Margaret Weis - Dragon Wing

The only living beings to whom the Kir extended any charity at all were male children of the dead, orphans who had no other refuge. The Kir took them in and educated them. Wherever the monks went—to whatever scene of misery and suffering, cruelty and deprivation, they were called upon to attend—they took the children with them, using them as their servants and, at the same time, teaching them about life, extolling the merciful benefits of death. By raising these boys in their ways and grim beliefs, the monks were able to maintain the numbers of their dark order. Some of the children, like Hugh, ran away, but even he had not been able to escape the shadow of the black hoods under whose tutelage he had been reared.

Consequently, when the Hand gazed down at the sleeping face of the young child, he felt no pity, no outrage. Murdering this boy was just another job to him, and one that was likely to prove more difficult and dangerous than most. Hugh knew the wizard had been lying. Now he only had to figure out why. Tossing his pack on the floor, the assassin used the toe of his boot to nudge the child. “Kid, wake up.”

The boy started, his eyes flared open, and he sat up, reflexively, before he was truly awake. “What is it?” he asked, staring through a mass of tousled golden curls at the stranger standing above him. “Who are you?”

“I’m known as Hugh—Sir Hugh of Ke’lith, Your Highness,” said the Hand, remembering in time he was supposed to be a nobleman and naming the first land holding that came to his mind. “You’re in danger. Your father’s hired me to take you to someplace where you’ll be safe. Get up. Time is short. We must leave while it is still night.”

Looking at the impassive face with its high cheekbones, hawk nose, braided strands of black beard hanging from the cleft chin, the child shrank back amidst the straw.

“Go away. I don’t like you! Where is Trian? I want Trian!”

“I’m not pretty, like the wizard. But your father didn’t hire me for my looks. If you’re frightened of me, think how your enemies’ll feel.” Hugh said this glibly, just for something to say. He was prepared to pick up the kid—kicking and screaming—and carry him off bodily. He was therefore somewhat surprised to see the child consider this argument with an expression of grave and keen intelligence.

“You make sense, Sir Hugh,” the boy said, rising to his feet. “I will accompany you. Bring my things.” He waved a small hand at a pack lying next to him on the straw.

It was on Hugh’s tongue to tell the kid to bring his own things, but he recalled himself in time. “Yes, Your Highness,” he said humbly, bending down. He took a close look at the child. The prince was small for his age, with large pale blue eyes; a sweetly curved mouth; and the porcelain-white complexion of one who is kept protectively within doors. The light glistened off a hawk feather hanging from a silver chain around the child’s neck.

“Since we are to be traveling companions, you may call me by my name,” said the boy shyly.

“And what might that be, Your Highness?” Hugh asked, lifting the pack. The child stared at him. The Hand added hastily, “I’ve been out of the country many years, Your Highness.”

“Bane,” said the child. “I am Prince Bane.” Hugh froze, motion arrested. Bane! The assassin wasn’t superstitious, but why would anyone give a child such an ill-omened name? Hugh felt the invisible filament of Fate’s web tighten around his neck. The image of the block came to him—cold, peaceful, serene. Angry at himself, he shook his head. The choking sensation vanished, the image of his own death disappeared. Hugh shouldered the prince’s pack and his own.

“We must be going, Your Highness,” he said again, nodding toward the door. Bane lifted his cloak from the floor and threw it clumsily over his shoulders, fumbling at the strings that fastened it around his neck. Impatient to be gone, Hugh tossed the packs back to the ground, knelt, and tied the strings of the cloak.

To his astonishment, the prince flung his arms around his neck.

“I’m glad you’re my guardian,” he said, clinging to him, his soft cheek pressed against Hugh’s.

The Hand held rigid, unmoving. Bane slipped away from him. “I’m ready,” he announced in eager excitement. “Are we going by dragon? Tonight was the first time I’d ever ridden one. ’ I suppose you must ride them all the time.”

“Yes,” Hugh managed to say. “There’s a dragon in the courtyard.” He lifted the two packs and the lamp. “If Your Highness will follow me—”

“I know the way,” said the prince, skipping out of the room. Hugh followed after him, the touch of the boy’s hands soft and warm against his skin.

Three people were gathered in a room located in the upper levels of the monastery. The room had been one of the monks’ cells and was, consequently, cold, austere, small, and windowless. The three—two men and one woman—stood in the very center of the room. One man had his arm around the woman; the woman had her arm around him, each supporting the other, or it seemed both might have fallen. The third stood near them.

“They are preparing to leave.” The wizard had his head cocked, though it was not with his physical ear he heard the beating of the dragon’s wings through the thick walls of the monastery.

“Leaving!” the woman cried, and took a step forward. “I want to see him again! My son! One more time!”

“No, Anne!” Trian’s voice was stern; his hand clasped hold of the woman’s and held it firmly. “It took long months to break the enchantment. It is easier this way! You must be strong!”

“I pray we have done right!” The woman sobbed and turned her face to her husband’s shoulder.

“You should have gone along, Trian,” said Stephen. He spoke harshly, though the hand with which he stroked his wife’s hair was gentle and loving. “There is still time.”

“No, Your Majesty. We gave this matter long and careful consideration. Our plans are sound. We must follow through on them and pray that our ancestors are with us and all goes as we hope.”

“Did you warn this . . . Hugh?”

“A hard man such as that assassin would not have believed me. It would have done no good and might have caused a great deal of harm. He is the best. He is cold, he is heartless. We must trust in his skill and his nature.”

“And if he fails?”

“Then, Your Majesty,” said Trian with a soft sigh, “we should prepare ourselves to face the end.”

At almost precisely the same time Hugh laid his head on the block in Ke’lith, another execution—that of the notorious Limbeck Bolttightner—was being carried out thousands of menka [6] Menka or, more precisely, menkarias rydai, is the elven standard form of measurement. Classically, it was said to be “one thousand elf hunters high.” In modern times, this has been standardized by establishing that elf hunters are six feet tall, thus making the menka equal to six thousand feet. This has led to considerable confusion between the races, due to the fact that elven feet are somewhat smaller than those of humans. below on the isle of Drevlin. It would seem at first that these executions had nothing in common except the coincidence of their time. But the invisible threads cast by that immortal spider, Fate, had just wrapped around the soul of each of these oddly disparate people and would slowly and surely draw them together.

On the night that Lord Rogar of Ke’lith was murdered, Limbeck Bolttightner was seated in his cozy, untidy dwelling in Het—the oldest city on Drevlin—composing a speech.