The Hand of Chaos

31

“He’s insane,” said the Book, the first to recover her power of speech.

“I don’t believe so,” said the Keeper of the Soul, regarding Hugh with intense, if perplexed, interest. “You are not insane, are you, Hugh.” The human word came awkwardly to elven lips.

“No,” Hugh answered shortly. Now that the worst was over—and he had not imagined it would be so difficult—he was relaxed, could even view the elves’ astonishment with sardonic amusement. The only person he could not face yet was Iridal and, because of this, he was grateful for his blindness. She said nothing, confused, not understanding, thinking, perhaps, that this was another of his tricks.

No trick. He was in earnest—deadly earnest. “You were raised by Kir monks. You know something, then, of our ways.”

“I know a lot, Keeper. I make it my business to know things,” Hugh said.

“Yes,” the Soul murmured. “I do not doubt it. You know, then, that we do not accept human souls, that we never buy souls at all. The souls we take in are given to us freely...”

The Keeper’s voice faltered somewhat on the last statement.

Hugh smiled grimly, shook his head.

The Keeper was silent long moments, then said, “You are well informed, sir.” Silent again, then, “You have made a long journey, fraught with danger, to offer that which you knew we must reject—”

“You won’t reject it,” said Hugh. “I’m different.”

“I can sense that,” said the Keeper softly. “But I don’t understand. Why are you different, Hugh? What is there about your soul that would make it valuable to us? That would even permit us to take it?”

“Because my soul, such as it is”—Hugh’s mouth twisted—“has passed beyond... and has returned.”

“Hugh,” Iridal gasped, suddenly realizing that this was no trick, “you can’t be serious. Hugh, don’t do this!”

Hugh paid no attention to her.

“Do you mean,” said the Keeper in a stifled tone that sounded as if he were suffocating, “that you have died and been... and been...”

“Resurrected,” Hugh said.

He had expected astonishment, disbelief. But it seemed he had cast a lightning bolt into the elves. He could feel the electricity arc in the air, almost hear it crackle around him.

“That is what I see in your face,” said Soul.

“ ‘The man who is dead and is not dead,’” said Door.

“The sign,” said Book.

A moment ago, Hugh had been in control of the situation. Now, somehow, he’d lost it, felt helpless, as when his dragon-ship had been sucked into the Maelstrom.

“What is it? Tell me!” he demanded harshly, reaching out. He stumbled over a chair.

“Hugh, don’t! What do you mean?” Iridal cried, blindly clutching at him. She turned frantically to the elves. “Explain to me. I don’t understand.”

“I think we may restore their sight,” said the Keeper of the Soul.

“Such a thing is unprecedented!” Book protested.

“All is unprecedented,” replied Soul gravely.

He took hold of Hugh’s hands, held them fast, with a strength startling in one so thin, and laid his other hand on the man’s eyes.

Hugh blinked, looked swiftly around him. The Keeper of the Door lifted Iridal’s blindness in the same fashion. Neither had ever seen Kenkari elves before, and were amazed by their appearance.

The Kenkari, all three, stood head and shoulders taller than Hugh the Hand, who was considered a tall man among humans. But the elves were so excessively thin that the three of them might have stood side by side and barely equaled Hugh’s breadth. The Kenkari’s hair was long, for it is never cut, and is white from birth.

Male and female Kenkari are similar in appearance, particularly when wearing the shapeless butterfly robes that easily hide the female’s curves. The most noticeable difference between the sexes is in the way the hair is worn. Males plait it in one long braid, down the back. Females wrap the braid around the head in a crown. Their eyes are large, overlarge in their small, delicate faces; the pupils are extraordinarily dark. Some elves remark disparagingly (but never publicly) that the Kenkari have come to resemble the winged insect they worship and emulate.

Iridal sank weakly into a chair one of the Kenkari provided for her. Once her initial shock at the sight of the strange-looking elves had worn off, she turned her gaze to Hugh.

“What are you doing? Tell me. I don’t understand.”

“Trust me, Iridal,” Hugh said quietly. “You promised you would trust me.” Iridal shook her head, and, as she did so, her eyes were drawn to the Aviary. They softened at the sight of the lush, green beauty, but then she seemed to realize what it was she looked upon. Her gaze shifted back to Hugh with a kind of horror.

“Now, please explain yourself, sir,” said the Keeper of the Soul.

“First you explain yourself,” Hugh demanded, glaring from one to the other.

“You don’t seem all that surprised to see me. I get the feeling you were expecting me.”

The dark-eyed gazes of the three Keepers slid from one to the other, exchanging thoughts from beneath lowered lids.

“Please, sit down, Hugh. I think we should all sit down. Thank you. You see, sir, we weren’t expecting you precisely. We didn’t know quite what to expect. You’ve obviously heard that we have closed the Cathedral of the Albedo. Due to... shall we say... very unhappy circumstances.”

“The emperor murdering his own kin for their souls,” Hugh stated. Reaching into a pocket of his robes, he drew forth his pipe, stuck it—cold—between his teeth.

Angered by Hugh’s bluntness and apparent disdain, the Soul’s expression turned hard and brittle. “What right have you humans to judge us? Your hands, too, are wet with blood!”

“It is a terrible war,” said Iridal softly. “A war neither side can win.” The Soul grew calmer. Sighing, he nodded in sad agreement. “Yes, Magicka. That is what we have come to understand. We prayed to Krenka-Anris for the answer. And we received it, though we do not understand it. ‘Other worlds. A gate of death that leads to life. A man who is dead and who is not dead.’ The message was more complicated, of course, but those are the signs we are to look for, to know that the end of this terrible destruction is near.”

“ ‘A gate of death...’” Iridal repeated, staring at them in wonder. “You mean: Death’s Gate.”

“Do you know of such a thing?” the Keeper asked, taken aback.

“Yes. And ... it leads to other worlds! The Sartan created them, created Death’s Gate. A Sartan I knew passed through it, not long ago. The same Sartan...” Iridal’s voice faded to a whisper. “The same Sartan who restored this man’s life to him.”

No one spoke. Each one, elf and human, sat in the awed and fearful silence that comes when mortals feel the touch of an Immortal hand, when they hear the whisper of an Immortal voice.

“Why have you come to us, Hugh the Hand?” the Soul demanded. “What bargain did you hope to strike? For,” he added, with a wry—if tremulous—smile, “one does not sell one’s soul for so paltry a thing as money.”

“You’re right.” Hugh shifted uncomfortably, his glowering gaze upon his pipe, avoiding all eyes, especially Iridal’s. “You know, of course, of the human child being held in the castle—”

“King Stephen’s son, yes.”

“He’s not King Stephen’s son. He’s her son.” Hugh pointed the pipe at Iridal.

“Her son and her late husband’s, also a mysteriarch. How the kid came to be thought of as Stephen’s is a long story and one that has nothing to do with why we are here. Suffice it to say, the elves plan to hold the boy hostage, in return for Stephen’s surrender.”

“Within only a few days’ time, King Stephen plans to meet with Prince Rees’ahn, form an alliance between our peoples, launch a war that will surely bring an end to the cruel Tribus rule. The emperor plots to use my son to force Stephen into refusing such an alliance,” Iridal explained. “All hope for peace, for unity among the races, would be shattered. But if I can free my son, the emperor will have no hold over Stephen. The alliance can proceed.”

“But we can’t get into the Imperanon to free the kid,” said Hugh. “Not without help.”

“You seek our help in obtaining entry into the palace.”

“In exchange for my soul,” said Hugh, placing the pipe back in his mouth.

“In exchange for nothing!” Iridal struck in angrily. “Nothing except the knowledge that you elves have done what is right!”

“You ask us, Magicka, to betray our people,” said the Soul.

“I ask you to save your people!” Iridal cried passionately. “Look at the depths to which your emperor has sunk. He murders his own! What will happen if this tyrant rules the world unchallenged?”

The Keepers again exchanged glances.

“We will pray for guidance,” said Soul, rising to his feet. “Come, brethren. If you will excuse us?”

The other Keepers stood and left the room, passing through a small door into an adjoining room, presumably another chapel. They shut the door carefully behind them.

The two left alone sat in cold, unhappy silence. There was much Iridal wanted to say, but the grim and dour expression on Hugh’s face let her know that her words and arguments would not be welcome, might do more harm than good. Iridal could not think, however, that the elves would accept Hugh’s offer. Surely the Kenkari would aid them without exacting such a terrible price. She convinced herself of this, relaxed, and, in her weariness, must have drifted into sleep, for she was not aware of the Kenkari’s return until Hugh’s touch upon her hand brought her to startled wakefulness.

“You are tired,” said Soul, looking at her with a gentle beneficence that strengthened her hope. “And we have kept you overlong. You shall have food and rest, but first, our answer.” He turned to Hugh, clasped his thin hands before him. “We accept your offer.”

Hugh made no reply, merely nodded once, abruptly.

“You will accept the ritual death at our hands?”

“I welcome it,” Hugh said, his teeth clenched over the pipe stem.

“You can’t mean this!” Iridal cried, rising to her feet. “You can’t demand such a sacrifice—”

“You are very young, Magicka,” said Soul, dark eyes turning upon Iridal. “You will come to learn, as we have in our long lives, that what is given freely is often despised. It is only when we pay for something that we treasure it. We will aid your safe entry into the palace. When the boy is removed, you, Hugh the Hand, will return to us. Your soul will be of inestimable value.

“Our charges”—Soul glanced toward the Aviary, to the leaves fluttering and stirring with the breath of the dead—“are beginning to grow restless. Some want to leave us. You will placate them, tell them that they are better off where they are.”

“They’re not, but fair enough,” said Hugh. Removing his pipe, he rose to his feet, stretched tired and aching muscles.

“No!” Iridal protested brokenly. “No, Hugh, don’t do this! You can’t do this!” Hugh tried to harden himself against her. Then, suddenly, he sighed, drew her close, held her fast. She began to weep. Hugh swallowed. A single tear crept from beneath his eyes, slid down his cheek, and fell into her hair.

“It’s the only way,” he said to her softly, speaking human. “Our only chance. And we’re getting the best of the deal. An old used-up, misspent life like mine in exchange for a young life, like your son’s.

“I want death to come this way, Iridal,” he added, his voice deepening. “I can’t do it myself. I’m afraid. I’ve been there, you see, and the journey is... is...” He. shuddered. “But they’ll do it for me. And it will be easy this time. If they send me.”

She could not speak. Hugh lifted her in his arms. She clung to him, weeping.

“She’s tired, Keeper,” he said. “We both are. Where may we rest?” The Keeper of the Soul smiled sadly. “I understand. The Keeper of the Door will guide you. We have rooms prepared for you and food, though I fear it is not what you are accustomed to eating. I cannot permit you to smoke, however.” Hugh grunted, grimaced, said nothing.

“When you are rested, we will discuss arrangements with you. You must not wait long. You are probably not aware of mis, but you were most assuredly followed here.”

“The Unseen? I’m aware of it. I saw them. Or as much of them as anyone ever sees.”

The Keeper’s eyes widened. “Truly,” he said, “you are a dangerous man.”

“I’m aware of that, too,” Hugh responded grimly. “This world will be a better place without me in it.”

He left, carrying Iridal in his arms, following the Keeper of the Door, on whose face was an expression of hope, mingled with dazed perplexity.

“Will he truly come back to die?” asked Book, when the three were gone.

“Yes,” said the Keeper of the Soul. “He will come back.”