She sat, holding Hugh’s hand… and felt his fingers twitch.
Iridal didn’t believe it. “My mind is playing tricks. When we want something very badly, we convince ourselves—”
The fingers moved in hers, spasmodic motion, death throes.
Except Hugh had been dead a long time, long enough for the flesh to chill, the blood to drain from lips and face, the eyes to have fixed in the head.
“I’m going mad,” said Iridal, and dropped the hand back on the unmoving breast. She leaned forward to close the staring eyes. They shifted, looked at her. His lids blinked. His hand stirred. His breast rose and fell.
He gave an anguished, agonized scream….
When Iridal regained her senses, she was lying in another room, another house—a friend’s house, belonging to one of the other mysteriarchs of the High Realm.
Alfred stood beside her, gazing down on her with an anxious expression.
“Hugh!” cried Iridal, sitting up. “Where is Hugh?”
“He’s being cared for, my dear,” said Alfred solicitously and—so it seemed to Iridal—somewhat confusedly. “He’s going to be all right. Don’t worry yourself over him. Some of your friends took him away.”
“I want to see him!”
“I don’t think that would be wise,” said Alfred. “Please, lay back down.”
He fussed with the blanket, covered her, wrapped it tenderly around her feet, smoothed out imaginary wrinkles.
“You should rest, Lady Iridal. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. The shock, the strain. Hugh was grievously wounded, but he is being treated—”
“He was dead,” said Iridal.
Alfred wouldn’t look at her. He kept fiddling with the blankets.
Iridal tried to catch hold of his hand, but Alfred was too quick for her. He backed away several steps. When he spoke, he spoke to his shoes.
“Hugh wasn’t dead. He was terribly wounded. I can see how you would have been mistaken. The poison has that effect, sometimes. Of… of making the living appear to be dead.”
Iridal threw back the blanket, rose to her feet, advanced on Alfred, who attempted to sidle away, perhaps even flee the room. But he fell over his feet and stumbled, caught himself on a chair.
“He was dead. You brought him back to life!”
“No, no. Don’t be ridiculous.” Alfred gave a feeble laugh. “You… you’ve suffered a great shock. You’re imagining things. I couldn’t possibly. Why, no one could!”
“A Sartan could,” said Iridal. “I know about the Sartan. Sinistrad studied them. He was obsessed with them, with their magic. Their library is here, in the High Realms. He could never find the key that unlocked their mysteries. But he knew about them, from the writings they left in human and elven. And they had the power to resurrect the dead. Necromancy—”
“No!” Alfred protested, shuddering. “I mean yes, they… we have the power. But it must never be used. Never used. For every life that is brought back untimely, another dies . untimely. We may help the grievously injured, do all we can to draw them back from the threshold, but once they cross beyond… never!
“Never….”
“Alfred was insistent, calm, and firm in his denial,” said Iridal, returning from the past with a gentle sigh. “He answered all my questions freely, if not fully. I began to think that I had been mistaken. That you were only wounded.
“I know,” she said, seeing Hugh’s bitter smile. “I know the truth now. I knew it then, I think, but I didn’t want to believe it, for Alfred’s sake. He was so kind to me, helping me search for my child, when he could have easily abandoned me, for he has troubles of his own.”
Hugh grunted. He had little use for another man’s troubles. “He lied. He was the one who brought me back! The bastard lied.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Iridal, sighing. “It’s odd, but I believe that he believes he is telling the truth. He has no memory of what truly happened.”
“When I get hold of him, he’ll remember. Sartan or not.”
Iridal glanced at him, somewhat astonished. “You believe me?”
“About Alfred?” Hugh eyed her grimly, reached for his pipe. “Yes, I believe you. I think I knew all along, though I didn’t want to admit it. That wasn’t the first time he performed this resurrection trick of his.”