One swift, clean stroke of the sword would free him. One stroke against ten thousand barls. Twisting the braid of his beard, Hugh turned to face Trian.
“What token shall I send to you?”
“Token?” Trian blinked, not understanding.
“To indicate the job is done. An ear? A finger? What?”
“Blessed ancestors forfend!” The young wizard was deathly white. He swayed unsteadily on his feet and was forced to lean against a wall to retain his balance. And so he did not see Hugh’s lips tighten in a grim smile, the assassin’s head incline ever so slightly, as if he’d just received an answer to a very important question.
“Please . . . forgive this weakness,” Trian muttered, brushing a shaking hand across his damp skin. “I haven’t slept in several nights and . . . and then the dragon ride up rydai and back again in such haste. Naturally, we want a token.
“The prince wears”-Trian gulped and then, suddenly, seemed to find some inner reserve of strength-“the prince wears an amulet, the feather of a hawk. It was given him when he was a babe by a mysteriarch from the High Realm. Due to its magical properties, the amulet cannot be removed unless the prince is”- here Trian faltered once again-“dead.” He drew a deep, shivering breath. “Send us this amulet, and we will know . . .” His voice trailed off.
“What magic?” Hugh asked suspiciously.
But the wizard, pale as death, was silent as death. He shook his head, whether physically unable to speak or refusing to answer, Hugh couldn’t tell. At any rate, it was obvious he wasn’t going to find out any more about the prince or his amulet.
It probably didn’t matter. Such magically blessed objects were commonly given to babes to protect them from disease or rat bites or keep them from tumbling headfirst into the firepit. Most of the charms, sold by roaming charlatans, had as much magical power in them as did the stone beneath Hugh’s feet. A king’s son, of course, was likely to have a real one, but Hugh knew of none-even those with true power-who could protect a person from, say, having his throat cut. Long ago, so legend told, there had been wizards who possessed such skill in their art, but not now. Not for many years, since they had left the Mid Realm and gone to dwell on the isles that floated high above. And one of these wizards had come down and given the kid a feather?
This Trian must take me for a real fool. “Pull yourself together, wizard,” said Hugh harshly, “or the kid will suspect.”
Trian nodded and gratefully drank the mug of water the assassin poured for him. Closing his eyes, the wizard drew several deep breaths, centered himself, and within a few moments managed to smile calmly and normally. Color returned to his ashen cheeks.
“I am ready now,” Trian said, and led the way down the corridor to the chamber where the prince lay sleeping.
Inserting the key in the lock, the wizard silently opened the door and stepped back.
“Farewell,” Trian said, tucking the key into the breast of his doublet.
“Aren’t you coming? To introduce me? Explain what’s going on?”
Trian shook his head. “No,” he said softly. He was, Hugh noted, careful to keep his gaze straight ahead, not so much as glancing into the room. “It is now in your hands. I’ll leave you the lamp.”
Turning on his heel, the wizard practically fled down the corridor. He was soon lost in the shadows. Hugh’s sharp ears caught the sound of a lock click. There was a rush of fresh air, swiftly shut off. The wizard was gone.
Shrugging, fingering the two coins in his pocket with one hand, the other reassuringly touching the hilt of his sword, the assassin entered the chamber. Holding the lamp high, he shone it on the child.
The Hand cared nothing for and knew less about children. He had no memory of his own childhood-little wonder, it had been brief. The Kir monks had no use for the state of blissful, carefree childish innocence. Early on, each child was exposed to the harsh realities of living. In a world in which there were no gods, the Kir worshiped life’s only certainty-death. Life came to mankind haphazardly, at random. There was no choice, no help for it. Joy taken in such a dubious gift was seen to be a sin. Death was the bright promise, the happy release.