The Abbot rose. So did Iridal. He expected her to leave, was somewhat surprised and considerably displeased—to judge by his baleful expression—to see her take a step forward, confront him.
“I do respect your ways, Lord Abbot. My business is not with any of the brothers, but one who has never taken vows. He is the one who is permitted to reside here, against—I may add—all rules, in defiance of tradition. He is called Hugh the Hand.”
The Abbot did not flicker an eyelid. “You are mistaken,” he said, speaking with such conviction that Iridal must have believed him had she not known positively the monk was lying. “One who called himself by that name used to live with us, but that was as a child. He left, long ago. We have no knowledge of him.”
“The first is true,” Iridal answered. “The second is a lie. He came back to you, about a year ago. He told a strange tale and begged admittance. You either believed his story or thought him mad and took pity on him. No,” she interrupted herself. “You pity no one. You believed his story, then. I wonder why?”
An eyebrow moved, lifted. “If you saw him, you would have no need to ask why.” The Abbot folded his hands across his lank body. “I will not bandy words with you, Lady. It is obviously a waste of time. Yes, one who calls himself Hugh the Hand does reside here. No, he has not taken vows that shut him off from the world. Yet, he is shut off. He has done so himself. He will not see a living soul from the outside. Only us. And then only when we bring him food and drink.”
Iridal shuddered, but she stood firm. “Nonetheless, I will see him.” Drawing aside her cloak, she revealed a silvery gray dress, trimmed in cabalistic symbols on the hem, the neck, the cuffs of the sleeves and the belt she wore around her waist. “I am one you term a mysteriarch. I am of the High Realm. My magic could crack that clay door, crack these walls, crack your head if I choose. You will take me to see Hugh the Hand.”
The Abbot shrugged. It was nothing to him. He would have allowed her to tear the Abbey down stone by stone before he permitted her to see one who had taken the vows. But the man Hugh was different. He was here by sufferance. Let him look out for himself.
“This way,” said the Abbot, ungraciously, walking past her to the door. “You will speak to no one, nor lift your eyes to look at anyone. On pain of expulsion.” He was not, it seemed, particularly impressed by her threats. After all, a mysteriarch was just another corpse, as far as the Kir were concerned.
“I said I respected your vows and I will do what is required of me,” responded Iridal crisply. “I care nothing for what goes on in here. My business”—she emphasized the word—”is with Hugh the Hand.”
The Abbot stalked out carrying the candle, the only light, and he blocked out most of it with his robed body. Iridal, coming behind, found it difficult to see her footing. She was forced, therefore, to keep her eyes fixed on the ground, for the floors of the ancient building were cracked and uneven. The halls were deserted, quiet. She had a vague impression of shut doors on either side of her. Once she thought she heard a baby cry, and her heart ached for the poor child, alone and abandoned in such a dismal place.
They reached a stairway, and here the Abbot actually stopped and obtained a candle for her before proceeding downward. Iridal concluded that he was not so much concerned for her safety as trying to avoid the nuisance of dealing with her should she fall and break anything. At the bottom of the stairs, they came to water cellars. Doors stood barred and locked to protect the precious liquid that was not only used for drinking and cooking but was also part of the Abbey’s wealth.
Apparently, however, not all doors guarded water. The Abbot stalked over to one, reached down and rattled the handle.