“I can stand it on my own.”
Ciang expressed approval with a raised eyebrow. “Hold your right hand in the proper position,” she said. “Hugh, show him.” Hugh lifted a candle from the mantelpiece, brought it over to the desk, set it down. The candle’s flame shone in the wooden finish—a finish spotted and stained with dark splotches. The young man looked at the splotches. The color fled his face.
Ciang waited.
John Darby pressed his lips tightly together, held his hand closer. “I’m ready,” he repeated.
Ciang nodded. She raised the dagger by the hilt, its blade pointing downward.
“Grasp the blade,” said Ciang, “as you would the hilt.” John Darby did so, wrapping his hand gingerly around the blade. The hilt, in the shape of the hand, rested on his hand, the thumb-shaped crosspiece running parallel to his own thumb. The young man began to breathe heavily.
“Squeeze,” said Ciang, cool, impassive.
John Darby’s breath halted an instant. He almost shut his eyes, caught himself in time. With a glance of shame at Hugh, the youngster forced himself to keep his eyes open. He swallowed, squeezed his hand over the dagger’s blade. He caught his breath with a gasp, but made no other sound. Drops of blood fell down on the desk, a thin stream trickled down the young man’s arm.
“Hugh, the thong,” said Ciang.
Hugh reached into the box, drew out a soft strip of leather, about as wide as a man’s two fingers. The symbol of the Brotherhood made a pattern up and down the long strip of leather. It, too, was stained dark in places.
“Give it to the sponsor,” said Ciang.
Hugh gave the thong to Ernst Twist, who took it in those long-fingered hands of his, hands that were undoubtedly splotched with the same dark stains that marred the thong.
“Bind him,” said Ciang.
All this time, John Darby had been standing, his hand squeezing the dagger’s blade, the blood dripping from it. Ernst wrapped the thong around the young man’s hand, bound it tight, leaving the ends of the thong free. Ernst grasped one free end, held onto it. Hugh took hold of the other. He looked to Ciang, who nodded.
The two of them yanked the bond tight, forcing the dagger’s blade deeper into the flesh, into bone. The blood flowed faster. John Darby could not hold back his anguish. He cried out in pain, a shuddering “ah!” wrenched from him in agony. He closed his eyes, staggered, leaned against the table. Then, gulping, drawing short, quick breaths, he stood straight, looked at Ciang. The blood dripped onto the desk.
Ciang smiled as though she had sipped that blood, found it to her liking. “You will now repeat the oath of the Brotherhood.”
John Darby did so, bringing back through a haze of pain the words he’d laboriously memorized. From now on, they would be etched on his mind, as surely as the scars of his investiture would be etched on his hand. The oath completed, John stood upright, refusing, with a shake of his head, any help from his sponsor. Ciang smiled at the young man, a smile that for a single instant brought to the aged face a hint of what must have been remarkable beauty. She laid her hand upon the youth’s tortured one.
“He is acceptable. Remove the binding.”
Hugh did so, unwrapping the leather thong from John Darby’s bloody hand. The young man opened his palm, slowly, with an effort, for the fingers were gummed and sticky. Ciang plucked the dagger from the trembling grip. It was now, when all was ended, the unnatural excitement drained, that the weakness came. John Darby stared at his hand, at the cut flesh, the pulsing of the red blood welling out of the wounds, and was suddenly aware of the pain as if he’d never felt it. He turned a sickly gray color, swayed unsteadily on his feet. Now he was grateful for Ernst Twist’s arm, which kept the young man upright.
“He may be seated,” said Ciang.
Turning, she handed the gory dagger to Hugh, who took the blade and washed it in a bowl of water, brought specifically for the purpose. This done, the Hand wiped the dagger carefully on a clean, white cloth until it was completely dry, then brought it back to Ciang. She shut it and the leather thong back in the box, replaced the box in its proper place on her desk. The blood spattered on the desk would be allowed to soak into the wood, mingling young Darby’s blood with that of countless others who had undergone the same rite.
One more small ceremony remained to be completed.
“Sponsor,” said Ciang, her gaze going to Ernst Twist. The man had just settled the pale and shivering young Darby into a chair. Smiling that deceptively foolish smile, Twist shuffled forward and held out his right hand, palm up, to Ciang. The woman dipped the tips of her fingers in Darby’s blood, traced two long red lines along scars on Twist’s palm, scars that corresponded to the fresh wounds on Darby’s.
“Your life is pledged to his life,” Ciang recited, “as his is pledged to yours. The punishment for oath-breaking is visited upon both.” Hugh, watching absently, his thoughts going to what would be a difficult conversation with Ciang, thought he saw, again, the man’s eyes glisten with that strange red light, like the eyes of a cat by torchlight. When the Hand looked more closely, curious about this phenomenon, Twist had lowered his eyelids in homage to Ciang and was shuffling backward to resume his place near his new partner.
Ciang shifted her gaze to young Darby. “The Ancient will give you herbs to prevent infection. The hand may be bandaged until the wounds are healed. But you must be prepared to remove the bandage should any require it. You may remain here until you feel you are well enough to travel. The ceremony takes its toll, young man. Rest this day, renew your blood with meat and drink. From this day on, you have only to open your palm in this fashion”—Ciang lifted her hand to demonstrate—“and those in the Brotherhood will know you for one of our own.”
Hugh looked at his own hand, at the scars that were now barely visible on a calloused palm. The scar taken in the meaty part of the thumb was clearest, largest, for that had been the last to heal. It ran in a thin white strip, cutting across what the palm readers know as the life line. The other scar ran almost parallel to the head and heart lines. Innocent-looking scars; no one ever noticed them, not unless they were meant to.
Darby and Twist were leaving. Hugh rose, said what was appropriate. His words brought a faint flush of pleasure and pride to the young man’s gray cheeks. Darby was already walking more steadily. A few draughts of ale, some boasting of his prowess, and he’d be thinking quite well of himself. Tonight, when the throbbing pain awakened him from feverish dreams, he would have second thoughts.
The Ancient stood in the hallway as if on command, though Ciang had made no summons. The old man had been through many of these rites, knew to the second how long they lasted.
“Show our brothers to their rooms,” Ciang ordered. The Ancient bowed, looked at her inquiringly. “May I bring madam and her guest anything?”
“No, thank you, my friend,” said Ciang graciously. “I will take care of our needs.”
The Ancient bowed again and escorted the two off down the hallway. Hugh tensed, shifted in his chair, preparing himself to meet those wise and penetrating eyes.
He was not prepared for her remark.
“And so, Hugh the Hand,” said Ciang pleasantly, “you have come back to us from the dead.”
27
Stunned by the comment, Hugh stared at Ciang in wordless amazement. His look was so wild and dark that it was now Ciang’s turn to regard him with astonishment.
“Why, what is the matter, Hugh? One would think I spoke the truth. But I am not talking to a ghost, am I? You are flesh and blood.” She reached out her hand, closed it over his.
Hugh released his breath, realized the woman had made the remark in jest, referring to his long absence from Skurvash. He held his hand steady beneath her touch, managed a laugh, and made some muttered explanation that his last job had taken him too close to death to make it a laughing matter.