The Broken Blade by Anna Thayer Page A

“I cannot –”
    â€œI am the city, son of Eben.” His voice was like thunder. “And I delight in you.” Eamon’s head spun as the Master’s smile touched him. “Even so, do not be so foolish again.”
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    Eamon left the hall awash with fatigue and gruelling fear. He was but a plaything in the Master’s hands, to be built up and cast down at any moment. Now he had to go to a feast and sit at the throned’s right hand while Tramist, Cathair, and Arlaith pierced him with their venomous gazes. He would endure their stares and those of all the lords and ladies of the city. He had to, for the Master he loved commanded it.
    The thought drew him up short. Did he love the throned?
    He went to inspect the Blind Gate, its wide lanes lined with the severed heads of Dunthruik’s enemies in various stages of rot and decay. He searched the rotting faces in vain, seeking one face in particular: Rendolet’s, the shapeshifting Hand. Rendolet, who had taken the shape of the Master’s sworn enemy, the Easter, Feltumadas. Rendolet, whose shapeshifted head Eamon had brought back to Dunthruik as “proof” of Feltumadas’s demise. But the head was missing.
    Later that day he learned of a fire in the East Quarter that had destroyed the Horse and Cart and several buildings near it. The innkeeper, his family, guests, and neighbours had all been killed.
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    When Eamon returned to his quarters that evening he found robes set out for him. They were the robes that he had worn at the majesty, bearing the design of the Right Hand’s eagle on their breast. He could barely stand the sight of them.
    Cartwright helped him to dress; Eamon’s mind was weighted and troubled, in desperate need of ease.
    â€œCartwright,” he said quietly. Tears pooled in his eyes as the servant’s diligent hands fastened the cloak about his shoulders.
    â€œMy lord?”
    Eamon faltered. What good could it do?
    â€œDid Lady Turnholt ever speak of me?” he asked at last. He did not know why he asked it, except that her name and thoughts had once been things that rendered him solace.
    The hands at his shoulder paused for a moment.
    â€œForgive me, my lord,” Cartwright replied. “You told me not to speak of her.”
    â€œDid she?” Eamon persisted.
    After a long and reluctant pause, his servant nodded. “Often, my lord,” he said. “And dearly.”
    Eamon allowed the words to settle on him, trying to take comfort from them.
    Suddenly Alessia’s face was in his mind and he heard her weep: “They made me a painted doll, to be dressed and undressed at their leisure…”
    The words haunted him and he looked down at the clothes he wore. Was he any more than that? Was he not dressed and undressed, built up and cast down, caressed and struck, just as they desired?
    In an instant he wished for her hand and for her shoulder and long, beautiful hair, and he longed to bury his face and sorrows in them both. How truly she had spoken!
    But she had betrayed him. How could he forget that?
    Slowly he regained himself. “Thank you, Cartwright,” he whispered. “I will go down to the feast.”
    â€œI will await your return, my lord,” Cartwright replied.
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    Eamon made his way down the corridors towards the sounds of music and laughter. He mused that, apart from lavish breakfasts and his sleepless nights, he seemed to spend little time at the palace. He wondered if such had been the case for Arlaith.
    Red stones guarded some passageways but Eamon barely noticed them as he passed beneath the auspices of hanging banners and great paintings. He made his way to the Master’s quarters using the secret links between the East and West Wings of the palace, then took the path from the Master’s quarters to the throne room. The festivities grew ever louder as he approached.
    The door to the throne room was small and inconspicuous