other hand. In each corner of each room stood enormous candelabra, their golden boughs littered with rubies. From marbled floor to towering roof above, the solemnly bejewelled chambers showcased the Masterâs glory with all conceivable opulence.
Eamon had never seen such riches; they staggered him. He faltered in the heart of the first hall, gawking and overwhelmed. The treasures of the West Wing gazed silently back at him. Edelred strode among them, more terrible in flesh than any likeness.
Eamon was not sure how many chambers there were. Each one held more than he could comprehend, and those things that he did see and understand were nothing but poorly grasped details of the whole.
Edelred led the way through each chamber, never pausing to look at what surrounded them. In one, Eamon saw a wall strung with banners. There were emblems and heralds there with designs that Eamon did not know, and there were banners from the merchant states; Eamon recognized those of Galithia, Lamiglia, and Breusklia. There were banners from the east, some known to him, and one, showing a purple and crimson sun against a yellow background, that he had never seen before. Beside these were the emblems of the Riverâs provinces â Eamonâs heart soared as he recognized the lions of his home, Edesfield, among them â and of Dunthruik and its quarters, some showing only the quartersâ leaf motifs.
But it was the banner hanging at the heart of these that struck Eamon dumb, for its frayed edges and dulled threads wove the shape of an eight-pointed star. Beneath this, clasped between the talons of great golden eagles, was a tarnished sword.
Tearing his sight away, Eamon looked back to Edelred. The Master pressed onwards. Eamon followed.
The chamber into which they went was a glut of gold as all the others; the austere glint of precious stones and metals stung Eamonâs eyes. But in this chamber Edelred stopped.
Eamon halted but a pace behind him. Choked by the wealth around him, he struggled to focus as the Master gestured to the wall.
âLook,â Edelred told him.
Eamon tried. His eyes sought the wall before him. It was different to the rest of the vault.
Although it was still richly hewn from marble and dark woods, the wall in front of him did not carry gold or gems. Rather, it showed an odd collection of objects: a leaf from a book, a great key, a curved sword, the torn fragment of a discoloured banner, a strangely shaped shield, a couple of small daggers, a ring, a cup, a small model of a holk, and three dark feathers pinned together by a clasp. Each object was carefully mounted and held in place by the talons of eagle-shaped clasps. But the eagles were not golden â they were black.
For a moment, Eamon simply stared. Though some of the objects were finely made they seemed utterly at odds with everything else that he had seen in the chambers. At a loss as to what to say or think, he looked up at Edelred.
The Master did not meet his gaze. Instead he stepped to the end of the line of objects. One additional set of eagle-clasps hung against the wall, empty. As Eamon looked at them, Edelred turned to him.
âThis is my wall of Right Hands. Take this, son of Eben,â he said. The Master held a frame, such as might encase a painting.
Trying to settle growing unease, Eamon reached forward and received it. As he weighed it into his hands he saw that the frame held a piece of parchment. It was a finely scribed sheet bearing the Masterâs eagle at its head. Eamon looked at it, his eyes racing across the words before him but unable to take in the meaning of any of them.
âSet it in the clasps,â Edelred commanded.
Eamon stepped forward to the empty clasps. The back of the frame had hooks set into it, and these Eamon used to mount the whole into the eaglesâ claws. As he stepped back his mind at last caught up with his sight and he understood what the paper was: the writ â or perhaps
Eamon had never seen such riches; they staggered him. He faltered in the heart of the first hall, gawking and overwhelmed. The treasures of the West Wing gazed silently back at him. Edelred strode among them, more terrible in flesh than any likeness.
Eamon was not sure how many chambers there were. Each one held more than he could comprehend, and those things that he did see and understand were nothing but poorly grasped details of the whole.
Edelred led the way through each chamber, never pausing to look at what surrounded them. In one, Eamon saw a wall strung with banners. There were emblems and heralds there with designs that Eamon did not know, and there were banners from the merchant states; Eamon recognized those of Galithia, Lamiglia, and Breusklia. There were banners from the east, some known to him, and one, showing a purple and crimson sun against a yellow background, that he had never seen before. Beside these were the emblems of the Riverâs provinces â Eamonâs heart soared as he recognized the lions of his home, Edesfield, among them â and of Dunthruik and its quarters, some showing only the quartersâ leaf motifs.
But it was the banner hanging at the heart of these that struck Eamon dumb, for its frayed edges and dulled threads wove the shape of an eight-pointed star. Beneath this, clasped between the talons of great golden eagles, was a tarnished sword.
Tearing his sight away, Eamon looked back to Edelred. The Master pressed onwards. Eamon followed.
The chamber into which they went was a glut of gold as all the others; the austere glint of precious stones and metals stung Eamonâs eyes. But in this chamber Edelred stopped.
Eamon halted but a pace behind him. Choked by the wealth around him, he struggled to focus as the Master gestured to the wall.
âLook,â Edelred told him.
Eamon tried. His eyes sought the wall before him. It was different to the rest of the vault.
Although it was still richly hewn from marble and dark woods, the wall in front of him did not carry gold or gems. Rather, it showed an odd collection of objects: a leaf from a book, a great key, a curved sword, the torn fragment of a discoloured banner, a strangely shaped shield, a couple of small daggers, a ring, a cup, a small model of a holk, and three dark feathers pinned together by a clasp. Each object was carefully mounted and held in place by the talons of eagle-shaped clasps. But the eagles were not golden â they were black.
For a moment, Eamon simply stared. Though some of the objects were finely made they seemed utterly at odds with everything else that he had seen in the chambers. At a loss as to what to say or think, he looked up at Edelred.
The Master did not meet his gaze. Instead he stepped to the end of the line of objects. One additional set of eagle-clasps hung against the wall, empty. As Eamon looked at them, Edelred turned to him.
âThis is my wall of Right Hands. Take this, son of Eben,â he said. The Master held a frame, such as might encase a painting.
Trying to settle growing unease, Eamon reached forward and received it. As he weighed it into his hands he saw that the frame held a piece of parchment. It was a finely scribed sheet bearing the Masterâs eagle at its head. Eamon looked at it, his eyes racing across the words before him but unable to take in the meaning of any of them.
âSet it in the clasps,â Edelred commanded.
Eamon stepped forward to the empty clasps. The back of the frame had hooks set into it, and these Eamon used to mount the whole into the eaglesâ claws. As he stepped back his mind at last caught up with his sight and he understood what the paper was: the writ â or perhaps
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