Fire Sea (39 page)

Alfred pictured the woman standing on the bow, screaming defiance. He pictured her hurling herself into the flaming ocean. He lost the thread of Jonathan's tale, picked it up again only when the young man suddenly lowered his voice.

“It was during that war that armies of the dead were first formed and pitted against each other. In fact, it's said that some commanders actually ordered the killing of their own
living
soldiers, to provide themselves with troops of cadavers …”

Alfred's head jerked up. “What? What are you telling me? Murdered their own young men! Blessed Sartan! To what black depths have we sunk?” He was livid, shaking. “No, don't come near me!” He raised a warding hand, rose distractedly from his chair. “I must get out of here! Leave this place!” It seemed, from his fevered attitude, that he meant to run out of the house that instant.

“Husband, what have you been saying to upset him like this?” demanded Jera, coming into the room with Tomas. “My dear sir, please sit down, calm yourself.”

“I was only telling him that old story about the generals killing their own men during the war—”

“Oh, Jonathan!” Jera shook her head. “Certainly, you can leave, Alfred. Any time you want. You're not a prisoner here!”

Yes, I am! Alfred groaned inwardly. I'm a prisoner, a prisoner of my own ineptness! I came through Death's Gate by sheer accident! I would never have the courage or the knowledge to get back alone!

“Think about your friend,” Tomas added soothingly, pouring out a cup of kairn tea. “You don't want to leave your friend behind, do you, sir?”

“I'm sorry.” Alfred collapsed back into his chair. “Forgive me. I'm … tired, that's all. Very tired. I think I'll go to bed. Come on, boy.”

He laid a trembling hand on the dog's head. The animal looked up at him, whimpered, slowly brushed its tail against the floor, but didn't move.

The whimper had an odd note to it, a sound that Alfred had never heard the dog make before. He took more notice,
looked down at it intently. The dog tried to lift its head, let it sink back weakly on its paws. The tail wagging increased slightly, however, to indicate that it appreciated the man's concern.

“Is there something wrong?” asked Jera, staring down at the dog. “Do you think the animal's sick?”

“I'm not sure. I don't know much about dogs I'm afraid,” Alfred mumbled, feeling dread shrivel him up inside.

He
did
know something about this dog, or at least suspected. And if what he suspected was true, then whatever was wrong with the dog was wrong with Haplo.

CHAPTER
30
NECROPOLIS,
ABARRACH

T
HE DOG'S CONDITION GRADUALLY WORSENED, BY THE
next cycle, it couldn't move at all, but lay on its side, flanks heaving, panting for breath. The animal refused all attempts to feed it or give it water.

Although everyone in the house was sorry for the dog's suffering, no one, except Alfred, was much concerned. Their thoughts were on the raid on the castle, the rescue of the prince's cadaver. Their plans were made, discussed and viewed from every conceivable angle for flaws. None could be found.

“It's going to be almost ridiculously easy,” said Jera, at breakfast.

“I do beg your pardon,” said Alfred in timid tones, “but I spent some time at court on … er … well, the world from which I come, and King Stephen's … that is … the king's dungeons were quite heavily guarded. How do you plan—”

“You're not involved.” The earl snorted. “So don't concern yourself.”

I may yet be involved, Alfred thought. His glance strayed to the sick dog. He said nothing aloud, however, preferring to bide his time until he had more facts.

“Don't be so cantankerous, Milord,” said Jonathan, laughing. “We trust Alfred, don't we?”

Silence fell over the group, a faint blush suffused Jera's cheek. She glanced involuntarily at Tomas, who met her
look, shook his head slightly, and lowered his gaze to his plate. The earl snorted again. Jonathan glanced from one to the other in perplexity.

“Oh, come now—” he began.

“More tea, sir?” Jera interrupted, lifting the stoneware kettle and holding it over Alfred's teacup.

“No, thank you, Your Grace.”

No one else said anything. Jonathan started to speak again, but was stopped by a look from his wife. The only sounds were the labored breathing of the dog and the occasional rattle of cutlery or the clink of a pottery plate. All seemed vastly relieved when Tomas rose from the table.

“If you will excuse me, Your Grace.” A bow to Jera. “It is time for my appearance at court. Although I am not of the least importance”—he added with a self-deprecating smile—“this cycle of all cycles I should do nothing to draw attention to myself. I must be seen at my regular place at my regular time.”

Alfred lurked about on the fringes of the group until everyone had separated and gone about their morning tasks. Tomas was alone on the lower floor, heading out the door of his dwelling. Alfred emerged from a shadowy corner, plucked at the sleeve of the man's robe.

Tomas gave a start, stared around with livid face and wide eyes.

“Excuse me,” said Alfred, taken aback. “I didn't mean to startle you.”

Tomas frowned when he saw who had hold of him. “What do
you
want?” he demanded impatiently, shaking free of Alfred's grip. “I'm late as it is.”

“Would it be possible—could you speak to your friend in the dungeons and find out the … the condition of my friend?”

“I told you before. He's alive, just as you said,” Tomas snapped. “That's all I know.”

“But you could find out … today,” Alfred insisted, somewhat surprised at his own temerity. “I have the feeling he has fallen ill. Gravely ill.”

“Because of the dog!”

“Please…”

“Oh, very well. I'll do what I can. But I don't promise anything. And now I must be leaving.” “Thank you, that's all I—”

But Tomas was gone, hastening out the door and joining the throng of living and dead crowding the streets of Necropolis.

Alfred sat down beside the dog, stroked its soft fur with a soothing hand. The animal was extremely ill.

Later that day, Tomas returned. It was near the dynast's dining hour, a time when the courtiers, those unfortunates who had not been asked to dinner, departed for their own pleasures.

“Well, what news?” Jera asked. “All is well?”

“All is well,” Tomas answered gravely. “His Majesty will resurrect the prince during the lamp dimming hour.”
¹

“And we have permission to visit the Queen Mother?”

“The queen was most pleased to grant permission herself.”

Jera nodded at her father. “All is ready. I wonder, however, if we shouldn't—”

Tomas cast a significant glance at Alfred, and the duchess fell silent.

“Excuse me,” Alfred murmured, rising stiffly to his feet. “I'll leave you alone—”

“No, wait.” Tomas raised his hand. His expression grew more grave. “I have news for you, and this affects us all and affects our plans, I'm afraid. I spoke to my friend the sleep-shift preserver, before he left the castle this morning. I am sorry to relate that what you feared, Alfred, is true. Your friend is rumored to be dying.”

Poison.

Haplo knew it the moment the first cramps twisted his gut, knew it when the nausea swept over him. He knew it, but
he wouldn't admit it to himself. It made no sense! Why?

Weak from vomiting, he lay on the stone bed, bent double by the clenching pain that stabbed at his vitals with knives of fire. He was parched, suffering from thirst. The waking-shift preserver brought him water. He had just strength enough to dash the cup from her hand. The cup smashed on the rock floor. The preserver withdrew hurriedly. The water seeped rapidly into the cracks in the floor. Haplo collapsed on the bed, watched it disappear, and wondered, Why?

He attempted to heal himself, but his efforts were feeble, half-hearted, and at length he gave up. He'd known from the outset healing wouldn't work. A cunning and subtle mind—a Sartan mind—had devised his murder. The poison was powerful, acting equally on his magic and his body. The complex, interconnecting circle of runes that was his life's essence was falling apart and he couldn't put it back together again. It was as if the edges of the runes were being burned away, they wouldn't link up. Why?

“Why?”

It took Haplo a dazed moment to realize that his question had been repeated out loud. He lifted his head—every movement was fraught with pain, every movement took extraordinary will and effort. His eyes dimming with death's shadow, he could barely make out the dynast, standing outside his cell.

“Why what?” Kleitus asked quietly.

“Why … murder me?” Haplo gasped. He gagged, wretched, doubled over, clutching his stomach. Sweat rolled down his face, he suppressed an agonized cry.

“Ah, you understand what is happening to you. Painful, is it? For that, we are sorry. But we needed a poison that was slow to do its work and we didn't have much time to devote to study. What we devised is crude, albeit efficient. Is it killing you?”

The dynast might have been a professor, inquiring of a student if his experiment in alchemy was proceeding satisfactorily.

“Yes, damn it! It's killing me!” Haplo snarled.

Anger filled him. Not anger at dying. He'd been near
death before, the time the chaodyns attacked him, but then he'd been content to die. He'd fought well, defeated his enemies. He'd been victorious. Now he was dying ignominiously, dying at the hands of another, dying shamefully, without being able to defend himself.

Lunging off the stone bed, he hurled himself at the cell door, fell to the floor. He reached out a grasping hand and clutched at the hem of the dynast's robe before the startled man had time to withdraw.

“Why?” Haplo demanded, clinging to the purple-dyed black fabric. “I would have taken you … Death's Gate!”

“But I don't need you to take me,” replied Kleitus calmly. “I know where Death's Gate is. I know how to get through it. I don't need you … for that.” The dynast bent down, his hand moved to touch the rune-covered hand holding on to the black robes.

Haplo grit his teeth, but did not loosen his grasp. Delicate fingers traced over the runes on the Patryn's skin.

“Yes, now you begin to understand. It takes so much of our magical ability to bring life to the dead that it drains us. We hadn't realized how much until we met you. You tried to hide your power but we felt it. We could have thrown a spear at you, thrown a hundred spears at you, and none would have so much as scratched you. True? Yes, of course it's true. In fact, we could probably have dropped this castle on top of you and you would have emerged alive and well.” The fingers continued to trace the tattooed runes, slowly, longingly, with desire.

Haplo stared, understanding, disbelieving.

“There is nothing more we can gain from our magic. But there is a great deal we can gain from yours! That is why,” the dynast concluded briskly, rising to his feet, looking down at Haplo from what seemed to the dying man to be a tremendous height, “we couldn't afford to injure your body. The rune patterns must be left unblemished, unbroken, to be studied at our leisure. Undoubtedly your cadaver will be of assistance in explaining the meaning of the sigla to me.

“ ‘Barbaric’ our ancestors called your magic. They were dolts. Add the power of your magic to ours and we will be
invincible. Even, we surmise, against this so-called Lord of the Nexus.”

Haplo rolled over on his back. His hand released its grip on the dynast's robe; he no longer had the strength left in his fingers to maintain it.

“And then there is your comrade, your ally—the one who can bring death to the dead.”

“Not friend,” Haplo whispered, barely aware of what he was saying or what was being said to him. “Enemy.”

Kleitus smiled. “A man who risks his life to save yours? I think not. Tomas gathered, from certain things this man has said, that he abhors necromancy and that he would not come to restore your corpse, if you were dead. Most likely he would flee this world, and we would lose him. We inferred, however, that there must be some sort of empathic connection between the two of you. It turned out we were right. Tomas reports that your friend knows, somehow, that you are dying. Your friend believes that there is a chance you might be saved. There isn't, of course, but that won't matter to your friend. Or, at least it won't matter to him long.”