The Broken Blade Read Free Page B

been.
    â€œThat is, of course, unless you wish to see to them yourself,” Fletcher finished. “Lord Arlaith was, I understand, sometimes of that approach.”
    â€œI will eat.”
    â€œI will send some of your servants to attend you.”
    â€œI wish to be alone at present. You may send the servants when I have finished.”
    Fletcher did not look surprised. He bowed again. “Of course, my lord. You will not be disturbed.”
    â€œIn an hour you will return,” Eamon added. “We will go to each of the quarters. I will have reports from each of the Quarter Hands, detailing their readiness.”
    â€œWith reverence, my lord,” Fletcher began, “you need not trouble yourself with such a thing. I can easily send for them. They will come to you.”
    Eamon looked at him. For a moment, the thought tantalized him. He could have each Quarter Hand come to him, one blackspecimen after another, and they would answer him as he had been forced to answer to them. He could be rash and unforgiving, if he so chose it.
    â€œI will go,” he said quietly. “Send messages to them, advising them of my coming. I wish to meet with them and inspect their readiness in person. I will have their most recent reports, on Gauntlet and militia capacity, logistical flexibility, thresholder readiness. I will also survey the state of the city walls and the work that has been in progress on them.”
    Fletcher nodded. “Very well, my lord; it shall be as you command. By your leave, my lord.”
    â€œMr Fletcher.”
    Fletcher bowed neatly and left. A strange quiet settled; once the doors were closed it was impossible to hear beyond them.
    Drawing a deep breath, Eamon tried to relax. It was difficult.
    Slowly he moved about the rooms, touching posts and lintels and feeling the smooth texture of the wood beneath his fingers. Every available space was decked with finery. From every quarter, the black eagle of the Right Hand stared back at him.
    He stepped into his bedchamber and walked about the bed, trying to comprehend just how big it was. He wondered what use Arlaith might have put it to, and shuddered.
    As he had seen before, the bedroom opened to a balcony. It adjoined the throne room’s south balcony. The balcony spanned the length of that hall, joining East and West Wings of the palace together before ending at last by quarters opposite his own in the West Wing. They too bore an eagle, and Eamon knew at once whose rooms were connected to his own.
    He shuddered.
    He returned to the entrance hall and closed his eyes, but when he opened them the room was still there. He was still the Right Hand.
    Had Hughan meant for this to happen to him? Had the King ever guessed that his First Knight would become Edelred’s Right Hand?
    Breathing deeply he drew the blade from his side. He rested it across his hands. Its shaft, etched with letters, gazed back at him. The weapon carried a faint red weave, as though it too bore the Master’s mark.
    Eamon looked at the eagle over the hall’s mantelpiece. Its talons had been formed as hooks, so that they might hold a blade. It was the ceremonial hanging place for what he held.
    As he looked at the eagle his vision changed.
    The room became dark, lit only by the twisted candelabrum that stood in each of its corners. From every window – almost every stone – rang the sound of trumpets, triumphantly unfettered.
    A man stood by the eagled mantelpiece. Fire burned in the hearth, flecking clothes and man with red. The man leaned against the mantelpiece’s black ledge as he stared at the flames. The firelight revealed the dark sheath that hung at his side.
    As the fire crackled, the man looked on. Then the cries of hundreds upon hundreds of ecstatic voices rent the air:
    â€œTo his glory! To his glory!”
    Agony twisted the man’s face. Eben Goodman buried his pale face in black-gowned arms, and wept.
    Eamon staggered from the