Catching hold of the door, Hugh slammed it shut. Turning, he faced Iridal. She heard the Abbot’s soft footfalls pad disinterestedly away.
The cell was small. The furniture consisted of a crude bed, a table, a chair—overturned—and a bucket in a corner, used— by the stench—to hold the body’s wastes. A thick wax candle stood on the table. Hugh’s pipe lay beside it. A mug stood near that, along with a plate of half-eaten food and a bottle of some liquor that smeiled almost as bad as the stregno.
Iridal took in all these objects with a swift glance that was also searching for weapons. Her fear was not for herself; she was armored with her powerful magic that could subdue the man more swiftly and easily than she subdued her dragon. She feared for Hugh, that he might do some harm to himself before she could stop him, for she assumed that he was drunk beyond the point of sanity.
He stood before her, staring at her, his face—with its hawk nose, strong forehead, deep-set, narrow eyes—was hideous, half-hidden by wandering shadows and a haze of yellow-tinged smoke. He breathed heavily, from the frenzied exertion, the liquor, and an avid excitement that made his body tremble. He lurched unsteadily toward her, hands outstretched. The light fell full upon his face and then Iridal was afraid for herself, for the liquor had inflamed his skin but did not touch his eyes.
Some part of him, deep within, was sober; some part that could not be touched by the wine, no matter how much he drank; some part that could not be drowned. His face was almost unrecognizable, ravaged by bitter grief and inner torment. His black hair was streaked with gray; his beard, once rakishly braided, was uncombed, and had grown long and scraggly. He wore a torn shirt and a leather vest and breeches stained and stiff with dirt. His hard-muscled body had gone soft, yet he had a strength born of the wine, for Iridal could still feel the bite of his fingers on her bruised arms.
He staggered closer. She marked the key in his shaking hand. The words of a spell were on her lips, but she didn’t say them. She could see his face clearly now, and she could have wept for him. Pity, compassion, the memory that he had given his life, died horribly to save her child, moved her to reach out her hands to him.
He caught hold of her wrists, his grasp crushing and painful, and fell to his knees before her.
“End this curse!” he pleaded, his voice choked. “I beg you, Lady! End this curse you have put upon me! Free me! Let me go!”
He bowed his head. Harsh, dry sobs tore his body. He shook and shivered, his nerveless hands let slip their hold. Iridal bent over him, her tears falling on the graying hair that she smoothed with chill fingers.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered brokenly. “So sorry.”
He raised his head. “I don’t want your damn pity! Free me!” he repeated again, harsh, urgent. His hands clutched at hers. “You don’t know what you’ve done! End it… now!”
She regarded him for long moments, unable to speak.
“I can’t, Hugh. It was not me.”
“Yes!” he cried fiercely. “I saw you! When I woke—”
She shook her head. “Such a spell is far beyond my power, thank the ancestors. You know,” she said to him, looking into the pleading, hopeless eyes. “You must know. It was Alfred.”
“Alfred!” He gasped the word. “Where is he? Did he come… ?”
He saw the answer in her eyes and threw his head back as if the agony was more than he could endure. Two great tears welled from beneath squinched-shut eyelids, rolled down his cheeks into the thick and matted beard. He drew a deep and shivering breath and suddenly went berserk, began to scream in terrible anger, claw at his face and hair with his hands. And, as suddenly, he pitched forward on his face and lay still and unmoving as the dead.
Which he had once been.
CHAPTER 23
KIR MONASTERY
VOLKARAN ISLES
MID REALM
HUGH WOKE WITH A BUZZING IN HIS HEAD——A DULL, THROBBING ACHE that went up his neck and stabbed through to the back of his eyeballs—and a tongue thick and swollen. He knew what was wrong with him and he knew how to fix it. He sat up on the bed, his hand groping for the wine bottle that was never far from reach. It was then he saw her and memory hit him a blow that was cruel and hurt worse than the pain in his head. He stared at her wordlessly.