The Hand of Chaos

22

The sharp lines of granite walls that formed the Kir Monastery stood out, stark and black, against the shimmering, lambent light given off by the coralite of the hills surrounding it. The monastery itself was dark and silent; no light shone within, no sound came from within. A single, solitary glow-lamp burning feebly over the entrance—a signal to those in need—was the only evidence that anyone lived here.

Iridal dismounted from her dragon, stroked its neck, spent a few moments calming it. The creature was nervous, restive, and would not respond immediately to the sleep spell she tried to cast upon it. Riders always caused their dragons to sleep after flight. Not only did the spell provide the dragon needed rest, but also the enforced slumber rendered the creature harmless, so that it would not take it into its head to raid the countryside during the mysteriarch’s absence.

But this dragon refused to be enchanted. It jerked its head away, tugged at its harness, lashed its tail this way and that. Had Iridal been an experienced dragon-rider, she would have recognized these signs as indicative of another dragon somewhere near.

Dragons are very companionable creatures, fond of their own kind, and this dragon of Iridal’s was much more inclined for a friendly chat than sleep.[49] The dragon was too well trained to call out (they are taught to keep silent, lest a cry give away their position to an enemy). But the creature had no need to vocalize; it could sense a companion in many other ways: smell and hearing, among other, more subtle means.

If the other dragon in the area had responded, Iridal would have been forced to resort to firm measures in order to subdue her mount. As it was, the other dragon refused to acknowledge in any way its fellow’s presence. Iridal’s borrowed dragon—a mild creature, not exceptionally quick-witted—was hurt, but was too stupid to be deeply offended. Tired from the long journey, the dragon finally relaxed and listened to Iridal’s soothing words.

Seeing its eyelids droop and noting the tail begin to curl about the feet, the claws to dig more firmly in the ground to gain steady purchase, Iridal quickly intoned the spell. Her dragon soon slept deeply. Never thinking to wonder why it had been restive, her mind preoccupied with thoughts of this coming meeting that she knew would not be at all a pleasant one, Iridal forgot about the odd behavior of the dragon and set out to walk the short distance between herself and the monastery.

No outer walls surrounded the monastery. No gate barred entrance. The death monks needed no such protection. When the elves occupied human lands and entire villages were razed and destroyed, the Kir monasteries remained untouched. The most drunken, blood-mad elf sobered instantly on finding himself anywhere near the black, chill walls.[50]

Repressing a shiver, Iridal focused her mind on what was important—the recovery of her lost child—and, drawing her cloak more closely about her, proceeded with firm step to the baked clay door illuminated by the glowlamp. An iron bell hung over the door. Iridal took hold of the bellpull and jerked it. The iron tones of the bell were muffled and almost immediately swallowed up, absorbed by the building’s thick walls. Accepted as a necessity for contact with the outside world, the bell was permitted to speak, but not to sing.

There came a grating sound. An opening appeared in the door. An eye appeared in the opening.

“Where is the corpse?” the voice asked in a disinterested monotone. Iridal, her thoughts on her son, was chilled by the question, alarmed and startled. It seemed a terrible portent, and she very nearly turned around and ran off. But logic prevailed. She reminded herself of what she knew of the Kir monks, told herself that this question—so frightful to her—was perfectly natural for them.

The Kir monks worship death. They view life as a kind of prison-house existence, to be endured until the soul can escape and find true peace and happiness elsewhere. The Kir monks will not, therefore, come to the aid of the living. They will not nurse the sick, they will not feed the hungry or bind the wounds of the injured. They will, however, tend to the dead, celebrating the fact that the soul has moved on. The Kir are not disturbed by death in even its more horrible forms. They claim the victim when the murderer has done. They walk the fields of battle when the battle is ended. They enter the plague town when all others have fled.

The one service the Kir offer the living is to take in unwanted male children: orphans, bastards, inconvenient sons. These children are raised in the Order, raised to worship death, and so the Order continues.

The question the monk asked Iridal was a common question, one he asked of all who come to the monastery at this hour of night. For there would be no other reason to approach these forbidding walls.

“I do not come about the dead,” said Iridal, recovering her composure. “I come about the living.”

“About a child?” demanded the monk.

“Yes, Brother,” answered Iridal. “Though not in the way you mean,” she added silently.

The eye disappeared. The small panel in the clay door slammed shut. The door opened. The monk stood to one side, his face hidden by the black cowl he wore low over his head. He did not bow, did not offer her welcome, showed her no respect, regarded her with very little interest. She was alive, and the living did not count for much with the Kir.

The monk proceeded down a corridor without glancing back at Iridal, assuming she would follow or not as she chose. He led her to a large room not far from the entrance, certainly not far enough for her to catch more than a glimpse inside the monastery walls. It was darker within than without, for outside the walls, the coralite gave off its faint silvery glow. Inside, no lamps lit the hallways. Here and there, she caught a glimpse of a candle, its pinprick of wavering light providing safe walking for the one who held it. The monk showed Iridal into the room, told her to wait, the Abbot would be with her shortly. The monk left and shut the door behind him, locked her inside, in the dark. Iridal smiled even as she shivered and huddled deeper within her cloak. The door was baked clay, as were all the doors in the monastery. She could, with her magic, shiver it like ice. But she sat and waited in patience, knowing that now was not the time to resort to threats. That would come later. The door opened; a man entered, carrying a candle. He was old and large-framed, lean and spare, his flesh seeming insufficient to cover his bones. He did not wear his cowl over his head, but let it fall on his thin shoulders. His head was bald, perhaps shaved. He barely spared Iridal a glance as he crossed in front of her without courtesy, came to sit behind a desk. Lifting a pen, he reached out, drew forth a sheet of parchment, and—still not looking at Iridal—prepared to write.

“We do not offer money, you know,” said the man, who must have been the Abbot, though he did not bother to introduce himself. “We will take the child off your hands. That is all. Are you the boy’s mother?”

Again, the question struck painfully near the mark of her thoughts. Iridal knew well the Abbot assumed she had come to rid herself of an unwanted burden; she had decided to use this ruse to obtain entry. But she found herself answering nonetheless.

Yes, I am Bane’s mother. I gave him up. I let my husband take my child and give him to another. What could I do to stop him? I was frightened. Sinistrad held my father’s life in bondage. And when my child returned to me, I tried to win him back. I did try! But, again, what could I do? Sinistrad threatened to kill them, those who came with Bane. The Geg, the man with the blue skin, and... and...

“Really, madam,” said the Abbot coldly, raising his head, regarding her for the first time since he’d come into the room. “You should have made up your mind to this before you disturbed us. Do you want us to take this boy or don’t you?”

“I didn’t come about a child,” said Iridal, banishing the past. “I came to talk to someone who resides in this house.”

“Impossible!” stated the Abbot. His face was pinched and gaunt, the eyes sunken. They glared at her from dark shadows, reflected the candlelight that was two flickering points of flame in the glistening orbs-“Once man or boy enters that door, he leaves the world behind. He has no father or mother, sister or brother, lover or friend. Respect his vows. Be gone, and do not disturb him.”

The Abbot rose. So did Iridal. He expected her to leave, was somewhat surprised and considerably displeased—to judge by his baleful expression—to see her take a step forward, confront him.

“I do respect your ways, Lord Abbot. My business is not with any of the brothers, but one who has never taken vows. He is the one who is permitted to reside here, against—I may add—all rules, in defiance of tradition. He is called Hugh the Hand.”

The Abbot did not flicker an eyelid. “You are mistaken,” he said, speaking with such conviction that Iridal must have believed him had she not known positively the monk was lying. “One who called himself by that name used to live with us, but that was as a child. He left, long ago. We have no knowledge of him.”

“The first is true,” Iridal answered. “The second is a lie. He came back to you, about a year ago. He told a strange tale and begged admittance. You either believed his story or thought him mad and took pity on him. No,” she interrupted herself. “You pity no one. You believed his story, then. I wonder why?”

An eyebrow moved, lifted. “If you saw him, you would have no need to ask why.” The Abbot folded his hands across his lank body. “I will not bandy words with you, Lady. It is obviously a waste of time. Yes, one who calls himself Hugh the Hand does reside here. No, he has not taken vows that shut him off from the world. Yet, he is shut off. He has done so himself. He will not see a living soul from the outside. Only us. And then only when we bring him food and drink.”

Iridal shuddered, but she stood firm. “Nonetheless, I will see him.” Drawing aside her cloak, she revealed a silvery gray dress, trimmed in cabalistic symbols on the hem, the neck, the cuffs of the sleeves and the belt she wore around her waist. “I am one you term a mysteriarch. I am of the High Realm. My magic could crack that clay door, crack these walls, crack your head if I choose. You will take me to see Hugh the Hand.”

The Abbot shrugged. It was nothing to him. He would have allowed her to tear the Abbey down stone by stone before he permitted her to see one who had taken the vows. But the man Hugh was different. He was here by sufferance. Let him look out for himself.

“This way,” said the Abbot, ungraciously, walking past her to the door. “You will speak to no one, nor lift your eyes to look at anyone. On pain of expulsion.” He was not, it seemed, particularly impressed by her threats. After all, a mysteriarch was just another corpse, as far as the Kir were concerned.

“I said I respected your vows and I will do what is required of me,” responded Iridal crisply. “I care nothing for what goes on in here. My business”—she emphasized the word—“is with Hugh the Hand.”

The Abbot stalked out carrying the candle, the only light, and he blocked out most of it with his robed body. Iridal, coming behind, found it difficult to see her footing. She was forced, therefore, to keep her eyes fixed on the ground, for the floors of the ancient building were cracked and uneven. The halls were deserted, quiet. She had a vague impression of shut doors on either side of her. Once she thought she heard a baby cry, and her heart ached for the poor child, alone and abandoned in such a dismal place.

They reached a stairway, and here the Abbot actually stopped and obtained a candle for her before proceeding downward. Iridal concluded that he was not so much concerned for her safety as trying to avoid the nuisance of dealing with her should she fall and break anything. At the bottom of the stairs, they came to water cellars. Doors stood barred and locked to protect the precious liquid that was not only used for drinking and cooking but was also part of the Abbey’s wealth.

Apparently, however, not all doors guarded water. The Abbot stalked over to one, reached down and rattled the handle.

“You have a visitor, Hugh.”

No answer. Just a scraping sound, as of a chair, lurching across the floor. The Abbot rattled the handle more loudly.

“He is locked in? You’ve made him a prisoner?” asked Iridal in a low voice.

“He makes himself a prisoner, Lady,” retorted the Abbot. “He has the key inside with him. We may not enter—you may not enter—unless he hands the key to us.”

Iridal’s resolve wavered. She very nearly left again. She doubted now if Hugh could help her, and she was afraid to face what he had become. Yet, if he didn’t help her, who would? Not Stephen, that much had been made clear. Not the other mysteriarchs. Powerful wizards, most of them, but with no love for her dead husband, no reason to want progeny of Sinistrad’s returned to them. As for other mundane humans, Iridal knew very few, was not impressed by those she’d met. Hugh alone filled all her needs. He knew how to pilot an elven dragonship, he had traveled in elven lands, he spoke the elven language fluently, was familiar with elven customs. He was bold and daring; he’d earned his livelihood as a professional assassin, and he’d been the best in the business. As Iridal had reminded Stephen, he—a king who could afford the best—had once hired Hugh the Hand.

The Abbot repeated, “Hugh, you have a visitor,”

“Go to hell,” said a voice from within.

Iridal sighed. The voice was slurred and harsh from smoking stregno—Iridal could smell the reek of his pipe out in the hall—from strong drink and disuse. But she recognized it.

The key. That was her hope. He kept the key himself, obviously afraid that if he gave it to others, he might be tempted to tell them to let him out. There must be part of him, then, that wanted out.

“Hugh the Hand, it is Iridal of the High Realm. I am in desperate need. I must speak with you. I ... I want to hire you.”

She had little doubt that he’d refuse and she knew, from the slight, disdainful smile on the Abbot’s thin lips, that he thought the same.

“Iridal,” repeated Hugh, in puzzled tones, as if the name was wandering around the liquor-soaked dregs of his mind. “Iridal!”

The last was a harsh whisper, an expelled breath, as of something long wished for and finally achieved. But there was neither love nor longing in that voice. Rather, a rage that might have melted granite.

A heavy body thudded against the clay door, followed by a fumbling and scraping. A panel slid aside. A red eye, partially hidden beneath a mat of filthy hair, stared out, found her, fixed on her, unblinking.

“Iridal...”

The panel slid shut abruptly.

The Abbot glanced at her, curious to see her response, probably expecting her to turn and flee. Iridal stood firm, the fingers of one hand, hidden beneath her cloak, digging into her flesh. The other hand, which held the candle, was steady.

Frantic activity sounded inside: furniture being overturned, casks upset, as if Hugh was searching for something. A snarl of triumph. A metal object struck the lower half of the door. Another snarl, this one of frustration, then a key shot out from beneath the crack.

The Abbot leaned down, picked the key up, held it in his hand a moment, eyeing it speculatively. He looked at Iridal, silently asking her if she wanted him to proceed.

Lips pressed together, she indicated with a cold nod that he was to open the door. Shrugging, the Abbot did so. The moment the lock clicked, the clay door was flung open from the inside. An apparition appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against dimly lit, smoke-filled shadows behind, illuminated by the candlelight before him. The apparition sprang at Iridal. Strong hands grabbed hold of her arms, dragged her inside the cell, and flung her back against a wall. She dropped the candle; it fell to the floor, the light drowning in a pool of spilled wax.

Hugh the Hand, blocking the door with his body, faced the Abbot.

“The key,” the Hand commanded.

The Abbot gave it over.

“Leave us!”

Catching hold of the door, Hugh slammed it shut. Turning, he faced Iridal. She heard the Abbot’s soft footfalls pad disinterestedly away.

The cell was small. The furniture consisted of a crude bed, a table, a chair—overturned—and a bucket in a corner, used—by the stench—to hold the body’s wastes. A thick wax candle stood on the table. Hugh’s pipe lay beside it. A mug stood near that, along with a plate of half-eaten food and a bottle of some liquor that smelled almost as bad as the stregno.

Iridal took in all these objects with a swift glance that was also searching for weapons. Her fear was not for herself; she was armored with her powerful magic that could subdue the man more swiftly and easily than she subdued her dragon. She feared for Hugh, that he might do some harm to himself before she could stop him, for she assumed that he was drunk beyond the point of sanity. He stood before her, staring at her, his face—with its hawk nose, strong forehead, deep-set, narrow eyes—was hideous, half-hidden by wandering shadows and a haze of yellow-tinged smoke. He breathed heavily, from the frenzied exertion, the liquor, and an avid excitement that made his body tremble. He lurched unsteadily toward her, hands outstretched. The light fell full upon his face and then Iridal was afraid for herself, for the liquor had inflamed his skin but did not touch his eyes.

Some part of him, deep within, was sober; some part that could not be touched by the wine, no matter how much he drank; some part that could not be drowned. His face was almost unrecognizable, ravaged by bitter grief and inner torment. His black hair was streaked with gray; his beard, once rakishly braided, was uncombed, and had grown long and scraggly. He wore a torn shirt and a leather vest and breeches stained and stiff with dirt. His hard-muscled body had gone soft, yet he had a strength born of the wine, for Iridal could still feel the bite of his fingers on her bruised arms.

He staggered closer. She marked the key in his shaking hand. The words of a spell were on her lips, but she didn’t say them. She could see his face clearly now, and she could have wept for him. Pity, compassion, the memory that he had given his life, died horribly to save her child, moved her to reach out her hands to him.

He caught hold of her wrists, his grasp crushing and painful, and fell to his knees before her.

“End this curse!” he pleaded, his voice choked. “I beg you, Lady! End this curse you have put upon me! Free me! Let me go!”

He bowed his head. Harsh, dry sobs tore his body. He shook and shivered, his nerveless hands let slip their hold. Iridal bent over him, her tears falling on the graying hair that she smoothed with chill fingers.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered brokenly. “So sorry.” He raised his head. “I don’t want your damn pity! Free me!” he repeated again, harsh, urgent. His hands clutched at hers. “You don’t know what you’ve done! End it... now!”

She regarded him for long moments, unable to speak.

“I can’t, Hugh. It was not me.”

“Yes!” he cried fiercely. “I saw you! When I woke—” She shook her head. “Such a spell is far beyond my power, thank the ancestors. You know,” she said to him, looking into the pleading, hopeless eyes. “You must know. It was Alfred.”

“Alfred!” He gasped the word. “Where is he? Did he come... ?” He saw the answer in her eyes and threw his head back as if the agony was more than he could endure. Two great tears welled from beneath squinched-shut eyelids, rolled down his cheeks into the thick and matted beard. He drew a deep and shivering breath and suddenly went berserk, began to scream in terrible anger, claw at his face and hair with his hands. And, as suddenly, he pitched forward on his face and lay still and unmoving as the dead. Which he had once been.