The King's Hand (12 page)

“Sire, no –”

“Do it.” Hughan gestured to nearby soldiers. Reluctantly they left, and returned soon after, hauling the body between them. Relief coursed through Eamon's veins: in death, Rendolet had retained the form he had been holding in his last moments of life. He did not dare to think what he could have done if the Hand had not.

The soldiers laid the body in front of him. The sun blazed still on the bloodied chest and the stolen face was frozen in a hideous cry of pain. The man's hands were rigid, contorted by the red light that had died there. Eamon shuddered.

As the soldiers stepped back, Hughan looked at Eamon.

“Let my man go,” he said, “and you will be permitted to leave.”

“My Master's work is not yet complete,” Eamon answered snidely. “Lord Anastasius.”

The Easter met his gaze. From the calculating look that he saw in the man's eyes, Eamon imagined that the Easter lord had at last understood his plan.

“Dear Anastasius, this is your office.” Eamon smiled, and tilted his head down towards the body. “Strike off his head.”

He heard gasps among the soldiers, and knew then that they did not know what Hughan and Anastasius knew – that the body before them was that of a Hand, not that of the Easter's son.

“You would not dare me to do such a thing,” Anastasius answered, his voice chilling in its intensity.

“You dare not refuse me,” Eamon replied with a laugh. “Do it now or I will take this man's head instead.” Leon went rigid.

Anastasius gave a cry of rage and snatched a curved dagger from his belt. Howling words in his own language, he dropped to one knee and severed the body's head with a practised hand. At last he rose from his grisly task, and cast the blade beside the bloody corpse.

“Good,” Eamon told him. He looked up and matched Hughan's gaze. “The head will be put in a bag and given to me. You will bring me my horse, my cloak, my sword, and my dagger, and let me leave. When I am beyond the perimeter of the camp I will release your man to you. Any interference and his life will be forfeit.”

“Do not, sire!” Leon called out again, something close to grief in his voice. “This is no –”

“Do you understand?” Eamon demanded.

“Yes.” It was Hughan who answered. Eamon's heart churned with a strange, guilty sorrow. Who was he to command the King? And yet, he told himself, he did not command Hughan; he played a game in which Hughan played a part.

At Hughan's command, soldiers slowly brought the bag, horse, cloak, and other effects out of the camp. Eamon made Anastasius place the bloodied head in the sack and watched as the lord balled his ruddy hands angrily together.

“I swear, Goodman, my house shall repay you for what you have done!” he cried. As Eamon met his glance, he wondered if the words were a threat or a promise – or both.

“I shall look forward to that day,” he answered. The horse they brought him was his own. The creature seemed pleased to see him, tossing its head and pressing its muzzle to his arm. Eamon made them fix the bag firmly to the saddle and had them lay his cloak on the horse. The soldiers complied uncertainly, unable to believe that the King was allowing the Hand to leave.

Eamon waited as patiently as he could while they finished their work. Finally, they stepped back.

“Take your prize and go!” Anastasius's voice ripped through the air. Eamon smiled.

“Thank you, Lord Anastasius. I believe that I shall.”

“The next time we meet, Goodman –”

“Next time we meet, Lord Anastasius, I shall wear my true colours clearly,” Eamon replied.

A faint smile passed the man's lips.

“Go,” Hughan told him.

They could say nothing more. It was not the parting he would have chosen.

Turning his back on the King he crossed the river again, leading the horse and driving Leon. He saw traces of black in the woods, and a shudder passed through him. He had done right to hold as he had: they had seen everything.

They walked beyond the perimeter into the silence of the forest. Somewhere, high in the canopy, a bird sang. None hindered them. Leon was silent. Eamon thought he glimpsed wrathful tears in the man's eyes.

They walked some time alone. At last, Eamon judged it to be safe.

“Stop.”

Leon did so.

“I cannot unbind you,” Eamon added quietly. “I am sorry for that, just as I am sorry for how I have used you today.”

“I don't believe you,” Leon hissed.

Eamon smiled sadly. “I didn't think that you would.”

He took the end of Leon's rope and bound it to a nearby tree. The knot was sturdy, but could be unpicked with a little time. Leon would be able to free himself.

He belted his sword and dagger back to his side before throwing his cloak over his shoulders and mounting his horse. The bagged head was heavy at the beast's side, but the smell of blood did not agitate the horse. It was well trained.

Eamon looked once more to Leon. The man ceased straining against his bonds and now stared at him in stunned silence.

“Give my regards to the King,” Eamon told him, and spurred his horse away.

 

He rode for a long time in silence, his thoughts blurred. The memories of the last few days jostled and mixed with disconcerting ease in his mind. He had made a good Hand – indeed, he had found it easy to play the part. It was an ease born from both the treacheries he had committed in Dunthruik and his familiarity with Lord Cathair.

But he knew also that his service was to the King; he was strengthened by Hughan's continuous trust in him. His place truly was in Dunthruik. As he rode farther, his thoughts cleared.

Yes, he had been a traitor. He had worked against the King; he had been framed by the throned to be Eben's son, a man to betray the King. The throned had always intended for Eamon to strike at Hughan. If he had done so inadvertently that was the same, to the Master, as if he had done so with purpose.

He rode on. He would return to Dunthruik.

 

“Why aren't we staying in the city?”

He was a boy, barely ten years old, sitting before his father astride a horse which, at the time, seemed the most beautiful creature in the world. It startled him at first, for it was a huge beast. But his father swept him up in his arms and held him close. Eamon had loved the city; it was full of life. They had left it a few short days after his mother's death.

“Why are we leaving? Are we in trouble?”

His father had looked at him and smiled.
“Sometimes, Eamon, it is not what we've done,”
he answered. Eamon heard it as clearly as he had on that horse nearly fourteen years ago.
“It is who we are.”

The motion of the horse brought him back to the present and his father's voice faded away. He had never really understood what his father had meant. He wondered how much Elior Goodman had known about the wayfarers. Had he known the history of his house?

Eamon exhaled deeply. The head in the saddlebag would be accepted by the Master as indelible proof of Eamon's allegiance. His blood was tied to the battle between the house of Brenuin and the throned. In that moment he was certain that Hughan would reclaim what the throned had stolen.

You delude yourself, Eben's son
. The voice laughed at him.
The Serpent will fail, and you will witness it. You will serve me until the day of your death, and that shall be a day of my choosing.

“I am not Eben's son,” Eamon replied.

The voice did not answer. He laid a reassuring hand to his horse's mane, and rode on.

C
HAPTER
VII

I
t was the evening of the twenty-fifth of February when he reached the main stretch of the River. The water ran away westwards, running at its end past the gates of Dunthruik to the sea.

A small village lay nestled there in the curve of the river. Eamon had lost his bearings more than once on his journey – and lost valuable time with them – but was certain now that he had reached Eastport, one of the River's ferry points. The village had a barge for crossing the River's wide strait. He was a day's ride from Dunthruik.

As he descended the shallow valley to the River, a surge of amazement overcame him. He would return in time: his men would live.

The bag hung limply by his horse's side. How recognizable would the head be by the time he reached the throned?

He reassured himself that it couldn't matter more than a little. He had the head, and that was what mattered.

It drizzled all afternoon. With the coming of evening, the clouds let forth a torrent of water. Eamon slowed his horse, cursing the sky for its outpouring. The horse whinnied in apparent agreement, and Eamon laughed. He drew his cloak and hood up about him as a stark wind, one of the death throes of the cold winter, rattled along the valley floor, bringing with it the bite of the sea. Still the horse carried on steadily, loyal even to him. He might not be a good rider, but the beast was a good companion to him and he had grown fond of it.

Carefully they made their way down to the hamlet on the riverside. Some of the shutters over the tall windows twisted back as he approached, and he saw people peering at him through the hazing rain.

As he neared the hamlet, a middle-aged man with thick, dark hair dared to meet him. He watched as Eamon halted on the path.

“Good evening, my lord,” the man said, and bowed before Eamon's dark cloak. “How may we be of service?”

“I must cross the River.” Once, Eamon might have spoken the words in arrogance, or in the assurance of his black robes. Once, he would have revelled in the man's obsequious gestures or the flecks of fear in his eyes. But neither of those things mattered to him now. Kind and simple words were truer, both to himself and to the King. “Is the ferry here?”

“Yes, my lord.” The man watched Eamon curiously, though with no trace of suspicion.

“I would use it.”

“I am one of the ferry-runners, my lord. It is just here. If you would follow me, my lord.”

Eamon followed the man as he led the way through the village towards the River. The buildings, mostly of stone, were quiet, though Eamon heard voices between the slanted shutters. The rain was heavy, drumming against the River's skin. Eamon's cloak was becoming cumbersome with wet weight.

A wooden jetty stood at the riverside, its planks darkened by water and its feet reed-encircled. Moored to it was the broad barge, oars tucked neatly inside. The River was wide there. The winter had swollen its banks so that grasses trailed lugubriously beneath the grey waters. The ferry was large enough for two men and a horse, and looked sturdy. Another jetty waited on the far side of the River. From there, Eamon need only follow the water west along the valleys to Dunthruik. He would have a day to spare! His heart leapt as he dismounted.

The man stepped down onto the ferry. Together they convinced the horse to step onto the wooden platform. Uncertain at first, with coaxing the creature stepped down. Eamon followed it, glad of the deep sides to the craft.

Slowly, the ferryman pulled them across the water. The rain grew heavier, wind snatching across disturbed water. But the ferryman seemed unperturbed. The farther bank neared.

When they reached the other side the ferryman deftly launched his ropes and tacked the vessel to the mooring post. Even in the rain the gesture came easily. Eamon admired the man's skill as he disembarked and steadied the craft against the jetty.

“If you'll pass me the reins, my lord, I'll get him down,” the ferryman said, gesturing to the horse.

Eamon passed him the reins. Murmuring words of encouragement, the ferryman drew the horse from the ferry. The creature gingerly laid hooves to the jetty.

But the planks were wet, and as the horse brought its hindquarters to the muddy, sodden wood, it slipped. With a frenzied neigh, it lost its footing.

“No!” Eamon cried, as the horse tumbled half into the water, striking the ferry sharply away from the mooring posts. The ferryman dragged at the reins to draw the flailing creature back onto the banks, narrowly avoiding tumbling into the river.

Eamon counted himself lucky that the mooring ropes held. Recovering from the jolt of the strike, he took hold of the cord with wet hands and dragged himself back to the jetty. Cursing quietly he stumbled onto the jetty and then the bank, where the ferryman quieted the shivering horse.

“Are you well, my lord?” the man called anxiously.

“Yes,” he answered. “My horse?”

“Took a sharp knock, lord.” His voice shook. Eamon realized that the saddlebag had torn open in the scuffle, and the severed head showed through the opening.

Eamon walked up to the horse and quickly closed the bag. When he looked up he saw the ferryman examining the horse's legs. As he reached the hind right he suddenly froze. The stallion's leg was bruised, and a deep cut ran along it. The horse stumbled as they looked, and held its weight uncomfortably.

Eamon felt himself paling. He looked back to the ferryman. In terror, the man dropped to his knees.

“Please, my lord,” he whispered, clenching his hands together.

Eamon reached into his pouch and drew out a couple of coins. They felt heavy in his soaking hand.

“Hold out your hand,” he said.

Trembling, the ferryman closed his eyes.

“Please, lord,” the man breathed, stretching out a shaking hand, “have pity on my livelihood –”

His words were broken by a gasp as the two coins dropped into his palm. Feeling their chink, he looked up in amazement. Eamon watched him.

“You rendered me good service, ferryman.”

“Thank you, my lord.” The man barely raised his voice above a whisper. Perhaps he feared that he was living in a terrible dream. Watching him, Eamon grew strangely angry – but not towards the ferryman. Who were the Hands, that they should make men fear for their livelihoods?