Dragonwing

by Margaret Weis

  The boy pretended to be sleeping. What does she want? he wondered. Do I want to talk to her? Yes, he decided, hearing once again his father’s words, I think I do want to speak to mother. All my life people have used me to get what they wanted. Now I’m going to start using them.

  Blinking sleepily, Bane raised a tousled head from the depth of the blankets. Iridal had materialized inside his room and was standing at the foot of his bed. Light slowly began to illuminate her, shining from within, and casting a warm and lovely radiance over the boy. The rest of the room remained in darkness. Looking at his mother, Bane knew, from the pitying expression that swept over her face, that she saw he had been crying. This was good. Once again he drew on his arsenal.

  “Oh, my child!” His mother came to him. Sitting down on the bed, Iridal slid her arm around him and drew him close, soothing him with her hand.

  A feeling of exquisite warmth enveloped the boy. Nestling into that comforting arm, he said to himself: I’ve given father what he wants. Now it’s her turn. What does she want of me?

  Nothing, apparently. Iridal wept over him and murmured incoherently about how much she had missed him and how she had longed for him to be with her. This gave the boy an idea.

  “Mother,” he said, looking up at her with tear-drenched blue eyes, “I want to be with you! But father says he’s going to send me away!”

  “Send you away! Where? Why?”

  “Back to the Mid Realm, back to those people who don’t love me!” He caught hold of her hand and hugged it tightly. “I want to stay with you! You and father!”

  “Yes,” Iridal murmured. Drawing Bane close, she kissed him on the forehead. “Yes … a family. Like I’ve always dreamed. Maybe there is a chance. Maybe I can’t save him, but his own child. Surely he could not betray such innocent love and trust. This hand”—she kissed the child’s fingers, bathing them with tears—“this hand might lead him away from the dark path he walks.”

  Bane didn’t understand. All paths were one to him, neither dark nor light, all leading straight to the same goal—people doing what he wanted them to do.

  “You’ll talk to father,” he said, squirming out of her grasp, feeling that, after all, kissing and hugging might get to be a nuisance.

  “Yes, I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, mama.” Bane yawned.

  “You should be sleeping,” Iridal said, rising. “Good night, my son.” She gently drew the blanket up snug around him and, leaning down, kissed his cheek. “Good night.”

  The magical radiance began to fade from her face. She raised her hands and closed her eyes, concentrating, and disappeared from his room.

  Bane grinned into the darkness. He had no idea what kind of influence his mother might be able to exert; he could only judge by Queen Anne, who had generally been able to get what she wanted from Stephen.

  But if this didn’t work, there was always the other plan. In order to make that plan work, he would have to give away for free something he guessed was of inestimable value. He would be circumspect, of course, but his father was smart. Sinistrad might guess and rob him of it. Still, spend nothing, gain nothing.

  Likely, he wouldn’t have to give it up. Not yet. He wouldn’t be sent away. Mama would see to that.

  Gleefully Bane kicked off the smothering covers.

  CHAPTER 52

  CASTLE SINISTER, HIGH REALM

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, IRIDAL ENTERED HER HUSBAND’S STUDY. She found her son there with Sinistrad, the two of them seated at her husband’s writing desk, poring over drawings made by Bane. The dog, lying at her son’s feet, lifted its head when it saw her, its tail thumping the floor.

  Iridal paused a moment in the doorway. All her fantasies had come true. Loving father, adoring son; Sinistrad patiently devoting his time to Bane, studying whatever the boy had done with an assumed gravity that was quite endearing. In that instant, seeing the skullcapped head bent so near the fair-haired one, hearing the murmur of the voices—one young and one old—caught up in the excitement of what she could only think was some childish project of her son’s, Iridal forgave Sinistrad everything. Her years of terror and suffering she would gladly erase, banish from her memory, if only he would grant her this.

  Stepping forward almost shyly—it had been many years since she had set foot in her husband’s sanctum—Iridal tried to speak but couldn’t find her voice. The choked sound caught the attention of both son and father, however. One looked up at her with a radiant, charming smile. The other appeared annoyed.

  “Well, wife, what do you want?”

  Iridal’s fantasies wavered, their bright mist shredded by the chill voice and the icy gaze of the lashless eyes.

  “Good morning, mama,” said Bane. “Would you like to see my drawings? I made them myself.”

  “If I am not disturbing—” She looked hesitantly at Sinistrad.

  “Come in, then,” he said ungraciously.

  “Why, Bane, these are marvelous.” Iridal lifted a few pages and turned them to the light of the sun.

  “I used my magic. Like father taught me. I thought of what I wanted to draw, and my hands took over and did it. I learn magic very quickly,” said the boy, gazing up at his mother with wide-eyed charm. “You and father could teach me in your spare time. I wouldn’t be any trouble.”

  Sinistrad sat back in his chair, the robes of heavy watered silk rustling dryly, like bat wings. His lips creased in a chill smile that blew the tattered remnants of Iridal’s fancies from the skies. She would have fled to her chambers had not Bane been watching her hopefully, silently pleading with her to continue. The dog laid its head back down between its paws, its eyes moving alertly to whoever spoke.

  “What … are these drawings?” She faltered. “The great machine?”

  “Yes. Look, this is the part they call the wombay. Papa says that means ‘womb’ and it’s where the Kicksey-winsey was born. And this part activates the great force that will pull all of the isles—”

  “That will do, Bane,” interrupted Sinistrad. “We mustn’t keep your mother from the entertaining of our … guests.” He lingered over the word. The look he gave her made her skin flush crimson and scattered her thoughts in confusion. “I assume you came here for some purpose, wife. Or perhaps it was just to make certain that my time was occupied so that you and the dark and handsome assassin—”

  “How dare … ? What? What did you say?”

  Iridal’s hands began to shake. Hurriedly she laid the pages of drawings she’d been holding back on the desk.

  “Didn’t you know, my dear? One of your guests is a professional knife-man. Hugh the Hand is what he calls himself—a Hand stained in blood, if you will forgive my small jest. Your gallant champion was hired to murder a child.” Sinistrad ruffled Bane’s hair. “But for me, wife, your boy would never have come home to you. I thwarted Hugh’s design—”

  “I don’t believe you! It’s not possible!”

  “I know it’s shocking for you, my dear, to discover that we have a house guest who might murder us all in our beds. But I have taken every precaution. He did me a favor by drinking himself into a blind stupor last night. It was quite simple to transfer his wine-soaked body to a place of safekeeping. My son tells me that there is a price on the man’s head, as well as that of the boy’s treacherous servant. The amount will be just enough to finance my project in the Low Realm. And now, my dear, what was it you wanted?”

  “Don’t take my son from me!” Iridal gasped for breath, feeling as if cold water had been dashed over her. “Do whatever you want. I will not stop you. Just leave me my son!”

  “Only the other morning, you disclaimed him. Now you say you want him.” Sinistrad shrugged. “Really, madam, I can’t subject the boy to your idle whims that change daily. He must return to the Mid Realm and take up his duties. And now I think you had better go. So nice that we could have this little chat, wife. We must do it more often.”

  “I do think, mama, that you might hav
e talked this over with me first,” interjected Bane. “I want to go back! I’m certain father knows what’s best for me.”

  “I’m certain he does,” said Iridal.

  Turning, she walked with quiet dignity out of the study and managed to make it down the chill, shadowy hallway before she wept for her lost child.

  “As for you, Bane,” said Sinistrad, returning each of the drawings Iridal had disturbed to its proper place, “never try that with me again. This time I punished your mother, who should have known better. Next time, it will be you.”

  Bane accepted the rebuke in silence. It was refreshing to play the game with an opponent as skilled as himself for a change. He began to deal out the next hand, moving swiftly so that his father would not notice the cards were coming from the bottom of a prearranged deck.

  “Father,” said Bane, “I have a question about magic.”

  “Yes?” Now that discipline had been restored, Sinistrad was pleased at the boy’s interest.

  “One day I saw Trian drawing something on a sheet of paper. It was a letter of the alphabet, but yet it wasn’t. When I asked him, he crumpled it up and looked embarrassed and threw it away. He said it was magic and I mustn’t bother him about it.”

  Sinistrad turned his attention from the drawing he was perusing to his son. Bane returned the sharp-eyed, curious gaze with the ingenuous expression the child knew so well how to assume. The dog sat up and shoved his nose in the child’s hand, wanting to be petted.

  “What did the symbol look like?”

  On the back of one of the drawings, Bane traced a rune.

  “That?” Sinistrad snorted. “That is a sigil, used in rune magic. This Trian must be more of a fool than I thought, to be dabbling in that arcane art.”

  “Why?”

  “Because only the Sartan were skilled in the use of runes.”

  “The Sartan!” The child appeared awed. “No others?”

  “Well, it was said that in the world which existed before the Sundering, the Sartan had a mortal enemy—a group as powerful and more ambitious, a group who wanted to use their godlike powers to rule instead of to guide. They were known as the Patryns.”

  “And you’re certain. No one else can use this magic?”

  “Haven’t I said so once? When I say a thing, I mean it!”

  “I’m sorry, father.”

  Now that he was certain, Bane could afford to be magnanimous to a losing opponent.

  “What does the rune do, father?”

  Sinistrad glanced at it. “A rune of healing, I believe,” he said without interest.

  Bane smiled and petted the dog, which gratefully licked his fingers.

  CHAPTER 53

  CASTLE SINISTER, HIGH REALM

  THE EFFECTS OF THE SPELL WERE SLOW TO WEAR OFF. HUGH COULD not distinguish between dream and reality. One moment the black monk was standing at his side, taunting him.

  “Death’s master? No, we are your masters. All your life, you have served us.”

  And then the black monk was Sinistrad.

  “Why not serve me? I could use a man of your talents. Stephen and Anne must be dealt with. My son must sit on the throne of both Volkaran and Uylandia, and these two stand in his way. A clever man like you could figure out how their deaths could be accomplished. I’ve work to do, but I’ll return later. Remain here and think about it.”

  “Here” was a dank cell that had been created out of nothing and nowhere. Sinistrad had carried Hugh to this place—wherever it was. The assassin had resisted, but not much. It’s difficult to fight when you can barely tell the floor from the ceiling, your feet seem to have multiplied and your legs lost their bones.

  Of course it was Sinistrad who cast the spell on me.

  Hugh could vaguely remember trying to tell Haplo he wasn’t drunk, that this was some terrible magic, but Haplo had only smiled that infuriating smile of his and said he’d feel better when he’d slept it off.

  Maybe when Haplo wakes up and discovers I’m gone, he’ll come looking for me.

  Hugh held his pounding head in his hands and cursed himself for a fool. Even if Haplo does go looking for me, he’ll never find me. This prison cell isn’t located in the bowels of the castle, placed conveniently at the bottom of a long and winding stair. I saw the void out of which it sprang. It’s at the bottom of night, the middle of nowhere. No one will ever find me. I’ll stay here until I die …

  … or until I call Sinistrad master.

  And why not? I’ve served many men; what’s one more? Or better yet, maybe I’ll just stay where I am. This cell isn’t much different from my life—a cold, bleak, and empty prison. I built the walls myself—made them out of money. I shut myself in and locked the door. I was my own guard, my own jailer. And it worked. Nothing has touched me. Pain, compassion, pity, remorse—they couldn’t get past the walls. I even considered killing a child for the money.

  And then the child got hold of the key.

  But that had been the enchantment. It was his magic that made me pity him. Or was that my excuse? Certainly the enchantment didn’t conjure up those memories—memories of myself before the prison cell.

  The enchantment works only because you want it to work. Your will feeds it. You could have broken it long ago, if you truly wanted to. You care about him, you see. And caring is an invisible prison.

  Perhaps not. Perhaps it was freedom.

  Dazed, half-waking, half-dreaming, Hugh rose from where he’d been sitting on the stone floor and walked to the cell door. He reached out his hand … and stopped and stared. His hand was covered with blood. The wrist, forearm—he was smeared in blood to the elbow.

  And as he saw himself, so must she see him.

  “Sir.”

  Hugh started and turned his head. Was she real or was she only a trick of his throbbing mind that had been thinking about her? He blinked, and she did not go away.

  “Iridal?”

  Seeing in her eyes that she knew the truth about him, he glanced down self-consciously at his hands.

  “So Sinistrad was right,” Iridal said. “You are an assassin.”

  The rainbow eyes were gray and colorless; there was no light shining behind them.

  What could he say? She spoke the truth. He could excuse himself, tell her about Three-Chop Nick. He could tell her how he had decided he couldn’t harm the boy. He could tell her that he had planned to take the boy back to Queen Anne. But none of it made different the fact that he had agreed; he had taken the money; he had known, in his heart, he could kill a child.

  And so he simply and quietly said, “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand! It’s evil, monstrous! How could you spend your life murdering people?”

  He could say that most of the men he’d killed deserved to die. He could tell her that he had probably saved the lives of those who would have become their next victims.

  But Iridal would ask him: Who are you to judge?

  And he would answer: Who is any man? Who is King Stephen, that he can proclaim, “That man is an elf and therefore he must die”? Who are the barons, that they can say, “That man has land I want. He won’t give it to me and therefore he must die”?

  Fine arguments, I agreed. I took the money. I knew, in my heart, I could kill a child. And so he said, “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “No, except that I am alone. Again.”

  Iridal spoke softly. Hugh knew he hadn’t been meant to hear. She stood in the center of the cell, her head bowed, the long white hair falling forward, hiding her face. She had cared for him. Trusted him. She had, perhaps, been going to ask him for help. His cell door swung slowly open, sunlight flooding into his soul.

  “Iridal, you’re not alone. There’s someone you can trust. Alfred’s a good man, he’s devoted to your son.” Far more than Bane deserves, Hugh thought, but didn’t say. Aloud he continued, “Alfred saved the boy’s life once when a tree fell on him. If you want to escape—you and your son—Alfred could help you. He could take you to the
elven ship. The elf captain needs money. He’d give you passage in return for that and safe guidance out of the firmament.”

  “Escape?” Iridal glanced frantically around the cell walls, and then she buried her face in her hands. It was not Hugh’s cell walls she saw, but her own.

  So she, too, is a prisoner. I opened her cell door, offered her a glimpse of light and air. And now she sees it swinging shut.

  “Iridal, I’m a murderer. Worse, I’ve murdered for money. I make no excuses for myself. But what I’ve done is nothing to what your husband’s plotting!”

  “You’re wrong! He’s never taken a life. He couldn’t do such a thing.”

  “He’s talking about world war, Iridal! Sacrificing the lives of thousands to put himself into power!”

  “You don’t understand. It’s our lives he’s trying to save. The lives of our people.”

  Seeing his puzzled expression, she made an impatient gesture, angry at being forced to explain what she thought must be obvious.

  “Surely you’ve wondered why the mysteriarchs left the Mid Realm, left a land where we had everything—power, wealth. Oh, I know what is said of us. I know because we were the ones who said it. We had grown disgusted with the barbaric life, with the constant warring with the elves. The truth is, we left because we had to, we had no choice. Our magic was dwindling. Intermarriage with ordinary humans had diluted it. That’s why there are so many wizards in this world of yours. Many, but weak. Those of us of pure blood were few but strong. To ensure the continuation of our race, we fled to someplace where we would not be—”

  “Contaminated?” suggested Hugh.

  Iridal flushed and bit her lip. Then, raising her head, she faced him with pride.

  “I know you say that with contempt, but, yes, that is true. Can you blame us?”

  “But it didn’t work.”

  “The journey was difficult, and many died. More succumbed before the magical dome that protects us against the bitter cold and gives us air to breathe could be stabilized. At last all seemed well and children were born to us, but not many, and most of those died.” Her pride drained from her, her head drooped. “Bane is the only child of his generation left alive. And now the dome is collapsing. That shimmer in the sky that you find so beautiful is, to us, deadly.