The Traitor's Heir (51 page)

Eamon stiffened. Would no mention be made of Overbrook's sacrifice?

“Mr Goodman, however, was successful in breaching the leader of the skirmishers and has some interesting information to offer us. It is on this information that I wish to have your opinions, gentlemen. Mr Goodman,” he added, “if you would be so kind?”

Eamon reddened as all eyes, some of them awed, some of them envious that the upstart officer should have distinguished himself yet again, turned to him. Lord Tramist in particular glowered.

“Lords and sirs,” he began at last – what choice did he have but to tell them? “There are convoys going to the encampment, supplies and weapons coming up the East Road.” He paused, heart stinging. Cathair raised an eyebrow at him. Eamon guessed that he had spoken much more aloud when he had breached Giles; he could not now refuse to say it. Cathair had already heard it once.

“Go on, Mr Goodman.”

Ever more mired in the filth of his broken oaths, Eamon went on to detail what he knew of halls, supplies, and alliances. “The Serpent himself hopes to take Dunthruik in the spring,” he finished at last. “His support is great in every quarter of the River Realm. He is confident.”

A general murmur rounded the table. With every word spoken it was as though a vice tightened around him, wrenching his gut. He had betrayed Hughan's plans, and worse, those plans had been taken by force, torn from Giles without pity. What hope was there for him now?

“And we are unprepared,” murmured Ashway, drumming his fingers. “Lords, I propose that the power of the local Gauntlets in the provinces be extended; they must take in anyone suspected of wayfaring tendencies. The Serpent's brood is great enough and we can ill afford for it to take further hold.”

“If you would excuse the interruption, Lord Ashway, such a proposal has already been sanctioned by the Master,” Ladomer put in. Eamon looked at him; his friend's eyes were shining. “There will be a culling.”

“Thank you for your timely mention, Mr Kentigern,” Cathair nodded. “The jurisdiction for such measures in Dunthruik will fall to the Quarter Hands, and full orders should be ready for implementation in the next week. Captains, you will prepare your colleges accordingly.”

Eamon saw a grave look pass over Waite's face.

“The Master wishes to break up the Serpent's encampment before it grows out of proportion, hopefully scattering or eliminating any allies that have already gathered. A group has already been sent out to deal with the camp at Ashford Ridge.”

Horror seized him. Hughan would have no warning! The King's men would be slaughtered.

“Convoys will also be interrupted,” Cathair continued. “Should these measures not prove effective enough, however, the quarters will turn to the walls.”

“Are we expecting a siege, my lord?” Anderas asked.

Cathair smiled, his green eyes twinkling. “Keeping a house, Mr Anderas, necessitates a little spring cleaning from time to time. Should this Serpent by some chance reach the spring alive, he will find our house quite clean. A precaution, if you will.”

“Yes, Lord Cathair.”

Eamon listened as they discussed cull strategies for the city and provinces. Tempers grew heated, were abated, and fired again. All the while he heard Ladomer writing beside him. At times his friend shook his head with a sigh or a quiet laugh. In his place, Eamon would not have dared.

It was dark when the meeting concluded. The officers dispersed to await or implement orders. Waite was held back by Cathair; when he emerged he granted Eamon an avuncular smile. Eamon bowed solemnly to the leaving Hand. His whole world whirled about Giles's scream; nothing else could hold beside it in the vortex. Everything reminded him of it, and of what he had become.

He wanted to lose himself, to absolve his grief and clear his churning mind from Overbrook and Mathaiah and Alben and Giles and Cathair and Hughan, who took turns to glare and cast him into consuming shadows. There was only one place he could go.

The servants admitted him without question, greeting him with a cordial good evening. They offered to take his jacket. He declined.

“Is Lady Turnholt here?”

The old woman, one of the kitchen servants, shook her head. She wiped her hands carefully down her apron. “No, sir. She was invited to dinner at the palace.”

“Will she be back tonight?”

“Yes, sir, but late.”

“May I wait for her?”

“Of course, sir. Would you like some supper, sir?”

Eamon nodded dumbly.

Supper was laid for him in the dining room. He ate swiftly, wolfing the fine food and washing it down with wine – more wine than he would normally have drunk. He drained his cup as though the thick red liquid could somehow quench his burning conscience. It did not. He drank until his head throbbed.

When he had finished eating he was escorted to the drawing room and invited to await the lady's return. The servants were kind to him. Eamon rested heavily in a cushioned chair and watched as Lillabeth lit the fire. He felt awkward in her presence. He waited in silence, twisting his fingers together.

“May I offer you any other service, Mr Goodman?”

“No,” he told her curtly, waving her away. Curtseying, she did as she was bidden. He was left alone.

The drawing room was a grand affair, with great paintings on the walls and marble busts on pedestals in the corners. There was a balcony but its doors were closed. Even so the curtains moved slightly in a breeze that crept through the casement.

Eamon sat close to the fire, trying to let it warm him; he was tired and every part of him ached. The light cast over his skin mocked him, and he could not silence the sounds in his mind.

He heard screams and felt convulsions as though they moved through his own bones. Power crawled in his skin – the voice was there. He saw the long throne room, its stones filled with nightmarish shadows, but still he knelt before the flaming figure from whom the voice came.

You have done well, Eben's son, and you will be rewarded. He deserved the death that you delivered him.

“He's not dead! I didn't kill him!”

Shadows leapt. Could Hughan's camp already be under attack? And a cull was being prepared for the city – all because he had delivered news to Hughan's enemies. He had done it as blithely as he had delivered the Nightholt to the Hands. The tears on his face burnt as though formed from molten metal.

“
He's not dead!
”

You do no wrong in killing the Serpent's brood
, the voice soothed.
Your blood is cleansed in shedding theirs, Eben's son. I know your blood: I know its taste, its smell. I know you, better than you know yourself; and I know you serve me. It is right that you kneel before me, that you glorify me. You can do no other!

The shadows clawed at him and in the fire was the Master's face. The mark on his hand answered; he could not shy away.

Everything you are, Eben's son, you are because I made you thus. Did you truly think to exchange your fealty to me for that to a Serpent? Eben destroyed that House and you will complete his work for me. You will strike and breach and break as many men as I command you to, Eben's son, and you will glorify me.

“No!” The mark on his hand burned and burned. However much he struggled it would not let him be free.
“You lie!
”

You are mine.

Eamon started in his chair. The house was quiet. Alessia had not returned. It was late.

He tore off his jacket and hurled it across the room. Through misted, stinging eyes he looked down at his palm: it burned with a glow ruddier than flame. He loathed it.

The crown mocked him. He could not bear this mark – he would not bear it. He had to free himself of it. How he rued the day that he had sworn!

Suddenly he was on his knees by the fire, dagger in hand. If he could just force the eagle from his flesh he would be free. He could renounce all oaths to every man. He could renounce his blood, take another name, and flee to the south or to distant merchant states across the sea. He would destroy the heart of the King and carve this mark from his flesh. Then he would be free!

He felt and did not feel the pain of the dagger's point driving into him, just as he believed and did not believe that he could remove the mark. He did not know how deep it ran or how deep he cut, but he felt sure that he could destroy it. He pressed the blade under his skin; it ran red in the light.

Eamon.

The voice reached out to him, staying his hand. He fell back on his haunches and wept thick, hot tears. Hand and blade were marked with blood.

There was a step, then a gasp at the door.

“Eamon!”

The door slammed shut and feet ran to him. Cool, light fingers wrapped about his and Alessia knelt beside him. But he did not look at her; he could barely see. All he could feel was the blade where it lay in his bleeding hand.

Alessia laid her hand on the dagger. “Eamon,” she said gently. “Don't.”

“Stay away!” he sobbed. Rage welled up inside him but he could not drive her away – he could not take the dagger out of his hand and he could not push it farther into his bloody palm. The grim voice he knew so well mocked his incompetence. He fairly howled as it laughed at him.

“Make it stop!” he cried, hanging his head against her shoulder. “Make it stop, please!”

“Eamon, Eamon.”

Alessia's fingers touched his face, brushing at his tears. He did not stop her as she drew the blade out of his hands. He sobbed and trembled as she bound a handkerchief about his wound. Laying the dagger carefully to one side, she clasped her beautiful hands over his.

“My love, what have you done?” she whispered.

He turned to look at her. Everything churned in his mind, toying with him and goading him, and there were was no one he could turn to. He could tell no one. But to live with what he had done… he could not. Sobs wracked through him. He could not lead a double life alone.

“I've lied to you, Alessia.” His voice was contorted with terror in the knowledge of what he had to do.

She was smiling at him. Her grip on his hands tightened. “I can't imagine you doing that,” she said lightly. “Let's worry no more about it. You've just had a difficult day.”

She leaned forward and kissed him so hard that he could barely breathe. For a moment he lost himself there. What did he need to say to her? Nothing, nothing… he could stay forever in that kiss.

No, he would no longer lie to her – or himself. He pulled himself away and took her face between his hands, as he had done what seemed so long ago – that first night he had loved her.

“No, Alessia, you have to listen to me,” he said urgently. Were there tears in her eyes? It grieved him that he was the cause of them. He had to seem a madman, and perhaps he was.

“It's all right,” she told him. “You need say no more than that you love me.”

Eamon quaked. “I do love you, Alessia. You are all I have. I can tell no one else but you, and I must speak before it destroys me.”

She fell silent and raised her hand to his against her cheek. Blood showed on the handkerchief, dotting the crest embroidered there. She looked at him with deep, suffering compassion on her face. She was everything to him, and he treasured the profound nature of those eyes that truly, deeply loved him.

“I love you,” she breathed, a tear trailing down her cheek. “Speak freely, Eamon. Freely.”

There was courage, and the promise of release from his torment, in her loving eyes. He loved her; he wanted her to know the truth. That was all that mattered.

He laid his life in her hands and told her everything.

C
HAPTER
XXI

H
e started at the beginning.

He told her how he had had two dreams when he was a young man: to go to the university or to join the Gauntlet, and that his father had asked him to wait before doing either. He told her about his father's books and trade, and the night his father had died. He explained how he had become a bookbinder, setting aside what he had dreamed of, and the fire that had destroyed everything he had called his own. With nothing left but a desire to do something notable and worthwhile, his dream of joining the Gauntlet had returned to him and been fostered by those close to him. He had had skill and, above all, a true desire to serve. He had been at home in the Gauntlet college and comforted by the training, the uniforms, the parades, and the chance to serve something greater than himself. Of all the cadets at Edesfield he had been the most passionate about his forthcoming swearing. He spoke of his terror the night that wayfarers in the woods near Edesfield had bested him, and his joy at being granted the opportunity to swear nonetheless. Nothing had ever been so important to him.

He told her what the sworn had not: about the hideous weight that had met his hand when he touched the pommel, and the eagle that had been driven into his flesh. He spoke about the power that had gone into him and the voice that had appeared in his mind. Of all the cadets who had sworn that day he alone seemed to have noticed the new poison in his blood.

He told her about Telo, the great-hearted keeper of the Star, of the burning and his own part in it. He spoke about Aeryn and her capture, and about the holk that had borne him away from Edesfield as a hastily promoted lieutenant alongside another who despised him.

“That's where I met Giles. He was the wayfarer who led the attack on my ship. He…” He began to quiver violently. “He is the man whom I broke last night.”

Alessia looked at him gently. “I don't understand.”

Eamon met her gaze. Although, safe in the midnight quiet of the bed they often shared, he had spoken to her about his work for Lord Cathair, he had never described the plain, the voice, the terrible power. He had never told her about what breaching truly was, or what it did, or by whom his power to do it was granted.