Dragon Wing

53

The effects of the spell were slow to wear off. Hugh could not distinguish between dream and reality. One moment the black monk was standing at his side, taunting him.

“Death’s master? No, we are your masters. All your life, you have served us.” And then the black monk was Sinistrad.

“Why not serve me? I could use a man of your talents. Stephen and Anne must be dealt with. My son must sit on the throne of both Volkaran and Uylandia, and these two stand in his way. A clever man like you could figure out how their deaths could be accomplished. I’ve work to do, but I’ll return later. Remain here and think about it.”

“Here” was a dank cell that had been created out of nothing and nowhere. Sinistrad had carried Hugh to this place—wherever it was. The assassin had resisted, but not much. It’s difficult to fight when you can barely tell the floor from the ceiling, your feet seem to have multiplied and your legs lost their bones.

Of course it was Sinistrad who cast the spell on me.

Hugh could vaguely remember trying to tell Haplo he wasn’t drunk, that this was some terrible magic, but Haplo had only smiled that infuriating smile of his and said he’d feel better when he’d slept it off.

Maybe when Haplo wakes up and discovers I’m gone, he’ll come looking for me. Hugh held his pounding head in his hands and cursed himself for a fool. Even if Haplo does go looking for me, he’ll never find me. This prison cell isn’t located in the bowels of the castle, placed conveniently at the bottom of a long and winding stair. I saw the void out of which it sprang. It’s at the bottom of night, the middle of nowhere. No one will ever find me. I’ll stay here until I die ...

... or until I call Sinistrad master.

And why not? I’ve served many men; what’s one more? Or better yet, maybe I’ll just stay where I am. This cell isn’t much different from my life—a cold, bleak, and empty prison. I built the walls myself—made them out of money. I shut myself in and locked the door. I was my own guard, my own jailer. And it worked. Nothing has touched me. Pain, compassion, pity, remorse—they couldn’t get past the walls. I even considered killing a child for the money. And then the child got hold of the key.

But that had been the enchantment. It was his magic that made me pity him. Or was that my excuse? Certainly the enchantment didn’t conjure up those memories—memories of myself before the prison cell.

The enchantment works only because you want it to work. Your will feeds it. You could have broken it long ago, if you truly wanted to. You care about him, you see. And caring is an invisible prison.

Perhaps not. Perhaps it was freedom.

Dazed, half-waking, half-dreaming, Hugh rose from where he’d been sitting on the stone floor arid walked to the cell door. He reached out his hand . . . and stopped and stared. His hand was covered with blood. The wrist, forearm—he was smeared in blood to the elbow.

And as he saw himself, so must she see him.

“Sir.”

Hugh started and turned his head. Was she real or was she only a trick of his throbbing mind that had been thinking about her? He blinked, and she did not go away.

“Iridal?”

Seeing in her eyes that she knew the truth about him, he glanced down self-consciously at his hands.

“So Sinistrad was right,” Iridal said. “You are an assassin.” The rainbow eyes were gray and colorless; there was no light shining behind them.

What could he say? She spoke the truth. He could excuse himself, tell her about Three-Chop Nick. He could tell her how he had decided he couldn’t harm the boy. He could tell her that he had planned to take the boy back to Queen Anne. But none of it made different the fact that he had agreed; he had taken the money; he had known, in his heart, he could kill a child. And so he simply and quietly said, “Yes.”

“I don’t understand! It’s evil, monstrous! How could you spend your life murdering people?”

He could say that most of the men he’d killed deserved to die. He could tell her that he had probably saved the lives of those who would have become their next victims.

But Iridal would ask him: Who are you to judge?

And he would answer: Who is any man? Who is King Stephen, that he can proclaim, “That man is an elf and therefore he must die”? Who are the barons, that they can say, “That man has land I want. He won’t give it to me and therefore he must die”?

Fine arguments, but I agreed. I took the money. I knew, in my heart, I could kill a child. And so he said, “It doesn’t matter now.”

“No, except that I am alone. Again.”

Iridal spoke softly. Hugh knew he hadn’t been meant to hear. She stood in the center of the cell, her head bowed, the long white hair falling forward, hiding her face. She had cared for him. Trusted him. She had, perhaps, been going to ask him for help. His cell door swung slowly open, sunlight flooding into his soul.

“Iridal, you’re not alone. There’s someone you can trust. Alfred’s a good man, he’s devoted to your son.” Far more than Bane deserves, Hugh thought, but didn’t say. Aloud he continued, “Alfred saved the boy’s life once when a tree fell on him. If you want to escape—you and your son—Alfred could help you. He could take you to the elven ship. The elf captain needs money. He’d give you passage in return for that and safe guidance out of the firmament.”

“Escape?” Iridal glanced frantically around the cell walls, and then she buried her face in her hands. It was not Hugh’s cell walls she saw, but her own.

So she, too, is a prisoner. I opened her cell door, offered her a glimpse of light and air. And now she sees it swinging shut.

“Iridal, I’m a murderer. Worse, I’ve murdered for money. I make no excuses for myself. But what I’ve done is nothing to what your husband’s plotting!”

“You’re wrong! He’s never taken a life. He couldn’t do such a thing.”

“He’s talking about world war, Iridal! Sacrificing the lives of thousands to put himself into power!”

“You don’t understand. It’s our lives he’s trying to save. The lives of our people.”

Seeing his puzzled expression, she made an impatient gesture, angry at being forced to explain what she thought must be obvious.

“Surely you’ve wondered why the mysteriarchs left the Mid Realm, left a land where we had everything—power, wealth. Oh, I know what is said of us. I know because we were the ones who said it. We had grown disgusted with the barbaric life, with the constant warring with the elves. The truth is, we left because we had to, we had no choice. Our magic was dwindling. Intermarriage with ordinary humans had diluted it. That’s why there are so many wizards in this world of yours. Many, but weak. Those of us of pure blood were few but strong. To ensure the continuation of our race, we fled to someplace where we would not be—”

“Contaminated?” suggested Hugh.

Iridal flushed and bit her lip. Then, raising her head, she faced him with pride.

“I know you say that with contempt, but, yes, that is true. Can you blame us?”

“But it didn’t work.”

“The journey was difficult, and many died. More succumbed before the magical dome that protects us against the bitter cold and gives us air to breathe could be stabilized. At last all seemed well and children were born to us, but not many, and most of those died.” Her pride drained from her, her head drooped. “Bane is the only child of his generation left alive. And now the dome is collapsing. That shimmer in the sky that you find so beautiful is, to us, deadly.

“The buildings are illusion, the people pretend to be a large population, so that you won’t guess the truth.”

“You have to return to the world below, but you’re afraid to go back and reveal how weak you’ve grown,” finished Hugh. “The changeling became the prince of Volkaran. And now he’s going back as king!”

“King? That’s impossible. They already have a king.”

“Not impossible, madam. Your husband’s planning to hire me to get rid of their king and queen, and then Bane—their son—will inherit the throne.”

“I don’t believe you! You’re lying!”

“Yes, you believe me. I see it in your face. It’s not your husband you’re defending, it’s yourself. You know what your husband’s capable of doing. You know what he’s done and what you haven’t! Maybe it wasn’t murder, but he would have caused two people down there in the Mid Realm less pain if he’d driven knives into them instead of taking their baby.”

The dark, colorless eyes tried to meet his, but they faltered and fell. “I grieved for them. I tried to save their child ... I would have given my life if their baby could have lived. And then there are the lives of so many others—”

“I’ve done evil. But it seems to me, Iridal, that there is equal evil in not doing. Sinistrad is returning to conclude his deal with me. Listen to what he has planned and judge for yourself.”

Iridal stared at him, started to speak. Then, shaking her head, she shut her eyes and, in an instant, was gone. Her chains were too heavy. She couldn’t break free.

Hugh sank back down, alone in his cell within a cell. Pulling out his pipe, he clamped it between his teeth and glared at the prison walls. Walk the dragon wing.

If Sinistrad intended to startle him by his sudden appearance, the mysteriarch must have been disappointed. Hugh glanced up at him, but neither moved nor spoke.

“Well, Hugh the Hand, have you decided?”

“It wasn’t much of a decision.” Rising stiffly to his feet, Hugh carefully wrapped the pipe in its cloth and tucked it away near his breast. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in this place. I’ll work for you. I’ve worked for worse. After all, I once took money to kill a child.”