The Traitor's Heir (69 page)

The Hands gaped. Eamon treated them to another angry scowl and snatched up his cloak and sword. With song and light echoing in his heart, he left the Pit.

It was nearly the second watch when he reached the South Gate. He barely believed what he had done.

Mathaiah had forgiven him. He did not know what dark roads they would both tread before they next met, but it gave him hope and courage. Perhaps Hughan would forgive him, too.

The guards at the gatehouse were expecting him. They expressed surprise at his state. He did not explain it to them. He was able to exchange his stinking breeches for a pair of standard Gauntlet issue. His black shirt he left as a rag for the gate guard's litter of puppies. The guards happily supplied him with an old, white, officer's shirt, of the kind intended for wear under ceremonial uniforms. It was not practical, but it was clean. He kept his back away from them as he changed, to hide the marks of his flogging.

He was brought a horse – a dark creature with a patch of white on its broad nose. It breathed softly and patiently in the darkness. It little guessed where they would go – or that it carried the man who had chosen to be First Knight.

He rode to the gate, a group of men in its shadow. One stepped forward: Manners, jaded with fatigue. A few other Third Banners were with him.

“Shouldn't you be at college, gentlemen?” Eamon asked quietly.

“Yes, sir – my lord,” Manners corrected himself. He had a haunted look. “Will you – you will come back, my lord?” he blurted.

Eamon met and held the cadet's gaze. “I will return, Mr Manners. You have my word.”

Manners searched his eyes. “Thank you, my lord.” The Third Banners saluted. Their drawn swords shimmered, marking Eamon's moonlit passage.

It was early on the twentieth of February. He glanced up at the gate, so tall it seemed to touch the clouded sky. By the twenty-seventh he had to have returned, bearing with him the head of Hughan's ally. It chilled him. It seemed impossible.

He tightened his grip on the reins. He would not fail. There would be a way. He would go to Ashford Ridge – where Hughan's camp had been, where he had breached Giles, and where Dunthruik had lost almost two hundred men. If he rode hard, he might reach the ridge by the next evening. He would reach it. He had to. Hughan would receive him, forgive him, help him.

And if he did not? Or if King and camp were gone – if there was nothing to find but the bodies of the Master's dead… what would he do then?

“Good luck, Lord Goodman!” Manners called.

Eamon grimaced. He needed more than luck.

“Courage,” he murmured to himself. “Courage.”

He urged his horse into a canter and clattered out of the city gates.

Eamon Goodman's journey continues in Volume II of
The Knight of Eldaran
:
The King's Hand
.