Free The Broken Blade by Anna Thayer Page B

gallery. The Master’s servants attended him and bore his long cloak off the ground as he walked. Eamon shrank before him.
    â€œMy tailors tell me, son of Eben, that they have excelled themselves.” The Master’s voice resonated through the air above all the cheering in the plaza below. “Show me.”
    Closing his eyes, Eamon stepped into the light before Edelred. As the Master’s appraising smile rained down on him, vomit pressed the back of his throat.
    â€œDoes it please you, Master?”
    â€œYou, Eben’s son, please me more each day.” Then, leaning forward, he kissed Eamon’s forehead with the peculiar tenderness of a cruel and fickle father. A sob escaped his lips as he received it.
    Smiling, the Master gestured to the balcony door. “Glorify me,” he commanded.
    Eamon strode onto the platform of light. The whole of Dunthruik lay before him, shown forth as a swelling ocean of faces in the teeming plaza below. His head spun as he looked down at them. He steadied himself on the balcony’s edge. A great roar filled the air.
    â€œLong live the Right Hand! Long live Lord Goodman!” The storm of voices erupted into applause. “Lord Goodman, to his glory! ”
    Pride and fear, arrogance and humility shattered Eamon like a tempest-strike. The city of Dunthruik adored him.
    â€œThe city loves you, Eben’s son.” The Master spoke from the darkened gallery behind. “Accept their love as you accept mine.”
    Slowly, Eamon raised his arms; his black cloak fell down from them and the folds struck outwards, like the plumes of a great eagle in flight. The crowd clamoured ecstatically.
    â€œThe Serpent is defeated,” Eamon called, “and the land is crowned.”
    â€œThe land is crowned in glory!”
    The liturgy had begun; never had Eamon heard it given with such passion.
    â€œThe glory is the Master’s, for he cast down the Serpent’s brood.” Suddenly Eamon’s voice rose to an unimaginable volume; something in him stirred to fervency by the ardour of the crowd. “Behold the majesty of him who delivers you from the broken and cursed house whose star has set. Behold him, Dunthruik!” he cried. “Behold him and rejoice!”
    The balcony became awash with light that tore Eamon’s sight from him. His ears were blasted with the cry from below.
    â€œ To his glory! To his glory! ”
    For the Master of the River and the Lord of Dunthruik stood on the shore of the city’s adulation, and there he smiled.
    â€œDunthruik,” he called. “Never has my glory had such a champion. I give you: my Right Hand.”
    And Dunthruik roared.
    Â 
    Eamon barely slept that night. His heart was full of the city’s praise and his forehead tainted by the press of the Master’s lips.
    Cartwright woke him early. Eamon let the man prepare him for another day. The robes he had shed the night before had been removed from his quarters, to be laid out for him when the Master desired it. To dress once more in the general robes of his rank felt akin to donning a worn, pale doublet that had seen years of harsh service; it felt rough against his skin.
    When had he grown accustomed to finery?
    He went again to breakfast and barely noticed the mute servants in the hall as they fed him. He basked in the Master’s praise and yet all the while it seemed hollow in his ears.
    â€œYou have yet to see to the theatre, Eben’s son,” the throned told him.
    Eamon looked at him in surprise. “Master?”
    The Master favoured him with a smile that broke his heart. “The Crown is yours,” he replied. “It awaits its patron.”
    Eamon’s mind flew back what seemed a hundred years, to the night when he had sat in the theatre with Lord Arlaith speaking softly in his ear and Alessia clinging to his hand, her treachery but a breath away.
    â€œYes, Master,” he said. “I will attend to