Margaret Weis - Into the Labyrinth

The absence of hair made her slanted eyes appear large and liquid, and when she turned—not at the sound but at the absence of sound—the penetrating look from those dark eyes was the arrow shaft that had not, until now, lodged in his breast.

“You risk much coming back, Hugh the Hand,” Ciang said.

“Not as much as you might think, Ciang,” he replied. His answer was neither flippant nor sarcastic. He spoke in a voice pitched low, its tone dull and lifeless. That arrow shaft, it seemed, would have robbed him of very little.

“Did you come here hoping to die?” Ciang’s lip curled. She despised cowards. She had not moved from her place by the window, nor had she invited Hugh into her room, asked him to be seated. A bad sign. In the ritual of the Brotherhood, this meant that she, too, was shunning him. But he was endowed with the rank of “hand,” next to her own—“arm”—the highest ranking in the Brotherhood. She would grant him the favor of listening to his explanation before she passed sentence.

“I wouldn’t have been disappointed if the arrow had found its mark.” Hugh’s expression was grim. “But no. I didn’t come here looking for death. I have a contract.” He grimaced as he spoke. “I’ve come for help, advice.”

“The contract from the Kenkari.” Ciang’s eyes narrowed. Despite all he knew of Ciang, Hugh was surprised at her knowledge of this. His meeting with the Kenkari—the sect of elves who held in their care the souls of elven dead—had been shrouded in secrecy. So Ciang had her spies even among that pious sect.

“No, it is not from them,” Hugh explained, frowning. “Though they are the ones who are forcing me to fulfill it.”

“Forcing you? To fulfill a contract—a sacred commitment? Do you mean to tell me, Hugh the Hand, that you would not have done so if the Kenkari had not forced you?”

Ciang was truly angry now. Two spots of crimson stained her wrinkled cheeks, mounted up from the wizened neck. Her hand stretched forth like a claw, pointing a skeletal, accusatory finger at him.

“The rumors we have heard about you are true, then. You have lost your nerve.” Ciang started to turn around, started to turn her back on him. Once she did, he was a dead man. Worse than dead, for without her help he would not be able to fulfill his contract, and that meant he would die dishonored. Hugh broke the rules. He walked into the room uninvited, strode across the carpeted floor to Ciang’s desk. On the desk was a wooden box, encrusted with sparkling gems. Hugh lifted the lid.

Ciang paused, looked back over her shoulder. Her face hardened. He had broken her unwritten law, and if she decided against him his punishment would now be far more severe. But she appreciated bold and daring moves, and this was certainly one of the boldest anyone had ever made in her presence. She waited to see the outcome.

Hugh reached into the box, pulled out a sharp dagger whose golden hilt was fashioned in the shape of a hand—palm flat, fingers pressed together, the extended thumb forming the crosspiece. Taking the ceremonial dagger, Hugh advanced to stand before Ciang.

She regarded him coolly, with detached curiosity, not in the least frightened.

“What is this?”

Hugh fell on his knees. Raising the dagger, he offered it—hilt first, blade pointed at his breast—to Ciang.

She accepted it, her hand wrapping around the hilt with loving skill. Hugh drew back the collar of his shirt, laid bare his neck. “Stab me here, Ciang,” he said, voice harsh and chill. “In the throat.” He did not look at her. His eyes stared out the window, into the dusk. The Lords of Night were spreading their cloaks across Solarus; evening’s shadows were crawling over Skurvash.

Ciang held the dagger in her right hand. Stretching forth her left, she grabbed hold of the twisted strands of beard, jerked his head upward and around to face her—also giving her better leverage if she did decide to slit his throat.

“You have done nothing to deserve such an honor, Hugh the Hand,” she said coldly. “Why do you demand your death at my hand?”

“I want to go back,” he said in a lifeless monotone. Ciang was rarely startled, but this statement, made so calmly and flatly, took her by surprise. She released him, fell back a step, and peered intently into the man’s dark eyes. She saw no gleam of madness. Only an emptiness, as if she looked into a dry well.

Hugh grasped the leather jerkin he wore, wrenched it apart. He ripped the shirt seam wide.

“Look at my chest. Look well. The mark is hard to see.” He was a dark-complexioned man; his breast was matted with thick, curly black hair, beginning to gray.

“Here,” he said and guided Ciang’s unresisting hand to the part of his breast over the heart.

She looked closely, running her fingers through his chest hair, their touch like bird claws scraping over his flesh. He shivered; the flesh rose in small bumps.

Ciang drew in a deep breath, snatched her hand away. She stared at him in awe slowly crystallizing into understanding.

“The rune-magic!” she breathed.

His head bowed as if in defeat, Hugh sank back on his heels. One hand went to his breast, convulsively grasping the shirt and drawing the two torn halves together again.

The other hand clenched into a fist. His shoulders slumped; he stared unseeing at the floor.

Ciang stood over him, the dagger still balanced in her hand but now forgotten. She had not known fear in a long, long time. How long she couldn’t even remember. And then it hadn’t been fear like this—a crawling worm in the bowels.

The world was changing, changing in drastic ways. Ciang knew it. She wasn’t afraid of change. She had looked into the future and was ready to meet it. As the world changed, so would the Brotherhood. There would be peace among the races now—humans, elves, and dwarves would live together in harmony. The cessation of war and rebellion would be a blow to the organization at first; peace might even mean that the humans and the elves would imagine themselves strong enough to attack the Brotherhood. Ciang doubted that, however. Too many human barons, too many elven lords owed the Brotherhood too many favors. Ciang wasn’t afraid of peace. True peace would be obtained only if every elf and human and dwarf had his or her head cut off and heart cut out. So long as there was life, there would be jealousy, greed, hatred, lust, and so long as there were heads to think and hearts to feel, the Brotherhood would be there to act.

Ciang didn’t fear the future in a world where all things were equal. But this—this upset the balance. Knocked over the scale. She must deal with it swiftly, if she could. For the first time in her life, Ciang doubted herself. That was the root of the fear.

She looked at the dagger, dropped it to the floor.

Ciang placed her hands on Hugh’s gaunt and hollow cheeks, lifted his head gently. “My poor boy,” she said to him softly. “My poor boy.” His eyes dimmed with tears. His body shuddered. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten for so long he had lost the need for either. He fell into her hands like rotten fruit.

“You must tell me everything,” she whispered. Ciang pressed the man’s unresisting head against her bony breast, crooned over him. “Tell me everything, Hugh. Only then can I help you.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep back the tears, but he was too weak. He gave a wrenching sob, covered his face with his hands.

Ciang held him, rocked with him back and forth. “Tell me everything...”

“I am not in to anyone this night,” Ciang told the ancient when he tottered up to her chambers, carrying a message from another member begging an audience. The Ancient nodded and closed her door behind him as he left, leaving the two alone.