“I thought it was them,” said Hugh, as if he hadn’t heard her. “I thought the world had gone mad. Then I began to realize it was me. The dreams...” He shuddered, shook his head. “No, I won’t talk about the dreams.”
“Why did you come here?”
He shrugged, voice bitter. “I was desperate, out of money. Where else could I go? The monks said I would return, you know. They always said I’d be back.” He glanced around with a haunted look, then shook himself, shook off the memories.
“Anyway, the Abbot told me what was wrong. He took one look at me and told me what had happened. I had died. I’d left this life... and been dragged back. Resurrected.” Hugh gave the bottle a sudden, vicious kick, sent it spinning across the floor.
“You... don’t remember?” Iridal faltered.
He regarded her in silence, dark, glowering. “The dreams remember. The dreams remember a place beautiful beyond words, beyond... dreams. Understanding, compassion...” He fell silent, swallowed, coughed, and cleared his throat.
“But the journey to reach that place is terrible. The pain. The guilt. The knowledge of my crimes. My soul wrenched from my body. And now I can’t go back. I tried.”
Iridal stared at him, horrified. “Suicide... ?”
He smiled, a terrible smile. “I failed. Both times. Too damn scared.”
“It takes courage to live, not to die,” said Iridal.
“How the hell would you know, Lady?” Hugh sneered. Iridal looked away, stared at her hands twisting in her lap.
“Tell me what happened,” said Hugh.
“You... you and Sinistrad fought. You stabbed him, but the wound was not mortal. He had the power to turn himself into a snake, attacked you. His magic... poison in your blood. He died, but not before he had...”
“Killed me,” said Hugh dryly.
Iridal licked her lips, did not look at him. “The dragon attacked us. Sinistrad’s dragon, the Quicksilver. With my husband dead, the dragon was free from his control and went berserk. Then, it all becomes confused in my mind. Haplo—the man with the blue skin—took Bane away. I knew I was going to die... and I didn’t care. You’re right.” She looked up, smiled at him wanly. “Death did seem easier than living. But Alfred enchanted the dragon, put it in thrall. And then...”
The memory came back....
Iridal gazed in awe at the dragon, whose giant head was swaying back and forth, as if it heard a soothing, lulling voice.
“You’ve imprisoned it in its mind,” she said.
“Yes,” Alfred agreed. “The strongest cage ever built.”
“And I am free,” she said in wonder. “And it isn’t too late. There is hope! Bane, my son! Bane!”
Iridal ran toward the door where she’d last seen him. The door was gone. The walls of her prison had collapsed, but the rubble blocked her path.
“Bane!” she cried, trying vainly to drag aside one of the heavy stones that the dragon had knocked down in its fury. Her magic would help her, but she couldn’t think of the words. She was too tired, too empty. But she had to reach him. If only she could move this rock!
“Don’t, my dear,” said a kind voice. Gentle hands took hold of her. “It won’t do any good. He has gone far away by now, back to the elven ship. Haplo has taken him.”
“Haplo taken... my son?” Iridal couldn’t make any sense of it. “Why? What does he want with him?”
“I don’t know,” Alfred replied. “I’m not sure. But don’t worry. We’ll get him back. I know where they’re going.”
“Then we should go after them,” said Iridal.
But she gazed helplessly about. Doors had disappeared, blocked by debris. Holes gaped in the walls revealing more destruction beyond. The room was changed so completely that it was suddenly unfamiliar to her, as if she had walked into the bouse of a stranger. She had no idea where to go, how to leave, how to find her way out.
And then she saw Hugh.
She’d known he’d died. She’d tried to make him hear before he died, that he’d helped her, that now she understood. But he’d left her too soon, too quickly. She sank down beside the body, took the chill hand in her own, pressed it to her cheek. His face, in death, was calm and reflected a peace the man had never known in life, a peace Iridal envied.
“You gave your life for me, for my son,” she told him. “I wish you could have lived, to see that I will make use of this gift. You taught me so much. You could teach me still. You could help me. And I could have helped you. I could have filled the emptiness inside you. Why didn’t I, when I had the chance?”
“What would have happened to him, do you suppose, if he had not died?” Alfred asked.
“I think he would have tried to make up for the evil he did in his life. He was a prisoner, like me,” Iridal answered “But he managed to escape. Now he is free.”
“You, too, are free,” said Alfred.
“Yes, but I am alone,” said Iridal.
She sat by Hugh, holding his lifeless hand, her mind empty as her heart. She liked the emptiness. She didn’t feel anything and she was afraid of feeling. The pain would come, more awful than dragon claws tearing at her flesh. The pain of regret, tearing her soul.
She was vaguely aware of Alfred chanting, of him dancing his slow and graceful dance that looked so incongruous—the elderly man, with his bald head and flapping coattails, his too-big feet and clumsy hands—whirling and dipping and bobbing about the rubble-filled room. She had no idea what he was doing. She didn’t care.
She sat, holding Hugh’s hand... and felt his fingers twitch. Iridal didn’t believe it. “My mind is playing tricks. When we want something very badly, we convince ourselves—”
The fingers moved in hers, spasmodic motion, death throes.
Except Hugh had been dead a long time, long enough for the flesh to chill, the blood to drain from lips and face, the eyes to have fixed in the head.
“I’m going mad,” said Iridal, and dropped the hand back on the unmoving breast. She leaned forward to close the staring eyes. They shifted, looked at her. His lids blinked. His hand stirred. His breast rose and fell. He gave an anguished, agonized scream....
When Iridal regained her senses, she was lying in another room, another house—a friend’s house, belonging to one of the other mysteriarchs of the High Realm.
Alfred stood beside her, gazing down on her with an anxious expression.
“Hugh!” cried Iridal, sitting up. “Where is Hugh?”
“He’s being cared for, my dear,” said Alfred solicitously and—so it seemed to Iridal—somewhat confusedly. “He’s going to be all right. Don’t worry yourself over him. Some of your friends took him away.”
“I want to see him!”
“I don’t think that would be wise,” said Alfred. “Please, lay back down.” He fussed with the blanket, covered her, wrapped it tenderly around her feet, smoothed out imaginary wrinkles.
“You should rest, Lady Iridal. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. The shock, the strain. Hugh was grievously wounded, but he is being treated—”
“He was dead,” said Iridal.
Alfred wouldn’t look at her. He kept fiddling with the blankets. Iridal tried to catch hold of his hand, but Alfred was too quick for her. He backed away several steps. When he spoke, he spoke to his shoes.
“Hugh wasn’t dead. He was terribly wounded. I can see how you would have been mistaken. The poison has that effect, sometimes. Of... of making the living appear to be dead.”
Iridal threw back the blanket, rose to her feet, advanced on Alfred, who attempted to sidle away, perhaps even flee the room. But he fell over his feet and stumbled, caught himself on a chair.
“He was dead. You brought him back to life!”
“No, no. Don’t be ridiculous.” Alfred gave a feeble laugh. “You... you’ve suffered a great shock. You’re imagining things. I couldn’t possibly. Why, no one could!”