Things now silent at his end of the table, Haplo turned his attention to the opposite.
The dog, lying by Bane’s chair, kept its ears pricked, gazing up at everyone eagerly, as if hoping for a choice bit to fall its direction.
“But, Limbeck, you saw very little of the Mid Realm,” Sinistrad was saying.
“I saw enough.” Limbeck blinked at him owlishly through his thick spectacles. The Geg had changed visibly during the past few weeks. The sights he had witnessed, the thoughts he had been thinking, had, like hammer and chisel, chipped away at his dreamy idealism. He had seen the life his people had been denied all these centuries, seen the life they were providing, all the while not sharing. The hammer’s first blows hurt him. Later would come the rage.
“I saw enough,” Limbeck repeated. Overwhelmed by the magic, the beauty, and his own emotions, he could think of nothing else to say.
“Indeed, you must have,” answered the wizard. “I am truly grieved for your people; all of us in the High Realm share your sorrow and your very proper anger. I feel we must share in the blame. Not that we ever exploited you. We have no need, as you see around you, to exploit anyone. But still, I feel that we are somewhat at fault.” He sipped delicately at his wine. “We left the world because we were sick of war, sick of watching people suffer and die in the name of greed and hatred. We spoke out against it and did what we could to stop it, but we were too few, too few.”
There were actually tears in the man’s voice. Haplo could have told him he was wasting a fine performance, at least for his end of the table. Iridal had long since given up any pretense of eating. She had been sitting silently, staring at her plate, until it became obvious that her husband’s attention was centered on his conversation with the Geg. Then she raised her eyes, but their gaze did not go to her husband or to the man seated beside her. She looked at her son, seeing Bane, perhaps, for the first time since he’d arrived. Tears filled her eyes. Swiftly she lowered her head. Lifting her hand to brush aside a stray lock of hair, she hastily wiped the drops from her cheeks.
Hugh’s hand, resting on the table opposite him, clenched in pain and anger.
How had love’s gilt-edged knife managed to penetrate a heart as tough as that one? Haplo didn’t know and he didn’t care. All he knew was that it was damned inconvenient. The Patryn needed a man of action, since he was barred from action himself. It wouldn’t do at all for Hugh to get himself killed in some foolish, noble chivalric gesture.
Haplo began to scratch his right hand, digging down beneath the bandages, displacing them slightly. The sigla exposed, he casually reached for more bread, managing—in the same movement—to press the back of his hand firmly against the wine pitcher. Grasping the bread in his right hand, he returned it to his plate, brushed his left hand over the bandages covering the right, and the runes were hidden once again.
“Iridal,” Hugh began, “I can’t bear to see you suffer—”
“Why should you care about me?”
“I’m damned if I know!” Hugh leaned near her. “You or your son! I—”
“More wine?” Haplo held up the pitcher.
Hugh glowered, annoyed, and decided to ignore his companion.
Haplo poured a glassful and shoved it toward Hugh. The goblet’s base struck the man’s fingers, and wine—real wine—sloshed on his hand and his shirt sleeve.
“What the devil … ?” Hugh turned on the Patryn angrily.
Haplo raised an eyebrow, obliquely nodding his head in the direction of the opposite end of the table. Attracted by the commotion, everyone, including Sinistrad, was staring at them. Iridal sat straight and tall, her face pale and cold as the marble walls. Hugh lifted the goblet and drank deeply. From his dark expression, it might have been the wizard’s blood.
Haplo smiled; he hadn’t been any too soon. He waved a hunk of bread at Sinistrad. “Sorry. You were saying?”
Frowning, the mysteriarch continued. “I was saying that we should have realized what was happening to your people in the Low Realm and come to your aid. But we didn’t know you were in trouble. We believed the stories that the Sartan had left behind. We did not know, then, that they were lying—”
A sharp clatter made them all start. Alfred had dropped his spoon onto his plate.
“What do you mean? What stories?” Limbeck was asking eagerly.
“After the Sundering, according to the Sartan, your people—being shorter in stature than humans and elves—were taken to the Low Realm for their own protection. Actually, as is now apparent, what the Sartan wanted was a source of cheap labor.”
“That’s not true!” The voice was Alfred’s. He hadn’t spoken a word during the entire meal. Everyone, including Iridal, looked at him in astonishment.
Sinistrad turned to him, his thin lips stretched in a polite smile. “No, and do you know what is the truth?”
Red spread from Alfred’s neck to his balding head. “I … I’ve made a study of the Gegs, you see …” Flustered, he tugged at and twisted the hem of the tablecloth. “Anyway, I … I think the Sartan intended to do … what you said about protection. It wasn’t so much that the dwarv … the Gegs were shorter and therefore in danger from the taller races, but that they—the Gegs—were few in number … following the Sundering. Then, the dwarv … Gegs are very mechanically minded people. And the Sartan needed that for the machine. But they never meant … That is, they always meant to …”
Hugh’s head slumped forward and hit the table with a thud.
Iridal sprang from her chair, crying out in alarm. Haplo was on his feet and moving.
“It’s nothing,” he said, reaching Hugh’s side.
Slipping the assassin’s flaccid arm around his neck, Haplo lifted the heavy body from the chair. Hugh’s limp hand dragged at the cloth, knocked over goblets, and sent a plate crashing to the floor.
“Good man, but a weak head for wine. I’ll take him to his room. No need for the rest of you to be disturbed.”
“Are you certain he’s all right?” Iridal hovered over them anxiously. “Perhaps I should come—”
“A drunk has passed out at your table, my dear. There is hardly any need for concern,” Sinistrad said. “Remove him, by all means.”
“Can I keep the dog?” asked Bane, petting the animal, which, seeing its master preparing to leave, had jumped to its feet.
“Sure,” said Haplo easily. “Dog, stay.”
The dog settled happily back down at Bane’s side.
Haplo got Hugh to his feet. Weaving drunkenly, the man was just barely able to stagger—with help—toward the door. Everyone else resumed his seat. Alfred’s words were forgotten. Sinistrad turned back to Limbeck.
“This Kicksey-winsey of yours fascinates me. I believe that, since I now have a ship at my disposal, I will journey down to your realm and take a look at it. Of course, I will also be quite pleased to do what I can to help your people prepare for the war—”
“War!” The word echoed in the hall. Haplo, glancing back over his shoulder, saw Limbeck’s face, troubled and pale.
“My dear Geg, I didn’t mean to shock you.” Sinistrad smiled at him kindly. “War being the next logical step, I simply assumed that you had come here for this very purpose—to ask my support. I can assure you, the Gegs will have the full cooperation of my people.”
Sinistrad’s words came through the dog’s ears to Haplo, who was carrying a stumbling Hugh into a dark-and-chill corridor. He was just wondering which direction the guest rooms were located from the dining room when a hallway materialized before him. Several doors stood invitingly open.
“I hope no one walks in his sleep,” Haplo muttered to his besotted companion.
Back in the dining room, the Patryn could hear the rustle of Iridal’s silken gown and her chair scrape against the stone floor. Her voice, when she spoke, was tight with controlled anger. “If you will excuse me, I will retire to my room now.”
“Not feeling well, are you, my dear?”
“Thank you, I am feeling fine.” She paused, then added, “It is late. The boy should be in his bed.”
“Yes, wife. I’ll see to it. No need to trouble yourself. Bane, bid your mother good night.”
Well, it had been an interesting evening. Fake food. Fake words. Haplo eased Hugh onto his bed and covered him with a blanket. The assassin wouldn’t wake from the spell until morning.
Haplo retired to his own room. Entering, he shut the door and slid home the bolt. He needed time to rest and think undisturbed, assimilate all that he had heard today.
Voices continued to come to him, through the dog. Their words were unimportant; everyone was parting to rest for the night. Lying down on his bed, the Patryn sent out a silent command to the animal, then began to sort out his thoughts.
The Kicksey-winsey. He’d deduced its function from the flickering images portrayed on the eyeball held in the hand of the Manger—the Sartan flouting their power, proudly announcing their grand design. Haplo could see the images again, in his mind. He could see the drawing of the world—the Realm Of Sky. He saw the isles and continents, scattered about in disorder; the raging storm that was both death-dealing and life-giving; everything moving in the chaotic manner so abhorrent to the order-loving Sartan.
When had they discovered their mistake? When had they found out that the world they created for the removal of a people after the Sundering was imperfect? After they had populated it? Did they realize, then, that the beautiful floating islands in the sky were dry and barren and could not nurture the life that had been placed in their trust?
The Sartan would fix it. They had fixed everything else, split apart a world rather than let those they considered unworthy rule it. The Sartan would build a machine that, combined with their magic, would align the isles and the continents. Closing his eyes, Haplo saw the pictures again clearly. A tremendous force beaming up from the Kicksey-winsey catches hold of the continents and the isles, drags them through the skies, and aligns them, one right above the other. A geyser of water, drawn from the constant storm, shoots upward continually, bringing the life-giving substance to everyone.
Haplo had figured out the puzzle. He was rather surprised that Bane had solved it as well. Now Sinistrad knew, and he had, most obligingly, explained his plans to his son—and to the listening dog.
One flick of the Kicksey-winsey’s switch, and the mysteriarch would rule a realigned world.
The dog jumped up on the bed and settled itself at Haplo’s side. Lazily, relaxed to the point of sleep, the Patryn stretched out his arm and patted the dog on the flank. With a contented sigh, the animal rested its head on Haplo’s chest and closed its eyes.
What criminal folly, Haplo thought, stroking the dog’s soft ears. To build something this powerful and then walk away and leave it to fall into the hands of some ambitious mensch.2 Haplo couldn’t imagine why they had done it. For all their faults, the Sartan weren’t fools. Something had happened to them before they could finish their project. He wished he knew what. This was the clearest sign he could imagine, however, to prove that the Sartan were no longer in the world.
An echo came to him, words spoken by Alfred during the confusion of Hugh’s drunken swoon, words probably heard only by the dog and transferred dutifully to the master.
“They thought they were gods. They tried to do right. But somehow it all kept going wrong.”
1 A fruit of which humans are particularly fond. Its tart purple skin covers an almost sickeningly sweet pink meat inside. Those with educated palates believe nothing compares to the subtle blending of flavors when skin and meat are consumed simultaneously. The wine made from this fruit is much coveted by the elves, who, however, scorn eating the bua itself.
2 A word used by both Patryns and Sartan to refer to those less gifted with power than themselves. It is applied equally to elves, humans, and dwarves.
CHAPTER 51
CASTLE SINISTER, HIGH REALM
“PAPA, I’M GOING WITH YOU TO DREVLIN—”
“No, and stop arguing with me, Bane! You must return to the Mid Realm and take your place on the throne.”
“But I can’t go back! Stephen wants to kill me!”
“Don’t be stupid, child. I haven’t time for it. In order for you to inherit the throne, Stephen and his queen must be dead. That will be arranged. In essence, of course, I will be the one who is truly ruling the Mid Realm. But I can’t be in two places at once. I will be on the Low Realm, preparing the machine. Don’t snivel! I can’t abide it.”
His father’s words sounded over and over again in Bane’s head like the screeching of some irritating nighttime insect that will not permit sleep.
I will be the one who is truly ruling the Mid Realm.
Yes, and where would you be now, papa, if I hadn’t shown you how!
Lying on his back, stiff and rigid in the bed, the boy clutched handfuls of the fleecy blanket that covered him. Bane didn’t cry. Tears were a valuable weapon in his fight against adults; he had often found them useful against Stephen and Anne. Tears, alone, in the darkness, were a weakness. So his father would think.
But what did he care what his father thought?
Bane gripped the blanket hard and the tears almost came anyway. Yes, he cared. He cared so much it hurt him inside.
Bane could remember clearly the day he had come to realize that the people he knew as his parents only adored him, they didn’t love him. Having escaped from Alfred, he was loitering about the kitchen, teasing the cook for bites of sweet dough, when one of the stableboys ran in, wailing over a scratch from a dragon’s claw. It was the cook’s son, a lad not much older than Bane, who’d been put to work with his father—one of the dragon tenders. The cut wasn’t serious. Cook cleaned it and bound it with a strip of cloth, then, taking the child in her arms, kissed him heartily, hugged him, and sent him back to his chores. The boy ran off with a glowing face, the pain and fright of his injury quite forgotten.
Bane had been watching from a corner. Just the day before, he’d cut his hand on a chipped goblet. There’d been a flurry of excitement. Trian had been summoned. He’d brought with him a solid silver knife passed through flame, healing herbs, and cobweb to stanch the bleeding. The offending goblet had been smashed. Alfred had come near being sacked over the incident; King Stephen shouted at the poor chamberlain for twenty minutes running. Queen Anne had nearly fainted at the sight and been forced to leave the room. His “mother” had not kissed him. She had not taken him into her arms and made him laugh to forget the pain.
Bane had derived a certain satisfaction from beating up the stableboy—a satisfaction compounded by the fact that the stable-boy had been severely punished for fighting with the prince. That night Bane asked the voice of the feather amulet, the soft and whispering voice that often spoke to him during the night, to explain why his parents didn’t love him.
The voice told him the truth. Stephen and Anne weren’t his real parents. Bane was just using them for a while. His true father was a powerful mysteriarch. His true father dwelt in a splendid castle in a fabulous realm. His true father was proud of his son, and the day would come when he would call his son home and they would be together always.
The last part of the sentence was Bane’s addition, not I will be the one who is truly ruling the Mid Realm.
Letting go of the blanket, the boy grasped hold of the feather amulet he wore around his neck and jerked hard on the leather thong. It would not break. Angrily, using words he’d picked up from the stableboy, Bane pulled at it again—harder—and succeeded only in hurting himself. Tears came to his eyes at last, tears of pain and frustration. Sitting up in bed, he pulled and tugged, and finally, after costing himself more pain by getting the thong tangled in his hair, managed to drag it up over and off his head.
Alfred was passing down the hallway, searching for his own bedchamber in the confusing, forbidding palace.
“Limbeck is falling under the sway of the mysteriarch. I can see the bloody conflict into which
the Gegs will be drawn! Thousands will die, and for what—to gain an evil man control of the world! I should stop it, but how? What can I do alone? Or maybe I shouldn’t stop it. After all, it was attempting to control what should have been left alone that brought tragedy on us all. And then there is Haplo. I know for certain who he is, but, again, what can I do? Should I do anything? I don’t know! I don’t know! Why was I left by myself? Is it a mistake, or am I supposed to be doing something? And if so, what?”
The chamberlain, in his aimless ramblings, found himself near Bane’s door. His inner turmoil made the dark and shadowy hall swim before his eyes. Pausing until his vision cleared, wishing desperately his thoughts would do the same, Alfred heard the rustle of bedclothes and the child’s voice crying and cursing. Glancing up and down the hall to make certain he was not seen, Alfred raised two fingers on his right hand and traced the sign of a sigil on the door. The wood seemed to disappear at his command, and he could see through it as if it were not there.
Bane hurled the amulet into a corner of the room. “No one loves me and I’m glad of it! I don’t love them. I hate them, all of them!”
The boy flung himself down onto the bed, buried his head in the pillow. Alfred drew a deep and shaking breath. At last! It had happened at last, and just when his heart was despairing.
Now was the time to draw the boy back from the edge of Sinistrad’s pit. Alfred stepped forward, forgetting the door, and narrowly missed bumping right into it, for the spell he had cast had not removed it, merely let him see through it.
The chamberlain caught himself and, at the same time, thought: No, not me. What am I? A servant, nothing more. His mother. Yes, his mother!
Bane heard a sound in his room and promptly shut his eyes and froze. He had the blanket pulled over his head, and he hastily dried his tears with a quick flick of his hand.
Was it Sinistrad, coming to say he’d changed his mind?
“Bane?” The voice was soft and gentle, his mother’s.
Dragonwing Page 43
