The Hand of Chaos

23

Hugh woke with a buzzing in his head—a dull, throbbing ache that went up his neck and stabbed through to the back of his eyeballs—and a tongue thick and swollen. He knew what was wrong with him and he knew how to fix it. He sat up on the bed, his hand groping for the wine bottle that was never far from reach. It was then he saw her and memory hit him a blow that was cruel and hurt worse than the pain in his head. He stared at her wordlessly. She sat in a chair—the only chair—and had, by her attitude, been sitting there for some time. She was pale and cold, colorless—with her white hair and silver robes—as the ice of the Firmament. Except for her eyes, which were the myriad colors of sunlight on a crystal prism.

“The bottle’s here, if you want it,” she said.

Hugh managed to get his feet beneath him, heaved himself up and out of bed, paused a moment to wait until the light bursting in his vision had faded enough for him to see beyond it, and made his way to the table. He noted the arrival of another chair, noted at the same time that his cell had been cleaned.

And so had he.

His hair and beard were filled with a fine powder, his skin was raw and it itched. The pungent smell of grise[51] clung to him. The smell brought back vivid memories of his childhood, of the Kir monks scrubbing the squirming bodies of young boys—abandoned bastards, like himself.

Hugh grimaced, scratched his bearded chin, and poured himself a mug of the cheap, raw wine. He was starting to drink it when he remembered that he had a guest. There was only one mug. He held it out to her, grimly pleased to note that his hand did not tremble.

Iridal shook her head. “No, thank you,” she said, not aloud, her lips forming the words.

Hugh grunted, tossed down the wine in one swift gulp that kept him from tasting it. The buzzing in his head receded, the pain dulled. He lifted the bottle without thinking, hesitated. He could let the questions go unanswered. What did it matter anyway? Or he could find out what was going on, why she’d come.

“You gave me a bath?” he said, eyeing her.

A faint flush stained the pale cheeks. She did not look at him. “The monks did,” she said. “I made them. And they scrubbed the floor, brought fresh linen, a clean shirt.”

“I’m impressed,” said Hugh. “Amazing enough they let you in. Then do your bidding. What’d you threaten ’em with? Howling winds, quakes; maybe dry up their water... ?”

She did not respond. Hugh was talking for the sake of filling up the silence, and both knew it.

“How long was I out?”

“Many hours. I don’t know.”

“And you stayed and did all this.” He glanced around his cell. “Must be important, what you came for.”

“It is,” she said, and turned her eyes upon him.

He had forgotten their beauty, her beauty. He had forgotten that he loved her, pitied her, forgotten that he’d died for her, for her son. All lost in the dreams that tormented him at night, the dreams that not even the wine could drown. And he came to realize, as he sat and looked into her eyes, that last night, for the first time in a long time, he had not dreamed at all.

“I want to hire you,” she said, her voice cool and business-like. “I want you to do a job for me—”

“No!” he cried, springing to his feet, oblivious to the flash of pain in his head. “I will not go back out there!”

Fist clenched, he smashed it on the table, toppled the wine bottle, sent it crashing to the floor. The thick glass did not break, but the liquid spilled out, seeping into the cracks in the stone.

She stared at him, shocked. “Sit down, please. You are not well.” He winced at the pain, clutched his head, swayed on his feet. Leaning heavily on the table, he stumbled back to his chair, sank down.

“Not well.” He tried to laugh. “This is a hangover, Lady, in case you’ve never seen one.” He stared into the shadows. “I tried it, you know,” he said abruptly. “Tried going back to my old calling. When they brought me down from that place. Death is my trade. The only thing I know. But no one would hire me. No one can stand to be around me, except them.” He jerked his head in the direction of the door, indicating the monks.

“What do you mean, no one would hire you?”

“They sit down to talk to me. They start to tell me their grievances, start to name the mark they want assassinated, start to tell me where to find him... and, little by little, they dry up. Not just once. It happened five times, ten. I don’t know. I lost count.”

“What happens?” Iridal urged gently.

“They go on and on about the mark and how much they hate him and how they want him to die and how he should suffer like he made their daughter suffer or their father or whoever. But the more they tell me this, the more nervous they get. They look at me and then look away, then sneak a look back, and look away again. And their voices drop, they get mixed up in what they’ve said. They stammer and cough and then usually, without a word, they get up and run. You’d think,” he added grimly, “they’d stabbed their mark themselves and were caught with the bloody knife in their hands.”

“But they did, in their hearts,” said Iridal.

“So? Guilt never plagued any of my patrons before. Why now? What’s changed?”

“You’ve changed, Hugh. Before, you were like the coralite, soaking up their evil, absorbing it, taking it into yourself, freeing them of the responsibility. But now, you’ve become like the crystals of the Firmament. They look at you, and they see their own evil reflected back to them. You have become our conscience.”

“Hell of a note for an assassin,” he said, sneering. “Makes it damn hard to find work!” He stared unseeing at the wine bottle, nudged it with his foot, sent it rolling around in circles on the floor. His blurred gaze shifted to her. “I don’t do that to you.”

“Yes, you do. That’s how I know.” Iridal sighed. “I look at you, and I see my folly, my blindness, my stupidity, my weakness. I married a man I knew to be heartless and evil out of some romantic notion that I could change him. By the time I understood the truth, I was hopelessly entangled in Sinistrad’s snares. Worse, I’d given birth to an innocent child, allowed him to become tangled in the same web.

“I could have stopped my husband, but I was frightened. And it was easy to tell myself that he would change, that it would all get better. And then you came, and brought my son to me, and, at last, I saw the bitter fruit of my folly. I saw what I had done to Bane, what I’d made him through my weakness. I saw it then. I see it now, looking at you.”

“I thought it was them,” said Hugh, as if he hadn’t heard her. “I thought the world had gone mad. Then I began to realize it was me. The dreams...” He shuddered, shook his head. “No, I won’t talk about the dreams.”

“Why did you come here?”

He shrugged, voice bitter. “I was desperate, out of money. Where else could I go? The monks said I would return, you know. They always said I’d be back.” He glanced around with a haunted look, then shook himself, shook off the memories.

“Anyway, the Abbot told me what was wrong. He took one look at me and told me what had happened. I had died. I’d left this life... and been dragged back. Resurrected.” Hugh gave the bottle a sudden, vicious kick, sent it spinning across the floor.

“You... don’t remember?” Iridal faltered.

He regarded her in silence, dark, glowering. “The dreams remember. The dreams remember a place beautiful beyond words, beyond... dreams. Understanding, compassion...” He fell silent, swallowed, coughed, and cleared his throat.

“But the journey to reach that place is terrible. The pain. The guilt. The knowledge of my crimes. My soul wrenched from my body. And now I can’t go back. I tried.”

Iridal stared at him, horrified. “Suicide... ?”

He smiled, a terrible smile. “I failed. Both times. Too damn scared.”

“It takes courage to live, not to die,” said Iridal.

“How the hell would you know, Lady?” Hugh sneered. Iridal looked away, stared at her hands twisting in her lap.

“Tell me what happened,” said Hugh.

“You... you and Sinistrad fought. You stabbed him, but the wound was not mortal. He had the power to turn himself into a snake, attacked you. His magic... poison in your blood. He died, but not before he had...”

“Killed me,” said Hugh dryly.

Iridal licked her lips, did not look at him. “The dragon attacked us. Sinistrad’s dragon, the Quicksilver. With my husband dead, the dragon was free from his control and went berserk. Then, it all becomes confused in my mind. Haplo—the man with the blue skin—took Bane away. I knew I was going to die... and I didn’t care. You’re right.” She looked up, smiled at him wanly. “Death did seem easier than living. But Alfred enchanted the dragon, put it in thrall. And then...”

The memory came back....

Iridal gazed in awe at the dragon, whose giant head was swaying back and forth, as if it heard a soothing, lulling voice.

“You’ve imprisoned it in its mind,” she said.

“Yes,” Alfred agreed. “The strongest cage ever built.”

“And I am free,” she said in wonder. “And it isn’t too late. There is hope! Bane, my son! Bane!”

Iridal ran toward the door where she’d last seen him. The door was gone. The walls of her prison had collapsed, but the rubble blocked her path.

“Bane!” she cried, trying vainly to drag aside one of the heavy stones that the dragon had knocked down in its fury. Her magic would help her, but she couldn’t think of the words. She was too tired, too empty. But she had to reach him. If only she could move this rock!

“Don’t, my dear,” said a kind voice. Gentle hands took hold of her. “It won’t do any good. He has gone far away by now, back to the elven ship. Haplo has taken him.”

“Haplo taken... my son?” Iridal couldn’t make any sense of it. “Why? What does he want with him?”

“I don’t know,” Alfred replied. “I’m not sure. But don’t worry. We’ll get him back. I know where they’re going.”

“Then we should go after them,” said Iridal.

But she gazed helplessly about. Doors had disappeared, blocked by debris. Holes gaped in the walls revealing more destruction beyond. The room was changed so completely that it was suddenly unfamiliar to her, as if she had walked into the bouse of a stranger. She had no idea where to go, how to leave, how to find her way out.

And then she saw Hugh.

She’d known he’d died. She’d tried to make him hear before he died, that he’d helped her, that now she understood. But he’d left her too soon, too quickly. She sank down beside the body, took the chill hand in her own, pressed it to her cheek. His face, in death, was calm and reflected a peace the man had never known in life, a peace Iridal envied.

“You gave your life for me, for my son,” she told him. “I wish you could have lived, to see that I will make use of this gift. You taught me so much. You could teach me still. You could help me. And I could have helped you. I could have filled the emptiness inside you. Why didn’t I, when I had the chance?”

“What would have happened to him, do you suppose, if he had not died?” Alfred asked.

“I think he would have tried to make up for the evil he did in his life. He was a prisoner, like me,” Iridal answered “But he managed to escape. Now he is free.”

“You, too, are free,” said Alfred.

“Yes, but I am alone,” said Iridal.

She sat by Hugh, holding his lifeless hand, her mind empty as her heart. She liked the emptiness. She didn’t feel anything and she was afraid of feeling. The pain would come, more awful than dragon claws tearing at her flesh. The pain of regret, tearing her soul.

She was vaguely aware of Alfred chanting, of him dancing his slow and graceful dance that looked so incongruous—the elderly man, with his bald head and flapping coattails, his too-big feet and clumsy hands—whirling and dipping and bobbing about the rubble-filled room. She had no idea what he was doing. She didn’t care.

She sat, holding Hugh’s hand... and felt his fingers twitch. Iridal didn’t believe it. “My mind is playing tricks. When we want something very badly, we convince ourselves—”

The fingers moved in hers, spasmodic motion, death throes.

Except Hugh had been dead a long time, long enough for the flesh to chill, the blood to drain from lips and face, the eyes to have fixed in the head.

“I’m going mad,” said Iridal, and dropped the hand back on the unmoving breast. She leaned forward to close the staring eyes. They shifted, looked at her. His lids blinked. His hand stirred. His breast rose and fell. He gave an anguished, agonized scream....

When Iridal regained her senses, she was lying in another room, another house—a friend’s house, belonging to one of the other mysteriarchs of the High Realm.

Alfred stood beside her, gazing down on her with an anxious expression.

“Hugh!” cried Iridal, sitting up. “Where is Hugh?”

“He’s being cared for, my dear,” said Alfred solicitously and—so it seemed to Iridal—somewhat confusedly. “He’s going to be all right. Don’t worry yourself over him. Some of your friends took him away.”

“I want to see him!”

“I don’t think that would be wise,” said Alfred. “Please, lay back down.” He fussed with the blanket, covered her, wrapped it tenderly around her feet, smoothed out imaginary wrinkles.

“You should rest, Lady Iridal. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. The shock, the strain. Hugh was grievously wounded, but he is being treated—”

“He was dead,” said Iridal.

Alfred wouldn’t look at her. He kept fiddling with the blankets. Iridal tried to catch hold of his hand, but Alfred was too quick for her. He backed away several steps. When he spoke, he spoke to his shoes.

“Hugh wasn’t dead. He was terribly wounded. I can see how you would have been mistaken. The poison has that effect, sometimes. Of... of making the living appear to be dead.”

Iridal threw back the blanket, rose to her feet, advanced on Alfred, who attempted to sidle away, perhaps even flee the room. But he fell over his feet and stumbled, caught himself on a chair.

“He was dead. You brought him back to life!”

“No, no. Don’t be ridiculous.” Alfred gave a feeble laugh. “You... you’ve suffered a great shock. You’re imagining things. I couldn’t possibly. Why, no one could!”

“A Sartan could,” said Iridal. “I know about the Sartan. Sinistrad studied them. He was obsessed with them, with their magic. Their library is here, in the High Realms. He could never find the key that unlocked their mysteries. But he knew about them, from the writings they left in human and elven. And they had the power to resurrect the dead. Necromancy—”

“No!” Alfred protested, shuddering. “I mean yes, they... we have the power. But it must never be used. Never used. For every life that is brought back untimely, another dies . untimely. We may help the grievously injured, do all we can to draw them back from the threshold, but once they cross beyond... never!

“Never....”

“Alfred was insistent, calm, and firm in his denial,” said Iridal, returning from the past with a gentle sigh. “He answered all my questions freely, if not fully. I began to think that I had been mistaken. That you were only wounded.

“I know,” she said, seeing Hugh’s bitter smile. “I know the truth now. I knew it then, I think, but I didn’t want to believe it, for Alfred’s sake. He was so kind to me, helping me search for my child, when he could have easily abandoned me, for he has troubles of his own.”

Hugh grunted. He had little use for another man’s troubles. “He lied. He was the one who brought me back! The bastard lied.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Iridal, sighing. “It’s odd, but I believe that he believes he is telling the truth. He has no memory of what truly happened.”

“When I get hold of him, he’ll remember. Sartan or not.” Iridal glanced at him, somewhat astonished. “You believe me?”

“About Alfred?” Hugh eyed her grimly, reached for his pipe. “Yes, I believe you. I think I knew all along, though I didn’t want to admit it. That wasn’t the first time he performed this resurrection trick of his.”

“Then why did you think I did it?” she asked, puzzled.

“I don’t know,” Hugh muttered, fumbling with the pipe. “Maybe I wanted to believe it was you who brought me back.”

Iridal flushed, averted her head. “In a way, it was. He saved you out of pity for my grief, and out of compassion for your sacrifice.” The two sat long moments in silence, Iridal staring at her hands, Hugh sucking on the cold and empty pipe. To light it would mean standing up and walking over to the fire grate and he wasn’t certain he could navigate even that short distance without falling. He eyed the empty wine bottle with regret. He could have called for another, but decided against it. He had a clear purpose now, and he had the means to obtain it.

“How did you find me?” he asked. “And why did you wait so long?” Her flush deepened. She raised her head, answered the last question first.

“How could I come? To see you again... the pain would have been more than I could bear. I went to the other mysteriarchs, the ones who took you from the castle and brought you down here. They told me...” Iridal hesitated, not certain where her words might lead her.

“That I’d gone back to my old profession, as if nothing had happened. Well, I tried to pretend it hadn’t,” Hugh said grimly. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate having me show up on your doorstep.”

“It wasn’t like that. Believe me, Hugh, if I had known—” She couldn’t quite see where that was going either and fell silent.

“Known that I’d turned into a drunken sot, you would have been glad to give me a few barls and a bowl of soup, and a place to sleep in your stable? Well, thanks, Lady, but I don’t need your pity!”

He stood up, ignored the pain that shot through his head, and glared down at her.

“What do you want of me?” he snarled, teeth clenched over the pipe stem. “What can I do for Your Ladyship?”

She was angry in her turn. No one—especially drunken, washed-up assassins—spoke to a mysteriarch like that. The rainbow eyes glittered like the sun through a prism. She rose to her feet, drew herself up in offended dignity.

“Well?” he demanded.

Looking at him, seeing his anguish, she faltered, “I suppose I deserved that. Forgive me—”

“Damn it!” Hugh cried, nearly biting the pipe stem in two. His jaws ached with the strain. He slammed his fist on the table. “What the devil do you want with me?”

She was pale. “To... to hire you.”

He regarded her silently, grimly. Turning away from her, he walked over to the door, stared at the closed panel.

“Who’s the mark? And keep your voice down.”

“There is no mark!” Iridal replied. “I have not come to hire you to kill. My son has been found. He is being held hostage by the elves. I intend to try to free him. And I need your help.”

Hugh grunted. “So that’s it. Where’ve the elves got the kid?”

“In the Imperanon.”

Incredulous, Hugh turned, stared at Iridal. “The Imperanon? Lady, you need help, all right.” Taking his pipe from his mouth, he pointed it at her. “Maybe someone should lock you up in a cell...”

“I can pay you. Pay you well. The royal treasury—”

“—doesn’t hold enough,” said Hugh. “There’s not enough barls in the world that could pay me to march into the heart of the enemy empire and fetch back that little—”

The flare of her rainbow eyes warned him not to proceed.

“Obviously I have made a mistake,” she said coldly. “I will trouble you no further.”

She walked toward the door. Hugh remained standing in front of it, blocking it, did not move.

“Step aside,” she ordered.

Hugh put the pipe back in his mouth, sucked on it a moment, regarded her with grim amusement. “You need me, Lady. I’m the only chance you’ve got. You’ll pay me what I ask.”

“What do you ask?” she demanded.

“Help me find Alfred.”

She stared at him, shocked into silence. Then she shook her head. “No... that’s not possible! He’s gone. I have no way of finding him.”

“Maybe he’s with Bane.”

“The other is with my son. Haplo, the man with the blue skin. And if Haplo is with Bane, Alfred is not. They’re bitter enemies. I can’t explain, Hugh. You wouldn’t understand.”

Hugh flung his pipe to the floor. Reaching out, he caught hold of her, gripped her arms hard.

“You’re hurting me,” she protested.

“I know. I don’t give a damn. You try to understand, Lady,” said Hugh.

“Imagine you’ve been blind from birth. You’re content in a world of darkness, because you know nothing different. Then, suddenly, you’re given the gift of sight. You see all the wonders you’ve never even been able to imagine—the sky and trees, clouds and the Firmament. And then, suddenly, the gift is ripped away. You’re blind again. You’re plunged back into darkness. But this time, you know what you’ve lost.”

“I’m sorry,” whispered Iridal. She started to lift her hand, to touch his face.

Hugh flung her back. Angry, ashamed, he turned away.

“I agree to the bargain,” she said softly. “If you do this for me, I’ll do what I can to help you find Alfred.”

Neither spoke for a moment, neither was able.

“How much time do we have?” he asked gruffly.

“A fortnight. Stephen meets then with Prince Rees’ahn. Though I don’t think the Tribus elves know about...”

“The hell they don’t, Lady. The Tribus don’t dare let that meeting come off. I wonder what they had in mind before that kid of yours fell into their hands? Rees’ahn’s smart. He’s survived three assassination attempts by their special guard, the ones they call the Unseen. Some say the prince is being warned by the Kenkari...”

Hugh paused, pondered. “Now that gives me an idea.” He fell silent, felt about his clothing for his pipe, forgetting he’d thrown it from him.

Iridal reached down, picked it up, handed it to him. He took it from her almost absentmindedly, fished some stregno out of a greasy leather pouch, and stuffed it into the bowl. Walking to the fire grate, he lifted a glowing coal with a pair of tongs, touched the coal to the bowl. A thin trail of smoke rose, bringing with it the acrid odor of the stregno.

“What—” Iridal began.

“Shut up,” Hugh snapped. “Look, from now on, Lady, you do what I say, when I say it. No questions. I’ll explain, if I have time, but if I don’t, then you have to trust me. I’ll rescue that kid of yours. And you help me find Alfred. Do we have a deal?”

“Yes,” Iridal answered steadily.

“Good.” He lowered his voice, his glance going again to the door. “I need two monks in here, no one watching. Can you manage that?”

Iridal walked over to the door, slid aside the panel. A monk stood in the hallway, probably ordered to wait for her.

She nodded. “Are you capable of walking?” she asked loudly, in disgust. Hugh took the hint. He placed his pipe carefully near the grate, then, catching up the wine bottle, he smashed it on the floor. He kicked over the table, tumbled down into the puddle of spilled wine and broken glass, and rolled about in the mess.

“Oh, yeah,” he mumbled, trying to stand and falling back down. “I can walk. Sure. Let’s go.”

Iridal stepped to the door, rapped on it briskly. “Go fetch the Abbot,” she ordered.

The monk left. The Abbot returned. Iridal unlocked the door, opened it.

“Hugh the Hand has agreed to accompany me,” she said, “but you see the state he’s in. He can’t walk without assistance. If two of your monks could carry him, I would be extremely grateful.”

The Abbot frowned, looked dubious. Iridal removed a purse from beneath her cloak. “My gratitude is of a material nature,” she said, smiling. “A donation to the Abbey is always welcome, I believe.”

The Abbot accepted the purse. “Two of the brethren will be sent. But you may neither see nor speak to them.”

“I understand, Lord. I am ready to leave now.” She did not look back at Hugh, but she could hear the crunch of broken glass, heavy breathing, and muttered curses.

The Abbot appeared highly pleased and gratified at her departure. The mysteriarch had disturbed his Abbey with her imperious demands, caused a stir among the brethren, brought too much of the world of the living into one devoted to the dead. He himself escorted Iridal up the stairs, through the Abbey, and out the front entrance. He promised that Hugh would be sent out to meet her, if he could walk, carried if he could not. Perhaps the Abbot was not sorry to rid himself of this troublesome guest as well.

Iridal bowed, expressed her thanks. She hesitated, wanting to remain nearby, in case Hugh needed her help.

But the Abbot, clutching the purse, did not go back inside the Abbey. He waited beneath the glowlamp, intending to make certain that the woman was truly leaving.

Iridal had no recourse, therefore, but to turn and depart the Abbey grounds, make her way back to her slumbering dragon. Only then, when the Abbot saw her with the dragon, did he turn and stalk into the Abbey, slam shut the door. Looking back, Iridal wondered what to do, wished she knew what Hugh had planned. She decided that the best thing she could do was awaken the dragon, have it ready to carry them speedily away from this place.

Waking a slumbering dragon is always a tricky maneuver, for dragons are independent by nature, and if the beast woke up free of the spell that enthralled it, it might decide to fly away, attack her, attack the Abbey, or a combination of all three.

Fortunately, the dragon remained under enchantment. It emerged from sleep only slightly irritated at being awakened. Iridal soothed and praised it, promised it a treat when they returned home.

The dragon stretched its wings, lashed its tail, and proceeded to inspect its scaly hide for signs of the tiny and insidious dragon-wyrm, a parasite fond of burrowing beneath the scales and sucking the dragon’s blood. Iridal left it to its task, turned to watch the Abbey entrance, which she could see from her vantage point. She was just beginning to be anxious, more than half-afraid that Hugh might have changed his mind. She was wondering how to cope if he had, for the Abbot would most certainly not let her return, no matter what dire magics she threatened.

Then Hugh burst out the front door, almost as if he had been shoved from behind. He carried a bundle in one arm—a cloak and clothes for the journey, no doubt—and a bottle of wine in the other. He fell, caught himself, glanced backward, said something it was probably just as well Iridal couldn’t hear. Then he straightened, stared around, obviously wondering where she was. Iridal lifted her arm, waved to draw his attention, called out to him. Perhaps it was the sound of her voice—startlingly loud in the clear, frosty night—or her sudden movement. She never knew. Something jolted the dragon out of its enchantment.

A shrill shriek rose behind her, wings flapped, and, before she could stop it, the dragon had taken to the air. The dragon’s disenchantment was nothing more than a minor annoyance for a mysteriarch. Iridal had only to recast a very simple spell, but, to do so, she was forced to turn her attention away from Hugh for a few moments.

Unfamiliar with the intrigues and machinations of the royal court, it never occurred to Iridal that the distraction was deliberate.