The Traitor's Heir (35 page)

Suddenly the lid budged and air sighed out of it, bringing with it an unpleasant smell. Mathaiah recoiled but Eamon kept pushing until the lid was halfway open. Coughing, Mathaiah brought the torch back to the open tomb.

Inside was a skeleton, regally composed in fading robes. Its arms were folded over its breast in the manner of the effigy, and its robes trailed gracefully down to its feet. Eamon felt suddenly, and deeply, ashamed. He had opened a tomb, a royal tomb.

“I can't see it,”

Mathaiah whispered faintly. Beads of sweat lined Eamon's brow. He wiped at it with his bare, shivering arm.

Mathaiah was right: there was nothing to be seen except the skeleton in its resting place of streaming robes. Eamon surveyed the body as objectively as he could, chewing nervously at his lip. The skeleton's back arched upwards a little more than it ought to – as though there was something beneath it.

It was his last chance to leave it.

“Hold the torch high, Mathaiah.”

With a calming breath Eamon reached into the deep, cold tomb with both arms. His skin crawled as he pressed his hands underneath the crumbling robes. He searched blindly under the skeleton, feeling cold stone beneath his fingers. Then he suddenly felt something else: leather.

In silence he drew out the book. The leather was dark, roughed, and embittered with age. An eagle still sat boldly on its front, chipped and cracked, though the red-edged pages were crisp.

The mark in his palm stirred. Something began whispering in his mind and Eben's grief filled him: it was overpowering.

He staggered. The book fell from his hands.

“Sir?” Mathaiah gripped his shoulder in alarm. “Are you all right, sir?”

Eamon didn't answer. He had made his choice. Rising, he drew a shuddering breath and slowly pushed the lid of the tomb closed again.

Stepping back he saw Mathaiah turning the book over in his hands. The cadet stared at its strange letters with a furrowed brow.

“What kind of book is this, sir?” he asked uneasily.

“I don't know.” He watched as Mathaiah opened the covers and scanned a few pages. The writing was unintelligible and jagged. The cadet's face grew strange.

“This will sound odd, sir, but I feel like I can almost read it.”

“Close it,” Eamon told him. The pages glared at him and he did not want to think about what they might read.

Mathaiah gauged him uncertainly. “Are you sure we should take this back?”

“It may help Hughan,” Eamon answered. He had to believe it. Hadn't the King expressly commanded that they discover what the throned wanted from Ellen's Well? Perhaps they could smuggle the book from the tunnels. Even if they could not, what possible use could it be to the throned?

“Will you carry it, Mathaiah?”

“Yes, sir.”

Eamon took one last look at the disturbed tomb; its stony eyes followed him, feeding the maelstrom in his heart.

They retraced their steps to the central chamber. Mathaiah carried the book solemnly while Eamon busied himself with the torch. The voices of the Hands grew louder; Eamon made out Cathair and Ashway among them. Mathaiah suddenly stopped. Eamon had carried on a few paces before he noticed his ward's hesitance.

“Are you all right?”

“Listen,” Mathaiah told him quietly.

“It's only Cathair and Ashway –”

“But listen!”

Obligingly, Eamon concentrated on the voices. He then realized that though he knew the voices, he did not know the words. The language was completely foreign to him. He had studied a little of the tongues used in the majority of the merchant states but this sounded nothing like them.

He glanced at Mathaiah. “What is it?”

Mathaiah didn't answer. Instead, he pressed one hand to the cover of the book. Eamon stared at him.

“Did you understand it?”

“Lieutenant Goodman!” called a voice. It was Cathair's.

With one motion Eamon and Mathaiah hurried to the stairwell. The other Hands were coming back in dribs and drabs. Some had already brought back odd scrolls and thin leather books: these Ashway was studying and then discarding single-mindedly. Eamon wondered what fate awaited the papers that displeased him. As they approached, the Lord of the West Quarter treated them to one of his harrowing smiles.

“Come, lieutenant; there is little purpose in trying to sneak about these tunnels, especially when you bear a torch!” Cathair laughed, and might have continued. But as Mathaiah stepped forward the Hand fell silent, his face frozen. Eamon realized then that they could never have hidden the book from the eyes of Dunthruik's raven: his eyes were keen and swift.

Cathair glanced at Eamon. “What have you found, lieutenant?”

“Nothing, my lord –”

The words had barely left his lips before Lord Ashway snatched the book hungrily from Mathaiah's hands.

“Where did you find this?” he hissed.

Eamon's mind whirled. “In a tomb, my lord.”

“What a grave matter, lieutenant!” Cathair laughed, glancing sidelong at Ashway. “Mr Goodman, you never fail to impress – or amuse – me! Gentlemen, we will burn those,” he added, gesturing to the other papers.

The Hands hurriedly gathered loose papers and parchment as though clearing autumn leaves. Eamon only managed to get hold of a few sheets. The Hands led the way up the staircase, most concentrating on the tricky steps. Cathair and Ashway were bowed over the dark book. Boldly, Eamon slipped a couple of parchments into his jacket. His small act of defiance passed unobserved.

The dying sunlight flashed fitfully through the windows as they emerged. At Cathair's direction Eamon removed the heart of the King from the fireplace. The walls closed over the opening. There was a moment of light and then the King's stone fell dull.

Eamon pulled the stone from its place.

“Keep it, Mr Goodman,” Cathair said. “A memento of a successful afternoon's work.”

Nodding, Eamon slipped the stone back around his neck.

 

Back in the plaza, the Hands were dismissed to their burning assignment and Eamon and Mathaiah to the college. Cathair and Ashway vanished swiftly into the palace, the book still firmly clasped beneath Ashway's arm.

“Sir,” Mathaiah volunteered after a while, “I think I understood some of what they were saying.”

“How?” Eamon asked – though he supposed that the more important question would be “what”.

“I don't know, sir. They… they said that it would be ironic.”

“What would?”

“If Eben's son brought them back the Nightholt.”

Eamon stared at him. For a moment he couldn't think, couldn't speak: he was chilled through to his very core.

“The what?” he whispered at last.

“Nightholt. I think… they meant the book, sir.”

A group of Gauntlet passed by. Mathaiah pushed his hands inside his jacket. When they were gone he spoke again: “Who is ‘Eben's son'?”

Eamon swallowed. “They meant me. I am Eben's son.”

“Your father?”

“No.” Eamon found he could not meet his friend's gaze. “Eben was Ede's First Knight. He betrayed him. Then he betrayed the throned. Eben hid the book in the tomb. I saw him.”

“I hope we did the right thing,” Mathaiah whispered.

Eamon drew a guilty breath. “So do I.”

They walked on in silence. Hoping to ease both their minds by changing the subject, he continued: “I wanted to ask you before. What happened to you when we met Lord Cathair?”

“I don't know,” Mathaiah admitted. “When we got to the bridge I was just pretending – I know what effect shadeweed is supposed to have and I tried to emulate it. But when he touched me… it was like being immured. I could hear voices, most of the time, but I couldn't see.” He shivered. “I don't remember coming to Dunthruik. The first I saw of it was when I woke up, and you were there.”

“And the plain…” Eamon hesitated. “The place where I found you. Do you remember that?”

“Now that was strange, sir,” Mathaiah smiled, as though the rest hadn't been. “It was frightening at first. But then someone came to me. I don't know where from, or who he was. He… he was like Hughan – and yet unlike him. His face was wrong, yet somehow more right, too, and his voice! I cannot describe it to you. There was a kind of light all around him – blue, or white, or silver all at once…” The cadet paused, as though drawing his thoughts into order. Eamon listened in awe. “He seemed kind, so I asked him to stay with me. He wasn't at all frightening. He knew my name and spoke to me of courage. He told me that I was a King's man and that although I was in darkness it couldn't keep me or hold me. He made me feel better – stronger and less afraid.

“He said that the Hands had brought me to Dunthruik and that they wanted to get into my mind – no, ‘breach' was the word he used – but that I shouldn't worry, because they would find it unreachable. He said I was safe and that you would come; he stayed with me until you did and then he left, but I didn't see him go… Then I woke up.”

Eamon stared at his young friend in amazement. The tale thrilled a darkened part of his soul.

“I'm glad that he came, sir,” Mathaiah added. “Do… do you think that the light round him was like the light that you used to heal me?”

Eamon nodded wordlessly.

After a few moments of silence, Mathaiah looked up. “What will we do about the book, sir?”

“We have to send word to Hughan. Maybe a description of it will mean something to him or the bookkeepers.” A plan began forming in his mind. “One of us must speak to Lillabeth tonight.”

“Lillabeth?” Mathaiah asked, then added: “Tonight?”

Eamon realized he hadn't told Mathaiah about his evening plans. He reddened. “I'm invited to supper tonight with Lady Turnholt.”

Mathaiah raised a pleased eyebrow. “To supper, eh?”

Growing redder, Eamon shushed him. “Lillabeth Hollenwell is her maid and our contact for reaching Hughan. All we need to do is figure out how to get the information to her.”

Mathaiah grinned. “I think we can do that, sir.”

Candeller's Way was in the North Quarter, and lit that evening by dozens of lanterns that spread along the road like flowers answering the rising moon. They did not find it difficult to locate the house of Alessia Turnholt. When they reached the gates they were expected.

“Lieutenant Goodman, cadet,” greeted the gateman, bowing to each of them in turn. “Please follow me.”

The servant led them towards the house. Eamon saw stables to one side and some outhouses to the other, along with a small garden. The lady's carriage was propped by the stables, undergoing repair. The elegant house boasted high balconies with views across the city. Welcoming lights glowed in its windows.

Within, the house was more spectacular than it had seemed from without: panelled walls and hanging drapes of deep velvet surrounded them, while the corridors showed portraits, statues, ornaments… Every part of every room heralded the family's riches and favour.

But, on entering, Eamon's eyes were caught by one thing alone. Standing in the hallway was Lady Alessia, resplendent in a long, red gown, cut low at the neck. Her dress was brocaded in golden threads and she smiled a smile that would melt the heart of any man who did but glance at it. Eamon knew it, and still he looked.

“Lieutenant Goodman!” The lady's voice was high with pleasure and her smile broadened as she came to greet them. “It is so kind of you to join me – and of your captain to let you come!”

“It was kind of you to invite me,” Eamon answered, bowing awkwardly.

Alessia received the compliment with a gracious laugh. “Who is your young friend?”

“This is my ward, my lady.”

“Cadet Mathaiah Grahaven, at your service, my lady,” Mathaiah bowed with a flourish. Eamon was jealous of his ease.

“How lovely!” Alessia enthused, turning to Eamon with an astonished look. “Here but a day, and already entrusted with a ward? You do excel yourself, Mr Goodman.” Eamon blushed. “Mr Grahaven is, of course, welcome to join our meal.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

The lady led them to the dining room; the table had been laid forth so regally that it might host lords as easily as lieutenants. Lady Alessia invited them both to sit and quickly had her servants make up an extra place for Mathaiah. Eamon recognized the coachman among those who followed her commands.

“Gentlemen, welcome to my table!” Alessia smiled, her eyes resting on Eamon last of all. He flushed crimson.

They sat together. Laughing, Alessia plied them with jests and tales of the court and the city while course after course of food was laid before them. Mathaiah ate readily, willingly accommodating the lady's insistence that he should not stint his eating for modesty's sake. Eamon ate far less, engaged as he so thoroughly was in watching the lady speak. He marvelled at the way she could weave her words into a tale full of life, and could not help but appreciate her beauty. He was glad that Mathaiah had volunteered to find an excuse to speak to Lillabeth – he was wondering how he would ever tear himself away from Lady Alessia.

As Mathaiah finished eating he sat back and returned to examining the paintings that lined the wall, something which he had been doing as much as he could during the meal.

“Do you like art, Mr Grahaven?”

It was the perfect opportunity. “Yes, my lady,” Mathaiah beamed, “especially the early Dunthruik style. My mother had a couple of works from that period. I was admiring these you have here, my lady.” The cadet was looking at a great landscape piece, detailing the port of Dunthruik in the height of summer: the ships were filled with grain. Eamon had scarcely noticed it himself.

“Mr Grahaven, you must know that this is but a poor example compared with some that my father collected!”

Mathaiah's eyes widened. “I would love to see them,” he said. “Would that be possible?”