The Broken Blade (47 page)

A terrible and breathless silence fell over the watching men and women. Eamon's hands trembled.

Hughan Brenuin laid his hand upon the pages of the Nightholt. The letters on those pages tried to flee before the King's fingers, yet they could not.

“For this land and for its people I speak,” Hughan said. “We have seen the ill that has been done through the will of Edelred; we have renounced it and its works. We will not be beholden to a false covenant. Let us, then, be loosed from it, and return to the first things of this land, in full and lawful hearts.” He looked at the book and the silence deepened.

Eamon's heart and breath fell still. The King's bare palm was set against the pages, and the presence of the King's grace thrilled through Eamon's every pore and stirred the air all around him, like the thousand singing voices in the faraway city he had once seen.

“In the power of the promise and grace given to my house, and sealed still in the King's Covenant,” Hughan said, “I declare this work undone.”

Suddenly the light came. It erupted about the King's palms like a cascade of streaming, living water, filling the air and covering the
Nightholt with its brilliance. In the midst of the rushing splendour, the tangled letters on the Nightholt's pages grew disfigured, distorting under the inundation of light. For a moment, as the light soared and danced over and about him, the King shadowed forth in fearsome brilliance, a mirror to a King of old, a glimmer of a King to come.

The light and vision faded. As Hughan withdrew his hand, Eamon felt again the weight of the book in his hands – but now that weight was dull and lifeless. The pages lay limp. The letters, and all they had held, were gone.

Hughan slowly took the book from Eamon's hands and raised it high, showing the now blank pages to the staring city.

“People and realm of the River,” he called, “you are beholden to Edelred no more.”

Lowering the book, the King took the cloth that Anastasius still held. He carefully wrapped the Nightholt in it once more. Then, turning, he laid the black-bound book down on the breast of the red-clothed hearse. So doing, Hughan slowly drew back the pall from the face below. Eamon looked at what it revealed, part in fear and part in hope.

The pale face beneath was Edelred's. Red hair lay about it like a pool of frozen fire, the grey eyes closed forever.

Hughan stepped across to the black hearse and also pulled back the cloth. Eamon stared in surprise. The face that lay beneath the black shroud was Arlaith's. It was as though Ladomer had never existed.

As the King stepped back a pace, a group of Easter drummers in the quarters beat a solemn march. Each long hearse needed six men to bear it. The King, Anastasius, and Waite went to Edelred's; each of them was matched by a wayfarer, an Easter, and a former Gauntlet. Eamon himself went to Arlaith's pall; Feltumadas and Rocell did the same, and men of their colours matched them.

As the drums beat on, the palls were lifted. Eamon felt the weight of the wooden frame and the body upon it as it bore down
on his shoulder. The King led Edelred's pall down from the platform and towards the Coll. The men and women of Dunthruik fell back before it.

Drawing a deep breath, Eamon set his steps to the beat of the drums and led the Right Hand, in Edelred's wake, from the Four Quarters towards the East Gate.

The march went slowly down the Coll. Eamon's world shrank to the weight on his shoulder, to the beat of the drums, to the gate before him. The long road was lined with people, with faces pale and staring in the half-light, who stood in silence, watching Edelred and his Right Hand pass by. Marching feet, like the beat of a thousand drums, followed behind the procession. No word was said, no song was sung. Dunthruik watched its fallen Master as he passed.

The procession came steadily to the Blind Gate. That morning the damaged gate stood open, its broad expanse looking out towards distant mountains where the hidden sun climbed.

Through the gates they passed, going on from the city to the plain where pyres once burned. The city's plain was marked with hundreds upon hundreds of graves on either side of the East Road. A small group of standards marked them. To the north stood red banners for the Gauntlet and the knights, while to the south stood blue and orange for the King's men and Easters.

The pyres had grown still in the days leading up to the battle, but they had also grown after it. A great mound of kindling had been set before them.

It was to this mound that the procession headed. Hughan and his group laid Edelred's pall down upon the kindling; Eamon and his men set Arlaith's hearse down at its side. Eamon's hands trembled as he came down from the mound.

The Gauntlet marched from the city, each man bearing his red jacket and banners. One by one, the captains and first lieutenants brought forth their standards and laid them on the great mound, forming a sea of red about the hearses.

As Eamon stood and watched them, Feltumadas stepped quietly to his side.

“First Knight,” he whispered. The Easter lord held in his hands a spread of black. At once Eamon recognized it – the torn tabard that had been bestowed upon him by the throned.

In silence Eamon took it from the Easter. As the last of the Gauntlet laid down their colours, he stepped forward. The mass of red before him was overwhelming. The river of emblems flowed ceaselessly about the mound where throned, Nightholt, and Right Hand lay.

Eamon carefully set his tabard down over the colours then stepped back to join the ranks. The whole of Dunthruik had followed them.

Hughan took a torch from one of the King's men and carried it to the sea of red.

“In flame did Edelred come to Allera.” Hughan's voice carried across the plain. Eamon felt as though the whole world might hear it. “In flame does he depart.”

The King turned to the pyre. For a moment he stood and watched it. Then he leaned the torch forward against the tabards and the banners.

It was not long before the flames caught. Hughan stepped back as the great ribbons of fire streaked upwards, reaching for the two hearses.

As he watched the flames, tears stung Eamon's eyes. Since he had first come to Dunthruik his fate had been bound to the throned and to the Right Hand. Now their hold had been loosed, their power renounced, and both men were circled with fire. Memories of Edelred's affections, Ladomer's laughter, and Arlaith's cruelty danced in the flames.

With the hearses went a part of Eamon also. Though it had been tainted – by treachery, by lies, by wiles, by hurt, by anger, by pain, by abuse, by words and deeds wrought against him and against those whom he loved and served – he realized that he had at times loved both men; and he had loved Ladomer most of all.

Hughan came to his side. Though they exchanged no words, the King met his gaze with compassion.

As the sun struck over the crests of the mountain, flooding Dunthruik with light, and the flames slipped up towards Arlaith's still form, Eamon knew that he would never see Ladomer again. Edelred's pyre would burn long, and many would stay to watch it die in dark embers on Dunthruik's plain. Some would stay until nothing could be recognized of either throned or his Right Hand before they returned to the city.

But Ladomer Kentigern's was a lost face, not even to be consumed by fire. None would give it vigil.

The smoke stung at his eyes and the pain at his heart. Bravely, and with the King at his side, he forced himself to face the pyre. But as he did so, Eamon wept.

 

Later that day Hughan assigned groups of men to take responsibility for the quarters. Still in a daze, Eamon stood and listened as Hughan directed Feltumadas and a mixed group of Easters and wayfarers to the North, while Leon and a similar group took charge of the South.

“Lord Anastasius,” Hughan said, “I would have you take the East; it was ever the place of your people in this city.”

Eamon's heart sank as the words were spoken. He had hoped to be assigned there, for the East was the nearest place to a home he had in Dunthruik.

“I will take it, Star,” Anastasius answered.

“First Knight, I would have you take the West,” Hughan said.

“Yes, sire,” he answered. The smell of smoke clung to him.

“There are some who would serve you,” Hughan added. “I will take you to them in a moment.”

Eamon nodded silently. After a few more minutes the King dismissed the others. “I know that the North shares responsibility with the West in the matter of the port,” he said. “The port is going to need particular attention. Zharam says that the damage is still
severe, and that we will have trouble getting food to the city and out into the rest of the realm until that is handled.”

“Who is Zharam?” Eamon asked, struggling with the pronunciation of the strange name.

“He was in charge of the fleet that attacked the port,” Hughan answered. Eamon's heart filled with his memory of that day, of the smoke in the air… “He's an ally from the southern merchant states.”

“It was a violent attack,” Eamon told him. “We lost many men that day.” The image of burning ships and quaysides, of Manners being brought down from the wall, of the pile of bodies lying desolate on the wharf lingered with Eamon still. “Including Lord Dehelt,” he whispered, and his heart churned. He looked up, feeling a touch of anger. “Did Zharam order that?”

“The order was to attack the port,” Hughan answered gently, “not to kill particular men.”

“Why did Dehelt have to be killed?” Eamon retorted.

“Men are killed in battles, Eamon,” Hughan replied quietly.

Eamon remembered the Hand's face and supportive words… “But Dehelt might have turned!” he cried.

Hughan's face softened. “Eamon,” he said, “Dehelt had been a Hand for a long time. He had long years in which to turn, yet he did not.”

“But he might have done, had he lived,” Eamon answered angrily.

“He might have done,” Hughan conceded, “but in his long years in Edelred's service he did not. You may have been the last reminder of that sent to him, but still he did not turn.” Eamon sighed. Hughan looked carefully at him. “His death does not lie on you,” he said, “and that he did not serve me when he died does not make it wrong to mourn him.”

The King took him from that room to another. Quiet voices filtered through the doors as they approached.

“There will be a lot to do in the next few days,” Hughan told him, “and a lot of it will need to be done in the West. I am afraid that you will be very busy.”

Eamon nodded. “I don't mind it, sire,” he said. He knew full well that running a city was hard work at the best of times. When that city had also to prepare for a coronation and wedding, and adjust to regime change, as well as feed and protect itself while power changed hands, that work would be nearly doubled.

It would keep his mind from other matters, and that was not unwelcome.

The doors opened before them.

“These are some of the men who will help you with the West Quarter,” Hughan said with a smile.

Surprise washed over Eamon. A number of King's men stood to one side, most of whom he recognized from the storming of the North Gate. Giles was among them. But it was not the King's men that surprised him; rather, it was the group of plainly dressed men who stood on the other side of the room.

One was Anderas. The second was Manners. And by them stood the man who had been Edelred's doctor. Beyond them stood three other men who had once been Edelred's servants.

Eamon gaped in amazement, then looked back to Hughan.

“They all asked to serve with you,” Hughan told him. “I granted them their requests.”

In a daze, Eamon greeted each of the two dozen men in the room. Giles was gruffly pleased to see him. Eamon embraced Anderas and Manners fondly. When he came to the doctor he felt a wry smile coming over his face.

“You asked to serve with me?”

“Yes, sir,” the doctor answered. “I surrendered with the palace servants. They offered me a choice.”

“Did they offer your leeches a choice, too?”

“I am afraid they were pressed into service before then,” the doctor answered with a small smile.

“I'm sorry if this next question seems rude or blunt,” Eamon told him, “but… why did you ask to serve me?”

The doctor watched him quietly for a moment. “I was no less
shocked than any other man to discover who you were,” the doctor replied, “but you were kind to me those few times that we met. Kindness was a rare thing among the hearts of the men whom I served,” he added quietly, “and so your kindness stuck with me.”

Eamon smiled. “I am sorry to have forgotten it,” he said, “but I hope you will answer when I ask… what is your name, doctor?”

“Leander Doveton,” the doctor answered.

“Then I thank you, Dr Doveton, for asking for me,” Eamon told him. “I must introduce you first of all to Andreas Anderas. He has the habit of getting stuck with arrows, and so I must ask you to keep him under your particular notice.”

Anderas pulled a face but clasped hands warmly with the doctor.

Last of all, Eamon went to Edelred's former servants. One of them was the man who had first served him breakfast, and all three of them smiled. Eamon clasped each of their hands in turn.

“Welcome,” he said. “I do not know how to say it with my hands,” he added, “but I will learn.”

The first servant smiled. “You will gesture well,” he said.

Eamon's jaw dropped. “You can hear – and speak!”

The servant nodded. “I can now,” he said. His voice was thick, as though he had to concentrate on forming the words. “Some could not speak,” he added, gesturing to the third servant with him as an example, “but many of us were silenced by the red light. It does not silence us now.”

“This man never spoke, even before?” Eamon asked, looking to the third servant.