But when the dragon, at the courier’s soft-spoken command, descended from the sky and landed upon solid ground, Hugh gazed around him and was forced to admit that for the first time in his life he was lost. He had never seen this place before.
The king’s messenger dismounted from the dragon. Removing a glowstone from the leather pouch, he held the stone in his open palm. Once exposed to the air, the magical jewel began to give off a radiant light. A glowstone gives off heat as well, and it is necessary to place it in a container. The courier walked unhesitatingly to a corner of a crumbling coralite wall surrounding their landing site. Leaning down, he deposited the glowstone in a crude iron lamp.
Hugh saw no other objects in the barren courtyard. Either the lamp had been left in expectation of the courier’s arrival or he himself had placed it there before he departed. The Hand suspected the latter, mainly because there was no sign of anyone else nearby. Even the nightrae had been left behind. It was logical to assume, therefore, that the courier had started his journey from this place and obviously expected to return—a fact that might or might not have much significance. Hugh slid down off the dragon’s back. The courier lifted the iron lamp. Returning to the dragon, he stroked the proudly arched neck and murmured words of rest and comfort that caused the beast to settle itself down in the courtyard, tucking its wings beneath its body and curling its long tail round its feet. The head fell forward on the breast, the eyes closed, and the dragon breathed a contented sigh. Once asleep, a dragon is extremely difficult and even dangerous to wake, for sometimes during sleep the spells of submission and obedience which are cast over them can be accidentally broken and you’ve got a confused, irate, and loudly vocal creature on your hands. An experienced dragonrider never allows his animal to sleep unless he knows there is a competent wizard nearby. Another fact Hugh noted with interest.
Coming close to him, the courier raised his lantern and stared quizzically into Hugh’s face, inviting question or comment. The Hand saw no need to waste his breath in asking questions he knew would not be answered, and so stared back at the courier in silence.
The courier, nonplussed, started to say something, changed his mind, and softly exhaled the breath he had drawn in to speak. Abruptly he turned on his heel, with a gesture to the assassin to follow, and Hugh fell into step behind his guide. The courier led the way to a place that Hugh soon came to recognize, from early and dark childhood memories, as a Kir monastery. It was ancient and had obviously been long abandoned. The flagstones of the courtyard were cracked and in many cases missing entirely. Coralite had grown over much of the standing outer structures that had been formed of the rare granite the Kir favored over the more common coralite. A chill wind whistled through the abandoned dwellings, where no light shone and had probably not shone for centuries. Bare trees creaked and dry leaves crunched beneath Hugh’s boots.
Having been raised by the grim and dour order of Kir monks, the Hand knew the location of every monastery on the Volkaran Isles. He could not remember hearing of any that had ever been abandoned, and the mystery of where he was and why he had been brought here deepened.
The courier came to a baked-clay door that stood at the bottom of a tall turret. He fit an iron key into the lock. The Hand peered upward, but could not see a glimmer of light in any of the windows. The door swung open silently—an indication that someone was accustomed to coming here frequently, since the rusted hinges were well-oiled. Gliding inside, the courier indicated with a wave of his hand that Hugh was to follow. When both were in the cold and drafty building, the courier locked the door, tucking the key inside the bosom of his tunic.
“This way,” he said. The direction was not necessary—there was only one possible way for them to go, and that was up. A spiral staircase led them round and round the interior of the turret. Hugh counted three levels, each marked by a clay door. All were locked, the Hand noted, surreptitiously testing each as they ascended.
On the fourth level, at another clay door, the iron key again made an appearance. A long narrow corridor, darker than the Lords of Night, ran straight and true before them. The courier’s booted footsteps rang on the stone. Hugh, accustomed by habit to treading silently in his soft-soled, supple leather boots, made no more noise than if he had been the man’s shadow. They passed six doors by Hugh’s count—three on his left and three on his right—before the courier raised a warning hand and they stopped at the seventh. Once again the iron key was produced. It grated in the lock and the door slid open.
“Enter,” the courier said, standing to one side.
Hugh did as he was told. He was not surprised to hear the door shut behind him. No sound of a key turning in the lock, however. The only light in the room came from the soft glow given off by the coralite outside, but that faint shimmer illuminated the room well enough for the Hand’s sharp eyes. He stood still a moment, closely inspecting his surroundings. He was, he discovered, not alone.
The Hand felt no fear. His fingers, beneath his cloak, were clasped around the hilt of his dagger, but that was only common sense in a situation like this. Hugh was a businessman and he recognized the setting of a business discussion when he saw it.
The other person in the room with him was adept at hiding. He was silent and kept himself concealed in the shadows. Hugh didn’t see the person or hear him, but he knew with every instinct that had kept him alive through forty harsh and bitter cycles that there was someone else present. The Hand sniffed the air.
“Are you an animal? Can you smell me?” queried the voice—a male voice, deep and resonant. “Is that how you knew I was in the room?”
“Yeah, an animal,” said Hugh shortly.
“And what if I had attacked you?” The figure moved over to stand by the window. He was outlined in Hugh’s vision by the faint radiance of the coralite. The Hand saw that his interrogator was a tall man clad in a cape whose hem he could hear dragging across the floor. The man’s head and face were covered by chain mail, only the eyes visible. But the Hand knew his suspicions had been correct. He knew to whom he was talking. Hugh drew forth his dagger. “A hand’s breadth of steel in your heart, Your Majesty.”
“I am wearing a mail vest,” said Stephen, King of the Volkaran Isles and the Uylandia Cluster. He was, seemingly, not surprised that Hugh recognized him. A corner of the assassin’s thin lips twitched. “The chain mail does not cover your armpit, Majesty. Lift your elbow.” Stepping forward, Hugh placed thin, long fingers in the gap between the body armor and that covering the arm. “One thrust of my dagger, there . . .” Hugh shrugged.
Stephen did not flinch at the touch. “I must mention that to my armorer.” Hugh shook his head. “Do what you will, Majesty, if a man’s determined to kill you, then you’re dead. And if that’s why you’ve brought me here, I can only offer you this advice: decide whether you want your corpse burned or buried.”
“This from an expert,” said Stephen, and Hugh could hear the sneer if he could not see it on the man’s helmed face.
“I assume Your Majesty requires an expert, since you’ve gone to all this trouble.”
The king turned to face the window. He had seen almost fifty cycles, but he was well-built and strong and able to withstand incredible hardships. Some whispered that he slept in his armor, to keep his body hard. Certainly, considering his wife’s reputed character, he might also welcome the protection.
“Yes, you are an expert. The best in the kingdom, I am told.” Stephen fell silent. The Hand was adept at reading the words men speak with their bodies, not with their tongues, and though the king might have thought he was masking his turbulent inner emotions quite well, Hugh noted the fingers of the left hand close in upon themselves, heard the silvery clinking of the chain mail as a tremor shook the man’s body.