hand. “You intend me some injury?” he asked politely.

  Feltumadas’s stolen lips parted to give an answer.

  “You are a traitor to the Master,” Rendolet snarled. “Besides,” he added, a fresh smile passing over his face, “there is much damage that I can do to the Serpent by killing you.”

  “There is much damage we can do to the Serpent together.” Taking his courage in both hands, and drawing onto himself every detail of Cathair’s inflection and mannerism that he could muster, Eamon stepped forward conspiratorially. He was within the Hand’s striking distance and was painfully aware that error meant death.

  The Hand hesitated at his boldness. He laughed.

  “Lord Rendolet, have you heard nothing about me? Need I refresh your memory about the man who saved the life of Lord Cathair, or the man who obtained the location of the Serpent’s lair and delivered it to the Master? Have you not been told,” he asked, “in what way I serve the Master?”

  “The man who surrendered his sword? You do not serve him, Goodman!” Rendolet growled. “You think I have not seen you in these days, and not seen your true allegiance?”

  Eamon pressed fear aside. He laughed scornfully. “You have seen nothing!” he countered. “And neither has the Serpent, which is precisely how it must be. But you give me great encouragement by your words: I fooled even you.” He looked at the stolen face, saw new doubt cross it, and an idea came to him.

  He would wear his mask for the King.

  “How I came to be here, I know,” he said. “But you?” He cocked his head curiously. “How came you here, Lord Rendolet? Were you sent by the Master, as I was?” The face before him faltered. “No,” Eamon discerned. “You were sent to Ashford Ridge.” The Hand froze. “And what failure you had there, Lord Rendolet. Why! All Dunthruik knows of it; of how you, and those with you, sullied the Master’s glory in pitiful defeat.”

  The Hand gaped. “How do you –?”

  “All Dunthruik knows of your shameful, scattered retreat, of how the Serpent crushed you in his jaws,” Eamon told him. Barely hidden terror flashed across the man’s face. “I am an eloquent man, but even I find myself at a loss for words enough to describe Lord Cathair’s displeasure. You fear it,” he said, fixing a grinding glare on the Hand, “and you fear the ire that he, and the Master, will rightly pour on you for returning in disgrace. Perhaps that is why you attacked the Serpent’s bridge – to allay their scorn? But you have not bettered your lot, Lord Rendolet: now I will tell them of how you interfered with my work.”

  The face of Feltumadas grew pale.

  Drawing all his wits about him, Eamon laughed and laid one hand across the man’s shoulder. The Hand stiffened beneath his touch. “Come, Lord Rendolet!” Eamon said lightly. “I am a generous man. A great reward has been promised to me should I succeed in my task. Perhaps I may be persuaded to let you share a little of it, if you aid me.”

  The Hand’s blade-grip tensed angrily. “Why should I share any reward?”

  “You are a witness of the terrible loss at Ashford Ridge,” Eamon told him simply. He smiled. “Make no mistake, Lord Rendolet; if you return to Dunthruik you will be breached.”

  The words had the desired effect. The face looked at him, terrified.

  Eamon allowed the anxiety to grow for a few moments before fortifying himself with further memories of Cathair – of which he had many – and speaking again. “You do not wish to be breached? It is true to say that it is painful. Perhaps
you have seen it done? Perhaps there was some fault in your actions at Ashford Ridge that you would rather not be revealed?” The Hand did not answer him. Eamon looked at him with a smile. “Of course, I would not hurt you, Lord Rendolet, if I breached you. I might even assist you to cover any particularly embarrassing blemishes. Indeed, I will help you – if you will help me.”

  Rendolet stared at him in silence. Eamon knew that the Hand was ambitious, and terrified, yet perhaps might not be moved to grant him his life unless the flames of that ambition were fanned further.

  “Do you know how they speak of you at court, Lord Rendolet?” He lowered his tone and fixed pitifully on the Hand. “They speak of you as a Hand that won a woman’s prize at the Master’s masque.”

  Rendolet cast him a withering look. “Speak for yourself, Lord Goodman,” he sneered. “You also won it.”

  “I did,” Eamon acknowledged, “but they do not speak of that as my crowning achievement. The same cannot be said for you. It is such a pity – it is hardly the accolade that you deserve! Add to that your defeat at Ashford Ridge, and your hindrance to me, who does the Master’s work, and what have you? Shame and dishonour. Lend me your help,” he said, “and you will receive the Master’s praise. It will bring a rich harvest, blotting out all that has gone before.”

  The Hand’s grip on the weapon relaxed.

  “Come,” Eamon told him, “and make a name for yourself with me. Come and be counted among the Master’s nearest, as I shall be when my task is done.”

  At last, a smile appeared before him. It seemed grotesquely out of place on Feltumadas’s face. Eamon felt revulsion. He knew by the smile that, though outwardly acquiescing, Rendolet thought that he might yet gain the upper hand.

  “Tell me, Lord Goodman, what is your task?” Rendolet’s voice was thick with sudden eagerness.

  “I was to savage this Serpent’s alliance with the Suns by taking a life and a severed head back to the Master. It is to be a trophy to bathe him in splendour and glory.” The eyes before him went wide.