“What did the symbol look like?”
On the back of one of the drawings, Bane traced a rune.
“That?” Sinistrad snorted. “That is a sigil, used in rune magic. This Trian must be more of a fool than I thought, to be dabbling in that arcane art.”
“Why?”
“Because only the Sartan were skilled in the use of runes.”
“The Sartan!” The child appeared awed. “No others?”
“Well, it was said that in the world which existed before the Sundering, the Sartan had a mortal enemy—a group as powerful and more ambitious, a group who wanted to use their godlike powers to rule instead of to guide. They were known as the Patryns.”
“And you’re certain. No one else can use this magic?”
“Haven’t I said so once? When I say a thing, I mean it!”
“I’m sorry, father.”
Now that he was certain, Bane could afford to be magnanimous to a losing opponent.
“What does the rune do, father?”
Sinistrad glanced at it. “A rune of healing, I believe,” he said without interest.
Bane smiled and petted the dog, which gratefully licked his fingers.
53
The effects of the spell were slow to wear off. Hugh could not distinguish between dream and reality. One moment the black monk was standing at his side, taunting him.
“Death’s master? No, we are your masters. All your life, you have served us.” And then the black monk was Sinistrad.
“Why not serve me? I could use a man of your talents. Stephen and Anne must be dealt with. My son must sit on the throne of both Volkaran and Uylandia, and these two stand in his way. A clever man like you could figure out how their deaths could be accomplished. I’ve work to do, but I’ll return later. Remain here and think about it.”
“Here” was a dank cell that had been created out of nothing and nowhere. Sinistrad had carried Hugh to this place—wherever it was. The assassin had resisted, but not much. It’s difficult to fight when you can barely tell the floor from the ceiling, your feet seem to have multiplied and your legs lost their bones.
Of course it was Sinistrad who cast the spell on me.
Hugh could vaguely remember trying to tell Haplo he wasn’t drunk, that this was some terrible magic, but Haplo had only smiled that infuriating smile of his and said he’d feel better when he’d slept it off.
Maybe when Haplo wakes up and discovers I’m gone, he’ll come looking for me. Hugh held his pounding head in his hands and cursed himself for a fool. Even if Haplo does go looking for me, he’ll never find me. This prison cell isn’t located in the bowels of the castle, placed conveniently at the bottom of a long and winding stair. I saw the void out of which it sprang. It’s at the bottom of night, the middle of nowhere. No one will ever find me. I’ll stay here until I die ...
... or until I call Sinistrad master.
And why not? I’ve served many men; what’s one more? Or better yet, maybe I’ll just stay where I am. This cell isn’t much different from my life—a cold, bleak, and empty prison. I built the walls myself—made them out of money. I shut myself in and locked the door. I was my own guard, my own jailer. And it worked. Nothing has touched me. Pain, compassion, pity, remorse—they couldn’t get past the walls. I even considered killing a child for the money. And then the child got hold of the key.
But that had been the enchantment. It was his magic that made me pity him. Or was that my excuse? Certainly the enchantment didn’t conjure up those memories—memories of myself before the prison cell.
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 to. You care about him, you see. And caring is an invisible prison.
Perhaps not. Perhaps it was freedom.
Dazed, half-waking, half-dreaming, Hugh rose from where he’d been sitting on the stone floor arid walked to the cell door. He reached out his hand . . . and stopped and stared. His hand was covered with blood. The wrist, forearm—he was smeared in blood to the elbow.
And as he saw himself, so must she see him.
“Sir.”
Hugh started and turned his head. Was she real or was she only a trick of his throbbing mind that had been thinking about her? He blinked, and she did not go away.
“Iridal?”
Seeing in her eyes that she knew the truth about him, he glanced down self-consciously at his hands.
“So Sinistrad was right,” Iridal said. “You are an assassin.” The rainbow eyes were gray and colorless; there was no light shining behind them.
What could he say? She spoke the truth. He could excuse himself, tell her about Three-Chop Nick. He could tell her how he had decided he couldn’t harm the boy. He could tell her that he had planned to take the boy back to Queen Anne. But none of it made different the fact that he had agreed; he had taken the money; he had known, in his heart, he could kill a child. And so he simply and quietly said, “Yes.”
“I don’t understand! It’s evil, monstrous! How could you spend your life murdering people?”
He could say that most of the men he’d killed deserved to die. He could tell her that he had probably saved the lives of those who would have become their next victims.
But Iridal would ask him: Who are you to judge?
And he would answer: Who is any man? Who is King Stephen, that he can proclaim, “That man is an elf and therefore he must die”? Who are the barons, that they can say, “That man has land I want. He won’t give it to me and therefore he must die”?
Fine arguments, but I agreed. I took the money. I knew, in my heart, I could kill a child. And so he said, “It doesn’t matter now.”
“No, except that I am alone. Again.”
Iridal spoke softly. Hugh knew he hadn’t been meant to hear. She stood in the center of the cell, her head bowed, the long white hair falling forward, hiding her face. She had cared for him. Trusted him. She had, perhaps, been going to ask him for help. His cell door swung slowly open, sunlight flooding into his soul.
“Iridal, you’re not alone. There’s someone you can trust. Alfred’s a good man, he’s devoted to your son.” Far more than Bane deserves, Hugh thought, but didn’t say. Aloud he continued, “Alfred saved the boy’s life once when a tree fell on him. If you want to escape—you and your son—Alfred could help you. He could take you to the elven ship. The elf captain needs money. He’d give you passage in return for that and safe guidance out of the firmament.”
“Escape?” Iridal glanced frantically around the cell walls, and then she buried her face in her hands. It was not Hugh’s cell walls she saw, but her own.
So she, too, is a prisoner. I opened her cell door, offered her a glimpse of light and air. And now she sees it swinging shut.
“Iridal, I’m a murderer. Worse, I’ve murdered for money. I make no excuses for myself. But what I’ve done is nothing to what your husband’s plotting!”
“You’re wrong! He’s never taken a life. He couldn’t do such a thing.”
“He’s talking about world war, Iridal! Sacrificing the lives of thousands to put himself into power!”
“You don’t understand. It’s our lives he’s trying to save. The lives of our people.”
Seeing his puzzled expression, she made an impatient gesture, angry at being forced to explain what she thought must be obvious.
“Surely you’ve wondered why the mysteriarchs left the Mid Realm, left a land where we had everything—power, wealth. Oh, I know what is said of us. I know because we were the ones who said it. We had grown disgusted with the barbaric life, with the constant warring with the elves. The truth is, we left because we had to, we had no choice. Our magic was dwindling. Intermarriage with ordinary humans had diluted it. That’s why there are so many wizards in this world of yours. Many, but weak. Those of us of pure blood were few but strong. To ensure the continuation of our race, we fled to someplace where we would not be—”