The Traitor's Heir (49 page)

His hand tensed upon the hilt; still he held back.

“You want to kill me?” Giles laughed derisively, snatching the map from Overbrook's stiff hand. He cast his eyes indolently over it as he spoke. “Try, if you dare! You've never been a King's man, and you never will be. You have never even deemed the scorn of being called a wayfarer, much less a snake. But I'll tell you something that Hughan will never know, Mr Goodman.” Suddenly Giles was close to him again. Fire spread from Eamon's palm to his heart. “He won't know that we had this conversation. All he will know tomorrow morning is that scouts found your body riddled with arrows. And he will smile – yes!
smile
– and say that you received exactly what you deserved.”

“No!”

With a howl of utter hatred Eamon hurled himself forward, blood rushing in his burning veins. It was not fear of death that moved him but the cutting words, the gait, the laughter, the dead body on the ground, and the terrible, unbearable thought of Hughan's face delighting in his death.

He pinned burning hands about Giles's throat. The man was caught off guard and Eamon bore him to the ground. Arrows hissed past his shoulder; one seared past his arm, drawing blood. He heard Cathair's voice behind, and from the corner of his eye he saw a red light arching outwards. A moment later one of Giles's archers screamed, consumed in a bloody glow.

But Eamon had no interest in the Hands or the archers; all his thought was bent on the winded man beneath him. Giles lashed back. Eamon swerved to avoid a crushing blow. He knew that Giles was stronger than him and that he was a fool to think he could take the villain down. But dizzying rage coursed through him, leaving room only for vengeance. He gleefully pressed flaming hands down on his enemy's throat.

His attempt was swiftly foiled. Giles wrenched himself over, and in a moment Eamon found himself pinned under the man's powerful body. He felt knees pressing down on his stomach, exerting excruciating pressure. Suddenly his right arm was bent backwards into the ground. While he grappled to free himself, Giles pounded his face. His vision jarred, turning black; he was about to lose consciousness, but he clung fiercely to it. Giles would not get the better of him – not this time. His fiery resolve steeled to the oath and stared up through throbbing eyes. Giles had drawn a dagger from his boot; it was curved violently in his fist.

“I'm going to kill you, treacherous bastard! Take this to the grave: you betrayed Hughan!” Howling, he slashed at Eamon's throat.

For a split second Eamon found his hand unpinned. A villainous smile crossed his lips. With cool precision he thrust his hand into Giles's face; the flame on his palm was like a burning sun. The dagger never touched him.

The plain was a familiar place to him. He laughed. Giles was frozen before him. Certainly the man still had his strength, but Eamon had the advantage. He relished the look that passed over his enemy's face.

“You wouldn't bloody dare!” Giles roared.

Eamon favoured him with a placid smile. “I bloody would.”

He tore open Giles's mind; the man would pay for what he had done and Eamon would enjoy every single moment of it. He wanted to make it hurt; he wanted it to hurt badly. He wanted to watch the man in agony and hold the memory so that he might savour it at his leisure.

Giles's face contorted in agony; it squirmed and writhed beneath his hand, but the struggling man refused to cry out.

“
Bastard!
” Eamon yelled, and pushed harder.

Giles's whole mind lay before him. He saw in intricate detail what the wayfarers had been doing in recent months. He saw Hughan travelling beyond the mountains to the eastern halls, braving hidden, treacherous passes, and receiving a pledge of loyalty from a leader, a dark-haired man with a thin face and keen green eyes, who spoke of their common cause and a disgrace to be undone. He saw the locations of Hidden Halls up and down the River where the wayfarers had been stockpiling weapons for months. He saw the beginnings of cavalry, hundreds of horses stabled by Stonemead. He saw that, even in the next few days, wagons of weapons, the very wheels of war, would be travelling towards the ridge camp. He saw hundreds of people in towns and villages all along the River being won over by Hughan and his messengers. The wayfarer cause was growing, preparing for an assault on Dunthruik. Hughan planned to move in the spring.

He cared little for all this. Most of all, Eamon felt Giles's violent, burning hatred of him. Everywhere he looked it lashed at him like lightning, and it lashed in vain, for he was more powerful. It incited his rage. No blue light came, and there was no defence for Giles against the growing pain that he inflicted with each piece of information that he extracted.

“Stop it!” Giles yelled at last, wild agony in his eyes.

Eamon leaned close to him. “Why should I pity you?” he laughed, and plunged on.

Still he waited for the blue light, still it did not come, and still he tore through the strata of Giles's mind. He saw the man fighting in the border wars where the merchant state of Galithia had clashed with the River Realm, fighting to avenge his murdered parents and stolen patrimony; scores of Gauntlet soldiers fell before the man's sword. And at last he understood why the light had not come.

Giles was no King's man. His support for Hughan was a tool for vengeance, a marriage of convenience. Giles did not care if Hughan was a king, and did not care if there had ever been a house of kings over the River.

You know all that you need, Eben's son. Break him.

With renewed vigour, Eamon did as he was commanded.

At last Giles erupted in a blood-curdling scream. But Eamon did not pull away his hand. Instead, he tore away layer after layer of the thoughts that he saw, and as he read and rent them he cast them aside; the fire from his hand destroyed them utterly. The more Giles screamed the harder he ripped, and with each cry Eamon felt gruesome satisfaction lodging in his blackened heart.

“How many more shall I destroy, Giles?” he roared furiously. “Tell me to stop, if you can! Surrender your sword to me, if you can. I won't spare you!”

Giles screamed.

Eamon.

The voice cut through his thought, stripping away the flames. He shuddered. It was not the fiery voice that he knew. It was gentle and grieved.

Eamon.

On, son of Eben!

Eamon.

With a shuddering cry he opened his eyes. He tasted blood in his mouth. Giles's dagger was on the grass, festering in steaming blood. Red light was dying among the trees and the Hands were hurrying towards him. Were the King's archers dead? His swirling sight struggled to grasp the trees.

“Mr Goodman!”

He scarcely heard Lord Cathair. Suddenly Eamon looked down, choked on a cry of horror, and staggered violently to his feet.

Giles lay there. His arms and legs were braced in twisted, gut-wrenching positions, and his pale face was plastered in sweat and blood. His fingers were dug into the earth. As Eamon watched, the man clawed, gibbering blood and spittle from a torn, incomprehensible mouth. His eyes were palled with a white sheen that seemed unnaturally bright in the darkness. The now silent air was punctuated by his shrill, quivering gasps.

Eamon stood motionless, a scream begging to be released from his cavernous lungs.

“What have I done?” the words tumbled out of his mouth. His burning hands trembled. They were muddy.

“You've done well, Mr Goodman,” Cathair advised. He held his side as he spoke; Eamon was aware of blood on the Hand's uniform. Was Cathair injured?

“It seems that you are a very fine breacher indeed,” Cathair added, seemingly unperturbed by either his wound or the dead. “I heard talk of supplies?”

Eamon started. Had he spoken out what he had seen? He had done it, sometimes, standing before Cathair in the rooms by the Pit, but he had always controlled it. This time he had not even made a choice.

He shook.

“This is not the place to discuss it,” Cathair told him suddenly. Torchlight was running up the treeline. “We must go.”

The Hands hastily grouped themselves together and the mover raised his hands. Giles still twitched on the ground; his back was arched and his arms withered. The sight transfixed Eamon hideously.

“Mr Goodman.”

Eamon looked away. He saw Overbrook's body on the ground. He could not leave the cadet.

“My lord –”

“Very well, but hurry up.”

They hauled the bodies of cadet and Hand into their circle. Eamon grabbed Overbrook's map with trembling hands. As he passed, Giles screamed, shied away, and shook convulsively.

Eamon staggered away. The lights were near on the hillside. The Hands were about him and Overbrook's face gawked palely at him in the light.

What had he done?

He buried his face in his hands and the ground under his feet was swept away.

They watched him, early in the morning of the eighth of February. They watched him in the streets, from windows and doors of the West Quarter; they watched him as he turned his shaking steps along the Coll to the college. Some shrank back, some gaped. Others looked once and shrugged, for such things were to be expected in the Gauntlet.

They watched him as he went leadenly into the college. They watched him in the hall. Salutes crumbled and good mornings went unsaid, for when they watched him the cadets, the lieutenants, the servants, and the clerks also looked at what he led: Overbrook's body, stretcher-borne. They knew that it could so easily have been, and might yet prove to be, their own.

Captain Waite met him in the corridor. He held papers in his hand – drafts of orders, requests to be ratified. He saw what followed Eamon, and lowered his eyes.

“Good morning, sir.”

“I see we have a condolence to write.”

“Yes, sir.” His lip trembled. Had he worked all winter to save Overbrook from the fever for a bloodied map and a punctured gut on a cold hillside?

Giles's twisted face danced before him – he tried to force it away, but he could not. Tears gripped his eyes, and the whole world watched him as he led Cadet Overbrook's body to the infirmary.

The companies at the college paraded quietly that morning, the air that rested over them like the pall that covered Overbrook. Though an official statement had yet to be made, the news of wayfarers and a stab in the dark had spread.

Eamon felt that the whole college watched him at parade. Manners stood next to him and, by him, Mathaiah. Both had pale faces though both, like all the Third Banners, seemed careful not to watch him too closely. Of that, at least, Eamon was glad. He was shaken to his very core and the mark on his hand – the flames – seemed unbearably clear. He felt his exultation over Giles's pain and could still smell the stench of blood, the wreck of a mind destroyed – the memory was so strong that it almost had a smell of its own. They had carried Overbrook away, but what would become of Giles?

What would Hughan think?

How could Hughan ever know that he had done it? And yet even as he offered the cold comfort to himself he knew that the King would know. He felt anyone that looked at him could tell it at a glance – his very being betrayed it. Could they not smell it on him? He had become a monster that night. He was terrified that what Giles had said was true and that there was no way back for him. He had betrayed the King, and yet… What power he had had in return for that treachery! And what strange joy he had felt in the use of it.

He shook his head and glanced across at Mathaiah, yearning to confess what he had done. But he could not tell Mathaiah; if he did that Hughan would certainly learn of his evil. He and Mathaiah had stopped speaking long ago.

Eamon watched as Waite climbed the small platform at the head of the parade ground. He fixed his eyes on the captain as though it could somehow save him from floundering in Giles's blood. Waite was solid, real… he surveyed his men without a trace of his usual humour. It had been months, Eamon thought, since Waite had joked. That, surely, was Hughan's doing – and he felt a surge of anger towards the King.

“At ease.” Waite spoke solemnly. His look was weighted and the ranks, unaccustomed to being asked to stand at ease at parade, stood nervously.

“I'm afraid we have unpleasant tidings this morning,” Waite continued. “Third Banner Cadet Overbrook, a friend and fellow to many of you, was killed in action during the night. He was a dependable man and will be sorely missed. There will be a remembrance for him this afternoon.”

Eamon didn't follow much that Waite said after that, for the thought of a remembrance brought back to him uncomfortable memories – of Alben in his hearse, his sallow face falsely composed. Waite had presided over that office. Overbrook had been one of Eamon's own men. He would have to lead the service, just as Waite had for Alben.

About mid-morning he found himself near Waite's office. The captain was labouring under a perpetual pile of papers. “Mr Goodman?”

“Sir?”

“Might I have a moment?”

Obligingly, Eamon entered. He snapped a salute as best he could. His hands had not yet stopped shaking. “Sir.”

Waite did not speak immediately; he was writing the letter of condolence that would go to Overbrook's family.

Eamon tried to wait patiently as the captain continued to write. He was nervous and Giles's face still twisted before him. Beyond that was his fear of the voice that had held him back. What might he have done, had it not?

Waite put a flourish to the end of the letter and laid his quill aside. With great care he folded the parchment and sealed the malleable wax with the mark of the West Quarter College.

“I'd like you to deliver this to Mr Overbrook and invite him to the remembrance. It will be this afternoon, at the tenth hour.”

Chilled, Eamon nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“I have written that Cadet Overbrook glorified the Master in his stalwart service and, in his final hour, brought us news with which we may strike against the wayfarers. Lord Cathair told me about what happened. He said that he will come to interview you after the office.”