Fire Sea (40 page)

The dynast drew aside the hem of his robe. “And now I must commence the resurrection of Prince Edmund.”

Haplo heard the man's voice receding, heard the rustle of the robe's fabric along the floor and the voice became the rustle, or perhaps the rustle was the voice. “Don't worry. Your agony is almost over. We would imagine the pain eases, near the end.

“And so you see, Haplo, there is no need for you to ask why. The prophecy,” came the rustling voice. “It is all for the prophecy.”

Haplo lay on his back, on the floor, too weak to move. That bastard's right. The pain is beginning to fade … because my life is fading. I'm dying. I'm dying and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. I'm dying in fulfillment of a prophecy.

“What is … the prophecy?” Haplo cried out.

But his cry was, in reality, nothing more than a breath. No one answered. No one heard him. He couldn't even hear himself.

CHAPTER
31
NECROPOLIS,
ABARRACH

T
HE CONSPIRATORS PLEADED, ARGUED, AND BEGGED, AND
finally persuaded the old earl to allow Alfred to accompany them on their mission to the palace. Tomas spoke eloquently on Alfred's behalf, a fact that considerably astonished the Sartan. Prior to this, Alfred had received the distinct impression that Tomas didn't trust him. Alfred wondered, rather uneasily, at the cause for this change.

But he was determined to go to the castle, determined to go to Haplo's aid, despite the nagging, inner voice that kept insisting it would be better, easier, simpler to let the Patryn die.

You know what villainy he plots, what villainy he's done. He started a world war on Arianus.

Haplo was the spark, perhaps, Alfred argued with himself, but the powder was poured and ready to ignite long before he arrived. Besides, he countered, I need Haplo in order to escape this terrible world!

You don't need Haplo! the inner voice scoffed. You could go back through Death's Gate on your own. Your magic is strong enough. It took you to the Nexus. And if he is dying, what will you do? Save his life? Save his life as you saved Bane? The boy was dying, and he was brought back by you! Necromancer!

Alfred's conscience squirmed in indecision. Again I'm confronted with that awful choice. And what if I save Haplo,
only to save him for evil? The Patryn is capable of committing dreadful crimes, I know that. I've seen it in his mind. It would be easy, so very easy, to stay here, to turn my back, to let the Patryn die. If the situation were reversed, Haplo would not lift one rune-covered hand to save me. And yet… and yet… What about mercy? Compassion?

A whimpering sound drew the Sartan back from his confused musings, his attention drawn to the dog, lying at his feet. The animal could not lift its head, it could only feebly wag the tail that thumped weakly against the floor. Alfred had barely left the dog's side all cycle; the animal appeared to rest easier when he was nearby and it could see him. Several times, he'd feared the animal had died, and had been forced to put his hand on its flanks to feel for a heartbeat. But the life's pulse was present, fluttering beneath his gentle fingers.

The dog's eyes gazed at him with an expression of confidence that seemed to say, /
don't know why I'm suffering like this, but I know you're going to make everything all right.

Alfred reached down, stroked the animal's head. The patient eyes closed, the dog was comforted by the touch.

Let's just say, he told that bothersome inner voice, that I'm not saving Haplo, I'm saving Haplo's dog. Or, rather, I will try to save him, he added, worried and unhappy.

“What was that?” Jera asked. “Alfred, did you say something?”

“I… I was just wondering if they knew what was wrong with my friend?”

“It is the preserver's considered opinion,” answered Tomas, “that your friend's magic is incapable of sustaining him in this world. Just as the mensch's magic was incapable of sustaining them.”

“I understand,” Alfred murmured, but he didn't understand and, what's more, he didn't believe it. Alfred hadn't been in the Labyrinth (in Haplo's body) long, but he was positive that a person who had survived that fearsome place would not drop over dead in Abarrach. Someone was lying to Tomas … or Tomas was lying to them. A nervous tremor convulsed one of Alfred's legs. He clasped his hand over the twitching muscle and tried to keep his voice from quavering.

“In that case, I must insist on going with you. I'm certain I can help him.”

“And whether he can help his friend or he can't,” Jera said to her father, who was glowering at Alfred, “we'll need
his
help ourselves. Jonathan and I will be guiding the prince. Tomas can't handle by himself a sick man or a—forgive me, sir, but we must be realistic about this—a dead one. We don't want to leave Haplo behind, no matter what his condition, for the dynast.”

“If I were twenty years younger—”

“But you're not, Father,” Jera admonished.

“I can get around better than he can!” the earl thundered, pointing a bony finger at Alfred.

“But you can't do anything to help Haplo.”

“All our plans will remain the same, My Lord,” added Tomas. “We just include one more in our numbers, that's all.”

“Perfectly simple and safe, the way my wife and Tomas have worked it out,” Jonathan stated, regarding the duchess with pride. “When we have the prince, we'll meet you at the gate, just as we've planned.”

“Everything will be fine, Father.” Jera leaned over, kissed the old man's wrinkled cheek. “This slumber time will mark the beginning of the end for the Kleitus dynasty!”

The beginning of the end. Her words passed through Alfred like the ripple of the Wave, tingling his nerves, leaving him feeling wrung out and flattened when the sensation had passed.

“You can't appear at court in those clothes,” Jera told Alfred, eyeing his faded velvet knee breeches and shabby velvet jacket. “You would call far too much attention to yourself. We'll have to find robes that fit you.”

“Begging your pardon, my dear,” said Jonathan, after Alfred's transformation had been effected, “but I don't think you've improved matters much.”

Alfred's stoop-shouldered walk gave a false impression of his height, making him seem shorter than he actually was.

Jera had first thought of clothing him in a gray robe of Tomas's, but the young man was short for a Sartan and the robe's hem hit Alfred about mid-calf. The effect was ludicrous. The duchess searched for the longest garment she could find and eventually outfitted the Sartan in one of Tomas's cast-off court robes.

Alfred felt extremely uncomfortable in the black robes of a necromancer and made a feeble protest but no one paid the least attention to him. The robes hit him at a point slightly above his large, raw-boned ankles. He was able to wear his own shoes, at least; no other pair could be found that came close to fitting over his feet.

“They're bound to take him for a refugee,” said Jera, with a sigh. “Just keep your hood over your head,” she instructed Alfred, “and don't say a word to anyone. Let us do the talking.”

The robe was worn loosely belted around the waist. Tomas added an embroidered purse to be carried at the belt. Jera would have added an iron dagger—to be hidden in the purse—but Alfred adamantly refused.

“No, I won't carry a weapon,” he said, recoiling from the dagger as he might have recoiled from one of the deadly jungle snakes of Arianus.

“It's only a precaution,” said Jonathan. “No one thinks for a moment we'll actually have to use these weapons. See, I have mine.” He displayed a dagger made of silver, inlaid with precious jewels. “It was my father's.”

“I won't,” Alfred said stubbornly. “I took a vow—”

“He took a vow! He took a vow!” the earl mimicked in disgust. “Don't force it on him, Jera. It's just as well. He'd probably cut off his own hand.”

Alfred did not carry a weapon.

He had supposed that they would sneak into the palace in the dead of the dynast's slumber hours. He was considerably astonished when Tomas announced shortly after dinner that it was time they departed.

The farewells were brief and matter-of-fact, as between those who know they will meet again shortly. Everyone was
excited, on edge, and didn't appear in the least fearful or cognizant of danger. The possible exception was Tomas.

Having caught him in what he was certain was a lie about Haplo, Alfred watched Tomas carefully and fancied that the easygoing smile was forced, the carefree laugh was just a split second too late to be natural, the eyes had a tendency to dart away whenever anyone looked at him directly. Alfred considered mentioning his suspicions to Jera, but rejected the idea.

I'm a stranger, an outsider. They've known him far longer than they've known me. She wouldn't listen to me and I might make matters worse instead of better. They don't trust me, as it is. They might decide to leave me behind!

Alfred took a last look at the dog before he left.

“The beast is dying,” stated the earl bluntly.

“Yes, I know.” Alfred stroked the soft fur, petted the heaving flanks.

“What am I supposed to do with it, then?” the old man demanded. “I can't haul a corpse with me to the gate.”

“Just leave it,” said Alfred, rising to his feet with a sigh. “If all goes well, the dog will come to meet us. If not, it won't matter.”

Despite the fact that the dynast was not appearing in public, the court was thronged with people. Alfred had thought the tunnel streets crowded and claustrophobic until he entered the castle. Most of the living inhabitants of Necropolis could be found there at night, dancing, sharing the latest gossip, playing at rune-bone, eating the dynast's food.

Entering the crowded antechamber, doing his best not to trip over Jonathan's heels or tread on the hem of Jera's robe, Alfred was almost suffocated by the heat, the perfume of the rez flower, the raucous noise of laughter and music. The fragrance of the rez was delightful, sweet and spicy. But it couldn't quite mask another odor prevalent in the ballroom, an underlying odor, pervasive, cloying, sickening in the heat—the odor of death.

The living ate and drank, joked and flirted. The dead moved among the living, waiting on them, serving them.

Trailing behind the cadavers, the phantasm shadows almost disappeared in the glitter of bright lights.

Everyone they met greeted the duke and duchess with enthusiasm.

“Did you hear the news, my darlings? There's to be a war! Isn't it too shocking!” cried a woman in mauve robes, rolling her eyes with intense enjoyment.

Jera, Jonathan, and Tomas laughed and danced and exchanged gossip and skilfully oiled their way through the throng in the antechamber, dragging, pushing, and prodding a stumbling and distressed Alfred along with them. From the antechamber, they passed into the ballroom, which was even more crowded, if such a thing were possible.

A surge in the throng suddenly separated Alfred from his group. He took a hesitating step toward where he'd last seen Jera's shining hair, and found himself in the midst of a crowd of young people amusing themselves by watching a corpse dance.

The cadaver was that of an older man of grave and stately mien. From the dilapidated appearance of both the cadaver and the clothing it wore, the corpse had been around a long, long time. Urged on by the giggling young people, the cadaver was performing a dance that it had probably performed in its own youth.

The young people hooted and jeered and began to dance around the corpse in mockery of the old-fashioned steps. The cadaver paid no attention to them, but continued to dance on its decaying legs, moving solemnly with a pathetic grace to the tune of music only it could hear.

“I've found him. Fire and ash! He's going to faint!” gasped Tomas, grabbing hold of Alfred and propping him up as the Sartan started to keel over.

“I've got him,” said Jonathan, catching hold of Alfred's limp, dangling arm.