Into the Labyrinth

9

Clang finished reading, looked up at Hugh. He had stood silently as she read the missive, his hands thrust into the pockets of his leather pants, his back leaning against the wall. Now he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, crossed his arms, stared down at the floor.

“You do not believe,” Ciang said.

Hugh shook his head. “A murderer trying to wriggle out from under his deed. He claims no one suspected, but someone obviously did, and he’s trying to square himself with his kid before going off to war.”

Ciang was angry. Her lips disappeared into a thin, bitter line. “If you were an elf, you would believe. Such oaths he swears are not made lightly, even in this day and age.”

Hugh flushed. “I’m sorry, Ciang. I meant no disrespect. It’s just... I’ve seen magical weapons in my time and I’ve never seen one do anything like that. Or even close.”

“And how many men have you met who were dead and came back to life, Hugh the Hand?” Ciang demanded, voice soft. “And how many men have you seen with four arms? Or do you now refuse to believe me as well?”

Hugh lowered his gaze, stared again at the floor. His face darkening, his visage grim, he glanced at the knife. “Then how does it work?”

“I do not know,” Ciang answered, her gaze, too, on the crude-looking weapon.

“I cannot say. I have my own surmises, but that is all they are—surmises. You now know all the facts that I know.”

Hugh stirred restlessly. “How did the knife come into the Brotherhood’s possession? Can you tell me that?”

“It was here when I came. But the answer is not so difficult to imagine. The elven war was long and costly. It ruined many elven families. Perhaps this noble family fell on hard times. Perhaps a younger son was forced to seek his fortune and sought it in the Brotherhood. Perhaps he brought the Accursed Blade with him. Krenka-Anris is the only one who knows the truth now. The man who was my predecessor turned it over to me with this missive. He was human. He had not read this, could not understand it. Which was, undoubtedly, why he permitted the knife to be loaned out.”

“And you never have allowed anyone to use it?” Hugh asked, studying her intently.

“Never. You forget, my friend,” Ciang added, “I helped them bury the man with four arms. Then, too, no one of us before has ever been forced to kill a god.”

“And you think this weapon will do that?”

“If you believe this account, it was designed for just such a purpose. I have spent the night studying the Sartan magic, for though this man you must kill is not one of them, the basis for both their magicks is basically the same.”

Ciang rose to her feet, moved slowly from her chair to stand near the table on which lay the knife. As she spoke, she ran a long-nailed finger delicately over the hilt, along its battered metal. She was careful, however, not to touch the blade itself, the blade marked with the runes.

“A Paxar wizard, who lived in the days when the Sartan were still living in the Mid Realms, made an attempt to learn the secrets of Sartan magic. Not unusual. The wizard Sinistrad did the same, or so I am told.” Ciang’s gaze slid in Hugh’s direction.

He frowned, nodded, but said nothing.

“According to this wizard, Sartan magic is far different from elven magic—or human magic—in that the magic does not rely on manipulating natural occurrences, as in the case of humans, or using it to enhance mechanics, as do we elves. Such magicks work either with what is past or what is here and now. Sartan magic controls the future. And that is what makes it so powerful. They do this through controlling the possibilities.”

Hugh looked baffled.

Ciang paused, considered. “How shall I explain? Let us suppose, my friend, that we are standing in this room when suddenly thirteen men rush through that door to attack you. What would you do?”

Hugh gave a rueful grin. “Jump out the window.”

Ciang smiled, rested her hand on his arm. “Ever prudent, my friend. That is why you have lived long. That would be one possibility, of course. There are many weapons here. They provide you with numerous other possibilities. You might use a pike to keep your enemies at bay. You could shoot the elven exploding arrows into their midst. You might even fling one of the human fire-storm potions at them. All possibilities you could choose.

“And there are others, my friend. Some more bizarre, but all possibilities. For example, the ceiling could unexpectedly give way and crush your enemies. Their combined weight could cause them to drop through the floor. A dragon could fly through the window and devour them.”

“Not likely!” Hugh laughed grimly.

“But you admit it is possible.”

“Anything’s possible.”

“Almost. Though the more improbable the probability, the more power is required to produce it. A Sartan has the ability to look into the future, scan the possibilities, and choose the one that suits him best. He summons it forth, causes it to happen. That, my friend, is how you came back to life.” Hugh was no longer laughing. “So Alfred looked into the future and discovered the possibility—”

“—that you survived the wizard’s attack. He chose that one and you returned to life.”

“But wouldn’t that mean I had never died?”

“Ah, here we delve into the forbidden art of necromancy. The Sartan were not permitted to practice it, according to the wizard—”

“Yes, Iridal said something about that. One reason Alfred denied having used his magic on me. ‘For every one who is brought back to life untimely, another dies untimely,’ she said. Bane, perhaps. Her own son.” Ciang shrugged. “Who knows? It is probable that if Alfred had been present when the wizard attacked you, the Sartan could have saved your life. In that case, you would not have died. But you were already dead. A fact that could not be altered. Sartan magic cannot change the past, it can only affect the future. I spent long hours considering this last night, my friend, using the wizard’s text for reference, although he did not bother to consider necromancy, since the Sartan were not then practicing it.

“We know that you died. You experienced an afterlife.” Ciang grimaced slightly as she said this. “And now you are alive. Think of this as a child playing at leapfrog. The child starts at this point. He leaps over the back of the child in front of him, arrives at his next point. Alfred cannot change the fact that you died. But he can leap over it, so to speak. He moves from back to front—”

“And leaves me trapped in the middle!”

“Yes. That is what I believe has happened. You are not dead. Yet you are not truly alive.” Hugh stared at her. “I mean no offense, Ciang, but I can’t accept this. It just doesn’t make sense!”

Ciang shook her head. “Perhaps I cannot either. It is an interesting theory. And it helped me to pass the long hours of the night. But now, back to this weapon. Knowing more about how the Sartan magic works, we can start to understand how this weapon works—”

“Assuming Patryn magic works like Sartan.”

“There may be some differences—just as elven magic is different from human. But I believe—as I said—that the basics are the same. First let us consider this account of the elf lord who killed his brother. Let us assume that he is telling the truth. What, then, do we know?

“He and his brother are engaged in a friendly contest, using knives. But the weapon that he has chosen does not know the contest is a friendly one. It only knows that it is fighting an opponent wielding a knife...”

“And so it counters. And it does so by turning itself into a superior weapon,” Hugh said, regarding the blade with more interest. “That much makes sense. A man comes at you with a knife. If you have the ability to choose your weapon, you’ll take a sword. He never has a chance to get within your guard.” He looked up at Ciang, awed. “And you think the weapon itself chose to become a sword?”

“Either that,” said Ciang slowly, “or it reacted to the elf lord’s wish. What if he was thinking, academically, of course, that a sword would be a perfect weapon to use against his knife-wielding opponent. Suddenly he holds the sword in his hand.”

“But surely the man who had four arms didn’t wish for two more arms?” Hugh protested.

“Perhaps he wished for a larger weapon and he ended up with one so large and heavy that four arms were required to wield it.” Ciang tapped the knife’s hilt with her fingernail. “It is like the faery story we heard as children—the beautiful young maiden wished for immortal life, and her wish was granted. But she forgot to ask for eternal youth and so she grew older and older, her body withered to a husk. And thus she was doomed to live on and on.” Hugh had a sudden vision of himself, doomed to such an existence. He looked at Ciang, who had lived far longer than the longest-lived elf...

“No,” she answered his unspoken question. “I never encountered a faery. I never went looking for one. I will die. But you, my friend—I am not so certain. This Sartan Alfred is the one who is in control of your future. You must find him to regain your soul’s freedom.”

“I will,” said Hugh. “Just as soon as I rid the world of this Haplo. I will take the knife. I may not use it. But it could come in handy. ‘Possibly,’” he added with a twisted smile.

Ciang inclined her head, granting him permission.

He hesitated a moment, hands flexing nervously, then—conscious of the elf woman’s slanted eyes on him—he swiftly wrapped the knife in its black velvet cloth and picked it up. He held it in his hand, keeping it away from his body, eyeing it suspiciously.

The blade did nothing, though it seemed he could feel it quiver, pulse with whatever magic life it possessed. He started to thrust it into his belt, thought better of it, continued to hold it. He would need a sheath for it, one that he could sling over his shoulder, to keep from coming into contact with the weapon. The touch of the metal knife, squirming like an eel in his hand, was unnerving.

Ciang turned to walk back toward the entrance. Hugh gave her his arm. She accepted it, though she took pains not to lean on him. They walked at a slow pace.

A thought occurred to Hugh. His face reddened. He came to a halt.

“What is it, my friend?” Ciang said, feeling the arm she held grow tense.

“I... cannot pay for this, Ciang,” he said, embarrassed. “What wealth I had I gave to the Kir monks. In return for letting me live with them.”

“You will pay,” said Ciang, and her smile was dark and mirthless. “Take the Accursed Blade away, Hugh the Hand. Take your accursed self away as well. That will be your payment to the Brotherhood. And if you ever return, the next payment will be taken in blood.”