The Broken Blade by Anna Thayer

killed for her purse.”
    â€œBy your father?”
    â€œYes, Lord Cathair.”
    â€œIt would seem that he lied to you, Lord Goodman.”
    â€œPerhaps he did not know the truth,” Eamon answered, “or perhaps he sought to protect me from it.” A wave of sadness washed through Eamon. He wondered whether his father had known the history of the name he had borne. “But as for my own oaths, Lord Cathair,” he said gently, “they stand as they were made.”
    Cathair held his gaze for a moment and Eamon wondered whether the Hand’s expression softened.
    â€œThe decisions a man makes for his house are binding, my lord, and must be well considered,” he answered at last, “as I am sure yours are.”
    Eamon nodded once towards him. “To his glory, Lord Cathair,” he said.
    â€œTo his glory, my lord.”
    As Eamon turned to urge his horse from the Ashen, the onlookers bowed once again. He could not see their faces, nor could he fathom what they now made of the Master’s Right Hand. He knew then that the nature of his lineage would be all over the city within the hour.
    What would the Master say? He could not think on it. All he could think, and that bitterly, was that he had held to the King. He had held, and sacrificed himself, for his mother’s worm-like cousin.In the long day that followed, Eamon could barely lift his head to meet the gaze of any that enquired after him. His own household, Fletcher, Cartwright, and the maids whom he saw in his quarters, said nothing of his lineage to him, but it did not encourage him. Other men watched him sidelong as he moved through palace halls, and Hands hushed their conversations as he passed, and bowed with over-formality.
    Most terrifying of all, the Master said nothing about Fort; he only watched Eamon with his keen gaze and spoke of other things. But Eamon felt his disapproval and it cowed him into silence. He fully expected rebuke and knew that when it came it would be crushing.
    It came the next morning. As the servants wove and moved in the silent dance of their service and Eamon took his chair to breakfast, the throned fixed him with a penetrating glare.
    â€œA day, Eben’s son, yet still you do not deem to speak?” The Master’s voice was fierce and quiet.
    Eamon painfully drew his eyes up from his hands. “Master,” he began, “I –”
    â€œYou believed that I should learn it from Lord Arlaith, or from palace gossip?” Edelred spat. “Should not my Right Hand speak out such things to me the very moment that they occur?” The voice became a menacing roar. “You have dishonoured me, Eben’s son.”
    Eamon felt as though a blade turned in his chest. “Master, I meant no dishonour –”
    â€œStill you brought it.”
    â€œI cannot hide my roots, Master!” Eamon cried. “My mother’s choices were not of my making!”
    The throned laughed, that soft and indulgent laugh that Eamon both basked in and feared.
    â€œEben’s son!” he cried. “Do you not think I know your heritage? Do you not think I have known it since before your mother bore you?” Eamon trembled. “I know every twisted root and branch, every fruit and stone, of the trees that led to you. It is not your blood that dishonours me; it is your silence.”
    Eamon could not look at him. Blood and roots; did not everything go back to those? Was it not in deeds and words that blood and roots were either cursed or exulted? Had he not added further perjury to the curses that clung to his own? He knew he had; yet in his heart dwelt the sick hope that he might somehow receive the Master’s forgiveness.
    The throned took a long look at him. “Tonight, Eben’s son, there will be a feast at the palace. I will be there, as will you, at my side.”
    Eamon gazed at him in terror. “But the whole city despises me, Master,” he cried,