Fire Sea (34 page)
Authors: Margaret Weis
O
NE CYCLE FOLLOWING THE PRINCE'S DEATH, THE DYNAST
canceled his audience hour, a thing he had never before been known to do. The Lord High Chancellor gave it out publicly that His Majesty was fatigued with pressures of state. Privately, Pons allowed it to be known to a privileged few, “in strictest confidence,” that His Majesty had received disturbing reports concerning an enemy army camped across the Fire Sea.
As Kleitus had foreseen, the alarming news drizzled down among Necropolis's inhabitants like the incessant laze, creating an atmosphere of tension and panic quite conducive to his plans. He spent the cycle secreted in the palace library, quite alone, except for the dead who guarded him and they didn't matter anyway.
Elihn, God in One, looked on Chaos with displeasure. He stretched forth his hand and this motion created the Wave Prime.
1
Order was established, taking the form of a world blessed with intelligent life. Elihn was pleased with his creation and granted all good things needed to sustain life thereon. Once he set the Wave in motion, Elihn left the world, knowing that the Wave would maintain the world and a Caretaker was no longer necessary. The three races created by the Wave, elves, humans, and dwarves, lived in harmony.
“Mensch,” Kleitus declared in disdain and scanned rapidly over the next few paragraphs of text, which dealt with the creation of the first races, now known as the lesser races. The particular item of information he sought wouldn't be found in this section, although he remembered it as being near the beginning of the dissertation. It had been a long time since he'd read this particular manuscript, and at that time he'd paid scant attention to it. He'd been searching for a way out of this world, not a history of another world long dead and gone.
But, during the small hours of a sleepless sleep-half, a phrase had come to His Majesty's mind, a phrase he recalled reading from the pages of a text. The phrase brought him bolt upright in his bed. Its discovery was of such importance that it had prompted him to cancel the cyclical audience. A rummage through his memory brought the book to recollection. He had only to track it down and corner the words.
In its effort to maintain balance and prevent degeneration back into Chaos, the Wave Prime constantly corrects itself. Thus the Wave rises and thus it dips. Thus there is light and thus darkness. Thus good and thus evil. Thus peace, thus war.
At the world's beginning, during what were known falsely as the Dark Ages, people believed in magical laws and in spiritual laws, balanced by physical laws. But as time passed, a new religion swept the land. It was known as “science.” Propagating physical laws, science ridiculed the spiritual and the magical laws, claiming that they were “illusions.”
The human race, because of their short-lived span of time, became particularly enamored of this new religion, which held out the false promise of immortality. They referred to this period of time as the Renaissance. The elven race maintained their belief in magic and were now
consequently persecuted and driven from the world. The dwarven race, quite skilled with things mechanical, offered to work with the humans. But the humans wanted slaves, not partners, and so the dwarves left the world on their own, taking refuge beneath the ground. Eventually, humans forgot these other races, ceased to believe in magic. The Wave lost its shape, became erratic, one end bulged with strength and power, the other end was flat and weak.
But the Wave would ever correct itself and it did, at horrific cost. At the end of the twentieth century, the humans unleashed a terrible war upon themselves. Their weapons were marvels of scientific design and technology and brought death and destruction to untold millions. In that day, science destroyed itself.
The dynast frowned in displeasure. Certain parts of this work appeared to him to be wild surmise and speculation. He had never known any mensch—all those in Kairn Necros had died before he'd been born—but he found it extremely difficult to believe that any race would bring deliberate destruction on itself.
“I did find corroborating texts to back this up.” He often spoke aloud to himself when in the library, to relieve the incessant, nerve-racking silence. “But the writers came out of the same early period of our history and probably shared the same faulty information. Thus they all might be considered suspect. I shall keep that in mind.”
The survivors were plunged into what was known as the Age of Dust, during which they were forced to struggle to simply remain alive. It was during this struggle that there arose a mutant strain of humans who could, now that the incessant din of science was shattered, hear the flow of the Wave around them and feel it within them. They recognized and utilized the Wave's potential for magical power. They developed the runes, to direct and channel the magic. Wizards, male and female, banded together in order to bring hope to lives lost in darkness.
They called themselves Sartan, meaning, in the rune language, “Those Who Bring Back Light.” “Yes, yes.” The dynast sighed. He'd formerly had little use for history, for a past dead and gone, a corpse decayed beyond the point of resurrection. Or, perhaps not.
The task proved enormous. We Sartan were few in number. In order to facilitate the rebirth of the world, we went forth and taught the most rudimentary use of magic to the lesser peoples, reserving the true nature and power of the Wave for ourselves, that we might maintain control and prevent the catastrophe that had occurred from reoccurring.
Fondly, we believed that we
were
the Wave. Too late, we realized that we ourselves were only a part of the Wave, that we had become a bulge in the Wave and that the Wave would take corrective action. Too late, we discovered that some of us had forsaken the altruistic goals of our work. These wizards sought power through the magic, they sought rulership of the world. Patryns, they called themselves, “Those Who Return to Darkness.”
“Ah!” Kleitus took a breath and settled himself to read more carefully and concisely.
The Patryns named themselves thus in mockery of us, their brethren, and because, in the beginning, they were forced to work in dark and secret places in order to remain hidden from us. They are a close-knit people, fiercely loyal to each other and to their one abiding goal, which is the absolute and complete domination of the world.
“Absolute and complete domination,” the dynast repeated, rubbing his forehead with his hand.
It proved impossible to penetrate such a closed society and learn their secrets. We Sartan tried, but those we sent among the Patryns disappeared; it can only be assumed that they were discovered and destroyed. Thus we know little about the Patryns or their magic.
Kleitus scowled in disappointment, but continued reading.
It is theorized that the Patryns’ use of rune-magic is grounded in the physical portion of the Wave, whereas our magic tends to be based in the spiritual. We sing the runes and dance them and draw them in the air, resorting to physically transcribing them when necessity dictates.
The Patryns, on the other hand, rely heavily on the physical representation of the runes themselves, even going so far as to paint them on their own bodies in order to enhance their magic. I trace—
The dynast stopped, returned, and read the words over again. “ Taint them on their own bodies in order to enhance their magic’ ” He continued on, reading aloud. “ ‘I trace, as a curiosity, some of the rune structures that they have been known to use. Note the similarity to our runes, but note also that it is the barbaric manner in which the sigla are constructed that radically alters the magic, creating—as it were—an entirely new language of crude but forceful magical power.’ ”
Kleitus lifted several of the rune-bones from his game and placed them on the page, next to the drawings of that ancient Sartan author. The matches were almost perfect. “It's so blasted obvious. Why didn't I ever notice before?”
Shaking his head, vexed at himself, he resumed reading.
The Wave, for the moment, appears stable. But there are those among us who fear that the Patryns are growing stronger and that the Wave is beginning to bulge again. There are some who argue that we must go to war, stop
the Patryns now. There are some, myself included, who caution that we must do nothing to upset the balance or the Wave will bulge in the other direction.
The treatise continued on, but the dynast closed the text. It contained nothing more about the Patryns, wandered into speculation about what might happen if the Wave bulged. The dynast already knew the answer. It had, and then had come the Sundering, and then life in this tomb of a world. So much he knew of the history of the Sartan.
But he had forgotten the Patryns, the ancient enemy, bringers of darkness, possessors of a “crude but forceful” magical power.
“Absolute and complete domination …” he repeated softly to himself. “What fools we've been. What complete and utter fools. But it isn't too late. They think they're clever. They think they can catch us unawares. But it won't work.”
After several more moments’ reflection, he beckoned to one of the cadavers. “Send for the Lord High Chancellor.”
The dead servant left, returning almost instantaneously with Pons, whose value lay in the fact that he was always where he could be easily found when he was wanted and was conveniently absent when he wasn't.
“bur Majesty,” said Pons, bowing low.
“Has Tomas returned?”
“Just this moment, I believe.”
“Bring him to us.”
“Here, Your Majesty?”
Kleitus paused, glanced around, nodded. “Yes, here.”
The matter being an important one, Pons went on the errand himself. One of the cadavers might have been dispatched to fetch the young man, but there was always the possibility, with the dead servants, that the cadaver might bring back a basket of rez flowers, having completely forgotten its original instructions.
Pons returned to one of the public rooms, where large numbers of couriers and suitors were wont to be found. The dynast's appearance in the room would have struck them like a bolt of lightning from the colossus, shocking them into a
frenzy of fawning and bowing and scraping. As it was, the appearance of the Lord High Chancellor sent a mild jolt through the throng. A few of the lower-ranking members of the nobility bowed humbly, the upper echelon ceased their rune-bone playing and conversations and turned their heads. Those who knew Pons well gave him greeting, much to the jealous envy of those who did not.
“What's up, Pons?” asked one languidly.
The Lord High Chancellor smiled. “His Majesty is in need—”
Numerous couriers rose instantly to their feet.
“—of a living messenger,” Pons finished. He gazed about the room with apparent bored indifference.
“Errand boy, huh?” A baron yawned.
The upper echelon, knowing that this was a menial task, one that probably wouldn't even involve actually seeing the dynast, returned to their games and gossip.
“You, there.” Pons gestured to a young man standing near the back of the room. “What is your name?”
“Tomas, My Lord.”
“Tomas. You'll do. Come this way.”
Tomas bowed in silent acquiescence and followed the Lord High Chancellor out of the antechamber into the private and guarded section of the palace. Neither spoke, beyond one brief exchange of significant glances on leaving the antechamber. The Lord High Chancellor preceded the young man, who walked several paces behind Pons as was proper, his hands folded in his sleeves, his black and untrimmed cowl drawn low over his head.
The Lord High Chancellor paused outside the library, made a sign to the young man to wait. Tomas did as he was bid, standing silently in the shadows. One of the dead guards thrust open the stone door. Pons looked inside. Kleitus had returned to his reading. On hearing the door open, he glanced up and—Seeing his minister—nodded.
Pons beckoned to the young man, who slid out of the shadows and in through the door. The Lord High Chancellor entered with him, shut the door softly behind him. The cadavers guarding His Majesty took up their positions.
The dynast returned to perusing the text spread out on the table before him.
The young man and Pons stood quietly, waiting.
“You have been to the earl's dwelling, Tomas?” Kleitus asked, without looking up.
“I have just now returned, Sire,” said the young man, bowing.
“And you found them there—the duke and duchess and the stranger?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” “And you did as you were told?” “Yes, of course, Sire.” “With what result?”
“A—a rather peculiar result, Sire. If I may explain—” Tomas took a step forward.
Kleitus, eyes on his text, waved a negligent hand.
Tomas frowned, glanced at Pons, the young man asking if the dynast was paying attention.
The Lord High Chancellor answered with a peremptory raise of his eyebrows, meaning, “His Majesty is paying far more attention to you than you might wish.”
Tomas, now appearing somewhat uncomfortable, launched into his report. “As Your Majesty is aware, the duke and duchess believe that I am one of their party, involved in this misguided rebellion.” The young man paused to bow, to demonstrate his true feelings.
The dynast turned a page.
Tomas, receiving no acknowledgment, continued, discomfiture growing. “I told them of the prince's murder—”
“Murder?” Kleitus stirred, the hand turning the page paused.
Tomas cast Pons a pleading glance.
“Forgive him, Majesty,” the Lord High Chancellor said softly, “but that is how the rebels would view the prince's lawful execution. Tomas must appear to join in their views, in order to convince them that he is one of them, and thus remain useful to Your Majesty.”
The dynast resumed the turning of his page, smoothed it with his hand.
Tomas, with a small sigh of relief, continued, “l told them that the man with the rune-painted skin was dead, as well.” The young man hesitated, uncertain how to continue.
“With what result?” Kleitus prompted, running a finger down the page.