As part and parcel of their belief, the Kir performed those tasks which most other humans found offensive or dangerous. The Kir were known as the Brothers of Death.
They had no mercy for the living. Their province was the dead. They did not practice healing arts, but when the corpses of plague victims were tossed out into the street, it was the Kir who took them, performed the solemn rites, and burned them. Paupers who were turned from the doors of the Kir when they were alive gained entrance after death. Suicides-cursed by the ancestors, a disgrace to their families-were welcomed by the Kir, their bodies treated with reverence. The bodies of murderers, prostitutes, thieves-all were taken in by the Kir. After a battle, it was the Kir who tended to those who had sacrificed their lives for whatever cause was currently in vogue.
The only living beings to whom the Kir extended any charity at all were male children of the dead, orphans who had no other refuge. The Kir took them in and educated them. Wherever the monks went-to whatever scene of misery and suffering, cruelty and deprivation, they were called upon to attend-they took the children with them, using them as their servants and, at the same time, teaching them about life, extolling the merciful benefits of death. By raising these boys in their ways and grim beliefs, the monks were able to maintain the numbers of their dark order. Some of the children, like Hugh, ran away, but even he had not been able to escape the shadow of the black hoods under whose tutelage he had been reared.
Consequently, when the Hand gazed down at the sleeping face of the young child, he felt no pity, no outrage. Murdering this boy was just another job to him, and one that was likely to prove more difficult and dangerous than most. Hugh knew the wizard had been lying. Now he only had to figure out why.
Tossing his pack on the floor, the assassin used the toe of his boot to nudge the child. “Kid, wake up.”
The boy started, his eyes flared open, and he sat up, reflexively, before he was truly awake. “What is it?” he asked, staring through a mass of tousled golden curls at the stranger standing above him. “Who are you?”
“I’m known as Hugh-Sir Hugh of Ke’lith, Your Highness,” said the Hand, remembering in time he was supposed to be a nobleman and naming the first land holding that came to his mind. “You’re in danger. Your father’s hired me to take you to someplace where you’ll be safe. Get up. Time is short. We must leave while it is still night.”
Looking at the impassive face with its high cheekbones, hawk nose, braided strands of black beard hanging from the cleft chin, the child shrank back amidst the straw.
“Go away. I don’t like you! Where is Trian? I want Trian!”
“I’m not pretty, like the wizard. But your father didn’t hire me for my looks. If you’re frightened of me, think how your enemies’ll feel.”
Hugh said this glibly, just for something to say. He was prepared to pick up the kid-kicking and screaming-and carry him off bodily. He was therefore somewhat surprised to see the child consider this argument with an expression of grave and keen intelligence.
“You make sense, Sir Hugh,” the boy said, rising to his feet. “I will accompany you. Bring my things.” He waved a small hand at a pack lying next to him on the straw.
It was on Hugh’s tongue to tell the kid to bring his own things, but he recalled himself in time. “Yes, Your Highness,” he said humbly, bending down.
He took a close look at the child. The prince was small for his age, with large pale blue eyes; a sweetly curved mouth; and the porcelain-white complexion of one who is kept protectively within doors. The light glistened off a hawk feather hanging from a silver chain around the child’s neck.
“Since we are to be traveling companions, you may call me by my name,” said the boy shyly.
“And what might that be, Your Highness?” Hugh asked, lifting the pack.