Dragon Wing

15

“Not exactly the sort of person I’d send out on a mission to rescue my son from the hands of an assassin,” muttered Hugh, stretching out the comatose man on the floor of the shed. “But then, maybe the queen’s having trouble finding bold knights these days. Unless he’s shamming.”

The man’s age was indeterminable. The face appeared careworn and haggard. He was bald on the top of his head; wispy gray hair hung in a long fringe around the sides. But his cheeks were smooth, and the wrinkles around the mouth came from worry, not age. Tall and gangly, he appeared to have been put together by someone who had run out of the correct parts and been forced to substitute. His feet and hands were too big; his head, with its delicate, sensitive features, seemed too small.

Kneeling beside the man, Hugh lifted a finger and bent it back until it almost touched the wrist. The pain was excruciating, and a person feigning unconsciousness would invariably betray himself. The man didn’t even twitch. Hugh gave him a sound smack on the cheek to bring him around, and was about to add another when he heard the boy coming up to his side.

“Is that who was following us?” The prince, keeping close to Hugh, stared curiously. “Why that’s Alfred!” The boy grasped hold of the collar of the man’s cape, jerked his head up, and shook him. “Alfred! Wake up! Wake up!” Bang! went the man’s head against the floor.

The prince shook him again. The man’s head bumped the floor again, and Hugh—relaxing—sat back to watch.

“Oh, oh, oh!” Alfred groaned each time his head hit the floor. Opening his eyes, he stared dazedly at the prince and made a feeble effort to remove the small hands from his collar.

“Please . . . Your Highness. I’m quite awake, now . . . Ouch! Thank you, Your Highness, but that won’t be necess—”

“Alfred!” The prince threw his arms around him, hugging the man so tightly he nearly smothered him. “We thought you were an assassin! Have you come to travel with us?”

Rising to a sitting position, Alfred gave Hugh—and particularly Hugh’s dagger—a nervous glance. “Uh, traveling with you may not be quite feasible, Your—”

“Who are you?” interrupted Hugh.

The man rubbed his head and answered humbly, “Sir, my name—”

“He’s Alfred,” interrupted Bane, as if that explained everything. Noting from Hugh’s grim face that it didn’t, the boy added, “He’s in charge of all my servants and he chooses my tutors and makes certain my bathwater’s not too hot—”

“My name is Alfred Montbank, sir,” the man said.

“You’re Bane’s servant?”

“ ‘Chamberlain’ is the correct term, sir,” said Alfred, flushing. “And that is your prince to whom you are referring in such a disrespectful manner.”

“Oh, that’s all right, Alfred,” said Bane, sitting back on his heels. His hand toyed with the feather amulet he wore around his neck. “I told Sir Hugh he could call me by my name, since we’re traveling together. It’s much easier than saying ‘Your Highness’ all the time.”

“You’re the one who’s been following us,” Hugh said.

“It is my duty to be with His Highness, sir.”

Hugh raised a black eyebrow. “Obviously somebody didn’t see it that way.”

“I was mistakenly left behind.” Alfred lowered his gaze, staring fixedly at the floor of the shed. “His Majesty the king flew off so quickly, he undoubtedly overlooked me.”

“And so you followed him—and the boy.”

“Yes, sir. I was almost too late. I had to pack some things I knew the prince would need, which Trian had forgotten. I was forced to saddle my own dragon, and then I had an argument with the palace guards, who didn’t want to let me leave. The king and Trian and the prince had disappeared by the time I was through the gates. I had no idea what to do, but the dragon seemed to have some notion of where it wanted to go and—”

“It would follow its stablemates. Go on.”

“We found them. That is, the dragon found them. Not wanting to presume to thrust myself into their company, I kept a proper distance. Eventually we landed in that dreadful place—”

“The Kir monastery.”

“Yes, I—”

“Could you get back there again if you had to?”

Hugh put the question casually, easily, out of curiosity. Alfred answered, never dreaming his life hung in the balance.

“Why, yes, sir, I think I could. I’ve a good knowledge of the countryside, especially the lands surrounding the castle.” Lifting his gaze, he looked directly at Hugh. “Why do you ask?”

The assassin was tucking the dagger back into his boot. “Because that’s Stephen’s secret hideout you stumbled across. The guards will tell him you followed him. He’ll know you found it—your disappearance clinches it. I wouldn’t give a drop of water for your chances of living to a ripe old age if you went back to court.”

“Merciful Sartan!” Alfred’s face was the color of clay—he might have been wearing a mask of silt. “I didn’t know! I swear, noble sir!” Reaching out, he grasped Hugh’s hand pleadingly. “I’ll forget the way, I promise—”

“I don’t want you to forget it. Who knows, it might come in handy one day.”

“Yes, sir . . .” Alfred hesitated.

“This is Sir Hugh.” Bane introduced them. “He has a black monk walking with him, Alfred.”

Hugh stared at the child in silence. No expression shifted the stone facade of the face except perhaps for a slight narrowing of the dark eyes. Alfred, flushing red, reached out his hand and smoothed Bane’s golden hair.

“What have I told you, Your Highness?” said the chamberlain, gently rebuking.

“It is not polite to tell people’s secrets.” He glanced apologetically at Hugh. “You must understand, Sir Hugh. His Highness is a clairvoyant and he has not quite learned how to handle his gift.”

Hugh snorted, rose to his feet, and began to roll up his blanket.

“Please, Sir Hugh, allow me.” Leaping up, Alfred sprang to snatch the blanket from Hugh’s hand. One of the chamberlain’s huge feet obeyed him. The other seemed to think it had received different orders and turned the opposite direction. Alfred stumbled, staggered, and would have pitched headfirst into Hugh had not the assassin caught his arm and shoved him upright.

“Thank you, sir. I’m very clumsy, I’m afraid. Here, I can do that now.” Alfred began struggling with the blanket, which seemed suddenly to have gained a malevolent life of its own. Corners slid through his fingers. He folded one end, only to unfold its opposite. Wrinkles and bumps popped up in the most unlikely places. It was difficult to tell, during the ensuing tussle, who was going to come out on top.

“It’s true about His Highness, sir,” Alfred continued, wrestling furiously with the strip of cloth. “Our past clings to us, especially people who influenced us. His Highness can see them.”

Hugh stepped in, throttled the blanket, and rescued Alfred, who sat back, panting and wiping his high domed forehead.

“I’ll bet he can tell my fortune in the wine lees, too,” Hugh said in a low voice, pitched so that the child wouldn’t hear. “Where would he get that kind of talent? Only wizards beget wizards. Or maybe Stephen’s not really this kid’s father.”

Hugh shot this verbal arrow aimlessly, not expecting to hit anything. His shaft found a target, however, burying itself deep, from the looks of it. Alfred’s face went a sickly green, the whites of his eyes showed clearly around the gray iris, and his lips moved soundlessly. Stricken, he stared speechless at Hugh.

So, thought the Hand, this is beginning to make sense. At least it explains the kid’s strange name. He glanced over at Bane. The child was rummaging through Alfred’s pack.

“Did you bring my sweetmelts? Yes!” Triumphantly he dug the candy out. “I knew you wouldn’t forget.”

“Get your things together, Your Highness,” ordered Hugh, throwing his fur cloak over his shoulders and hefting his own pack.

“I’ll do that, Your Highness.” Alfred sounded relieved, glad for something to occupy his mind and his hands and keep his face averted from Hugh’s. Out of three steps across the floor, he missed only one, which brought him to his knees, where he needed to be anyway. With great goodwill he set to do battle with the prince’s blanket.

“Alfred, you had a view of the landscape when you traveled. Do you know where we are?”

“Yes, Sir Hugh.” The chamberlain, sweating in the chill air, did not dare look up, lest the blanket take him unawares. “I believe this village is known as Watershed.”

“Watershed,” repeated the Hand. “Don’t wander off, Your Highness,” he added, noticing the prince starting to skip out of the door.

The boy glanced back. “I just want to look around outside. I won’t go far and I’ll be careful.”

The chamberlain had given up attempting to fold the blanket and had at last stuffed it bodily into the pack. When the boy had disappeared out the door, Alfred turned to face Hugh.

“You will allow me to accompany you, won’t you, sir? I won’t be any trouble, I swear.”

Hugh gazed at him intently.

“You understand that you can never go back to the palace, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve set fire to my bridge, as they say.”

“You haven’t just set it on fire. You’ve cut it from the bank and dumped it down the gorge.”

Alfred ran a trembling hand over his bald pate and stared at the floor.

“I’m taking you with me to look after the kid. You understand, he’s not to go back to the palace either. I’m very good at tracking. It would be my duty to stop you before you did anything foolish, like trying to sneak him away.”

“Yes, sir. That’s understood.” Alfred raised his eyes and looked directly into Hugh’s. “You see, sir, I know the reason the king hired you.” Hugh flicked a glance outside. Bane was gleefully throwing rocks at a tree. His arms were thin, his throw clumsy. He continually fell short of the mark, but patiently and cheerfully kept at it.

“You know about the plot against the prince’s life?” Hugh questioned easily, his hand, beneath his cloak, moving to the hilt of his sword.

“I know the reason,” repeated Alfred. “It’s why I’m here. I won’t get in the way, sir, I promise you.”

Hugh was confounded. Just when he thought the web was unraveling, it got more tangled. The man knew the reason, he said. It sounded as if he meant the real reason! He knows the truth about the kid, whatever that is. Has he come to help or hinder? Help, that was almost laughable. This chamberlain couldn’t dress himself without help. Yet, Hugh had to admit, he’d done an extremely efficient job of tailing them; not an easy matter on a dark night made darker by enchanted fog. And, at the Kir monastery, he had managed to conceal not only himself but also his dragon from a wizard’s six senses. But someone that skilled in tracking, hiding, and tailing had fainted dead away when he felt a knife at his throat.

There was no doubt this Alfred was a servant—the prince obviously knew him and treated him as such. But whom was he serving? The Hand didn’t know, and he meant to find out. Meanwhile, whether Alfred was truly the fool he appeared or a cunning liar, the man had his uses, not the least of which would be to take charge of His Highness.

“All right. Let’s get started. We’ll circle around the village, pick up the road about five miles outside it. Not likely anyone around here would know the prince by sight, but it’ll save questions. Has the kid got a hood? Get it on him. And keep it on him.” He cast a disgusted glance at Alfred’s satin-coated, knee-breeched, beribboned, and silk-stockinged finery. “You stink of the court a mile off. But it can’t be helped. Most likely they’ll take you for a charlatan. First chance we get, I’ll bargain with some peasant for a change of clothes.”

“Yes, Sir Hugh,” Alfred murmured.

Hugh stepped out the door. “We’re leaving, Your Highness.” Bane danced up eagerly and caught hold of Hugh’s hand. “I’m ready. Are we going to stop at an inn for breakfast? My mother said we might. I’ve never been allowed to eat at an inn before—”

He was interrupted by a crash and a stifled groan behind him. Alfred had encountered the door. Hugh shook the boy’s hand free. The child’s soft touch was almost physically painful.

“I’m afraid not, Your Highness. I want to get clear of the village while it’s still early, before people are up and stirring.”

Bane’s mouth drooped in disappointment.

“It wouldn’t be safe, Your Highness.” Alfred emerged, a large knot forming on his glistening forehead. “Especially if there is someone plotting to ... uh ... do you harm.” He glanced at Hugh as he said this, and the assassin wondered again about Alfred.

“I suppose you’re right,” the prince said with a sigh, accustomed to the problems of being famous.

“But we will make a picnic under a tree,” added the chamberlain.

“And eat sitting on the ground?” Bane’s spirits lifted, then fell. “Oh, but I forgot. Mother never allows me to sit on the grass. I might catch a chill or get my clothes dirty.”

“I don’t think that this time she will mind,” Alfred replied gravely.

“If you’re sure . . .” The prince put his head on one side and looked intently at Alfred.

“I’m sure.”

“Hurrah!” Bane darted forward, skipping lightheartedly down the road. Alfred, clutching the prince’s pack, hurried after him. He’d make better time, thought Hugh, if his feet could be persuaded to travel in the same general direction as the rest of his body.

The assassin took his place behind them, keeping both under careful surveillance, hand on his sword. If Alfred so much as leaned over to whisper into the kid’s ear, that whisper would be made with his last breath. A mile passed. Alfred seemed completely occupied with the task of staying on his own two feet, and Hugh, falling into the easy, relaxed rhythm of the road, let his inner eye take over guard duty. Freed, his mind wandered, and he found himself seeing, superimposed over the body of the prince, another boy walking along a road, though not with cheerful gaiety. This boy walked with an air of defiance; his body bore the marks of the punishment he had received for just such an attitude. Black monks walked along at his side. . . .

. . .“Come, boy. The lord abbot wants to see you.” It was cold in the Kir monastery. Outside the walls, the world sweat and sweltered in summer heat. Inside, death’s chill stalked the bleak hallways and kept court in the shadows.

The boy, who was not a boy any longer, but standing on the threshold of manhood, left his task and followed the monk through the silent corridors. The elves had raided a small village nearby. There were many dead, and most of the brothers had gone to burn the bodies and do reverence for those who had escaped the prisonhouse of their flesh.

Hugh should have gone with them. His task and that of the other boys was to search for charcrystal and build the pyres. The brothers pulled the bodies from the wreckage, composed the twisted limbs and staring eyes, and placed them upon the heaped oil-soaked faggots. The monks said no word to the living. Their voices were for the dead, and the sound of their chanting echoed through the streets. That chant had come to be a music everyone on Uylandia and Volkaran dreaded to hear.

Some of the monks sang the words:

. . . each new child’s birth, we die in our hearts, truth black, we are shown, death always returns . . .

The other monks chanted over and over the single word “with.” Inserting the “with” after the word “returns,” they carried the dark song full-cycle. Hugh had accompanied the monks since he was six cycles old, but this time he’d been ordered to stay and complete his morning’s work. He did as he was told, without question; to do otherwise would be to invite a beating, delivered impersonally and without malice, for the good of his soul. Often he had silently prayed to be left behind when the others went on one of these grim missions, but now he had prayed to be allowed to go.

The gates boomed shut with an ominous dull thunder; the emptiness lay like a pall on his heart. Hugh had been planning his escape for a week. He had spoken of it to no one; the one friend he had made during his stay here was dead, and Hugh had been careful never to make another. He had the uneasy impression, however, that his secret plot must be engraved on his forehead, for it seemed that everyone who glanced at him kept looking at him with far more interest than they had ever before evinced.

Now he had been left behind when the others were gone. Now he was being summoned into the presence of the lord abbot—a man he had seen only during services, a man to whom he had never spoken and who had never before spoken to him.

Standing in the chamber of stone that shunned sunlight as something frivolous and fleeting, Hugh waited, with the patience that had been thrashed into him since childhood, for the man seated at the desk to acknowledge not only his presence but also his very existence. While Hugh waited, the fear and nervousness in which he’d lived for a week froze, dried up, and blew away. It was as if the cold atmosphere had numbed him to any human emotion or feeling. He knew suddenly, standing in that room, that he would never love, never pity, never feel compassion. From now on, he would never even know fear. The abbot raised his head. Dark eyes looked into Hugh’s soul.

“You were taken in by us when you were six cycles. I see in the records that ten cycles more have passed.” The abbot did not speak to him by name. Doubtless he didn’t even know it. “You are sixteen. It is time for you to make preparation for taking your vows and joining our brotherhood.” Caught by surprise, too proud to lie, Hugh said nothing. His silence spoke the truth.

“You have always been rebellious. Yet you are a hard worker, who never complains. You accept punishment without crying out. And you have adopted our precepts—I see that in you clearly. Why, then, will you leave us?” Hugh, having asked himself that question often in the dark and sleepless nights, was prepared with the answer.

“I will not serve any man.”

The abbot’s face, stern and forbidding as the stone walls around him, registered neither anger nor surprise. “You are one of us. Like it or not, wherever you go, you will serve, if not us, then our calling. Death will always be your master.”

Hugh was dismissed from the abbot’s presence. The pain of the beating that followed slid away on the ice coating of the boy’s soul. That night, Hugh made good his plans. Sneaking into the chamber where the monks kept their records, he found, in a book, information on the orphan boys the monks adopted. By the light of the stub of a stolen candle, Hugh searched for and discovered his own name.

“Hugh Blackthorn. Mother: Lucy, last name unknown. Father: According to words spoken by the mother before she died, the child’s father is Sir Perceval Blackthorn of Blackthorn Hall, Djern Hereva.” A later entry, dated a week after, stated: “Sir Perceval refuses to acknowledge the child and bids us ‘do with the bastard as we will.’ ”

Hugh cut the page from the leather-bound book, tied it up in his ragged scrip, snuffed the candle, and slipped out into the night. Looking back at the walls whose grim shadows had long ago shut out any of the warmth or happiness he had known in childhood, Hugh silently refuted the abbot’s words.

“I will be death’s master.”