The Broken Blade by Anna Thayer Page B

– a service entrance – but tonight it had been set aside for the Master. Eamon approached slowly. He noticed a bent figure stooping to a peephole in the wood. He cleared his throat.
    The figure straightened and turned towards him. The doorkeeper. He bowed.
    â€œLord Goodman,” he said.
    â€œDoorkeeper,” Eamon acknowledged.
    The man beamed at him. “You look splendid, my lord!”
    â€œThank you,” Eamon answered nervously. He resisted the urge to fold his hands and arms deep into his cloak, and tried to stand as a Right Hand would stand.
    â€œMy lord,” spoke another voice behind him: Fletcher’s.
    â€œWhat must I do, Mr Fletcher?” Eamon asked quietly.
    â€œIn a moment, the doorkeeper will announce the Master,” Fletcher answered. “You will go in with him.”
    â€œAnd then?”
    Fletcher smiled. “Then, my lord, you will wile the night away in whatever way best pleases you and the Master.”
    Eamon swallowed. “Thank you, Mr Fletcher,” he said, doing his best to mask his aversion to the prospect of spending his evening in the Master’s company. He watched light and shadow move across the peephole, and wondered what the doorkeeper saw through the tiny hole.
    Then the Master arrived. Those in the room bowed.
    â€œYour glory!” said those assembled. Belatedly, Eamon did the same, for he had never seen the throned look as powerful as in that moment. There were no words that could describe the fire that dwelt that night upon the Master of the River, nor how the tailors had contrived to set it in such costly and stupendous raiment as he now bore.
    Eamon bowed low. How drab and dour seemed the colour blue when all the world was aflame.
    As he bowed, the Master stepped forward. There was a glimmer of gold as the throned wreathed Eamon’s neck with an opulent chain. From the chain hung the red stone that Eamon had seen on Arlaith the first time that he had seen the Right Hand. Now he wore it. The eagle emblazoned there lay heavily over his heart.
    The Master smiled. “Rise, Eben’s son,” he said, “and walk with me.”
    Eamon did so and stepped to the Master’s side. The doorkeeper tugged a small cord near the hidden door. A moment later the sounds within dropped away and were reborn as a fanfare in the hall. The door opened as a voice called out:
    â€œThe Lord of Dunthruik and Master of the River Realm.”
    The Master stepped forward. Drawn by some terrifying magnetism, Eamon followed him.
    â€œTo his glory!” called the crier.
    â€œTo his glory!” answered the hall; Dunthruik’s greatest bowed down before them.
    The Master stepped forward and raised his head. A crown of flames twined his brow.
    â€œMy glory is not bound by shores or walls, or by earth or heaven,” he called, “yet it is shown in men who rise above the weakness of their blood and glorify me.” Eamon froze. The eyes of the hall were upon him and upon the Master. In particular, it was to the Quarter Hands that his eyes turned; their gazes made a fearsome spectrum of ambivalence, disgust, hatred, and pity.
    â€œIt is such a man,” the Master continued, “whom you shall honour this night. This feast is given for my Right Hand.”
    There could be no hesitation; Eamon felt the Master’s hand on his shoulder. As it alighted, he faced the throned, then dropped down to one knee before him. He pressed the Master’s hand feverishly against his brow.
    â€œYour glory ever and above all things, Master,” he whispered.
    The hall watched in silence, amazed by the sight of a Right Hand on his knee. Then the hall erupted into an ocean of wild applause.
    The throned smiled. “Rise, son of Eben,” he said.
    The music began again in earnest, but it could not drown the clapping. The throned led Eamon to the high table. There, servants seated the lords of Dunthruik, Eamon among their number, a