Fire Sea (30 page)

The chancellor gulped down the bitter-tasting liquid as
swiftly as possible, fought a moment to catch his breath, and mopped his sweating forehead with a handkerchief.

“The Lady Jera mentioned something, Sire, about the prophecy.”

Kleitus paused in the act of lifting the glass to his lips. “Did she? When?”

“After the stranger had … er … done whatever he did to the captain of the guard.”

“But you said he ‘killed’ it, Pons. The prophecy speaks of bringing life to the dead.” The dynast drank off the liquor, tossing it to the back of his throat and swallowing it immediately, as did all experienced stalagma drinkers. “Not ending it.”

“The duchess has a way of twisting words to suit her own convenience, Sire. Consider the rumors that she could spread concerning this stranger. Consider what the stranger himself might do to make the people believe in him.”

“True, true.” Kleitus frowned, at first worried. Then he shrugged. “We know where he is and with whom.” The stalagma put him in a relaxed mood.

“We could send in troops …” suggested the chancellor.

“And have the earl's faction up in arms? It's possible they might join these rebels from Kairn Telest. No, Pons, we will continue to handle this matter subtly. It could give us the excuse we need to put that meddlesome earl
and
his duchess daughter out of the way for good. We trust you took the usual precautions, Pons?”

“Yes, Sire. The matter is already in hand.”

“Then why worry over nothing? By the way, who takes over the ducal lands of Rift Ridge if young Jonathan should die untimely?”

“He has no children. The wife would inherit—”

The dynast made a fatigued gesture. Pons lowered his eyelids, indicative of understanding.

“In that case, his estate reverts to the crown, Your Majesty.”

Kleitus nodded, motioned to a servant to pour him another glass. When the cadaver had done so and withdrawn, the dynast lifted his cup, prepared to enjoy the liquor. His
gaze caught that of his chancellor and, with a sigh, he set the glass back down.

“What is it, Pons? That sour face of yours is ruining our enjoyment of this excellent vintage.”

“I beg your pardon, Sire, but I wonder if you are taking this matter seriously enough.” The chancellor drew nearer, speaking in an undertone, although they were quite alone, apart from the cadavers. “The other man I brought in with the prince is extraordinary in his own way! Perhaps more so than the one who escaped. I think you should see this prisoner immediately.”

“You've been dropping vague hints about this man. Spit it out, Pons! What's so … extraordinary … about him?”

The chancellor paused, considering how to produce the greatest impact. “Your Majesty, I've seen him before.”

“I am aware of your extensive social connections, Pons.” Stalagma tended to make Kleitus sarcastic.

“Not in Necropolis, Sire. Nor anywhere around here. I saw him this morning … in the vision.”

The dynast returned the glass, its contents left untasted, to the tray at his elbow.

“We will see him … and the prince.”

Pons bowed. “Very good, Sire. Shall they be brought here or to the audience chamber?”

The dynast glanced around the room. Known as the gaming room, it was much smaller and more intimate than the grand audience hall and was well lighted by several ornate gas lamps. Numerous kairn-grass tables had been placed around the room. On top of each were four stacks of rectangular white bones adorned with red and blue runes. Tapestries lined the walls, portraying various famous battles that had been fought on Abarrach. The room was dry, cozy, and warm, heated by steam that swirled through wrought-iron, gold-trimmed pipes.

The entire palace was heated by steam, a modern addition. In ancient times, the palace—originally a fortress and one of the earliest structures built by the first-arriving Sartan—had not been dependent on mechanical means to provide comfortable living conditions. Traces of the old
runes could be seen to this day in the ancient parts of the palace, sigla that had provided warmth, light, and fresh air to the people dwelling within. Most of these runes, their use forgotten through neglect, had been deliberately obliterated. The royal consort considered them an ugly eyesore.

“We will meet our guests here.” Kleitus, another glass of stalagma in hand, took a seat at one of the gaming tables, and began idly setting up the rune-bones as if in preparation for a game.

Pons gestured to a servant, who gestured to a guard, who disappeared out a door and, after several moments, entered with a retinue of guards, marching the two prisoners into the royal presence. The prince entered with a proud, defiant air, anger smoldering like boiling lava beneath the cool surface of royal etiquette. One side of his face was bruised, he had a swollen lip, and his clothes were torn, his hair disheveled.

“Allow me to present, Sire, Prince Edmund of Kairn Telest,” introduced Pons.

The prince inclined his head slightly. He did not bow. The dynast paused in setting up his game board, stared at the young man, eyebrows raised.

“On your knees to His Most Royal Majesty!” the scandalized chancellor hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

“He is not my king,” said Prince Edmund, standing tall, head back. “As the ruler of Kairn Telest, I bid him greeting and do him honor.” The prince inclined his head again, the gesture graceful and proud.

A smile played about the dynast's lips. He moved a bone into position.

“As I trust His Majesty does
me
honor,” pursued Edmund, his face flushed, his brows contracting, “as prince of a land that has now admittedly fallen on evil times but was once beautiful, rich, and strong.”

“Yes, yes,” said the dynast, holding a rune-marked bone in his hand, rubbing it thoughtfully across his lips. “All honor to the Prince of Kairn Telest. And now, Chancellor”— the eyes, hidden in the shadow of the black cowl trimmed in purple and in gold, turned toward Haplo—“what is the name of this stranger to our royal presence?”

The prince sucked in an angry breath, but kept his temper, perhaps mindful of his people, who were, according to reports, starving in a cave. The other man, the one with the rune-marked skin, stood quietly, unabashed, unimpressed, one might say almost uninterested in what was going on around him except for the eyes that saw everything without betraying that they'd seen anything.

“He calls himself Haplo, Sire,” said Pons, bowing low. A dangerous man, the chancellor might have added aloud. A man who lost control once, but who won't be goaded into losing it again. A man who kept to the shadows, not furtively, but instinctively, as if he'd learned long ago that to draw attention to himself was to make himself a target.

The dynast leaned back in his chair. He gazed at Haplo through eyes that were slits only. Kleitus appeared bored, lethargic. Pons shivered. His Majesty was at his most dangerous when he was in this mood.

“You do not bow before us. We suppose you're going to tell us that we're not your king either,” he remarked.

Haplo shrugged, smiled. “No offense.”

His Majesty covered twitching lips with a delicate hand, cleared his throat. “None taken … from either of you. In time, perhaps, we will come to an understanding.”

He sat silent, brooding. Prince Edmund began to fidget with impatience. His Majesty glanced swiftly at him and raised his languid hand, gesturing at the table.

“Do you game, Your Highness?”

Edmund was taken aback. “Yes … Sire. But it has been a long time since I played. I have had little leisure for frivolous activities,” he added bitterly.

The dynast waved such considerations aside. “We had thought to give up our game tonight, but we see no reason to do so now. Perhaps we can come to an understanding over the game board. Will you join us, sir? Forgive me, but are you a prince … or … or any sort of royalty that we should acknowledge?”

“No,” said Haplo, and volunteered nothing else.

“No, you won't join us, or no, you are not a prince, or no, in general?” the dynast inquired.

“I'd say that pretty well describes the situation, Sire.” Haplo's gaze was fixed on the gaming pieces, a fact that did not go unnoticed by His Majesty.

The dynast permitted himself an indulgent laugh. “Come, sit with us. The game is complex in its subtleties, but it is not difficult to learn. We will teach you. Pons, you will make up a fourth, of course.”

“With pleasure, Sire,” said the chancellor.

An inept rune-bone player at best, Pons was rarely called on to game with his dynast, who had little patience with the unskilled. But the true game tonight would be played on a far different level, one with which the Lord High Chancellor was vastly familiar.

Prince Edmund hesitated. Pons knew what the young man was thinking. Might such an activity reduce his dignity and dilute the seriousness of his cause? Or would it be politically expedient to give in to this royal whim? The chancellor could have assured the young man it didn't matter, his doom was sealed no matter what he chose to do.

The Lord High Chancellor felt sorry for this prince for a brief moment. Edmund was a young man with heavy burdens, who took his responsibilities seriously, who was obviously sincere in his desire to help his people. A pity that he couldn't see he was just another game piece, to be moved where it suited His Majesty, or removed … if it suited His Majesty.

The prince's well-bred courtesy won out. He walked over to the gaming table, sat down opposite the dynast, and began arranging the bones in the starting position, which required that they be lined up to resemble the walls of a fortress.

Haplo hesitated, as well, but his reluctance to move was perhaps nothing more than a reluctance to leave the shadow and venture into the strong light. He did so, at last, walking forward slowly to take his place at the table. He kept his hands beneath the table, lounged back in his chair. Pons seated himself opposite.

“You begin, sir,” said the chancellor, acting on a cue from the dynast's upraised eyebrow, “by arranging the pieces thusly. Those marked with the blue runes are the base. Those
with the red are stacked on top of the blue and those with both blue and red markings form the battlements.”

The dynast had completed building his wall. The prince, frustrated and angry, was halfheartedly constructing his. Pons affected to be interested in putting his together, but his gaze crept to the man opposite. Haplo moved his right hand out from beneath the table, lifted a rune-bone, and slid it into place.

“Remarkable,” said the dynast.

All movement at the gaming table ceased, all eyes were fixed on Haplo's hand.

There could be no doubt. The runes on the bones were far cruder in nature than the runes tattooed on the man's skin—a child's scrawl compared to the flowing script of a grown man—but they were the same.

The prince, after a moment's involuntary fascination, wrenched his glance away and continued to work on his wall. Kleitus reached out his hand to Haplo's, intending to seize it and study it closer.

“I wouldn't do that, Sire.” Haplo said quietly, not moving his hand. He wasn't making an overt threat, but a quality in the voice caused the dynast to pause. “Perhaps your man there told you.” Eyes flicked to Pons. “I don't like to be touched.”

“He said that when you attacked the guard the marks on your skin glowed. By the way, may we apologize for that tragic incident? It is one that we deeply regret. We had no intention of harming your pet. The dead tend to … overreact.”

Pons, watching closely, saw Haplo's jaw muscle twitch, the lips tighten. Otherwise, the face remained impassive.

His Majesty was continuing, “You attacked a soldier, he said, without a weapon in your hands, and yet you seemed confident of your ability to fight one armed with a sword. But you didn't intend battling with bare hands, did you, sir? These marks”—the dynast did not touch, but pointed— “these sigla are magic.
Magic
was your intended weapon. I am certain you can understand that we are fascinated. Where did you come by these runes? How do they work?”

Haplo lifted another rune-bone, placed it beside the one he moved into position. Lifting another, he set it next to the first.

“We asked you a question,” said the dynast.

“We heard you,” replied Haplo, lips twisting in a smile.

The dynast flushed in anger at the mockery. Pons tensed. The prince glanced up from his building.

“Insolence!” Kleitus glowered. “You refuse to answer?”

“It's not a question of refusing, Sire. I've taken a vow, an oath. I could no more tell you how my magic works than”— Haplo's eyes flicked to the dynast, returned coolly to the game—“than you could tell me how your magic raises the dead.”

The dynast sat back in his chair, turning a game piece over and over in his hand. Pons relaxed, emitting a long breath, unconscious, until now, that he'd been holding it in.

“Well, well,” said Kleitus at last. “Chancellor, you are delaying the game. His Highness has almost completed his wall and even the novice, here, is ahead of you.”

“I beg your pardon, Sire,” said Pons humbly, knowing and understanding his role in this charade.

“This palace is old, isn't it?” said Haplo, studying the room.

Pons, affecting to be absorbed in building his wall, eyed the man from beneath lowered lids. The question had an idle, making-polite-conversation sound to it, but this wasn't the type of man who engaged in mindless chatter. What was he after? The chancellor, watching carefully, saw Haplo's gaze stray to several partially obliterated rune markings on the walls.

Kleitus took it on himself to respond. “The old part of the palace was built out of a natural formation, a cavern within a cavern, one might say. It stands on one of the highest points of elevation in Kairn Necros. The rooms on the upper levels once provided a quite magnificent view of the Fire Sea, or so we're led to believe by ancient report. That was, of course, before the sea withdrew.” He paused to take a drink of liquor, glanced at his chancellor.

“The palace was originally a fortress,” Pons obediently
picked up the thread of the story, “and there is evidence that a vast number of people passed through here at one time, undoubtedly on their way to the more habitable upper regions.”