Not a tree, thought Hugh. A branch. Most likely a big one, from the sound. Sheared off by the wind, it had come crashing down across the path. He’d seen such a thing many times before in this wood, narrowly missed being struck himself.
He did not run. It was as if the black monk at his shoulder laid a restraining hand on his arm and whispered, “There is no need for haste.” The shards of broken hargast branch were sharp as arrow points. If Bane was still alive, he wouldn’t be for long. There were plants in this forest that would ease the pain, put the boy to sleep, and, though Alfred would never know it, speed the child to an easy death.
Hugh continued walking slowly down the path. Alfred’s cries for help had ceased. Perhaps he’d realized how futile it was. Perhaps he’d discovered the prince already dead. They’d take the body to Aristagon and leave it there, as Stephen had wanted. It would appear as if the elves had badly abused the boy before killing him, and that would inflame the humans. King Stephen would have his war, much good it would do him.
But that wasn’t Hugh’s concern. He’d take the bumbling Alfred along to help, and at the same time worm out of the chamberlain the dark plot he was undoubtedly aiding and abetting. Then, with Alfred in tow, the Hand would communicate with the king from a safe hiding place and demand his fee be doubled. He’d-
Rounding a bend in the path, Hugh saw that Alfred hadn’t been far wrong when he said a tree had fallen. A huge limb, big as most trees itself, had cracked in the wind and split the trunk of the ancient hargast in two when it came down. The tree must have been rotten, to have separated like that. Coming nearer, Hugh could see within what was left of the trunk the tunnels of the insects that had been the old tree’s true killer.
Though it was lying on the ground, the limb’s branches that had remained intact towered above Hugh. The branches that had struck the ground had shattered and cut a wide swath of devastation through the forest; its crystalline remains completely obliterated the path. The dust it had raised still hung in the air. Hugh searched among the branches but could see nothing. He climbed over the split trunk. When he reached the other side, he stopped to stare.
The boy who should have been dead was sitting on the ground rubbing his head, looking dazed and very much alive. His clothing was rumpled and dirty, but it had been rumpled and dirty when he entered the forest. There weren’t, Hugh noted, his eyes scanning the boy, any shards of bark or filaments in his hair. He had blood on his chest and on his torn shirt, but nowhere else on his body. The Hand glanced at the split trunk and then turned his measuring gaze on the path. Bane was sitting squarely in the spot where the branch must have fallen. He was surrounded by the sharp, deadly shards.
Yet he wasn’t dead.
“Alfred?” Hugh called.
And then he saw the chamberlain, crouched on the ground near the boy, his back to the assassin, intent on doing something that Hugh could not see. At the sound of a voice, Alfred’s body twitched in startlement and he jerked to his feet as though someone had yanked him up by a rope attached to his shirt collar. Hugh saw now what the chamberlain had been doing. He was binding a cut on his hand.
“Oh, sir! I’m so thankful you’re here-”
“What happened?” Hugh demanded.
“Prince Bane has been extremely fortunate, sir. A terrible tragedy has been averted. The branch came crashing down, just barely missing His Highness.”
Hugh, watching Bane closely, saw the puzzled glance the boy gave his chamberlain. Alfred did not notice-his eyes were on his injured hand. He had been attempting, without much success apparently, to wrap a strip of cloth around the wound.
“I heard the boy scream,” Hugh said.
“Out of fright, sir,” explained Alfred. “I ran-”
“Is he hurt?” Hugh glowered at Bane, pointed to the blood on the child’s chest and the front of his shirt.