The woman was going to fall, and without pausing to think, Hugh ran up the stairs and caught the slumping body in his arms.
“So that’s mother,” said Bane.
“Yes, my son,” remarked Sinistrad. “Gentlemen, my wife, Iridal.” He waved a negligent hand at her motionless body. “I must apologize for her. She is weak, very weak. And now, sirs, if you will follow me, I will show you to your quarters. I am certain you will want to rest after your fatiguing journey.”
“What about her—your wife?” Hugh demanded. He smelled the fragrance of crushed and faded lavender.
“Take her to her room,” said Sinistrad, glancing at her without interest.
“It’s at the top of the stairs, along the balcony, second door to the left.”
“Should I call a servant to care for her?”
“We have no servants. I find them . . . disruptive. She must care for herself. As must you all, I’m afraid.”
Without looking to see if their guests were following, Sinistrad and Bane turned to the right and walked through a door that appeared, seemingly by the wizard’s command, in a blank wall. The others did not immediately go after him—Haplo was idly looking around, Alfred was apparently torn between following his prince and attending to the poor woman in Hugh’s arms, Limbeck looked with frightened round eyes at the door that had materialized out of solid rock and kept rubbing his ears, perhaps longing for a whoosh, zuzt, wham to break the oppressive silence.
“I suggest you follow me, gentlemen. You will never find your way alone. There are but few fixed rooms in this castle. The rest come and go as we need them. I deplore waste, you see.”
The others, somewhat startled by this pronouncement, made their way through the door, Limbeck holding back until Alfred gently propelled him forward. Hugh wondered where the dog was, then, looking down, saw the animal at his feet.
“Get along!” Hugh snapped, shoving at the dog with a boot. The animal dodged him neatly and remained standing on the stair, watching him with interest, head cocked to one side, ears erect.
The woman in Hugh’s arms stirred faintly and moaned. No other assistance from his companions being forthcoming, the assassin turned and carried the woman up the stairs. The climb to the balcony above was long, but the burden he bore was light, far too light.
He carried her to her room, finding it without difficulty by the half-open door and the faint smell of the same sweet fragrance that clung to her. Inside was a sitting room, beyond that a dressing room, and beyond that her bedchamber. Passing through the various rooms, Hugh was surprised to see that they were almost devoid of furnishings, there were few decorations, and those that were visible were covered with dust. The atmosphere of these inner, private chambers was chill and barren. Far different from the warm luxury of the entry hall.
Hugh laid Iridal gently upon a bed covered with sheets of finest linen trimmed with lace. He drew a silken coverlet over her thin body and then stood gazing at her.
She was younger than he had first guessed on seeing her. Her hair was white but thick and as finely spun as gossamer. The face in repose was sweet, delicately molded, and unlined. Her skin was pale, so dreadfully pale. Before Hugh could catch the dog, it slipped past and gave the woman’s hand—hanging down beside the bed—a swipe with its tongue. Iridal stirred and woke. Her eyes fluttered open. She looked up at Hugh, and fear contorted her features.
“Go now!” she whispered. “You must go!”
. . . The sound of chanting greeted the sun in the chill morning. It was the song of black-robed monks descending on the village, driving away the other carrion birds:
Hugh and other boys trudged behind, shivering in their thin clothing, their bare feet stumbling numbly over frozen ground. They had come to look forward to the warmth of the terrible fires that would soon be burning in this village.
There were no living people to be seen; only the dead, lying in the streets where their relatives had tossed the plague-infested bodies, then gone into hiding against the coming of the Kir. At a few doors, however, stood baskets of food or perhaps—more precious—jugs of water, the village’s payment for services rendered.
The monks were accustomed to this. They went about their grim business, gathering the bodies, hauling them to the large open area where the orphans they sheltered were already heaping up charcrystal. Other boys, Hugh among them, ran down the street gathering up the thank-offerings that would be carried back to the monastery. Coming to one doorway, he heard a sound and paused in the act of lifting a loaf of bread from a basket. He looked inside.
“Mother,” said a little boy, starting to approach a woman lying on the bed.
“I’m hungry. Why don’t you get out of bed? It’s time for our breakfast.”
“I can’t get up this morning, dear.” The mother’s voice, though gentle, apparently sounded strange and unfamiliar to the child, because it frightened him. “No, my sweet darling. Don’t come near me. I forbid it.” She drew a breath and Hugh could hear it wheeze in her lungs. Her face was already as white as those of the corpses lying in the street, but he saw that once she had been pretty. “Let me look at you, Mikal. You will be good while . . . while I’m sick. Do you promise? Promise me,” she said weakly.
“Yes, mother, I promise.”
“Go now!” the woman said in a low voice. Her hands clenched the blankets. “You must go. Go ... fetch me some water.”
The child turned and ran toward Hugh, who was standing in the doorway. Hugh saw the woman’s body jerk in agony, then go rigid, then limp. The eyes stared up at the ceiling.
“I must get water, water for mother,” the child said, looking up at Hugh. His back was turned; he had not seen.
“I’ll help carry it,” said Hugh. “You hold this.” He handed the boy the bread. Might as well get the child accustomed to his new life.
Taking the little boy by the hand, Hugh led him away from the house. In the child’s arms was the loaf of bread, baked by a woman just as she was probably beginning to feel the first symptoms of the disease that would shortly claim her. Behind him, Hugh could still hear the soft echo of the mother’s command, sending her child away so that he would not see her die.
“Go now!”
Water. Hugh lifted a carafe and poured a glass. Iridal did not glance at it, but kept her gaze fixed on him.
“You!” Her voice was low and soft. “You are . . . one of them . . . with my son?”
Hugh nodded. The woman rose, half-sitting in bed, propped up on her arm. Her face was pale, there was a fever in her lustrous eyes. “Go!” she repeated, speaking in a low, trembling voice. “You’re in terrible danger! Leave this house! Now!”
Her eyes. Hugh was mesmerized by her eyes. They were large and deeply set, the irises every color of the rainbow—a glistening spectrum surrounding the black pupils that shifted and changed as the light struck them.
“Do you hear me?” she demanded.
Hugh hadn’t really. Something about danger.
“Here, drink this,” he said, thrusting the glass toward her. Angrily she knocked it aside. The goblet crashed to the floor, water running over the stone tiles. “Do you think I want your deaths, too, on my hands?”
“Tell me the danger, then. Why must we leave?”
But the woman sank back on the pillows and would not answer him. Drawing near, he saw that she was shivering with fear.
“What danger?”
He bent down to pick up the pieces of broken glass, looking at her as he worked.
The woman shook her head frenziedly. Her eyes darted about the room. “No. I’ve said enough, perhaps too much! He has eyes everywhere, his ears are always listening!” The fingers of her hands curled and closed in on the palms. It had been a long time since Hugh had felt another’s pain. It had been a long time since he’d felt his own. From somewhere buried deep inside him, memories and feelings that had been lying dead came to life, stretched out bony hands, and dug their nails into his soul. His hand jerked; a glass shard drove into his palm.