One swift, clean stroke of the sword would free him. One stroke against ten thousand barls. Twisting the braid of his beard, Hugh turned to face Trian.
“What token shall I send to you?”
“Token?” Trian blinked, not understanding.
“To indicate the job is done. An ear? A finger? What?”
“Blessed ancestors forfend!” The young wizard was deathly white. He swayed unsteadily on his feet and was forced to lean against a wall to retain his balance. And so he did not see Hugh’s lips tighten in a grim smile, the assassin’s head incline ever so slightly, as if he’d just received an answer to a very important question.
“Please . . . forgive this weakness,” Trian muttered, brushing a shaking hand across his damp skin. “I haven’t slept in several nights and . . . and then the dragon ride up rydai and back again in such haste. Naturally, we want a token.
“The prince wears”—Trian gulped and then, suddenly, seemed to find some inner reserve of strength—“the prince wears an amulet, the feather of a hawk. It was given him when he was a babe by a mysteriarch from the High Realm. Due to its magical properties, the amulet cannot be removed unless the prince is”—here Trian faltered once again—“dead.” He drew a deep, shivering breath. “Send us this amulet, and we will know . . .” His voice trailed off.
“What magic?” Hugh asked suspiciously.
But the wizard, pale as death, was silent as death. He shook his head, whether physically unable to speak or refusing to answer, Hugh couldn’t tell. At any rate, it was obvious he wasn’t going to find out any more about the prince or his amulet.
It probably didn’t matter. Such magically blessed objects were commonly given to babes to protect them from disease or rat bites or keep them from tumbling headfirst into the firepit. Most of the charms, sold by roaming charlatans, had as much magical power in them as did the stone beneath Hugh’s feet. A king’s son, of course, was likely to have a real one, but Hugh knew of none—even those with true power—who could protect a person from, say, having his throat cut. Long ago, so legend told, there had been wizards who possessed such skill in their art, but not now. Not for many years, since they had left the Mid Realm and gone to dwell on the isles that floated high above. And one of these wizards had come down and given the kid a feather?
This Trian must take me for a real fool. “Pull yourself together, wizard,” said Hugh harshly, “or the kid will suspect.”
Trian nodded and gratefully drank the mug of water the assassin poured for him. Closing his eyes, the wizard drew several deep breaths, centered himself, and within a few moments managed to smile calmly and normally. Color returned to his ashen cheeks.
“I am ready now,” Trian said, and led the way down the corridor to the chamber where the prince lay sleeping.
Inserting the key in the lock, the wizard silently opened the door and stepped back.
“Farewell,” Trian said, tucking the key into the breast of his doublet.
“Aren’t you coming? To introduce me? Explain what’s going on?” Trian shook his head. “No,” he said softly. He was, Hugh noted, careful to keep his gaze straight ahead, not so much as glancing into the room. “It is now in your hands. I’ll leave you the lamp.”
Turning on his heel, the wizard practically fled down the corridor. He was soon lost in the shadows. Hugh’s sharp ears caught the sound of a lock click. There was a rush of fresh air, swiftly shut off. The wizard was gone. Shrugging, fingering the two coins in his pocket with one hand, the other reassuringly touching the hilt of his sword, the assassin entered the chamber. Holding the lamp high, he shone it on the child.
The Hand cared nothing for and knew less about children. He had no memory of his own childhood—little wonder, it had been brief. The Kir monks had no use for the state of blissful, carefree childish innocence. Early on, each child was exposed to the harsh realities of living. In a world in which there were no gods, the Kir worshiped life’s only certainty—death. Life came to mankind haphazardly, at random. There was no choice, no help for it. Joy taken in such a dubious gift was seen to be a sin. Death was the bright promise, the happy release.
As part and parcel of their belief, the Kir performed those tasks which most other humans found offensive or dangerous. The Kir were known as the Brothers of Death.
They had no mercy for the living. Their province was the dead. They did not practice healing arts, but when the corpses of plague victims were tossed out into the street, it was the Kir who took them, performed the solemn rites, and burned them. Paupers who were turned from the doors of the Kir when they were alive gained entrance after death. Suicides—cursed by the ancestors, a disgrace to their families—were welcomed by the Kir, their bodies treated with reverence. The bodies of murderers, prostitutes, thieves—all were taken in by the Kir. After a battle, it was the Kir who tended to those who had sacrificed their lives for whatever cause was currently in vogue.
The only living beings to whom the Kir extended any charity at all were male children of the dead, orphans who had no other refuge. The Kir took them in and educated them. Wherever the monks went—to whatever scene of misery and suffering, cruelty and deprivation, they were called upon to attend—they took the children with them, using them as their servants and, at the same time, teaching them about life, extolling the merciful benefits of death. By raising these boys in their ways and grim beliefs, the monks were able to maintain the numbers of their dark order. Some of the children, like Hugh, ran away, but even he had not been able to escape the shadow of the black hoods under whose tutelage he had been reared.
Consequently, when the Hand gazed down at the sleeping face of the young child, he felt no pity, no outrage. Murdering this boy was just another job to him, and one that was likely to prove more difficult and dangerous than most. Hugh knew the wizard had been lying. Now he only had to figure out why. Tossing his pack on the floor, the assassin used the toe of his boot to nudge the child. “Kid, wake up.”
The boy started, his eyes flared open, and he sat up, reflexively, before he was truly awake. “What is it?” he asked, staring through a mass of tousled golden curls at the stranger standing above him. “Who are you?”
“I’m known as Hugh—Sir Hugh of Ke’lith, Your Highness,” said the Hand, remembering in time he was supposed to be a nobleman and naming the first land holding that came to his mind. “You’re in danger. Your father’s hired me to take you to someplace where you’ll be safe. Get up. Time is short. We must leave while it is still night.”
Looking at the impassive face with its high cheekbones, hawk nose, braided strands of black beard hanging from the cleft chin, the child shrank back amidst the straw.
“Go away. I don’t like you! Where is Trian? I want Trian!”
“I’m not pretty, like the wizard. But your father didn’t hire me for my looks. If you’re frightened of me, think how your enemies’ll feel.” Hugh said this glibly, just for something to say. He was prepared to pick up the kid—kicking and screaming—and carry him off bodily. He was therefore somewhat surprised to see the child consider this argument with an expression of grave and keen intelligence.
“You make sense, Sir Hugh,” the boy said, rising to his feet. “I will accompany you. Bring my things.” He waved a small hand at a pack lying next to him on the straw.
It was on Hugh’s tongue to tell the kid to bring his own things, but he recalled himself in time. “Yes, Your Highness,” he said humbly, bending down. He took a close look at the child. The prince was small for his age, with large pale blue eyes; a sweetly curved mouth; and the porcelain-white complexion of one who is kept protectively within doors. The light glistened off a hawk feather hanging from a silver chain around the child’s neck.