More than a few of the Brotherhood had come here to die. Some of the elders, like the Ancient, returned to spend fading among those who had been their only family—a family loyal and closely bound than most. Others, younger, in to either recover from wounds—a hazard of the business or to die from them. More often than not, the patient recovered. The Brotherhood, from long association with death, had considerable knowledge on the treatment of knife, sword, and arrow wounds, dragon bites and claw attacks, had used antidotes for certain poisons.
The Brotherhood’s own magi were skilled in reversing the spells cast by other Magicka, at lifting the enchantments from rings, that sort of work. Hugh the Hand had shared of his own knowledge, gleaned from the Kir monks, whose works took them always among the dead and whose had developed magics that protected against contagion, contamination.[57]
“I could have come here,” Hugh reflected, puffing on his pipe and eyeing the dark and shadowed hallways with nostalgic sigh. “But what would I have told them? I’m not sickening from a mortal wound, but one that’s immortal.” He shook his head, quickened his steps. Ciang would still questions, but now Hugh had a few answers, and since he here on business, she wouldn’t press him. Not as she would have if he’d come here first.
He climbed a spiraling staircase, arrived in a shadowed and ity hall. A series of doors stood shut on either side. One, at end, was open. Light streamed out into the hallway. Hugh inched toward the light, paused on the door’s threshold to give his eyes time to adjust from the fortress’s dark interior to the brightness of the room.
Three people were inside. Two were strangers—a man and a youngster of perhaps about nineteen. The other Hugh knew well. She turned to greet him, not rising from the desk behind which she sat, but tilting her head to gaze at him with the slanted, shrewd eyes that took in all, gave back nothing.
“Enter,” she said. “And welcome.”
Hugh knocked the pipe’s ashes out in the hallway, tucked his pipe into a pocket of his leather vest.
“Ciang,”[58] he said, walking into the room. Coming to stand before her, he bowed low.
“Hugh the Hand.” She extended her hand to him.
He brought it to his lips—an action that appeared to amuse her.
“You kiss that old wrinkled claw?”
“With honor, Ciang,” Hugh said warmly, and meant it. The woman smiled at him. She was old, one of the oldest living beings on Arianus, for she was an elf and long-lived, even for her kind. Her face was a mass of lines, the skin drawn taut over high cheekbones, the fine-boned, beaked nose white as ivory. She followed the elven custom of painting her lips, and the red flowed among the wrinkles like tiny rivulets of blood. Her head was bald, her hair having fallen out long ago. She scorned to wear a wig and one was truly not necessary, for her skull was smooth and well shaped. And she was aware of the startling effect she had on people, the power of the look of the bright dark eyes set in the bone-white skull.
“Once princes fought to the death for the privilege of kissing that hand, when it was smooth and delicate,” she said.
“They would still, Ciang,” said Hugh. “They’d be only too happy, some of them.”
“Yes, old friend, but not for the sake of beauty. Still, what I have now is better. I would not go back. Sit beside me, Hugh, at my right. You will be witness to this young man’s admittance.”
Ciang motioned for him to draw up a chair. Hugh was about to do so when the youngster leapt to do it for him.
“Allow m-me, sir,” said the boy, stuttering, his face flushed red. He lifted a heavy chair made of the precious wood that is in short supply in Arianus and set it down where Ciang indicated, at her right hand.
“And... and you’re truly Hugh the Hand?” the boy blurted, when he had set the chair down and stepped back to stare.
“He is,” answered Ciang. “Few are granted the honor of the Hand. Someday it may be you, boy, but, for now, meet the master.”
“I ... I can’t believe it,” stammered the boy, overcome. “To think Hugh the Hand should be here, at my investiture! I ... I ...” Words failed him. His older companion, whom Hugh did not recognize, reached out, plucked the boy’s sleeve, tugged him back to his place at the end of Ciang’s desk. The young man retreated, moving with the awkwardness of youth, at one point stumbling over his feet.
Hugh said nothing, glanced at Ciang. A corner of the woman’s mouth twitched, but she spared the boy’s feelings, refrained from laughing.
“Right and proper respect,” she said gravely. “From younger to elder. His name is John Darby. His sponsor is Ernst Twist. I do not think you two know each other?”
Hugh shook his head. Ernst did likewise, darting a glance sideways, bobbing and reaching up to tug at his hair, a foolish, country-bumpkin gesture of respect. The man looked like a bumpkin, dressed in baggy patched clothes, a greasy hat, broken shoes. This was no bumpkin, however; those who took him for such probably never lived long enough to regret their mistake. The hands were slender and long-fingered and had certainly never done manual labor. And the cold eyes, that never met Hugh straight on, had a peculiar cast to them, a red glint that Hugh found disconcerting.
“Twist’s scars are still fresh,” said Ciang. “But he has already advanced from sheath to tip. He’ll make blade, before the year is out.” High praise, from Ciang.[59] Hugh regarded the man with loathing. Here was an assassin who would “kill for a plate of stew” as the saying went. Hugh guessed, from a certain stiffness and coolness in her tone, that Ciang shared his feelings of disgust. But the Brotherhood needed all kinds, and this one’s money was as good as the next. So long as Ernst Twist followed the laws of the Brotherhood, how he thwarted the laws of man and nature was his business, vile though it might be.
“Twist needs a partner,” continued Ciang. “He has brought forth the young man, John Darby, and, after review, I have agreed to admit him to the Brotherhood under the standard terms.”
Ciang rose to her feet, as did Hugh. The elven woman was tall and stood straight, a slight stoop in the shoulders her only concession to old age. Her long robes were of the very finest silk, woven in the shimmering color and fantastic designs favored by elves. She was a regal presence, daunting, awful in her majesty.
The youth, undoubtedly a cold-blooded killer, for he could not have obtained entry without some proof of his skill, was abashed, blushing and flustered, looked as if he was about to be sick.
His companion poked the young man roughly in the back. “Stand up tall. Be a man,” Ernst muttered.
The boy gulped, straightened, drew a deep breath, then said, through white lips, “I’m ready.”
Ciang cast a sidelong glance at Hugh, rolled her eyes, as much as to say, “Well, we were all young once.” She pointed a long finger at a wooden box, encrusted with sparkling gems, that stood in the center of the desk. Hugh leaned over, respectfully took hold of the box and moved it within the woman’s reach. He lifted the lid. A sharp-bladed dagger, whose golden hilt was fashioned in the shape of a hand—palm flat, fingers pressed together. The extended thumb formed the crosspiece. Ciang drew forth the dagger, handling it carefully. The firelight gleamed in the razor-sharp blade, made it burn.
“Are you right-handed or left?” Ciang asked.
“Right,” said John Darby. Droplets of sweat ran down his temples, trickled down his cheeks.
“Give me your right hand,” Ciang ordered.
The young man presented his hand, palm open, out.
“Sponsor, you may offer support—”
“No!” the boy gasped. Licking dry lips, he thrust Twist’s proffered arm away.
57
Although the Kir monks worship death, consider death the final triumph over life, they were forced to face the realization that, unless they took sensible precautions, they might not have any worshipers left.
58
Not her real name. Elven meaning of the word “ciang” is “merciless” or “without pity.” She is one of the great mysteries of Arianus. No one knows her past; the oldest elf living is young to Ciang.