The stranger looked at him for one moment and then returned the gesture.
“Drask Silver Hand, this is Desh Krohan, Advisor to the Empire of Fellein and Emperor Pathra Krous.” She placed one delicate hand on the thickly muscled forearm of the stranger and spoke in a softer voice. “He is also my friend and the reason you are welcomed here.”
When Drask spoke his voice was accented; although there was an odd tone to them that confused the wizard’s ears, his words were easily understood. That was good. He wanted the man to make a good first impression on the Emperor. “It is the hopes of my king that your people and mine can meet in peace and honor.” The words were obviously rehearsed. That too was as it should be.
“That is the hope of our Emperor as well.” Desh nodded his head. “Do you come as formal representative? Or do you come to prepare the way for your people?”
Drask tilted his head the slightest bit and looked around the room again, his eyes tracking two guards who moved into the area and stared for a moment. They knew exactly who Desh was and were wise enough to not interfere. “I come to prepare the way, and I bring with me a show of faith meant for you, Desh Krohan, as promised by Goriah.”
His left hand tapped the satchel he carried.
Desh smiled. “We have a few preparations to make, Drask Silver Hand. When we are done with these small tasks, I shall introduce you to the Emperor and hopefully we will begin a great friendship between our peoples.”
“As the Daxar Taalor will it.” The man bowed again and waited for Desh’s instructions.
Really, there were only a few things that had to be done. Desh wanted to make sure that everything was in proper order. This was to be a monumental occasion and he wanted nothing to go wrong.
How very seldom we get what we most desire.
Andover was in the small garden when they found him. The weather was bright and the air was warm, and if he had stayed in the room for a moment longer he was sure he would go mad. Also, no matter that the sorcerer had done wonders for keeping his muscles conditioned while Andover slept, his legs felt restless. All of him felt restless. The anger inside him had grown, had bloomed when he wasn’t paying attention. While Tega still occupied his mind a great deal, so did his rage for what had been done to him. It had been long enough that his mind had, mercifully, hidden away most of his recollections of the pain of having his hands destroyed, but while the actual pain was a thing of the past – give or take the ghosts that still ran through his arms and told him his hands were still there and still shattered – the memory of the look on Menock’s face as he brought the hammer down was still burned into his eyelids. He couldn’t even close his eyes to escape the look on the bastard’s face as he ruined Andover’s world.
Tega came out into the garden, a flower brighter than the rest around them, and offered him a nervous smile. That was the only sort of smile she could offer him, really. He scared her or shamed her. Andover was never quite sure which.
Despite the feelings she always inspired in him, he could barely muster a return smile for the girl. Still he tried. She was not at fault, not for his hands and not for the fact that she did not feel the same way toward him. That much he knew in his mind, even if his heart did not always agree.
Tega’s eyes shone with excitement. “Andover! Come quickly! Desh Krohan wants to see you!”
Her excitement cut through the clouds of his sullen mood and he looked toward her with renewed interest. “Does he then?” He nodded and moved toward her. It was unusual to see her enthusiastic about much of anything, at least in his presence. He’d seen her talking to others, seen her smile more times than he could easily count, just not around him. It was refreshing.
He allowed her to lead him, her delicate hands gripping his arm at the elbow. “Calmly, Tega. My legs aren’t as strong as they used to be. Too much time spent in that bed.”
“Never mind that! Come on, come on!” She half pulled him through the corridors, past the Healer’s Hall and further still. Tega knew her way around the palace but Andover had never been beyond the chambers where he slept and the small garden down one corridor. His eyes widened at the sheer size of the place. It was one thing to know he was in the Emperor’s Palace and another to actually comprehend what that knowledge meant.
Before he could truly adjust to the size of the palace, he was hauled by the girl he adored into another chamber, this one substantially larger than even the garden he’d been walking in. The ceiling had to be at least three times his height, and though there were no windows within the room, there was light aplenty from several torches and a blazing pit.
He recognized the wizard immediately. Most of him was hidden but his hands were now familiar to Andover, as were the rings he sometimes wore. And even under the mantle of his cloak the man carried a certain authority that made him recognizable. If anything, the odd cerements he wore made him even more intimidating than he usually was. It was true that Andover felt a certain level of familiarity with the mage, had even spoken his mind to the man, but he had never forgot exactly who he was dealing with. Three others stood with the sorcerer: a striking woman with red hair, a very large man with who hid his face behind a veil, and–
The Emperor himself!
Andover froze as surely as if he were staring a Pra-Moresh in the face. The Emperor! One thing to see the man at a distance – though Andover himself had not done so in over five years – another to see the man who ruled over all of them in the flesh.
Tega recovered faster. Either she had expected to see the man or she was merely more familiar with protocol. She lowered her gaze, stepped back on her left leg and bent at the waist. The pressure of her grip on his arm urged him to follow her lead and he did so gratefully.
Pathra Krous’ voice was warm and deep. “Thank you. Please, rise, this is not a formal affair. We have much to discuss, young master Lashk.”
The Emperor knew his name. The very notion made his ears ring.
Still, the Emperor asked and he listened. He rose and looked at the gathering again. The voice that spoke the next time was not his ruler’s but that of the wizard. “Andover, a stranger has come to us. His name is Drask Silver Hand and he believes that he can replace your ruined hands. He cannot heal them, but he can give you new hands.”
He gestured to the large man with the oddly tinted skin, as if looking at the strangely dressed brute would somehow clarify the matter.
“New hands?” His voice cracked as he spoke.
The stranger looked at him and then at Tega, his eyes giving away nothing of his feelings. In response the man nodded his head. He gripped the leather glove over his right hand and held the hand out for Andover to examine.
He walked closer, staring at the marvel of metal and flesh, not believing what he was staring at. A sculpted limb. Before he could scoff at the notion of useless metal attachments, the metallic fingers moved, the hand twitched.
Shock didn’t begin to cover his reaction.
Andover stepped back and tripped over his own feet. He pinwheeled his arms in an effort to catch himself, but could not. The sculpture moved!
And before he could fall on his backside, the man with the silver hand was in front of him, grabbing his tunic and righting him until he could find his balance. Andover stared at the metallic hand, unable to so much as utter thanks.
“It moves!”
“It is my hand now. It moves, it feels, it is strong.” The man spoke directly but the ringing in Andover’s ears made the sounds seem distorted.
“How did you do this?”
“The Daxar Taalor did this. The gods of my people.”
“You have your own gods?” He felt numb. His fingers reached out, touched the metal of the man’s hand and marveled at the warmth, the strange texture. Metal, yes, no denying it, but there was almost a hint of something else.
“Don’t you?”
The Emperor laughed, the sounds a bit forced to Andover’s ears. “Don’t we all have our gods?”
Drask turned his head to look at the Emperor, his eyes narrowing for the briefest moment before he nodded. He carefully removed his hand from Andover’s grasp.
Then the stranger spoke to him. “If you do this, there will be great pain, far worse than you felt when your hands were taken. The gods tells us that life always hurts more than death. That would be the first sacrifice you have to make. Would you accept pain in order to have your hands again?”
Andover nodded without true consideration. What was pain in exchange for being able to work again, to avoid a life as a beggar? There was no question at all.
Drask looked at him for a moment and he realized the man didn’t understand the gesture. “Yes. I would accept pain for hands.”
Drask stared for a moment longer and then nodded, as if trying the gesture out for the first time in his life. “Good. That is good. There is more. The Daxar Taalor would ask that you visit them in their places of worship, where I come from. The trip is a long one, but you would learn much from your travels. Would this be acceptable?”
Before he could answer, Desh Krohan spoke up, the wizard’s words carrying with ease. “You would serve as a sort of ambassador for the Empire, Andover. You would represent the Emperor if you did this. Think carefully before you answer.”
“How long would I be gone?”
His eyes moved of their own volition, his head turned without his choosing, and he found himself looking at Tega, drinking in her beauty. To be something other than a beggar, to serve the Emperor in that sort of way, would that not be an important thing? Would that not make her notice him?
“Most of a year, I suspect. The travel time there is months as it is, unless Drask decides to lead you through the worst of the Blasted Lands.
“You come from the Blasted Lands?” His eyes moved to Drask again.
“Beyond the Blasted Lands.” The man moved back a few steps and Andover realized for the first time how fast the man must have responded when he tripped himself to clear the distance between them. “Your people and mine are not the same. The Daxar Taalor would have to see you, to understand you in order to make certain that their gift to you works properly.”
“You mean I would meet your gods?”
Drask waved a hand in a gesture that seemed to indicate a negative. His words confirmed. “No. You would not meet them. They do not show themselves to any who are not kings. But they would meet you.”
“Only your king gets to see the gods?” The Emperor took note of that, his eyes seemed particularly alert.
“Only our kings,” Drask corrected. “There are seven kings. One for each mountain. One for each god.”
Enough. The Emperor was very important, yes, but Andover wanted his hands.
“I accept! I will go with you. I will be an ambassador for the Empire. I accept.” His face flushed red with embarrassment. He had interrupted a conversation between the Emperor and a man from another land. His mother would have been horrified.
The wizard, the stranger, the Emperor all looked at him for a moment in silence so complete he could hear his own breaths.
Then Emperor stood and walked toward him. “Excellent! You are a brave lad, and you do the Empire proud.” The older man’s hand rested on his shoulder for one moment. “You make me proud.”
Andover’s knees shook. Despite being very nearly overwhelmed by the praise, it was the thought that he might have hands again that mattered most to him.
Hands.
The ability to once again be seen as something more than an object of pity.
He looked toward Tega and dared a smile.
And the girl he adored smiled back.
The boy did not understand. And he was a boy; there was no denying that. He was soft and untried. Drask looked at the thin lad and took a deep breath. This was not his choice, nor his place to question. The gods did not want his wisdom, only his service and he did not question the Daxar Taalor.
Without another word he moved to the satchel he’d carried with him to this place. Tataya watched him, her eyes glittering in the firelight, and her lips settled into a half-smile he found pleasantly distracting.
Andover Lashk watched him, too. All of them did, even the Emperor of the realm. He had heard stories of Fellein, of course, but had he ever really expected to be here in person? No. The gods had honored him again and again of late, though he did not allow that fact to swell his heart with pride.
He removed the dark iron box from his satchel and set it on a carved marble table. The weight of the thing was substantial, more than he suspected the strangers around him realized. There was the box itself, of course, and then there was the metal within it. An image of a face, a mask of iron with a harsh features and a cruel mouth stared at him. Aside from the face of Truska-Pren – His Might Be Unchanging – on the top of the box, it was unremarkable, unadorned save for two circular openings, one on either side.
He looked to Andover and gestured the boy closer. “This is a gift of Truska-Pren, whose heart is forged in iron, whose face adorns the blessing box. Each god offers a different form of gift. Your hands will not be like mine. They will have a different appearance, but they will be yours and they will never fail you.”
The boy looked at him with wide, nervous eyes.
“Do you accept this gift, Andover Lashk of Fellein?”
“I…” He nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“Place your arms within the blessing box. Do not move them, no matter how great the pain, no matter how tempting. Life is pain, and if you would have hands that live, you must accept that pain. Do you understand?”
The boy swallowed several times, his throat making a clicking noise each time. The Emperor, the hooded wizard, and both of the women in the room moved closer, drawn by curiosity to see a miracle occur. Who would not be tempted, really? Hundreds had watched when Drask’s hand was gifted to him.
Drask prepared himself. The boy thought he was strong enough. Drask did not agree.
Andover Lashk reached into the openings of the blessing box, his face pale and his lips trembling. He pushed forward, his forearms sliding in a bit at a time until the ruined stump and the shattered remnants of his hand were gone, pushed beyond the point where his wrists disappeared into the device as well.
“I don’t feel anything.”
“Be patient. Truska-Pren must reach a long way to offer his blessings to you.”
The wizard moved a step closer.
“Wait. There. I feel something. It tingles. It–” The boy bucked and screamed, his eyes flying wide. He started to yank his hands from the blessing box and Drask responded, grabbing the boy’s thin arms at the elbows and holding him in place.
Andover’s face grew first pale and then extremely red and he shrieked, his entire body thrashing as he tried to escape.
“No! Stay where you are!” The words were called out to the girl who’d arrived with Andover, who reached out as if to help him. Andover kicked him in the foot, then in the shin, trying to break free. Pain drove civility from the lad and he leaned down and attempted to bite Drask, and rather than fight him, Drask let the boy sink his teeth into the skin of his bicep. The skin broke and the boy worried the wound, did his best to savage the flesh. Drask gritted his teeth and did not move. Life is pain. The boy had to learn that. The gods make their gifts and they make their demands and sometimes the two were intertwined.
Drask shifted his body instinctively and the boy’s knee crashed into his leg rather than slamming into his privates. Under most circumstances he’d kill the man who tried that, but not now. He understood the pain all too well.
The blessing box grew hot, the image of Truska-Pren’s face glowed white and the smell of burning iron filled the air. The sounds that came from Andover Lashk failed, but to take their place his skin hissed and sizzled within the metallic confines.
When Andover fainted away, his eyes rolling into his head and his mouth falling slack as his body fell, Drask held the boy’s hands in place, supporting the added weight and shudde
ring at the strain. Still he held the boy and when the wizard reached for him – perhaps to help, who could say what sorcerers contemplated? – Drask turned to him quickly. “If you move, if you interfere, I will kill you.” The words were spoken softly enough, but the man listened and stepped back two paces.
Finally the hissing stopped and the glow of Truska-Pren’s visage faded in an instant. Drask very carefully lowered the boy, keeping his hands within the blessing box as he settled him to the marble floor.
“Let him rest. He will need time to recover.” Drask stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest. He saw the wizard staring at him from beneath his hood, but made no gesture, did nothing to apologize. He had done as the Daxar Taalor commanded and held the boy still. Their blessings had been granted. Time alone would tell what form those blessings took.
SEVEN
Desh Krohan paced around the dining hall with his arms behind him and the hood of his cloak thrown back. “Well, that was unexpected.”
Emperor Pathra Krous looked at him with one raised eyebrow. “I should hope so. What in the name of the gods were you thinking? Introducing me to the first stranger to see the Empire in a hundred years that way?”
“Well how was I supposed to introduce him? Wait for the entire bloody entourage to show up and then ask you to join the whole merry lot for a picnic?”
Pathra shook his head. His hair moved in a nearly solid wave around his face. “Alright, seriously, Pathra, you have got to talk to that girl. Your hair could almost be a helmet.”
The man waved away the annoying words, not willing to be distracted from the matters at hand.
“One of my citizens just fell down screaming in the middle of my throne room. He’s unconscious and his arms smell like they’ve been dropped in a smithy.”
“Well, your citizen agreed to the chance to have new hands – replacing hands destroyed by the City Guard, I might add. You really have to decide what to do with those guards and soon, too. I’d wager a few tongues in the city are still wagging over the fact that they’ve not been properly punished. Also, as he worked as a smith’s apprentice, maybe he always smells that way.”
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