The child stared at him. The Hand added hastily, “I’ve been out of the country many years, Your Highness.”
“Bane,” said the child. “I am Prince Bane.”
Hugh froze, motion arrested. Bane! The assassin wasn’t superstitious, but why would anyone give a child such an ill-omened name? Hugh felt the invisible filament of Fate’s web tighten around his neck. The image of the block came to him-cold, peaceful, serene. Angry at himself, he shook his head. The choking sensation vanished, the image of his own death disappeared. Hugh shouldered the prince’s pack and his own.
“We must be going, Your Highness,” he said again, nodding toward the door.
Bane lifted his cloak from the floor and threw it clumsily over his shoulders, fumbling at the strings that fastened it around his neck. Impatient to be gone, Hugh tossed the packs back to the ground, knelt, and tied the strings of the cloak.
To his astonishment, the prince flung his arms around his neck.
“I’m glad you’re my guardian,” he said, clinging to him, his soft cheek pressed against Hugh’s.
The Hand held rigid, unmoving. Bane slipped away from him. “I’m ready,” he announced in eager excitement. “Are we going by dragon? Tonight was the first time I’d ever ridden one. ‘ I suppose you must ride them all the time.”
“Yes,” Hugh managed to say. “There’s a dragon in the courtyard.” He lifted the two packs and the lamp. “If Your Highness will follow me – ”
“I know the way,” said the prince, skipping out of the room.
Hugh followed after him, the touch of the boy’s hands soft and warm against his skin.
CHAPTER 7
KIR MONASTERY, VOLKARAN ISLES, MID REALM
THREE PEOPLE WERE GATHERED IN A ROOM LOCATED IN THE UPPER LEVELS OF THE monastery. The room had been one of the monks’ cells and was, consequently, cold, austere, small, and windowless. The three-two men and one woman-stood in the very center of the room. One man had his arm around the woman; the woman had her arm around him, each supporting the other, or it seemed both might have fallen. The third stood near them.
“They are preparing to leave.” The wizard had his head cocked, though it was not with his physical ear he heard the beating of the dragon’s wings through the thick walls of the monastery.
“Leaving!” the woman cried, and took a step forward. “I want to see him again! My son! One more time!”
“No, Anne!” Trian’s voice was stern; his hand clasped hold of the woman’s and held it firmly. “It took long months to break the enchantment. It is easier this way! You must be strong!”
“I pray we have done right!” The woman sobbed and turned her face to her husband’s shoulder.
“You should have gone along, Trian,” said Stephen. He spoke harshly, though the hand with which he stroked his wife’s hair was gentle and loving. “There is still time.”
“No, Your Majesty. We gave this matter long and careful consideration. Our plans are sound. We must follow through on them and pray that our ancestors are with us and all goes as we hope.”
“Did you warn this . . . Hugh?”
“A hard man such as that assassin would not have believed me. It would have done no good and might have caused a great deal of harm. He is the best. He is cold, he is heartless. We must trust in his skill and his nature.”
“And if he fails?”
“Then, Your Majesty,” said Trian with a soft sigh, “we should prepare ourselves to face the end.”
CHAPTER 8
HET, DREVLIN, LOW REALM
AT ALMOST PRECISELY THE SAME TIME HUGH LAID HIS HEAD ON THE BLOCK IN KE’LITH, another execution-that of the notorious Limbeck Bolttightener-was being carried out thousands of menka [6] below on the isle of Drevlin. It would seem at first that these executions had nothing in common except the coincidence of their time. But the invisible threads cast by that immortal spider, Fate, had just wrapped around the soul of each of these oddly disparate people and would slowly and surely draw them together.
On the night that Lord Rogar of Ke’lith was murdered, Limbeck Bolttightner was seated in his cozy, untidy dwelling in Het-the oldest city on Drevlin-composing a speech.