They saw three of the dragon-headed, sail-winged elven ships, but they were far distant, traveling to some unknown destination on the kiratrack side. That same day, a flight of fifty dragons passed directly overhead. They could see the dragonknights in their saddles, the bright winter sun gleaming off helm and breastplate, javelin and arrow tips. This detail had a wizardess with them, flying in the center, surrounded by knights. She carried no visible weapons, only her magic, and that was in her mind. The dragonknights were headed toward the kiratrack as well. The elves weren’t the only ones who would take advantage of clear, windless days.
Bane watched the elven ships with wide-eyed, openmouthed, boyish awe. He had never seen one, he said, and was bitterly disappointed that they didn’t come closer. A scandalized Alfred had, in fact, been forced to restrain His Highness from pulling off his hood and using it as a flag to wave them this direction. Travelers along the road had not been at all amused by this stunt. Hugh took grim delight in watching the peasants scatter for cover before Alfred managed to put a damper on His Highness’s enthusiasm. That night, as they gathered around the fire after their frugal meal, Bane went over to sit beside Hugh, instead of his usual place near the chamberlain. Squatting down, he made himself comfortable.
“Will you tell me about the elves, Sir Hugh?”
“How do you know I have anything to tell?” Hugh fished his pipe and the pouch of sterego out of his pack. Leaning back against a tree, his feet stretched out to the flames, he shook the dried fungus out of the leather pouch and into the round, smooth bowl.
Bane gazed not at the assassin but at a point somewhere to Hugh’s right, over his shoulder. His blue eyes lost their focus. Hugh thrust a stick into the fire and used it to light his pipe. Puffing on it, he watched the boy with idle curiosity.
“I see a great battle,” said Bane dreamily. “I see elves and men fighting and dying. I see defeat and despair, and then I hear men singing and there is joy.”
Hugh sat still for so long that his pipe went out. Alfred shifted position uncomfortably and put his palm on a hot coal. Stifling a cry of pain, he wrung his injured hand.
“Your Highness,” he said miserably, “I have told you—”
“No, never mind.” Casually Hugh knocked the ash out of his pipe, filled it, and lit it again. He puffed on it slowly, his gaze fixed on the boy. “You just described the Battle of Seven Fields.”
“You were there,” said Bane.
Hugh blew a thin trail of smoke into the air. “Yes, and so was nearly every other human male near my age, including your father, the king.” Hugh took a long drag on the pipe. “If this is what you’re calling clairvoyance, Alfred, I’ve seen better acts in a third-rate inn. The boy must have heard the story from his father a hundred times.”
Bane’s face underwent a swift and startling change—the happiness dissolved into stark, searing pain. Biting his lips, he lowered his head and brushed his hand across his eyes.
Alfred fixed Hugh with an odd look—one that was almost pleading. “I assure you, Sir Hugh, that this gift of His Highness’s is quite real and should not be taken lightly. Bane, Sir Hugh does not understand magic, that is all. He is sorry. Now, why don’t you get yourself a sweetmelt from the pack.” Bane left Hugh’s side, going over to the chamberlain’s pack to find his treat. Alfred pitched his voice for Hugh’s ears alone. “It’s just . . . You see, sir, the king never really talked that much to the boy. King Stephen was never quite ... uh ... comfortable in Bane’s presence.”
No, Hugh mused, Stephen must not have found it pleasant to look into the face of his shame. Perhaps, in the boy’s features, the king saw a man he—and his queen—knew all too well.
The glow of the pipe died. Knocking out the ashes, Hugh found a small twig and, splitting the end with his dagger, thrust it into the bowl and attempted to clean out the blockage. He cast a glance at the boy and saw Bane still rummaging through the pack.
“You really believe this kid can do what he claims—sees pictures in the air—don’t you?”
“He can!” Alfred assured him earnestly. “I have seen him do it too many times to doubt. And you must believe it too, sir, or else ...” Hugh, pausing in his work, looked up at Alfred.
“Or else? That sounds very much like a threat.”
Alfred cast his eyes down. His hurt hand nervously plucked the leaves off a cupplant. “I ... I didn’t mean it—”
“Yes, you did.” Hugh knocked the pipe on a rock. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with that feather he wears, would it? The one given him by a mysteriarch?” Alfred went livid, becoming so pale Hugh was half-afraid he might faint again. The chamberlain swallowed several times before he found his voice. “I don’t—” A snapping branch interrupted him. Bane was returning to the fire. Hugh saw Alfred cast the boy the grateful glance of a drowning man who has been tossed a rope.
The prince, absorbed in enjoying his sweetmelt, didn’t notice. He threw himself on the ground and, picking up a stick, began to poke at the fire.
“Would you like to hear the story of the Battle of Seven Fields, Your Highness?” Hugh asked quietly.
The prince looked up, eyes shining. “I’ll bet you were a hero, weren’t you, Sir Hugh!”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” interrupted Alfred meekly, “but I don’t take you for a patriot. How did you chance to be at the battle to free our homeland?” Hugh was about to reply when the chamberlain winced and hurriedly jumped up. Reaching down on the ground where he’d been sitting, Alfred picked up a large piece of broken coralite. Its knife-sharp edges sparkled in the firelight. Fortunately, the leather breeches he wore, which they had purchased from a cobbler, had protected him from serious harm.
“You’re right. Politics mean nothing to me.” A thin trickle of smoke curled up from Hugh’s lips. “Let’s just say that I was there on business. . . .”
... A man entered the inn and stood blinking in the dim light. It was early morning, and the common room was empty except for a slovenly woman scrubbing the floor and a traveler seated at a table in deep shadow.
“Are you Hugh, called the Hand?” the man who had entered asked the traveler.
“I am.”
“I want to hire you.” The man plunked a bag down in front of Hugh. Opening it and sorting through it, Hugh saw coins, jewelry, and even a few silver spoons. Pausing, he lifted out what was obviously a woman’s wedding ring and looked at the man narrowly.
“That comes from a number of us, for none was rich enough to hire you himself. We gave what valuables we had.”
“Who’s the mark?”
“A certain captain who hires himself out to the gentry to train and lead foot soldiers in battle. He’s a bully and a coward and he’s sent more than one squad to its doom while he’s stayed safe behind and collected his fee. You’ll find him with Warren of Kurinandistai, marching with the army of King Stephen. I’ve heard they’re headed for a place called Seven Fields, on the continent.”
“And what’s the special service you require of me? You and”—Hugh patted the money sack—“all these.”
“Widows and kinsmen of those he last led, sir,” said the man. His eyes glinted. “We ask this for our money: that he be killed in such a manner that it will be obvious no enemy hand touched him, that he knows who has bought his death, and” —the man carefully held out to Hugh a small scroll—“that this be left on the body. ...”
“Sir Hugh?” said Bane impatiently. “Go on. Tell me about Seven Fields.”