The pain angered him.
“What do I do with this mess?”
Iridal made a weak gesture with her hand, and the broken glass he was holding in his hands vanished, as if it had never been.
“I’m sorry you hurt yourself,” she said in a dull, lifeless voice. “But that is what you must expect if you insist on staying.”
Averting his face from her, he turned to stare out the window. Far beneath them, its silvery skin visible through the shifting mists, the dragon had curled its huge body about the castle and lay there murmuring to itself over and over of its hatred for the wizard.
“We can’t leave,” Hugh said. “That dragon’s out there, guarding—”
“There are ways to avoid the quicksilver if you truly want to leave.” Hugh was silent, reluctant to tell her the truth, afraid of what he might hear in return. But he had to know. “I can’t leave. I’m enthralled—your son has me under enchantment.”
Iridal stirred fitfully, glanced up at him with pitying eyes.
“The enchantment works only because you want it to work. Your will feeds it. You could have broken it long ago, if you truly wanted. So the wizard Trian discovered. You care about the boy, you see. And caring is an invisible prison. I know ... I know!”
The dog, which had stretched out, nose on paws, upon the floor at Hugh’s feet, suddenly sat bolt upright and stared around fiercely.
Iridal gasped. “He’s coming! Quickly, leave me now. You have been here too long.”
Hugh, his face dark and foreboding, did not move.
“Oh, please leave me!” Iridal pleaded, stretching out her hands. “For my sake! I am the one who will be punished!”
The dog was already on its feet and heading for the outer chambers. Hugh, with a final glance back at the stricken woman, thought it best to do as she said—for now, at least. Until he could mull over what she had told him. Going out, he met Sinistrad in the door to the sitting room.
“Your wife is resting.” Hugh forestalled any question.
“Thank you. I am certain you made her very comfortable.” Sinistrad’s lashless eyes flicked over Hugh’s muscular arms and body; a knowing smile touched his thin lips.
Hugh flushed in anger. He started to push past the wizard, but Sinistrad moved slightly to block his way.
“You are hurt,” said the mysteriarch. Reaching out, he took hold of Hugh’s hand and turned it, palm-up, to the light.
“It’s nothing. A broken glass, that’s all.”
“Tsk, tsk. I cannot have my guests injured! Allow me.” Sinistrad laid fingers, thin and quivering like the legs of a spider, on Hugh’s palm over the wound. Closing his eyes, the mysteriarch concentrated. The jagged cut closed. The pain—of the wound—eased.
Smiling, Sinistrad opened his eyes and looked intently into Hugh’s.
“We’re not your guests,” said the Hand. “We’re your prisoners.”
“That, my dear sir,” replied the mysteriarch, “is entirely up to you.” One of the few rooms of the castle to remain constantly in the castle was the wizard’s study. Its location, in relation to other rooms in the dwelling, shifted constantly, depending upon Sinistrad’s moods and needs. This day, it was in the upper part of the castle, the curtains drawn to catch the last light of Solarus before the Lords of Night snuffed day’s candle. Spread out on the wizard’s large desk were the drawings his son had done of the great Kicksey-Winsey. Some were diagrams of parts of the huge machine that Bane, personally, had seen. Others had been created with Limbeck’s help and provided illustrations of the parts of the Kicksey-Winsey that operated on the rest of the isle of Drevlin. The drawings were quite good and remarkably accurate. Sinistrad had instructed the boy on how to use magic to enhance his work. Picturing the image in his mind, Bane had only to connect that image with the motion of his hand to translate what he saw onto paper. The wizard was studying the diagrams intently when a muffled bark caused him to raise his head.
“What is that dog doing in here?”
“He likes me,” said Bane, throwing his arms around the dog’s neck and hugging him. The two had been roughhousing on the floor, which tussle had occasioned the bark. “He always follows me around. He likes me better than he does Haplo, don’t you, boy?”
The dog grinned, its tail thumping the floor.
“Don’t be too certain of that.” Sinistrad fixed the animal with a piercing gaze. “I don’t trust it. I think we should get rid of it. In ancient times, magi used animals such as this to do their bidding, to go places they could not go and act as spies.”
“But Haplo isn’t a wizard. He’s just a ... a human.”
“And one not to be trusted. No man is that quiet and self-assured unless he thinks he has things under his control.” Sinistrad glanced sidelong at his son. “I don’t like this exhibition of weakness I’ve discovered in you, Bane. You begin to remind me of your mother.”
The child removed his arms slowly from around the dog’s neck. Rising to his feet, Bane walked over to stand beside his father.
“We could get rid of Haplo. Then I could keep the dog and you wouldn’t have to be nervous about it.”
“An interesting idea, my son,” answered Sinistrad, preoccupied. “Now, take the beast out of here and run along and play.”
“But, papa, the dog’s not hurting anything. He’ll be quiet if I tell him to. See, he’s just lying here.”
Sinistrad looked down to see the dog looking up. The animal had remarkably intelligent eyes. The mysteriarch frowned.
“I don’t want him in here. He smells. Run along, both of you.” Sinistrad lifted one drawing, held it next to another, and regarded both thoughtfully.
“What was it originally designed to do? Something this gigantic, this enormous. What did the Sartan intend? Surely not just a means of gathering water.”
“It produces the water to keep itself going,” said Bane, clambering up on a stool to stand level with his father. “It needs the steam to run the engines to create the electricity that runs the machine. The Sartan probably built this part of the machine”—Bane pointed—“to gather water and send it to the Mid Realm, but it’s obvious that this wasn’t the machine’s central function. You see, I—”
Bane caught his father’s eye. The words died on the boy’s lips. Sinistrad said nothing. Slowly Bane slid down off the stool.
The mysteriarch, without another word, turned back to his perusing of the drawings.
Bane walked to the door. The dog, rising to its feet, followed eagerly after, evidently thinking it was time to play. In the doorway, the boy halted and turned back.
“I know,” he said.
“What?” Sinistrad, irritated, glanced up.
“I know why the Kicksey-Winsey was invented. I know what it was meant to do. I know how it can be made to do it. And I know how we can rule the entire world. I figured it out while I was making the drawings.”
Sinistrad stared at the child. There was something of the boy’s mother in the sweet mouth and the features, but it was his own shrewd and calculating eyes that stared fearlessly back at him.
Sinistrad indicated the drawings with a negligent wave of his hand. “Show me.” Bane, returning to the desk, did so. The dog, forgotten, plopped itself down at the wizard’s feet.
50
The tinkling of many unseen bells called Sinistrad’s guests to dinner. the castle’s dining room—no doubt having just been created—was windowless, large, dark, and chill. A long oaken table, covered with dust, stood in the center of the bleak chamber. Chairs draped in cloth ranged round it like guardian ghosts. The fireplace was cold and empty. The room had appeared right in front of the guests’ noses, and they gathered within it, most of them ill-at-ease, to await the arrival of their host.