The Traitor's Heir (24 page)

“From what I understand not quite all,” Hughan answered. “I have heard it said that there are still some law books and court records from Ede's time down there. I believe that Eben also had some connection to the well before he was killed.”

“And the throned couldn't go down?”

“Though Elaina meant for the library to become public it was often kept locked as the realm plunged into war. Her husband and Ede had a special key commissioned and fashioned by an Easter craftsman. The River and Istanaria were once on close terms.

“As Ede had no heir he meant to pass the rights of his line to Elaina and her descendants; the key was to be an heirloom of that line. As it was made for the King's much-loved sister, the one whom he meant to follow him to the throne, the key came to be called ‘the heart of the King'. Without it the library could not be opened – not even by the throned.”

As he spoke these last words Hughan produced a small leather pouch. He tugged it open and carefully poured its contents onto his hand. Eamon looked in disbelief.

A stone the size of a small fruit lay there, glimmering in the light. It was a deep blue colour but cast out rays of purple and gold. Eamon reached out to touch it and Hughan placed it in his hand. It was smooth and cool.

“The bookkeepers are adamant that nothing of value remained in the library,” Hughan said quietly. “But it is clear that the throned believed otherwise. If you can find out what it is that he desires so much then that is for the good; it may help us. If not, delivering the heart of the King to him will be a trophy bespeaking your oath to him.”

Nodding dumbly, Eamon felt the weight of the heirloom in his hand. “Are you sure that you want me to take this?”

Hughan nodded. “An unused key is of little value,” he smiled.

Eamon placed the stone back in its pouch and then set it securely about his neck by its long leather cord. “Thank you, Hughan.”

After Hughan had gone to compose the dispatches, Eamon rehearsed his learning of the morning. His tasks seemed simple enough. He would go to Dunthruik, explain about the capture of the holk, and ask that he be assigned as Belaal had intended. From there, he would do his best to gain as much information as he could. Given the interest that the throned had already shown in him he suspected that he might find himself in higher circles easily enough, and he would act as though he knew nothing of prophecy or history.

He was, however, unsure of what would happen to Mathaiah. The cadet was sincere in his desire to serve Eamon but he wondered whether the boy would be able to have his wish once they reached Dunthruik. Mathaiah had been destined, after all, to return to Edesfield. He wasn't yet sure how, or if, he would be able to get the cadet to stay, although he suspected that, as someone who had escaped the wayfarers, the Hands would be reluctant to let the boy leave – especially if they grew suspicious. That he could send Mathaiah back to Hughan at any time was a comfort to him.

When he studied the dense map of Dunthruik with Giles late that afternoon he imprinted the twists of Serpentine Avenue into his mind. The inn was called the South Wall; Hughan had told him that its sign showed a tumbling collection of stones.

“They say that a great nest of snakes used to live in the South Quarter, which is why the road's named as it is,” Giles told him, his gruffness alleviated by his apparent interest in history. He grinned. “This map's an old one, maybe fifty or sixty years out of date, and some of the roads aren't named or simply aren't there. But it's the best we've got, and the Serpentine was certainly right there last time I looked.” He stabbed at the road with one finger.

Eamon looked up at him. “How do you know so much about the city?” he asked. “I thought you came from the borders?”

“Oh, no man has lived until he has seen Dunthruik!” Giles bellowed with sarcastic grandeur. “And I am a man who has lived far more than you.” Declining to elucidate further he leaned in close to Eamon. “Let me make one thing clear, Lieutenant Goodman.” Eamon was rattled by the return to his erstwhile title. “I don't trust this spying business, and I trust you in it less than any other man that the King could send. If it had been left to me I'd have killed you long before your little stunt last night. It is still the King's judgment and goodwill that keeps you safe from me. If you give even a scent of us away,” Giles hissed, “I will outlive any torture or death long enough to find you.”

Eamon swallowed. He didn't doubt it.

“Thank you for showing me the map, Giles,” he answered as amicably as he could, “and for your trust in me. That you are willing to give it on the King's trust, and not your own, is telling.”

As he left, Giles watched him with the narrowed eyes of extreme suspicion.

He walked with Aeryn last of all. She did not really look at him, and kept her hands clasped in front of her – gestures of anxiety that he recognized from their many years of friendship. For a long while they said nothing at all.

“Do you remember the time we made Ladomer think that your arm was broken?” she asked.

Eamon cast his mind back. They had done a good job of improvising a blood-like substance out of a collection of berries that Telo had tended in the Star's garden for his summer fruits. As Eamon recalled, he and Aeryn had pretended that a mad dog had broken into the garden and ravaged Eamon so badly that it broke his arm before leaving to terrorize some local population of rabbits.

“The Mad Beast of Burr's Hill,” he said fondly. “The part about the rabbits was a bit juvenile! You'd think that we could have thought up something better than that. Poor Ladomer believed us, too. Do you remember the look on his face?”

“I'm sure he was convinced you were bleeding to death – until he spotted you tasting it!” Aeryn agreed.

“That was a poor move on my part,” Eamon conceded, laughing. He had never been able to resist strawberries and had been dipping his finger in the mess on his arm with delight when a frantic Ladomer had come rushing into the garden to inspect the damage. Eamon's knowledge that Ladomer was bigger and stronger than him by far had begun more or less on that day: failing to see the humour, Ladomer had proceeded to beat Eamon to within an inch of his life. Eamon's father had scolded Ladomer harshly for it. It had been far more embarrassing for sixteen-year-old Ladomer than twelve-year-old Eamon. Eamon wondered if Ladomer had ever forgiven his father for it.

Both were silent for long moments, lost in the memory. At last Aeryn took his hand and looked at him.

“What you're doing now, Eamon, is not altogether unlike that game we played,” she said softly. “Except it isn't Ladomer who's coming to check on you, and he won't be the one to beat you if you get caught. Remember that. Don't taste the fruit this time!”

Eamon smiled, then leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “I won't. I promise. Besides,” he added with a reassuring smile, “I don't really like fruit any more. I think Ladomer beat it out of me.”

Aeryn laughed. “I know.”

“You take care of Hughan,” he told her, “and let him take care of you.”

Aeryn blushed. “I will.”

He let go of her hand and they walked back to the Hidden Hall. As they approached, Eamon saw Mathaiah standing near the doors. His rapt attention was fixed on the one who spoke with him: Hughan.

As they neared, Eamon saw Mathaiah bow his head low. Smiling, Hughan laid his hands on Mathaiah's shoulders and spoke some words of service and benediction over him. Mathaiah's face warmed through with joy. Eamon and Aeryn stood to watch as the cadet raised his head. Hughan turned to Eamon.

“A good man goes with you,” he told him, “and much will come of him.” Mathaiah basked in the praise. Hughan regarded Eamon for a long moment. The weight of parting fell upon them.

“Have you the stone?”

Nodding, Eamon laid one hand to his breast where it lay. “I have. Have you the dispatches?”

“I have.” Hughan plucked a group of papers from his pouch. “I am sorry that I cannot also give you cloaks or food for your journey.”

The papers were creased, as though by many hands, and wax seals bound the folded sheets closed. The seals each bore a unicorn with three stars in an arch over its brow. Like the sword and star, it was one of the emblems of the house of Brenuin, the house of kings.

Eamon stored the papers carefully in his pouch.

“I am sorry to lose you again so soon after finding you,” he whispered.

“You have not lost me, Eamon,” Hughan replied. “And I will not lose you. Be careful.”

“I will,” Eamon promised.

They clasped hands firmly and Hughan embraced him. When they stepped apart Hughan looked at both lieutenant and cadet.

“The blessing of my house, the protection of my name, and the prayers of my heart go with you both,” he said. Eamon caught a glimpse again of the otherworldly crown, sparks of silver over the King's bright brow.

Hughan smiled at him. “Go in strength and peace, First Knight.”

Eamon glanced at the threshold of the Hidden Hall where muddied grass lay in the failing day. Beyond that first step there was no returning.

With papers and stone at breast and Mathaiah beside him, Eamon began to walk. Giving one last look over his shoulder he saw a dozen faces watching them leave – some relieved, some angry and suspicious. Some anxious, he hoped, at the thought of the peril that they freely went to for the service of the man they all served.

But before all those faces, one image marked itself indelibly upon him. Hughan and Aeryn stood together. They held hands before the threshold, the King and Queen of a hidden world and a hope placed, against all trusts, in him.

He crossed the threshold. The walls of the ruin gazed back at him, silent.

“Which way, sir?”

Eamon tore his gaze away from what he left, and felt the reassuring weight of the stone over his own heart.

“We go down past the village,” he answered, “and strike east.”

The sinking sun cast long shadows before them. They passed the smoking remains of the village and went south and east beyond it to another copse of trees on a small ridge. Calling birds jumped from the high branches and as the sun continued to fade, the shadows grew darker and the temperature dropped.

As they pushed silently through the trees Eamon thought suddenly that, should he wish to speak openly to his companion, this might be one of his last chances.

“Did Hughan explain everything to you as he did me?”

“He did, down to your ruse. I think it very clever, sir.”

“Thank you,” Eamon replied, honoured by the approval. “Listen, I don't know what time we shall have to speak safely once we meet up with…” he faltered. “
Them
. But keep your eyes and ears open for anything that may be helpful. I don't know what they'll do with either of us when we reach Dunthruik. For the sake of this ruse your chief value to me is as the one person who can verify what I say about the ship. Beyond that, I will say that I know little about you.”

“Sir,” Mathaiah affirmed.

“We mustn't speak of my healing you,” Eamon added, “or, indeed, of any injury to you. We were both captured –”

“And my young mind spent the whole time under the influence of the drugs and poisons,” Mathaiah continued, “leaving the more complex lies all for you, I'm afraid.” There was the trace of a smile to his voice. “All I remember is being left for dead when the snakes left, and spending all of what I assume to be today struggling with the after-effects of the drugs before being found by you early this afternoon. I'm still partially hallucinatory, so I won't speak much for the next few days, and I'll be somewhat incoherent when I do.”

Eamon looked at his friend, surprised and pleased. Whether the cadet had concocted parts of the tale with Hughan or not did not matter: it was clear that he was quite ready for what lay ahead.

It took them at least an hour to clear the treeline and cross the shallow, east-facing valley to the next ridge. A slope led down from it towards a dark ribbon that mirrored the early evening stars. The stream was marked by a stretched shadow. By this were grouped dismounted riders, their eyes watching the ridge.

Eamon tallied them. The hounds gathered intently about something, presumably edible, near the foot of the bridge while the horses grazed and drank from the riverbanks. The five Hands stood immovably. Their eyes upon him filled him with dread.

Mathaiah fell quiet. He wondered if the boy had ever really seen a Hand before. Glancing across in the twilight he saw that his friend had grown a little paler. Well, it would help their ruse.

“It's all right,” Eamon told him, more bravely than he felt; now that he was faced with the prospect of several days' journey with these men he felt sudden doubt about his purpose. “Just pretend to be scared and confused. I'll do the rest.”

“I think I can do that, sir.”

Eamon looped one of Mathaiah's arms over his shoulder and gripped the cadet's lower back so as to help him hobble down the ridge.

The long trip down the hill to the bridge was one of the most terrifying things Eamon had ever done. With every pace he took, his whole being warned him that there would be no chance to run once they reached that bridge. The stone at his breast seemed to grow heavy, as if it too had no wish to go towards the enemy. But his nerve held, both for himself and for Mathaiah, drawing them always closer to their rendezvous.

As they came to the last few yards the dogs raised their heads to growl. The Hand to whom Eamon had spoken the night before spread his arms open in welcome, rather like an uncle welcoming a favourite nephew, and strode on as though he purposed to embrace the prodigal returnees. It was a terrifying sight.

“Lieutenant Goodman and cadet. So good to see you both! I am most glad that you recovered your companion, Mr Goodman. What is his name?”