Into the Labyrinth (13 page)

Hugh’s jaw sagged. Then he snapped his mouth shut, cleared his throat.

“You don’t believe me. I don’t blame you. I didn’t believe it myself. Not until I saw it with my own eyes.” Ciang stared at the cobwebs as if they wove time. “It was many cycles ago. When I became ‘arm.’ The dagger had come to us from an elven lord, long ago, when the Brotherhood first began. It was kept in this vault, with a warning. A curse was on it, so the warning went. A human, a young man, scoffed at the notion. He did not believe in the curse. He took the knife—for it is written that ‘he who masters the knife will be invincible against all foes.
Not even the gods
will dare oppose him.’ ”

She eyed Hugh as she said this. “Of course,” she added, “this was in the days when there were no gods. Not anymore.”

“What happened?” Hugh asked, trying not to sound skeptical. He was, after all, talking to Ciang.

“I am not certain. The partner, who survived, could not
give us a coherent account. Apparently the young man attacked his mark, using the knife, and suddenly it was not a knife. It changed to a sword—enormous, whirling, many-bladed. Two ordinary arms could not hold it. Then it was that two more arms sprouted from the young man’s body. He stared at his four arms and dropped dead—of terror and shock. His partner eventually went mad, threw himself off the isle. I don’t blame him. I saw the body. The man had four arms. I dream of it still sometimes.”

She was silent, lips pursed. Hugh, looking at that hard, pitiless face, saw it blanch. The compression of the lips was to hold them firm. He looked at the knife and felt his stomach crawl.

“That incident could have been the end of the Brotherhood.” Ciang glanced at him sideways. “You can imagine what rumor would have made of this. Perhaps we—the Brotherhood—had cast the dreadful curse upon the young man. I acted swiftly. I ordered the body brought here under cover of darkness. The partner also. I questioned him before witnesses. I read the tract to them—the tract that came with the knife.

“We agreed that it was the knife itself that was cursed. I forbade its use. We buried the grotesque body in secret. All brothers and sisters were ordered, on pain of death, not to speak of the incident.

“That was long ago. Now,” she added softly, “I am the only one left alive who remembers. No one, not even the Ancient, whose grandfather had not yet been born when this occurred, knows about the cursed knife. I have written the injunction against its use in my will. But I have never told the story to anyone. Not until now.”

“Cover it up,” Hugh said grimly. “I don’t want it.” His frown darkened. “I’ve never used magic before—”

“You have never been asked to kill a god before,” Ciang said, displeased.

“The dwarf, Limbeck, claims they’re not gods. He said Haplo was almost dead when the dwarf first saw him, just like any ordinary man. No, I will not use it!”

Two red spots of anger appeared in the woman’s skull-like face. She seemed about to make a bitter rejoinder, then paused. The red spots faded; the slanted eyes were suddenly cool. “It is your choice, of course, my friend. If you insist on dying in dishonor, that is your own affair. I
will not argue further except to remind you that another’s life is at stake here. Perhaps you have not considered this?”

“What other life?” Hugh demanded, suspicious. “The boy, Bane, is dead.”

“But his mother lives. A woman for whom you hold strong feelings. Who knows but that if you fail and fall, this Haplo would not go after her next? She knows who he is, what he is.”

Hugh thought back. Iridal had said something to him about Haplo, but the assassin couldn’t remember what. They’d had little time to talk. His mind had been on other things—the dead child he had carried in his arms, Iridal’s grief, his own confusion at being alive when he was supposed to be dead. No, whatever she’d said to him about the Patryn, Hugh had lost in the horror-tinged mists of that terrible night. What had it to do with him anyway? He was going to give the Kenkari his soul. He was going to return to that beautiful, peaceful realm …

Would Haplo try to find Iridal? He had taken her son captive. Why not her? Could Hugh afford to take the chance? He owed her something, after all. Owed her for having failed her.

“A tract, you said?” he asked Ciang.

Her hand slid into the large pockets of her voluminous robes, withdrew several sheets of vellum held together by a black ribbon tied around them. The vellum was old and discolored, the ribbon tattered and faded. She smoothed it with her hand.

“I read it again last night. The first time I have read it since that dreadful night. Then I read the tract aloud, to the witnesses. Now I will read it to you.”

Hugh flushed. He wanted to read it, study it in private, but he didn’t dare insult her. “I have put you to so much trouble already, Ciang—”

“I must translate it for you,” she said with a smile that indicated she understood. “It is written in High Elven, a language spoken after the Sundering, a language that is all but forgotten now. You would not be able to understand it.”

Hugh had no further objections.

“Bring me a chair. The text is long and I am weary of standing. And put the lamp close.”

Hugh brought a chair, set it in a corner beside the table on which rested the “cursed” knife. He remained standing outside the circle of lamplight, not sorry to keep his face hidden in the shadows, his doubts concealed. He didn’t believe it. Didn’t believe any of it.

Yet he wouldn’t have believed a man could die and come back to life again either.

And so he listened to the tale.

THE ACCURSÉD
BLADE

S
INCE YOU ARE READING THIS, MY SON, I AM DEAD AND MY SOUL
has gone to Krenka-Anris, to help in the liberation of our people.
¹
Since it has come to open war, I trust that you will acquit yourself honorably in battle, as have all those who bear this name who have gone before you.

I am the first of our family to set down this account on paper. Before now, the story of the Accurséd Blade was whispered to the eldest son from his father’s deathbed. Thus my father told me and thus his father before him and so on back to before the Sundering. But since it seems likely that my deathbed may be the hard ground of a battlefield and that you, my beloved son, will be far away, I leave this account to be read after my death. And so you will take an oath, my son, by Krenka-Anris and by my soul, that you will pass this account to your son—may the Goddess bless your lady-wife and deliver her safely.

In the armory is a box with a pearl-inlaid lid that holds the ceremonial dueling daggers. You know the one, I am certain, for as a child you expressed your admiration for
the daggers, an admiration much misplaced, as you know by now, being a seasoned warrior yourself.
²
You have undoubtedly wondered why I kept the fool things, much less accorded them room in the armory. Little did you know, my son, what those daggers concealed.

Select a time when your lady-wife and her retinue have left the castle. Dismiss the servants. Make absolutely certain that you are alone. Go to the armory. Take up the box. On the lid, you will note that in each corner there is a butterfly. Press down
simultaneously
on the butterflies in the upper right corner and the lower left. A false bottom at the left-hand side will slide open.
Please, my son, for the sake of my soul and your own, do not place your hand in this box!

Inside you will see a knife much less prepossessing than those that nestle above it. The knife is made of iron and appears to have been forged by a human. It is exceedingly ugly and misshapen, and, I trust, you will have as little desire to touch it, once you see it, as I had when I first looked at it. Yet, alas, you will be curious, as I was curious. I beg you,
beg you
, my dear, dear son, to fight against your curiosity. Look at the blade and see its hideous aspect and heed the warning of your own inner senses, which will recoil in horror before it.

I did not heed that warning. And it brought me a grief that has forever cast a shadow over my life. With this dagger, this Accurséd Blade, I murdered my beloved brother.

I imagine you growing pale with shock as you read this. It was always claimed that your uncle died of wounds suffered at the hands of human attackers, who waylaid him
on a lonely stretch of road near our castle. That story was not true. He died by my hand, in the armory, probably not far from the spot where you now stand. But I swear, I swear by Krenka-Anris, I swear by the sweet eyes of your mother, I swear by the soul of my dear brother, that it was the blade that killed him—not I!

This is what happened. Forgive the handwriting. Even now, as I relate this, I find I am shaking from the horror of that incident, which happened well over a hundred years ago.

My father died. On his deathbed, he told my brother and me the story of the Accurséd Blade. It was a rare and valuable artifact, he said, which had come from a time when two races of dread gods ruled the world. These two races of gods hated and feared each other and each sought to rule over those they called
mensch:
humans, elves, and the dwarves. Then came the God Wars—terrible battles of magic that raged over an entire world until at last, fearing defeat, one race of gods sundered the world.

Mostly the gods fought these wars among themselves, but sometimes, if they were outnumbered, they recruited mortals to assist them. Of course, we would be no match for the magical attacks of the gods, and so the Sartan (we know the gods by that name) armed their mensch supporters with fantastic magical weapons.

Most of these weapons were lost during the Sundering, as many of our people were lost, or so the tales relate. Yet a few remained with those who survived and were kept in their possession. This knife is, according to family legend, one of those weapons. My father told us he had called in the Kenkari, to verify the fact.

The Kenkari could not say for certain that the weapon was pre-Sundering, but they did agree that it was magical. And they warned him that its magic was potent and advised him never to use it. My father was a timid man and the Kenkari frightened him. He had this box built specially to hold the weapon, which the Kenkari deemed Accurséd. He placed the blade in the box and never looked at it again.

I asked him why he did not destroy it, and he said that the Kenkari had warned him not to try. Such a weapon could never be destroyed, they said. It would fight to survive and return to its owner, and as long as it was in his
possession, he could guarantee that it would not have the power to do harm. If he attempted to rid himself of it—perhaps throw it into the Maelstrom—the weapon would simply fall into the hands of another and might do great damage. He vowed to the Kenkari that he would keep it safe and he made each of us take the same solemn oath.

After his death, as my brother and I were settling our father’s affairs, we recalled the story of the knife. We went to the armory, opened the box, and found the knife in the false bottom. Knowing my father’s timidity and also his love of romantic stories, I am afraid that we discounted much of what he had said. This plain and ugly knife was forged by a god? We shook our heads, smiling.

And, as brothers will, we fell to play. (We were young at the time of my father’s death. That is the only excuse I can offer for our heedlessness.) My brother grabbed one of the dueling daggers and I took what we were jokingly calling the Accurséd Blade. (Goddess forgive my unbelief!) My brother took a playful slash at me with his dagger.

You will not believe what happened next. I am not certain I believe it myself, to this day. Yet I saw it with my own eyes.

The knife felt strange in my hand. It quivered, as if it were a live thing. And suddenly, when I started to thrust it playfully at my brother, the knife squirmed like a snake and I held—not a knife, but a sword. And before I knew what was happening, the sword’s blade had passed clean through my brother’s body. It pierced his heart. I will never, never—perhaps not even after my death—forget the look or shocked and awful surprise on his face.