Dragon Wing

56

Sinistrad and Hugh were seated in the study of the mysteriarch. It was nearly midday. Light streamed in through a crystal window. Seeming to float on the mist outside the window were the glittering spires of the city of New Hope—the city that, according to what Iridal had told him, might as well be called No Hope. Hugh wondered if the buildings had been placed there for his benefit. Outside, coiled around the castle, dozing in the sun, was the quicksilver dragon.

“Let us see, what would be best?” Sinistrad tapped thoughtfully on the desk with his thin fingers. “We will transport the child back to Djern Volkain on the elven ship—taking care, of course, to make certain that the ship is seen by the humans. Then, when Stephen and Anne are discovered dead, it will be blamed on elves. Bane can tell them some rigmarole about how he was captured and escaped and the elves followed him and killed his loving parents as they tried to rescue him. You can make it appear that the elves murdered them, I suppose?”

The air around Hugh stirred, a cold breath swept over him, and icy fingers seemed to touch his shoulder. Iridal was working her own magic against her husband. She was here. She was listening.

“Sure, nothing’s easier. Will the boy cooperate?” asked Hugh, tensing, yet doing his best to seem at ease. Now that she was faced with inescapable truth, what would she do? “The kid seems less than enthusiastic.”

“He will cooperate. I have only to make him understand that this is to his advantage. Once he knows how he can profit by this action, he will be eager to undertake it. The boy is ambitious, and rightfully so. After all, he is my son.”

Invisible to all eyes, Iridal stood behind Hugh, watching, listening. She felt nothing at hearing Sinistrad plot murder; her mind, her senses, had gone numb. Why did I bother to come? she asked herself. There’s nothing I can do. It’s too late for him, for me. But not too late for Bane. How did the ancient saying go? “A little child shall lead them.” Yes, there is hope for him. He is still innocent, unspoiled. Perhaps someday he will save us.

“Ah, here you are, father.”

Bane entered the study, coolly ignoring Sinistrad’s glaring frown. The child’s color was heightened, and he seemed to glow with an inner radiance. His eyes gleamed with a feverish luster. Walking behind the boy, its nails clicking against the stone floor, the dog appeared worried and unhappy. Its eyes went to Hugh, pleading; its gaze shifted to a point behind the assassin, staring at Iridal so intently that she felt a panicked qualm and wondered if her spell of invisibility had ceased to work.

Hugh shifted uneasily in his chair. Bane was up to something. Probably—from that beatific expression on his face—no good.

“Bane, I’m busy. Leave us,” said Sinistrad.

“No, father. I know what you’re talking about. It’s about me going back to Volkaran, isn’t it? Don’t make me, father.” The child’s voice was suddenly sweet and soft. “Don’t make me go back to that place. No one likes me there. It’s lonely. I want to be with you. You can teach me magic, like you taught me to fly. I’ll show you all I know about the great machine, and I can introduce you to the High Froman—”

“Stop whining!” Sinistrad rose to his feet. His robes rustled around him as he moved out from behind his desk to confront his son. “You want to please me, don’t you, Bane?”

“Yes, father . . .” The boy faltered. “More than anything. That’s why I want to be with you! Don’t you want to be with me? Isn’t that why you brought me home?”

“Bah! What nonsense. I brought you home so that we could put into action the second phase of our plan. Certain things have changed now, but only for the better. As for you, Bane, as long as I am your father, you will go where I tell you to go and do what I tell you to do. Now, leave us. I will send for you later.”

Sinistrad turned his back on the child.

Bane, a strange smile on his lips, thrust his hand into his tunic. It came out holding a knife.

“I guess you won’t be my father long, then!”

“How dare you—” Sinistrad whirled around, saw the dagger in the child’s hand, and sucked in a seething breath. Pale with fury, the mysteriarch raised his right hand, prepared to cast the spell that would dissolve the child’s body where he stood. “I can get more sons!”

The dog leapt, hit Bane square in the back, and knocked the child to the floor. The dagger flew from the boy’s hand.

Something unseen struck Sinistrad; invisible hands clutched at his. Raging, he grappled with his wife, whose spell crumbled as she fought, revealing her to her husband.

Hugh was on his feet. Snatching up his dagger from the floor, he watched for his opportunity. He’d free her, free her child.

The wizard’s body crackled with blue lightning. Iridal was flung aside in a thunderous shock wave that hurled her, dazed, against the wall. Sinistrad turned upon his child, only to find the dog standing above the terrified boy. Teeth bared, hackles raised, it growled low in its throat.

Hugh struck, driving the dagger deep into the wizard’s body. Sinistrad screamed in fury and in pain. The assassin jerked his dagger free. The body of the mysteriarch shimmered and faded and Hugh thought his foe was dead. Suddenly, the wizard returned, only now his body was that of an enormous snake.

The snake’s head darted at Hugh. The assassin drove his knife again into the reptilian body, but too late. The snake sank its fangs into the back of Hugh’s neck. The assassin cried out in agony, the poison surging through his body. He managed to retain his grip on the knife, and the snake-twisting and coiling drove the blade deeper. It lashed out in its death throes, wrapped its tail around the assassin’s legs, and both crashed to the floor.

The snake disappeared. Sinistrad lay dead, his legs wrapped around the feet of his killer.

Hugh stared at the corpse and tried feebly to rise. The assassin felt no pain, but he had no strength left in him, and he collapsed.

“Hugh.”

Weakly he turned his head. It was pitch dark in the cell. He couldn’t see.

“Hugh! You were right. Mine is the sin of not doing. And now it is too late . . . too late!”

There was a crack in the wall. A thin shaft of light gleamed brightly; he could smell fresh air, perfumed with the scent of lavender. Slipping his hand through the bars of his cell, Hugh held it out to her. Reaching out as far as she could from behind her own walls, Iridal touched the tips of his fingers. And then the black monk came and set Hugh free.