The Hand of Chaos

24

Hugh saw the dragon take to the air, knew immediately that it had slipped the reins of its enchantment. He was no magus. There was nothing he could do to help Iridal recapture it or cast a spell on it. Shrugging, he pulled the cork of the wine bottle out with his teeth and was about to take a drink when he heard a man’s voice, speaking to him from the shadows.

“Make no sudden movement. Give no indication you hear me. Walk over this direction.”

Hugh knew the man, searched to give the voice a name and a face, but failed. The wine-soaked months of self-imposed captivity had drowned the memory. He could see nothing in the darkness. For all he knew, an arrow was nocked and aimed at his heart. And though he sought death, he sought it on his own terms, not on someone else’s. He wondered briefly if Iridal had led him into this ambush, decided not. Her anxiety over that kid of hers had been too real. The man seemed to know Hugh was only pretending to be drunk, but the Hand figured it couldn’t hurt to keep up the pretense. He acted as if he hadn’t heard, lurched in the general direction of the voice by accident. His hands fumbled with his bundle and wine bottle—which had now become shield and weapon. Using his cloak to conceal his motions, he shifted the heavy bundle in his left hand, ready to lift it to protect himself, readjusted his right hand’s grip on the neck of the wine bottle. With one quick motion, he could smash the glass against a head, across a face.

Muttering beneath his breath about the inability of women to control dragons, Hugh staggered out of the small pool of light that illuminated the Abbey grounds, found himself among a few scraggly bushes and a grove of twisted trees.

“Stop here. That’s near enough. You only need to hear me. Do you know me, Hugh the Hand?”

And then he did know. He gripped the bottle tighter. “Trian, isn’t it? House magus to King Stephen.”

“We haven’t much time. The Lady Iridal mustn’t know we’ve had this conversation. His Majesty wishes to remind you that you have not fulfilled the agreement.”

“What?” Hugh shifted his eyes, stared into the shadows, without seeming to stare.

“You did not do what you were paid to do. The child is still alive.”

“So?” said Hugh harshly. “I’ll give you your money back. You only paid me half of it anyway.”

“We don’t want the money back. We want the child dead.”

“I can’t do it,” said Hugh to the night.

“Why?” the voice asked, sounding displeased. “Surely you of all men haven’t found a conscience. Are you suddenly squeamish? Don’t you like killing anymore?”

Hugh dropped the wine bottle, made a sudden lunge. His hand caught hold of the wizard’s robes. He dragged the man forth.

“No,” said Hugh, holding the wizard’s handsome, fine-boned face close to his own grizzled jowl. “I might like it too much!”

He shoved Trian backward, had the satisfaction of watching him crash into the bushes. “I might not be able to stop myself. Tell that to your king.” He couldn’t see Trian’s face; the wizard was a robed hump of blackness, silhouetted against the luminescent coralite. Hugh didn’t want to see him. He kicked aside the shards of the wine bottle, cursed the waste, and started to walk away. Iridal had managed to coax the dragon out of the sky. She was petting it, whispering the words of the spell.

“We offered you a job,” said Trian, picking himself up, calm, nonplussed. “You accepted it. You were paid for it. And you failed to complete it.” Hugh kept walking.

“You had only one thing that raised you above the level of common cutthroat, Hugh the Hand,” Trian told him, the words a whisper, carried by the wind.

“Honor.”

Hugh made no response, did not look back. He strode rapidly up the hill toward Iridal, found her disheveled, irritated.

“I’m sorry for the delay. I can’t understand how the enchantment could have slipped like that...”

I can, Hugh told her silently. Trian did it. He followed you. He foiled your spell, freed the dragon, in order to distract you while he talked to me. King Stephen’s not sending you to rescue your son, Lady. He’s using you to lead me to the child. Don’t trust him, Iridal. Don’t trust Trian, don’t trust Stephen. Don’t trust me.

Hugh could have said that to her, the words were on his lips... and they stayed there, unspoken.

“Never mind that now,” he told her, voice harsh and sharp. “Will the spell hold?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then fly the beast out of here. Before the Abbot finds two of his brethren stripped to their skins, bound hand and foot in my cell.” He glowered at her, expecting questions, prepared to remind her that she had agreed to ask none.

She cast him one wondering glance, then nodded and swiftly mounted the dragon. Hugh tied the bundle securely on the back of the ornate, two-person saddle that bore the Winged Eye—King Stephen’s device.

“No wonder the damn wizard was able to disrupt the spell,” Hugh muttered beneath his breath. “Riding a friggin’ royal dragon!” He pulled himself up on the creature’s back, settled himself behind Iridal. She gave the command and the dragon sprang into the air, wings lifted and flapped, bearing them upward. Hugh did not waste time searching to see if he could find the magus. That was futile. Trian was too good. The question was: would he follow them? or simply wait for his dragon to return and report?

Hugh smiled grimly, leaned forward. “Where are we bound?”

“To my dwelling. To pick up provisions.”

“No, we’re not.” Hugh spoke loudly, to be heard over the rush of the wind, the beating of the dragon’s wings. “You have money? Barls? With the king’s stamp?”

“Yes,” Iridal replied. The dragon’s flight was erratic, wild. The wind tore at Iridal’s cloak, her white hair blew free, was like a cloud around her face.

“We’ll buy what we need,” Hugh told her. “From this moment, Lady Iridal, you and I disappear. A pity the night is so clear,” he added, glancing about. “A rainstorm would be a useful thing about now.”

“A storm can be conjured,” said Iridal, “as you well know. I may not have much skill over dragons, but wind and rain are a different matter. How shall we find our way, then?”

“By the feel of the wind on my cheek,” said Hugh, grinning at her. He slid forward, put out his arms—one on either side of Iridal—and reached for the reins. “Summon your storm, Lady.”

“Is this necessary?” she asked, stirring uneasily at the Hand’s overwhelming nearness, his body pressed against hers, his strong arms encircling her. “I can manage the dragon. You give me the directions.”

“Wouldn’t work,” said Hugh. “I fly by feel; don’t even think about it, most of the time. Lean back against me. You’ll stay dryer. Relax, Lady. We’ve a long journey ahead of us this night. Sleep, if you can. Where we’re going, there won’t be many nights ahead of us when you’ll be able to afford the luxury.” Iridal sat stiff and rigid a moment longer, then, with a sigh, she sank back against Hugh’s breast. He shifted himself to better accommodate her, tightened his arms around her more securely.

He grasped the reins with a firm, experienced grip. The dragon, sensing skilled hands, calmed down and flew evenly.

Iridal spoke the words of magic beneath her breath, words that snatched high drifting clouds from the sky far above them, brought fog down to wrap around them, a damp and misty blanket. Rain began to fall.

“I can’t keep this up long,” she said, feeling herself growing drowsy. The rain pelted softly on her face. She burrowed deeper into Hugh’s arms.

“Doesn’t need to be long.”

Trian likes his comforts, Hugh thought. He won’t chase us through a rainstorm, especially when he figures out where we’re headed.

“You’re afraid of being followed, aren’t you?” Iridal said.

“Let’s just say I don’t like to take chances,” Hugh responded. They flew through the storm and the night in silence so warm and comfortable that both were loath to disturb it. Iridal could have asked more questions—she knew well enough that the monks would not be likely to follow them. Who else did he fear? But she didn’t say anything.

She had promised not to and she meant to keep that promise. She was glad he’d put such restrictions on her, in fact. She didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know.

She rested her hand over her bosom, over the feather amulet that she wore hidden beneath her gown, the amulet that put her in mental contact with her child. She had not told him about that, nor would she. He would disapprove, would probably be angry. But she would not break this link with her child—lost to her once, now blessedly found.

Hugh has his secrets, she said to herself. I will keep mine. Resting in his arms, glad of his strength and sheltering presence, Iridal let go of the past with its bitter sorrows and even more bitter self-recriminations, let go of the future with its certain peril. She let go of both as easily as she had let go the reins, allowing someone else to steer, to guide. There would come a time when she would need to grasp hold of them again, perhaps even fight for control. But until then, she could do what Hugh suggested—relax, sleep.

Hugh sensed more than saw that Iridal slept. The rain-soaked darkness was thick, blotted out the faint glow of the coralite below, making it seem as if ground and sky were one and the same. He shifted the reins to one hand, drew his cloak over the woman with the other, forming a tent to keep her warm and dry.

In his mind, he heard the same words, over and over and over. You had only one thing that raised you above the level of common cutthroat, Hugh the Hand.

Honor... Honor... Honor...

“You spoke to him, Trian? You recognized him?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Stephen scratched his bearded chin. “Hugh the Hand lives and has been alive, all this time. She lied to us.”

“One can hardly blame her, sire,” said Trian.

“We were fools to believe her! A man with blue skin! The bumbling Alfred gone looking for her son. Alfred couldn’t find himself in the dark. She lied about it all!”

“I’m not so certain, Your Majesty,” said Trian thoughtfully. “There was always more—much more—to Alfred than he let on. And the man with the blue skin. I have myself come across certain interesting references in those books the mysteriarchs brought with them—”

“Does any of this have anything to do with Hugh the Hand or Bane?” Stephen demanded, irritated.

“No, sire,” said Trian. “But it might be of importance later on.”

“Then we will discuss it later on. Will the Hand do as you told him?”

“I cannot say, sire. I wish I could,” Trian added, seeing Stephen look highly displeased. “We had little time for speech. And his face, Your Majesty! I caught a glimpse of it, by the ground light. I could not look at it long. I saw there evil, cunning, desperation—”

“What of it? The man is, after all, an assassin.”

“The evil was my own, sire,” said Trian.

He lowered his gaze, stared down at several of the books, tying on the desk in his study.

“And mine, too, by implication.”

“I didn’t say that, sire—”

“You don’t need to, damn it!” Stephen snapped, then he sighed heavily. “The ancestors be my witness, Magicka, I don’t like this any more than you do. No one was happier than I was to think that Bane had survived, that I wasn’t responsible for the murder of a ten-year-old child. I believed Lady Iridal because I wanted to believe her. And look where we are now. In far worse danger than before.

“But what choice do I have, Trian?” Stephen slammed his fist on the desk.

“What choice?”

“None, sire,” said Trian.

Stephen nodded. “So,” he said abruptly, back to business. “Will he do it?”

“I don’t know, sire. And we have reason to be afraid if he does. ‘I might like the killing too much,’ was what he said. ‘I might not be able to stop myself’” Stephen looked gray, haggard. He lifted his hands, stared at them, rubbed them. “That need not be a worry. Once this deed is done, we will eliminate the man. At least in his case, we can feel justified. He has long cheated the executioner’s ax. I assumed you followed the two when they left the monastery? Where did they go?”

“Hugh the Hand is skilled in shaking pursuit, sire. A rainstorm blew up, out of a cloudless sky. My dragon lost their scent, and I was soaked to the skin. I deemed it best to return to the Abbey and question the Kir monks who sheltered the Hand.”

“With what result? Perhaps they knew what he intended.”

“If so, sire, they did not tell me.” Trian smiled ruefully. “The Abbot was in an uproar over something. He informed me that he’d had his fill of magi, then he slammed the door in my face.”

“You did nothing?”

“I am merely Third House, sire,” said Trian humbly. “The Kir’s own magi are of a level equal to mine. A contest was neither appropriate nor called for. It would not do to offend the Kir, sire.”

Stephen glowered. “I suppose you’re right. But now we’ve lost track of the Hand and the Lady Iridal.”

“I warned you to expect as much, Your Majesty. And we must have done so in any case. I surmised, you see, where they were headed—a place I, for one, dare not follow. Nor would you find many here willing or able to do so.”

“What place is that? The Seven Mysteries[52]?”

Alfred wrote that he intended to explore the islands himself, but he never did so. He appeared to have a vague theory that Sartan magic was involved, but how it worked or for what purpose, he was unable to say.

“No, sire. A place better known and, if anything, more dreaded, for the dangers in this place are real. Hugh the Hand is on the heading for Skurvash, Your Majesty.”