The Broken Blade Read Free Page A

struck through them to cast further traces of red into the high hallway.
    At the far end of the hall stood a tall threshold. This, too, was flanked by Hands and by two tapestries, woven from the richest threads that Eamon had ever seen. Both showed the Master in battle dress, his flaming hair about his blazing face. In one hand he held aloft a book from whose open pages red light spilled. In the other he bore a sword. He was framed in clear skies and serpents crawled beneath his feet; they were bloody as they fled his might. The images chilled Eamon’s blood.
    Between the tapestries stood dark doors, richly crafted. Birds sat solemnly on the panels, their eyes fashioned from red jewels. Brass eagles in flight adorned the handles whilst a further obsidian eagle stood guardian over the doors themselves. Its sable feet gripped a scroll on which ran the same letters on the blade that now hung at Eamon’s side:Scarcely realizing that he did so he halted and gaped upwards, agog.

    â€œWhat is this?” he breathed. The letters gripped him; he felt the Nightholt in his hands. The script stood openly before him and yet he could not read it, nor could he hope to. The archly formed words tormented him.
    Fletcher seemed to take no notice of either the letters or his tone.
    â€œThis is the eyrie of the Right Hand, Lord Goodman,” he replied. So saying, he turned and bowed to the two Hands at either side of the doors. Like sweeping harbingers, they drew the portals aside to reveal the quarters of the Right Hand.
    â€œMy lord,” Fletcher said, and this time as he bowed he gestured to the open doorway with a grandiose undulation of his arm. Eamon nodded curtly to him and stepped forward.
    The doors could never have prepared him for what lay inside. Before his eyes lay one of the most enormous rooms he had ever seen in private use. It was like Cathair’s reception hall in the Hands’ Hall, only larger, and its bounds went on and on.
    The initial, circular entrance hall, its walls panelled in dark wood, spread back towards other doors. Mantelpieces, laced with intricate masonry, stood among the panels, and shields, bearing the black eagle of the Right Hand, stood above them. Gathered in the centre of the hall were a series of chaise longues, while behind these a group of steps led back to a raised platform, and to other sets of doors.
    Eamon went up to each in turn. Through one he saw a study, large and neatly formed. Behind another was a room for washing and dressing. Behind a third, a room with a long dining table, and behind the last, a room showing itself to be a grand bedroom. The bed within – easily double the size of that in the East Quarter – was draped in black, and eagles flew at the posts and headboard. Red curtains embroidered with eagles sloped down from the posts. There was a balcony in the room also; it overlooked the palace gardens.
    Returning to the circular entrance hall, Eamon saw another door, small and discreet, leading off from the side of the mantelpiece. Heknew at once that it was the servants’ door, connected to whatever stairs and corridors the palace held for those men and women who served the Right Hand.
    He stopped and stared about the quarters – his quarters – in a daze. He stood in silence for a long time.
    â€œLord Goodman?”
    Fletcher’s voice stirred him. Silently he nodded, granting the man permission to speak.
    â€œThere is breakfast for you on the table.”
    At the words, Eamon looked once more to the dining room and its long table. Fletcher was right: there was a tray on the table. Breads, hams and cheeses covered it, while beside it stood an elaborate flagon whose handle was formed by eagle’s wings.
    â€œWhatever your command for your servants, whatever your commands for the city,” Fletcher told him, “you need only speak to me, and I shall see them done.”
    Startled, Eamon realized then how powerful Ladomer had