“This way,” said the Abbot, ungraciously, walking past her to the door. “You will speak to no one, nor lift your eyes to look at anyone. On pain of expulsion.” He was not, it seemed, particularly impressed by her threats. After all, a mysteriarch was just another corpse, as far as the Kir were concerned.
“I said I respected your vows and I will do what is required of me,” responded Iridal crisply. “I care nothing for what goes on in here. My business”—she emphasized the word—“is with Hugh the Hand.”
The Abbot stalked out carrying the candle, the only light, and he blocked out most of it with his robed body. Iridal, coming behind, found it difficult to see her footing. She was forced, therefore, to keep her eyes fixed on the ground, for the floors of the ancient building were cracked and uneven. The halls were deserted, quiet. She had a vague impression of shut doors on either side of her. Once she thought she heard a baby cry, and her heart ached for the poor child, alone and abandoned in such a dismal place.
They reached a stairway, and here the Abbot actually stopped and obtained a candle for her before proceeding downward. Iridal concluded that he was not so much concerned for her safety as trying to avoid the nuisance of dealing with her should she fall and break anything. At the bottom of the stairs, they came to water cellars. Doors stood barred and locked to protect the precious liquid that was not only used for drinking and cooking but was also part of the Abbey’s wealth.
Apparently, however, not all doors guarded water. The Abbot stalked over to one, reached down and rattled the handle.
“You have a visitor, Hugh.”
No answer. Just a scraping sound, as of a chair, lurching across the floor. The Abbot rattled the handle more loudly.
“He is locked in? You’ve made him a prisoner?” asked Iridal in a low voice.
“He makes himself a prisoner, Lady,” retorted the Abbot. “He has the key inside with him. We may not enter—you may not enter—unless he hands the key to us.”
Iridal’s resolve wavered. She very nearly left again. She doubted now if Hugh could help her, and she was afraid to face what he had become. Yet, if he didn’t help her, who would? Not Stephen, that much had been made clear. Not the other mysteriarchs. Powerful wizards, most of them, but with no love for her dead husband, no reason to want progeny of Sinistrad’s returned to them. As for other mundane humans, Iridal knew very few, was not impressed by those she’d met. Hugh alone filled all her needs. He knew how to pilot an elven dragonship, he had traveled in elven lands, he spoke the elven language fluently, was familiar with elven customs. He was bold and daring; he’d earned his livelihood as a professional assassin, and he’d been the best in the business. As Iridal had reminded Stephen, he—a king who could afford the best—had once hired Hugh the Hand.
The Abbot repeated, “Hugh, you have a visitor,”
“Go to hell,” said a voice from within.
Iridal sighed. The voice was slurred and harsh from smoking stregno—Iridal could smell the reek of his pipe out in the hall—from strong drink and disuse. But she recognized it.
The key. That was her hope. He kept the key himself, obviously afraid that if he gave it to others, he might be tempted to tell them to let him out. There must be part of him, then, that wanted out.
“Hugh the Hand, it is Iridal of the High Realm. I am in desperate need. I must speak with you. I ... I want to hire you.”
She had little doubt that he’d refuse and she knew, from the slight, disdainful smile on the Abbot’s thin lips, that he thought the same.
“Iridal,” repeated Hugh, in puzzled tones, as if the name was wandering around the liquor-soaked dregs of his mind. “Iridal!”
The last was a harsh whisper, an expelled breath, as of something long wished for and finally achieved. But there was neither love nor longing in that voice. Rather, a rage that might have melted granite.
A heavy body thudded against the clay door, followed by a fumbling and scraping. A panel slid aside. A red eye, partially hidden beneath a mat of filthy hair, stared out, found her, fixed on her, unblinking.
“Iridal...”
The panel slid shut abruptly.
The Abbot glanced at her, curious to see her response, probably expecting her to turn and flee. Iridal stood firm, the fingers of one hand, hidden beneath her cloak, digging into her flesh. The other hand, which held the candle, was steady.
Frantic activity sounded inside: furniture being overturned, casks upset, as if Hugh was searching for something. A snarl of triumph. A metal object struck the lower half of the door. Another snarl, this one of frustration, then a key shot out from beneath the crack.
The Abbot leaned down, picked the key up, held it in his hand a moment, eyeing it speculatively. He looked at Iridal, silently asking her if she wanted him to proceed.
Lips pressed together, she indicated with a cold nod that he was to open the door. Shrugging, the Abbot did so. The moment the lock clicked, the clay door was flung open from the inside. An apparition appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against dimly lit, smoke-filled shadows behind, illuminated by the candlelight before him. The apparition sprang at Iridal. Strong hands grabbed hold of her arms, dragged her inside the cell, and flung her back against a wall. She dropped the candle; it fell to the floor, the light drowning in a pool of spilled wax.
Hugh the Hand, blocking the door with his body, faced the Abbot.
“The key,” the Hand commanded.
The Abbot gave it over.
“Leave us!”
Catching hold of the door, Hugh slammed it shut. Turning, he faced Iridal. She heard the Abbot’s soft footfalls pad disinterestedly away.
The cell was small. The furniture consisted of a crude bed, a table, a chair—overturned—and a bucket in a corner, used—by the stench—to hold the body’s wastes. A thick wax candle stood on the table. Hugh’s pipe lay beside it. A mug stood near that, along with a plate of half-eaten food and a bottle of some liquor that smelled almost as bad as the stregno.
Iridal took in all these objects with a swift glance that was also searching for weapons. Her fear was not for herself; she was armored with her powerful magic that could subdue the man more swiftly and easily than she subdued her dragon. She feared for Hugh, that he might do some harm to himself before she could stop him, for she assumed that he was drunk beyond the point of sanity. He stood before her, staring at her, his face—with its hawk nose, strong forehead, deep-set, narrow eyes—was hideous, half-hidden by wandering shadows and a haze of yellow-tinged smoke. He breathed heavily, from the frenzied exertion, the liquor, and an avid excitement that made his body tremble. He lurched unsteadily toward her, hands outstretched. The light fell full upon his face and then Iridal was afraid for herself, for the liquor had inflamed his skin but did not touch his eyes.
Some part of him, deep within, was sober; some part that could not be touched by the wine, no matter how much he drank; some part that could not be drowned. His face was almost unrecognizable, ravaged by bitter grief and inner torment. His black hair was streaked with gray; his beard, once rakishly braided, was uncombed, and had grown long and scraggly. He wore a torn shirt and a leather vest and breeches stained and stiff with dirt. His hard-muscled body had gone soft, yet he had a strength born of the wine, for Iridal could still feel the bite of his fingers on her bruised arms.
He staggered closer. She marked the key in his shaking hand. The words of a spell were on her lips, but she didn’t say them. She could see his face clearly now, and she could have wept for him. Pity, compassion, the memory that he had given his life, died horribly to save her child, moved her to reach out her hands to him.
He caught hold of her wrists, his grasp crushing and painful, and fell to his knees before her.