The Broken Blade (49 page)

He tucked the letter inside his jacket. Perhaps once coronation and wedding had been solemnized and the city set back in order, he would look for Febian. And then they could have peace.

Passing through palace corridors, Eamon found his heart darkened. Waite was still a shadow, fluttering darkly at the back of his mind. Like Febian, he had made Waite a pawn.

He, too, knew that pain.

He drove the thought of Arlaith down deep into the pit of his mind, hoping to cage it there. He would never have had Ladomer's apology even if he had lived; Ladomer had meant every part of what he had done.

They could never have had peace.

Would he ever have peace with Alessia?

He walked swiftly to the Round Hall. The hall had many passages leading from it, and a group of men waited at its centre, Anderas and Giles among them. Anderas's head was tilted back as he gazed at the ceiling and its paintings. As Eamon approached, Anderas gestured to a part of the painting up in a distant corner of the ceiling, a smile on his face. The wayfarers about him, however, looked no more enlightened.

Eamon threaded his way past the other moving people to reach those that waited for him. He was glad to see that Anderas could still be relied upon for interesting architectural and artistic comment.

“What am I missing?” he asked, turning his own gaze upwards for a moment.

“Not much,” Anderas answered brightly. “Just an example of an oft-maligned style of –”

“Good morning, First Knight,” interjected a wayfarer.

“Good morning each,” Eamon replied, looking at the men in turn. “I'm sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“We weren't waiting long,” Giles answered.

“I am glad of it, else you would all have been experts in oft-maligned art styles long before me,” Eamon replied. “Shall we go up?”

The group moved across the hall. Eamon looked about the palace again: it chimed to the melody of King's men working. His heart cheered to witness it.

As they made to leave the hall, Eamon caught sight of a group of women passing along its far side. He paused for a moment, for a group of women in the palace was a strange and delightful sight. Aeryn walked at the head of the group; a few of Hughan's guards followed her. She spoke with a woman to her right, and then the group stopped for a moment while Aeryn spoke to one of the guards.

It was then Eamon noticed another face that he knew – how well he knew it! He knew its every contour, knew how a hundred shades of joy, sorrow, kindness and fear could move across the fair skin. That face looked up and caught his gaze across the crowded hall, and pierced through him like a blade.

It was Alessia.

For the briefest of moments what he had seen in Arlaith's mind flashed before him – Alessia, kneeling and weeping wretchedly before the Right Hand – and grief and remorse welled in him. Had he not seen what Arlaith had done to her – what she had endured for him?

He longed then to race across the hall, to wrap her in his embrace. Whatever else might pass between them, she needed to know that he knew everything she had done for him.

Their eyes met. The look froze him. He felt himself flush red with shame. How could he have treated her as he had done?

She lowered her eyes; her face darkened. It was as if she could not bear to look at him. The injury he took from it was keener than any he had received from Ladomer.

Would she not even give him a chance?

He began to quake. Haltingly, almost imperceptibly, he tried to step towards her. Surely she would at least hear him, even if she could not look at him? Her name bubbled to his lips.

“Alessia –”

Without even a glance at him, she swept from the hall. It seared him in two.

Would she not even –?

There was a light touch at his shoulder. “Eamon?” Anderas said quietly.

Eamon realized that he stood in the hall, gaping. The others waited for him.

Eamon shook. Anger began seeping into him – it was his only defence against his sorrow. He shook off Anderas's hand.

“I'm coming,” he said.

 

The climb up to the Right Hand's quarters seemed long to him, and fraught with memories he could not shake. Almost, when he looked up, he saw Arlaith going before him, howling vicious taunts.

The doors to the quarters stood open. The rooms rang to the sound of voices and a small pile of things lay to one side. The black bedcovers lay in a crumpled mess on top of it.

Eamon's heart was heavy as he stepped through the doors into the chamber. Many of its decorations, such as its tapestries and hangings, had already been taken down, and some of the eagles had been brought down too; the stones were marked where the chisels had been employed against them. Some of the furniture had been gathered into the main hall and a couple of men carried one of the smaller tables across to stand it by the chaise longue.

“These were your quarters?” Anderas whispered. His eyes were wide with awe.

“Yes,” Eamon answered. There was a touch of grief to his voice, for all about him the emblems of the Right Hand fell away from the walls in a wash of noise.

“Perhaps being Right Hand was not as terrible as it appeared,” one of the wayfarers commented lightly.

Eamon rounded on him. “Not as terrible?”

Hearing latent anger in his voice, the wayfarer looked at him in confusion. “I meant, sir, that the quarters were comfortable –”

Eamon did not hear him. The grief that had been building in him since he left the hall erupted. “Not as terrible? Do you think that being Edelred's Right Hand, or the road that led there, was easy, or comfortable?”

The wayfarer didn't answer him.

“I took oaths that could never be reconciled, I was the pawn and prodigy of the Hands, who groomed me to evil. Those closest to me were killed, tormented in the Pit, or pierced by the rage of my enemies. This I had to suffer, never grieving or mourning, else I would have been discovered.” His hands shook. “When I tried to feed the city I was ridiculed, when I tried to save innocent men I was reviled; I was baited and caged and made a fool; I was made Right Hand and dressed at Edelred's whim like a doll, watched and steered and touched by him. Whether he chose to love me or to hate me, I bore it, and at the end I was betrayed nigh to death.” His voice had grown to a raging volume and the whole room stared at him. “Not as terrible?” he laughed bitterly. “I know terror when I see it and I tell you, King's man, that this is the most terrible room you have ever seen.”

The wayfarer met his gaze fearfully. “Yes, sir.”

Regret flooded through Eamon at an instant, but no more words came to his mouth. His anger had taken all his speech.

Giles and Anderas exchanged glances.

“There's work to do,” Giles said, leading the other men away.

Eamon watched them go in a daze.

“Eamon,” said Anderas.

“Andreas,” he began, “I didn't mean to…”

“I know,” his friend answered. There was a brief pause. “What happened in the hall?”

“Nothing.”

“I don't think you would have spoken to him like that if that were true,” Anderas replied firmly.

Eamon fell silent.

“You were looking at the women in the hall. Was one of them… her?” Anderas asked more quietly.

“Yes,” he whispered.

Anderas laid a hand on his arm. “Perhaps you should let us deal with this,” he said, gesturing to the room.

“There's only a small wooden trunk of my things,” Eamon told him. “It was in the bedchamber.”

“I'll recover it for you.”

“I should apologize to that man,” Eamon began.

“Yes, you should, but I think you must have other priorities to deal with first,” Anderas told him. “I will speak to him for now.”

Eamon looked at him sorrowfully. “You shouldn't have to do that for me –”

“But I will.”

The gaze of his friend comforted him.

“Eamon – go and find her.”

Anderas was right. Nodding silently, Eamon left the room.

 

He went slowly back down to the hall, his head spinning. The place was filled with people going about their business. Eamon's eyes wandered back to the place where he had seen Alessia, and he stared as though he saw her still.

Without the shelter of his anger, he felt only pain – pain that she would not hear him, that she would not let him seek her forgiveness. How could he forgive himself without it?

He took the door that she had taken from the hall. He followed the sound of women's voices, thirsting after the sound of hers. He did not hear it. When he found the women, she was no longer among them.

He asked the women as to Alessia's whereabouts, but they could not tell him: she had taken her leave without giving any indication as to her destination. He combed the palace, searching through nearly every room and hall without success. He realized that she might not even remain in the palace. And if she had chosen to retreat to the streets of Dunthruik?

Then he would never find her.

In desperation, he went to Aeryn.

His old friend was enjoying some moments of quiet in her chambers – to which he was readily admitted.

“Eamon,” she smiled, “it's good to see you.”

“Thank you.” He bit his lip. “Aeryn, have you… can you… do you know where I can find Lady Turnholt?”

Aeryn looked at him in surprise. “Perhaps,” she said.

“Please… I need to speak to her.”

“You haven't yet?”

Shame rushed through him. “No.”

“When exactly were you planning to make time for her?” Her face was inscrutable.

Eamon's mind whirled. So much time had already passed since he woke… how could he not have sought Alessia already? She was the one thing that could not wait, and he had allowed himself to be led from distraction to distraction. What reception could she give him, after so long?

“Aeryn, I…” He pressed his hands over his face.

Ladomer was right: he had always been a fool. “I'm sorry, Aeryn,” he said.

“You shouldn't be apologizing to me!”

“You must have other business to attend to –”

“She's here, Eamon.”

His heart stopped.

“What?”

Aeryn gestured to the adjoining room. She looked to him again, her face unreadable. “I've just remembered some business I must attend elsewhere,” she said softly. “You may remain here if you wish.” Without another word, she slipped from the quarters.

Eamon gazed at the door, felt the stillness of the air. He heard the stifling of breath in the silence.

He moved towards the room. His search ended.

She was there.

Their eyes met. They were trapped, suspended in each other's gazes.

A shiver ran through his spine – his fear, his shame; his memory of her touch, gentle as the petals of a rose – and sweat pricked his brow.

“A… Alessia?”

She flushed scarlet, her eyes dropping to the floor. She neither stepped towards him nor moved away. He watched the fall of her hair about her face, ached to gather her to him. Ached at what he had done to her.

Ached at what they had lost.

He did not dare to move lest she dart away. He had longed to seek her out, to tell her –

What?

That he was sorry? That he had wronged her? That he had answered love with wrath – unjustly? That he had been a fool?

That he loved her? Yes, despite all the lies and anger he had harboured in his heart, he loved her. His passion for her had stoked his hurt. Anger had been his only defence against despair. Perhaps she would understand that, perhaps –

And if she should scorn him?

Slowly, so very slowly, he walked towards her. They scarcely breathed. She held still, like a doe in the dew. He stopped. She was an embrace away.

For what had passed between them, it might have been the universe.

“Alessia.” He breathed her name – for it was as vital to him as breath itself. How could he have forgotten that?

She shuddered. Tears appeared on her cheeks. He reached out to comfort one he knew more intimately than any.

She slapped his hand away. “Don't touch me.”

“Alessia?” He ached to hold her. “Alessia, I –”

“How dare you.” She looked at him now, eyes darkened with grief and anger. “Did you once seek me, Eamon? Even once?” She trembled, as if neither her body nor her words were able to contain what she felt. “Did you even once think of what I bore for you? You
knew how the Hands used me. Did you even know what I carried – what
he
took from me? Can you imagine that grief?”

He could not. Stunned, he could only be silent.

His silence was damning.

She shook her head in anger and in sorrow. “I knew that you would not be able to seek me until after the city was taken… I waited. I waited and waited for you. Still you did not come. I was forgotten, ignored, spurned. It hurt me more than everything I suffered at Arlaith's hands, for I realized then what worth I was to the man whom I had suffered to protect.”

She bit her lip hard. “I don't even know why I should say this to you. I don't know what I can expect of you now.”

He prayed that she spoke because she loved him still. “Alessia, please –”

“You did not hear me when I pleaded.”

It cut him to the heart. It was true. It shamed him.

“Will you not even let me say –”

“There's nothing you can say, Eamon,” she sobbed. “I loved you, I gave everything for you. You left me.” Her sobbing became anguished cries. “Your time to speak and do has passed. You should have protected me, us. You did nothing. So there is nothing left that you can say. Do you understand?
Nothing
.”

He reached out to her again. She inclined towards him – almost she let him take her in his arms. But with a cry she snatched herself away.

“
I said don't touch me!
”

She turned and ran, weeping, from the room.

Eamon gaped after her, everything he longed to say burning in his heart. Anger and sorrow flooded him. He could not bear it.