Margaret Weis - Dragon Wing

“They lied to us. They told us that they were gods and that we had to work for them. They promised us that if we worked hard, they would judge us worthy and take us up to live in heaven. But they never intended to make good that promise.”

“That was never our intent!” Alfred answered. “You must believe that. And you must believe that I—we—didn’t know you were still there! It was only supposed to be a short time, a few years, several generations—”

“A thousand years, a hundred generations—those that survived! And where were you? What happened?”

“We . . . had our own problems.” Alfred’s gaze lowered, his head bowed.

“You have my deepest sympathy.”

Alfred glanced up swiftly, saw the Patryn’s curled lip, and, sighing, looked away.

“You’re coming with me,” said Haplo. “I’m going to take you back to see for yourself the hell your people created! And my lord will have questions for you. He’ll find it hard to believe—as I do—that ‘the jailer died.’ ”

“Your lord?”

“A great man, the most powerful of our kind who has ever lived. He has plans, many plans, which I’m certain he’ll share with you.”

“And that’s why you’re here,” Alfred murmured. “His plans? No, I won’t go with you.” The Sartan shook his head. “Not voluntarily.” Deep within the mild eyes, a spark kindled.

“Then I’ll use force. I’ll enjoy that!”

“I’ve no doubt. But if you’re trying to conceal your presence in this world”—his gaze fixed on the bandaged hands—“then you know that a fight between us, a duel of that magnitude and magical ferocity, could not be hidden and would be disastrous to you. The wizards in this world are powerful and intelligent. Legends exist about Death Gate. Many, like Sinistrad or even this child”—Alfred’s hand stroked Bane’s hair—“could figure out what had occurred and would eagerly start to search for the entry into what is held to be a wondrous world. Is your lord prepared for that?”

“Lord? What lord? Look here, Alfred!” Bane burst out impatiently. “None of us are going anywhere as long as my father’s alive!” Neither of the two men answered him or even looked at him. The boy glared at them. Adults, absorbed in their own concerns, they had, as usual, forgotten his.

“At last our eyes have been opened. At last we can see the truth.” Limbeck found his spectacles irritating and pushed them back up on top of his head.

“And the truth is that we no longer need them ...”

“I don’t need you!” Bane cried. “You weren’t going to help me anyway. I’ll do it myself.” Reaching into his tunic, he drew out Hugh’s dagger and gazed at it admiringly, running his finger carefully over the rune-carved blade. “Come on,” he said to the dog, still standing beside Haplo. “You come with me.” The dog looked at the boy and wagged his tail but did not move.

“Come on!” Bane coaxed. “Good dog!”

The dog cocked his head, then turned to Haplo, whining and pawing. The Patryn, intent on the Sartan, shoved the dog aside. Sighing, with a final, pleading glance back at its master, the dog—head down, ears flat—padded slowly over to Bane’s side.

The child shoved the dagger in his belt and patted the dog’s head. “That’s a good boy. Let’s go.”

“And so, in conclusion ...” Limbeck paused. His hand trembled, his eyes misted over. A blot of ink fell upon the paper. Pulling his spectacles down from on top of his head, he adjusted them on his nose and then sat unmoving, staring at the blank spot where the final words would be written.

“Can you truly afford to fight me?” Alfred persisted.

“I don’t think you’ll fight,” answered Haplo. “I think you’re too weak, too tired. That kid you pamper is more—”

Reminded, Alfred glanced around.

“Bane? Where is he?”

Haplo made an impatient gesture. “Gone somewhere. Don’t try to—”

“I’m not ‘trying’ anything! You heard what he asked me. He has a knife. He’s gone to murder his father! I’ve got to stop—!”

“No, you don’t.” Haplo caught hold of the Sartan’s arm. “Let the mensch murder each other. It doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t matter to you at all?” Alfred gave the Patryn a peculiar, searching look.

“No, of course not. The only one I care about is the leader of the Gegs’ revolt, and Limbeck’s safely shut up in his room.”

“Then where’s your dog?” asked Alfred.

“My people”—Limbeck’s pen slowly and deliberately wrote down the words—“we are going to war.”

There. It was done. Pulling off his spectacles, the Geg tossed them down upon the table, put his head in his hands, and wept.

Sinistrad and Hugh were seated in the study of the mysteriarch. It was nearly midday. Light streamed in through a crystal window. Seeming to float on the mist outside the window were the glittering spires of the city of New Hope—the city that, according to what Iridal had told him, might as well be called No Hope. Hugh wondered if the buildings had been placed there for his benefit. Outside, coiled around the castle, dozing in the sun, was the quicksilver dragon.

“Let us see, what would be best?” Sinistrad tapped thoughtfully on the desk with his thin fingers. “We will transport the child back to Djern Volkain on the elven ship—taking care, of course, to make certain that the ship is seen by the humans. Then, when Stephen and Anne are discovered dead, it will be blamed on elves. Bane can tell them some rigmarole about how he was captured and escaped and the elves followed him and killed his loving parents as they tried to rescue him. You can make it appear that the elves murdered them, I suppose?”

The air around Hugh stirred, a cold breath swept over him, and icy fingers seemed to touch his shoulder. Iridal was working her own magic against her husband. She was here. She was listening.

“Sure, nothing’s easier. Will the boy cooperate?” asked Hugh, tensing, yet doing his best to seem at ease. Now that she was faced with inescapable truth, what would she do? “The kid seems less than enthusiastic.”

“He will cooperate. I have only to make him understand that this is to his advantage. Once he knows how he can profit by this action, he will be eager to undertake it. The boy is ambitious, and rightfully so. After all, he is my son.”

Invisible to all eyes, Iridal stood behind Hugh, watching, listening. She felt nothing at hearing Sinistrad plot murder; her mind, her senses, had gone numb. Why did I bother to come? she asked herself. There’s nothing I can do. It’s too late for him, for me. But not too late for Bane. How did the ancient saying go? “A little child shall lead them.” Yes, there is hope for him. He is still innocent, unspoiled. Perhaps someday he will save us.

“Ah, here you are, father.”

Bane entered the study, coolly ignoring Sinistrad’s glaring frown. The child’s color was heightened, and he seemed to glow with an inner radiance. His eyes gleamed with a feverish luster. Walking behind the boy, its nails clicking against the stone floor, the dog appeared worried and unhappy. Its eyes went to Hugh, pleading; its gaze shifted to a point behind the assassin, staring at Iridal so intently that she felt a panicked qualm and wondered if her spell of invisibility had ceased to work.

Hugh shifted uneasily in his chair. Bane was up to something. Probably—from that beatific expression on his face—no good.

“Bane, I’m busy. Leave us,” said Sinistrad.

“No, father. I know what you’re talking about. It’s about me going back to Volkaran, isn’t it? Don’t make me, father.” The child’s voice was suddenly sweet and soft. “Don’t make me go back to that place. No one likes me there. It’s lonely. I want to be with you. You can teach me magic, like you taught me to fly. I’ll show you all I know about the great machine, and I can introduce you to the High Froman—”