The Traitor's Heir (59 page)

C
HAPTER
XXIII

I
t was still dark when he came to his senses. Tangled dream fragments faded around him: voices, and a light so faint that it had died before he had really seen it.

He struggled to open his swollen eyes, wondering what hour it was. The stars had moved. The trees were shifting in the breeze, their distant branches strangely silent.

He shivered and stretched, glad for the first time of his robe of shadow. His memory returned. There could be no peace for him. There was nothing left to him. He feared both the King and the flame-haired thief of the crown.

He stood slowly. He had to go back; he had to lead his men to the city. He tried telling himself that until he had dispensed of that duty nothing would befall him.

Why was his choice so impossible?

He did not want to leave the hall, but he did not want to stay. How could he face revealing his loss and shame to the whole city? Already he saw the heaving mass of Dunthruik rushing at him in scorn.

But it was nothing compared with how Hughan would receive him.

Grief-stricken, he left.

He retraced his steps to the camp. Spirals of smoke showed faintly against the grey sky. The sounds of men and horses grew louder and he soon found himself passing the grazing beasts. They were curiously calm, oblivious to wars and oaths. One of them – a tall, muddy-coated creature – paced towards him. Eamon rested his hands on the horse's muzzle. It was warm, and some small comfort.

He continued to the part of the camp where the surgeons guarded and treated the wounded. Soldiers were stirring, pale faced and grim. Eamon could hardly bring himself to greet them.

The surgeons were already awake; he wondered if they ever slept. By the surgeons' fires he saw a figure laid out beneath a pall. The sight filled him with leaden dread.

“Lord Goodman,” greeted the leading surgeon.

“Lieutenant,” Eamon answered. The half a dozen Gauntlet surgeons were the only men who had not partaken in the massacre the day before. “What news?”

“We lost another during the night.”

“I'm sorry to hear it,” he managed.

“We could cure the majority of these wounds in the city,” the man told him. His frustration was evident. “Even Captain Anderas's hurt would have been relatively straightforward.”

Eamon's heart plummeted. So he was dead.

“We could have saved so many more, my lord,” the lieutenant continued, “had we anticipated the kind, and number, of injuries to be sustained in the attack.” The officer blanched. “I'm sorry, my lord. I spoke out of turn. I didn't mean –”

“Peace, lieutenant.” Eamon swallowed, struggling to contain his grief. “Your task these past days has been hard, and your work honourable. It does you no ill to speak the truth.”

The man looked astonished. “Thank you, my lord,” he stammered.

They stood in silence. Eamon summoned his courage. “May I see Captain Anderas?” He owed the captain at least a farewell.

“Over there, my lord.” The surgeon gestured to the dwindling fires.

Heavy-hearted, Eamon walked to where he had left the captain the previous night. If he had only had the strength to choose and keep an oath! Then none of this would have happened – none of them would be dead.

“You look terribly lugubrious this morning, Lord Goodman.”

Eamon started. Anderas sat propped against a tree trunk, making the most of a dying fire while he waited for his turn to be helped to the wagon.

Eamon stared. Anderas was alive! He looked frail and his cheeks bore a ghastly pallor but he was alive. Eamon felt the impulse to rush and embrace the man, but the weight of black made him awkwardly hold his ground.

“Something the matter, Lord Goodman?” Anderas croaked.

“They told me you were dead,” Eamon stammered.

“They told me I was fortunate. What a terribly embarrassing conflict of information!” His laughter was broken by coughing.

Eamon struggled to grasp the enormity of the truth. It was beyond the comprehension of his hope. “But… they said you would die.”

“Should it salve your mind, my lord, I am still in grave danger,” Anderas answered. “But I might make it back to the city. If I do, they say that they can probably clear the infection.”

“Let it be so!” Eamon rejoiced.

“I shall second that. Truthfully, I did not expect to see the light of day again,” Anderas confided. “But there seems to be new strength in me since the night began.”

Eamon laughed with relief. Neither knowing nor caring where the captain's strength had come from, he beamed from ear to ear. “Would you like some breakfast?”

“Yes,” Anderas answered, surprised. He had not willingly eaten for several days. “Yes, I think I would.”

They ate a meagre breakfast together as the camp prepared for the final leg of the journey to Dunthruik. They were likely to reach the city before nightfall. Part of him hoped it would be dark when they arrived, so that they could disguise their shame in the shadows. But that morning, sitting with Anderas and marvelling at his second wind of life, Eamon felt a small measure of peace. Their dried bread and mostly stale cheese seemed to be a feast tailored for great lords. Anderas ate ravenously. Eamon offered him the remains of his own dwindling portion.

“You look pale this morning, Lord Goodman,” Anderas commented between mouthfuls.

“I didn't sleep well.” His mind suddenly conjured Cathair's grim face. “Pale?” he repeated.

“There's more colour to you than to the Lord Ashway, Lord Goodman,” Anderas continued. “You'd have to not sleep for hundreds of years to match him, I fear.”

Eamon managed a laugh. “I am just tired,” he assured him.

A startled look passed suddenly over the captain's face. Eamon noticed it at once.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes… yes, Lord Goodman,” Anderas stammered, shaking.

“No,” Eamon rose sharply to his feet. “I shall call a surgeon.”

“No, no, my lord – Lord Goodman,” Anderas managed. He caught Eamon's arm. “Really, there is no need.” His cheeks coloured with embarrassment.

“If you need a surgeon –”

“I don't. Thank you, Lord Goodman.”

Unconvinced, Eamon sat again. “What's the matter?” The man looked as though he had seen a ghost. Perhaps he had.

“I…”

Eamon watched as Anderas wrestled with some unknown thought. Their eyes met. Was Anderas afraid?

“It's nothing, Lord Goodman. I just… remembered a dream. That was all.”

Eamon could not pursue the matter further; the lieutenant surgeon approached to advise that the wagon was ready to receive the captain.

It was mid-February when they began the last miles to Dunthruik. The River glistened to the south. Ahead of them, Eamon saw hills sloping to the mouth where Dunthruik nestled, feeding on the River's torrents.

Though heavy hearted, Eamon was proud of those who marched with him that day – they had escaped death, refused to desert, and were determined to reap the crushing reward for their defeat. How could a tarnished man – how could any of them – reclaim their honour? Wherever they went, to whichever colleges, units, or companies they were assigned, they would be known as the men who had failed at Pinewood. They would all pay the price for Eamon's folly.

What would he say to the throned? How could he possibly hope to become Right Hand with Pinewood over him? And Hughan… he could never justify what he had done to the King. He had abandoned his choice. Had the King's grace deserted him, leaving him only the torment of the throned's voice?

He had never felt such uncertainty. He knew only that he was a man without honour. It was that which drove deepest. Whatever he had done, and against whomever he had done it, he had betrayed himself.

He longed for Alessia, for her hand in his, for her understanding gaze and her words of comfort. What if she renounced him, too? How could she associate with him after what he had failed to do? His shame would touch her, too, in every circle of the court. He could not ask that of her – and he was terrified that she would not freely offer to bear it for him.

The shadow of Dunthruik touched the landscape before them. All at once he saw the city towers and their snapping pennons. He had not even passed the gates, and yet already he felt the piercing gaze of the throned upon him.

What a sight they made to the city watchmen: the bedraggled survivors of an unexpected massacre. They had gone out in glory; they would re-enter less than half their number, with a dozen wounded men and missing half a dozen deserted ones. They would return with a tale of defeat to break their names and match their broken bodies. It hovered, vulture-like, over his men. He wished that he could bolster them against the terrible welcome awaiting them, but his voice stuck in his throat.

Slowly they wound their way on to the city. Those who lived near the Blind Gate had seen them approaching, for there was yet light enough to bear witness to their return; those on the road stopped in shock to watch them pass. Eamon rode at the head of the column, his head as high as he dared to raise it. He did not meet the looks of the onlookers, and tried to ignore upturned faces.

The gate grew large before him, a thick edifice of stone graven with the emblems of the Master's city and glory. The gate guards watched from every orifice of the walls, while people gathered along the streets within. All gaped.

Eamon felt every eye upon him as he led the column through the gates, past guards standing uncertain and still. They went in silence; people whispered. He could not allow himself to imagine what they said.

He led his men to the Brand. People stared at every turn – rich and poor, old and young, Gauntlet, merchant, peasant, noble; it made no difference. They all knew who he was and saw that he had failed.

They halted in the Brand and Eamon, wearied by scrutiny, dismounted. He was grateful for the shadow of the college.

“Lord Goodman?”

Ladomer stood on the college steps, papers in hand. He rushed forward. Formality was swept aside.

“Eamon, what happened to you?”

Eamon fought the tremor in his voice. “I must see Lord Cathair.”

“He's just received Lord Ashway for a meeting –”

“I must see him at once. Please, see what you can do, Ladomer.”

Ladomer stared a moment longer, then hurried away. Eamon watched the end of the column filtering into the courtyard behind him. The cart with invalids clattered over the stones. The lieutenant surgeon leaped down, calling for men for infirmary duty. Eamon hurried to help as they unlatched the sides of the cart and began unloading the surviving injured men. Anderas was the first to descend, his face deathly but tenacious. Eamon gripped his hand as they laid him on a stretcher.

“You're here, captain,” he said, willing him to live. “Just a little longer. They're taking you back to the East Quarter. You will be healed.”

Panting, Anderas nodded.

The injured officers were gathered and taken to their relevant quarters. A couple of other Hands, Febian among them, came to stand by him. They looked nervous, and shifted the weight of their robes uncomfortably on their shoulders. They looked to Eamon, awaiting his leadership. He said nothing. Words had failed him long before.

Ladomer re-emerged. He bowed, face coloured with worry. “Lord Cathair advises that the Right Hand will see you in the Hands' Hall at once.”

Eamon trembled. The wrath of the Right Hand… would be more than he could bear.

“Thank you, Mr Kentigern,” he whispered.

As the evening light dwindled westward, the brands at the Hands' Hall were lit. The doors stood open, the strange script upon them as unreadable as it had ever been. The letters seemed to snag and cut at him.

No explanation he could give would satisfy the Right Hand.

He drew breath, trying to steady fraying nerves and shaking hands. The Hands who had gone with him to Pinewood followed him over the darkened threshold.

They waited in the antechamber. Eamon stood silently. The other Hands did not speak or meet his gaze. They were kept a long time.

The central hall was exactly as he remembered it. The Right Hand sat at its head, the westering light showcasing his face. To either side of him sat Cathair and Ashway, one more grim-faced than the other. Cathair's look was unspeakably dark; Ashway's was one of anger and sinuous pleasure.

The Right Hand was unreadable.

Quivering, Eamon knelt. “My lords,” he breathed. He waited for the command to rise.

It never came.

“I understand that there has been a misadventure, Lord Goodman?” The Right Hand's voice cut palpably across the room.

Eamon flinched. “Yes, lord.” What else could he say?

“You will recount it, Lord Goodman, omitting nothing.”

Eamon looked up; the Hands behind him remained upon their knees, their heads bowed. He understood: the duty of bearing the wrath of the Right Hand was his alone.

Trembling, he gave account – the careful plan, the convoy's arrival, the initial attack; the press of arrows, thick in the air like a fly-swarm. The dead, littered among the wagons. The beaten retreat.

“You gave that order, Lord Goodman?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You turned tail before the enemy!” Ashway cried in disgust.

“My men were being slaughtered!” he answered hotly.

“Better dead than shamed by flight!” Ashway retorted.

“If there is any shame in the affair, then it belongs to me alone!” Eamon rejoined. He would not allow Ashway to tarnish the names of the men who had lived to see their homes and families – men who had lived to serve the throned and fight again – with cowardice. “If there must be blame, let it fall on me.”

“Such theatrics!”

“Hold your tongue, Lord Ashway,” the Right Hand spoke sharply. Ashway fell silent, instantly cowed. “All shame in this matter is rightly apportioned to Lord Goodman. It was on the basis of information obtained by him that we planned this attack, under his hand that we set these forces, and at his command that those forces acted.” He looked down at Eamon. Eamon paled. “How many men did you lose, Lord Goodman?”