“Since we are to be traveling companions, you may call me by my name,” said the boy shyly.
“And what might that be, Your Highness?” Hugh asked, lifting the pack. The child stared at him. The Hand added hastily, “I’ve been out of the country many years, Your Highness.”
“Bane,” said the child. “I am Prince Bane.” Hugh froze, motion arrested. Bane! The assassin wasn’t superstitious, but why would anyone give a child such an ill-omened name? Hugh felt the invisible filament of Fate’s web tighten around his neck. The image of the block came to him—cold, peaceful, serene. Angry at himself, he shook his head. The choking sensation vanished, the image of his own death disappeared. Hugh shouldered the prince’s pack and his own.
“We must be going, Your Highness,” he said again, nodding toward the door. Bane lifted his cloak from the floor and threw it clumsily over his shoulders, fumbling at the strings that fastened it around his neck. Impatient to be gone, Hugh tossed the packs back to the ground, knelt, and tied the strings of the cloak.
To his astonishment, the prince flung his arms around his neck.
“I’m glad you’re my guardian,” he said, clinging to him, his soft cheek pressed against Hugh’s.
The Hand held rigid, unmoving. Bane slipped away from him. “I’m ready,” he announced in eager excitement. “Are we going by dragon? Tonight was the first time I’d ever ridden one. ’ I suppose you must ride them all the time.”
“Yes,” Hugh managed to say. “There’s a dragon in the courtyard.” He lifted the two packs and the lamp. “If Your Highness will follow me—”
“I know the way,” said the prince, skipping out of the room. Hugh followed after him, the touch of the boy’s hands soft and warm against his skin.
7
Three people were gathered in a room located in the upper levels of the monastery. The room had been one of the monks’ cells and was, consequently, cold, austere, small, and windowless. The three—two men and one woman—stood in the very center of the room. One man had his arm around the woman; the woman had her arm around him, each supporting the other, or it seemed both might have fallen. The third stood near them.
“They are preparing to leave.” The wizard had his head cocked, though it was not with his physical ear he heard the beating of the dragon’s wings through the thick walls of the monastery.
“Leaving!” the woman cried, and took a step forward. “I want to see him again! My son! One more time!”
“No, Anne!” Trian’s voice was stern; his hand clasped hold of the woman’s and held it firmly. “It took long months to break the enchantment. It is easier this way! You must be strong!”
“I pray we have done right!” The woman sobbed and turned her face to her husband’s shoulder.
“You should have gone along, Trian,” said Stephen. He spoke harshly, though the hand with which he stroked his wife’s hair was gentle and loving. “There is still time.”
“No, Your Majesty. We gave this matter long and careful consideration. Our plans are sound. We must follow through on them and pray that our ancestors are with us and all goes as we hope.”
“Did you warn this . . . Hugh?”
“A hard man such as that assassin would not have believed me. It would have done no good and might have caused a great deal of harm. He is the best. He is cold, he is heartless. We must trust in his skill and his nature.”
“And if he fails?”
“Then, Your Majesty,” said Trian with a soft sigh, “we should prepare ourselves to face the end.”
8
At almost precisely the same time Hugh laid his head on the block in Ke’lith, another execution—that of the notorious Limbeck Bolttightner—was being carried out thousands of menka[6] below on the isle of Drevlin. It would seem at first that these executions had nothing in common except the coincidence of their time. But the invisible threads cast by that immortal spider, Fate, had just wrapped around the soul of each of these oddly disparate people and would slowly and surely draw them together.
On the night that Lord Rogar of Ke’lith was murdered, Limbeck Bolttightner was seated in his cozy, untidy dwelling in Het—the oldest city on Drevlin—composing a speech.
Limbeck was, in his own language, a Geg. In any other language in Arianus, or in the ancient world before the Sundering, he would have been known as a dwarf. He stood a respectable four feet in height (without shoes). A full and luxuriant growth of beard adorned a cheerful, open face. He was developing a slight paunch, unusual in a hardworking young adult Geg, but that was due to the fact that he sat a great deal. Limbeck’s eyes were bright, inquisitive, and extremely nearsighted.
He lived in a small cavern amid hundreds of other caverns that honeycombed a large mound of coralite located on the outskirts of Het. Limbeck’s cave was different in certain respects from those of his neighbors, which seemed fitting since Limbeck himself was certainly an unusual Geg. His cave was taller than the others, being almost two Gegs high. A special platform, built of knobwood planks, allowed Limbeck to climb up to the ceiling of his dwelling and enjoy another of the cavern’s oddities—windows.
Most Gegs didn’t need windows; the storms that buffeted the isle made windows impractical, and in general, the Gegs were far more concerned with what was going on inside than outside. A few of the city’s original buildings—the ones that had been built long, long ago by the hallowed and revered Mangers—had windows, however. Small panes of thick, bubble-filled glass set into recessed holes in the sturdy walls, the windows were perfectly suited to a lifetime of battering wind, rain, and hail. It was windows such as these that Limbeck had confiscated from an unused building in the center of town and transported to his cavern. A few turns of a borrowed bore-hoogus created the perfect-size openings for two windows on the ground floor and four more up above. In this, Limbeck established the major difference between himself and the majority of his people. They looked only within. Limbeck liked to look without—even if looking without only brought visions of slashing rain and hail and lightning or (during those brief periods when the storms subsided) the vat-things and hummer coils and blazing bluezuzts of the Kicksey-Winsey. One other feature of Limbeck’s dwelling made it positively unique. On the front door, which faced the interior of the mound and its interconnecting streets, was a sign with the letters WUPP painted in red, marching along boldly at a definite uphill slant.
In all other aspects, the dwelling was a typical Geg dwelling—the furniture was functional and made out of whatever material the Gegs could find, there were no frivolous decorations. None could be found that would stay put. The walls and floors and ceiling of the snug cavern shook and quivered with the thumping, throbbing, whumping, zizzt, crackle, and clanging of the Kicksey-Winsey—the dominant feature, the dominant force on Drevlin. Limbeck, the august leader of WUPP, did not mind the noise. He took comfort in it, having listened to it, albeit somewhat muffled, in his mother’s womb. The Gegs revered the noise, just as they revered the Kicksey-Winsey. They knew that if the noise ceased their world would come to an end. Death was known among the Gegs as the Endless Hear Nothing.
Wrapped in the comforting banging and drumming, Limbeck struggled with his speech. Words came easily to him. Writing them down did not. What sounded fine and grand and noble when it came out of his mouth looked trite and pretentious when he saw it on paper. At least it did to Limbeck. Jarre always told him he was far too critical of himself, that his speeches read just as well as they sounded. But, as Limbeck always replied with a fond kiss on her cheek, Jarre was prejudiced.
6
Menka or, more precisely, menkarias rydai, is the elven standard form of measurement. Classically, it was said to be “one thousand elf hunters high.” In modern times, this has been standardized by establishing that elf hunters are six feet tall, thus making the menka equal to six thousand feet. This has led to considerable confusion between the races, due to the fact that elven feet are somewhat smaller than those of humans.