The dead shambled off, the tattered remnants of their clothing fluttering behind them.
The prince gazed curiously at Haplo, particularly Haplo's rune-covered hands. The Patryn waited stolidly to be denounced, to be judged the ancient enemy and turned into a cadaver himself. Edmund reached out to touch.
“Don't worry,” the prince said, speaking slowly and loudly as one does to a person who doesn't speak the language. “I won't hurt you.”
A flash of searing blue light streaked from the runes, crackled around the prince's fingers. He cried out in shock, more than pain. The jolt was a mild one.
“Damn right,” Haplo said, in his own language, testing. “Try that again, and you'll be dead.”
The prince drew back, staring. The necromancer, who had been chafing Alfred's temples in a vain attempt to rouse the man, ceased his work and looked up in astonishment.
“What language is that?” The prince spoke in his own, in the corrupt Sartan that Haplo understood, was beginning to understand more clearly all the time, but could not speak. “It's strange. I know what you said, although I swear I've never heard such speech before. And you understand me, although you do not speak my words. And that was rune-magic you used. I recognize the construct. Where do you come from? Necropolis? Did they send you? Were you spying on us?”
Haplo cast a mistrustful glance at the necromancer. The wizard appeared powerful and shrewd and might prove his greatest danger. But there was no recognition in the necromancer's piercing, black eyes, and Haplo began to relax. These people had been through so much in the present, perhaps they had lost all knowledge of their past.
The Patryn considered his answer. He had learned enough, from overhearing the conversation earlier, to know that it wouldn't help his cause if he told them he was from what he guessed must be the city they'd seen. This time, the truth seemed far safer than a lie. Besides, he knew that Alfred, once called on to explain himself, would never manage otherwise.
“No, I'm not from the city. I'm a stranger to this part of the world. I sailed here in a ship down the magma sea. You can see my ship.” Haplo nodded toward the shoreside town. “I'm—we're”—he included Alfred grudgingly—“not spies.”
“Then what were you doing when the dead caught you? They said you had been watching us for a long time. They had been watching you for a long time.”
Haplo lifted his chin, gazed steadily at the prince. “We've traveled a vast distance. We entered the town, discovered signs that there'd been a battle, the people all fled. We heard your voices, echoing down the tunnel. In my place, would you have rushed in and proclaimed yourself to me? Or would you have waited, watched, listened, learned what you could?”
The prince smiled slightly, but the eyes remained serious. “In your place, I might have returned to my ship and sailed away from something that did not appear to be any of my concern. And how is that you came by such a companion? One so different from yourself.”
Alfred was slowly coming around. The dog stood over him, licking his cheeks. Haplo raised his voice, hoping to jolt Alfred to attention, knowing he would be called to corroborate the Patryn's story.
“My companion's name is Alfred. And you're right. He is different. We come from different worl—er … cities. He joined up with me because he had no one else. He is the last survivor of his race.”
A sympathetic murmur arose from the crowd. Alfred sat up weakly, cast a swift, frightened glance around him. The dead guards were out of sight. He breathed somewhat easier and, with the help of the necromancer, struggled awkwardly to stand up. Brushing off his clothes, he made a bobbing bow to the prince.
“Is this true?” Edmund said, pity and compassion softening his tone. “Are you the last of your people?”
“I thought I was,” said Alfred, speaking Sartan, “until I found you.”
“But you are not one of us,” Edmund said, growing more and more perplexed. “I understand your speech, as I understand his”—he waved a hand at Haplo—“but it, too, is different. Tell me more.”
Alfred appeared highly confused. “I—I don't know what to say.”
“Tell us how you came to be here in this cave,” suggested the necromancer.
Alfred cast the Patryn a wild look. His hands fluttered vaguely. “I—we sailed … in a ship. It's docked over there. Somewhere.” He gestured vaguely, having lost all sense of direction. “We heard voices and came looking to see who was down here.”
“Yet you thought we might be a hostile army,” the prince said. “Why didn't you run away?”
Alfred smiled wanly, gently. “Because we didn't find a hostile army. We found you and your people, honoring your dead.”
A nice way to put it, Haplo thought. The prince was impressed with the answer.
“You are one of us. Your words are my words, even though they are different. Far different. In your words”—the prince hesitated, trying to articulate his thoughts—“I see radiant light and a vast expanse of endless blue. I hear rushing wind and I breathe fresh, pure air that needs no magic to filter out its poison. In your words I hear … life. And that makes my words sound dark and cold, like this rock on which we stand.”
Edmund turned to Haplo. “And you, too, are one of us, but you're not. In your words I hear anger, hatred. I see a darkness that is not cold and lifeless but is alive and moving, like a living entity. I feel trapped, caged, a yearning for escape.”
Haplo was impressed, although he endeavored not to show it. He would have to be careful around this perceptive young man. “I am not like Alfred,” the Patryn said, choosing his words carefully, “in that my people still survive. But they are being held prisoner in a place far more terrible than you can ever imagine. The hatred and anger are for those who imprisoned us. I am one of the fortunate who managed to survive and escape. I am looking now for new lands where my people can find homes—”
“You won't find them here,” said the necromancer coldly, abruptly.
“No,” Edmund agreed. “No, you won't find homes here. This world is dying. Already our dead outnumber the living. If nothing changes, I foresee a time, and it is coming on us very soon, when the dead alone will rule Abarrach.”
CHAPTER 15
SALFAG CAVERNS,
ABARRACH
“NOW WE MUST PROCEED WITH THE RESURRECTION. AFTER that, we would be honored if you would be our guests and join our repast. It is meager,” Edmund added with a rueful smile, “but we are happy to share what we have.”
“Only if you will allow us to add our food to yours,” Alfred said, bobbing another awkward bow.
The prince looked at Alfred, at his empty hands. He looked at Haplo and his empty, rune-covered hands. Edmund appeared somewhat puzzled, but was too polite to question. Haplo glanced at Alfred to see if he was astonished over this peculiar statement of the prince's. How could a Sartan food supply be limited when they, like the Patryns, had almost limitless powers of magic to increase it? Haplo caught Alfred glancing with raised eyebrows at him. The Patryn quickly averted his gaze, refusing to give the Sartan the satisfaction of knowing that they were sharing similar thoughts.
At a sign from Edmund, dead warriors escorted the two strangers off to a corner of the cavern by themselves, away from the people, who continued to stare at them curiously, and away from the corpses, still lying on the rock floor.
The necromancer took his place among the dead, whose phantasms began to writhe and stir, as if touched by a hot wind. The corpses continued to lie still and unmoving. The necromancer began his chanting once more, raised his hands and brought them together with a sharp clap. The bodies twitched and jerked, a jolt of magical energy striking each one of them. The small corpse of the child sat up almost immediately and rose to its feet. The eyes of the small phantasm behind it appeared to search for someone in the crowd. A woman, weeping, came forward. The child's cadaver ran to her, white, cold hands outstretched in love and longing. The woman reached out to her child. A man, face drawn in grief, halted her, took t
he sobbing woman in his arms and drew her away. The little girl's corpse stood in front of them, staring at them. Slowly, the arms of the cadaver dropped to its sides; the wispy, ethereal arms of the phantasm remained outstretched.
“My people … what have they done?” Alfred repeated in a tear-choked voice. “What have they done?”
One by one, the cadavers regained the semblance of life. Each time, the eyes of the phantasm sought out loved ones among the living, but the living turned away. One by one, each of the dead took its place in the back of the cavern, joining the crowd of other dead, who stood behind the living. The young warriors joined ranks with their dead fellows. The aged, among the last to be persuaded to return, rose up like weary sleepers who have at last lain down to rest and are loath to awaken. The child lingered near her parents for some time, then finally, withdrew to mingle with other small cadavers. Haplo saw that there were many children among the dead, few among the living. He recalled Edmund's words, This world is dying, and he understood.
But Haplo understood something else. These people possessed the key to eternal life! What greater gift could Haplo bring to his lord, to his people? No longer would the Patryns be at the mercy of the Labyrinth. If the Labyrinth killed them, they would simply rise up and fight on, their numbers growing, until finally it was conquered. And then, no army in the universe could stop them, no living army could hope to defeat an army of the dead!
I have only to learn the secret of the rune-magic. And here, Haplo thought, his gaze going to Alfred, is one who can teach me. But I must be patient, bide my time. The Sartan doesn't know yet much more than I do. But he will learn. He can't help himself. And when he does, I'll have him!
The last cadaver to rise to its feet was the elderly man wearing the golden crown. And it seemed likely, at first, that the old man was going to defy them all. Its phantasm was stronger than the others, and it stood over the body defiantly, braving the necromancer's pleas and even—after an apologetic look at the grief-stricken prince—threats. At last, the necromancer, scowling, shook his head and threw up his hands in a gesture of defeat. Edmund himself stepped forward, spoke to the body lying on the ground at his feet.
“I know how weary you are of life, Father, and how you long for and have earned rest. But think of the alternative. You will sink into dust. Your mind will continue working, yet you will know the hopeless, bitter frustration of being powerless to affect the world around you. You will live like this through the centuries, trapped in nothingness! Resurrection is far better, Father! You will be with us, the people who need you. You can advise us …”
The old man's phantasm writhed, rippled in a wind that only it could feel. It appeared frustrated with the fact that it couldn't communicate what it obviously, desperately desired to reveal.
“Father, please!” Edmund pleaded. “Return to us! We need you!”
The phantasm wavered, then dwindled, nearly disappearing. The cadaver stirred. The same magical jolt passed through it that had passed through the others, and it rose, feebly, to its feet.
“Father, my king,” said the prince, bowing low.
The phantasm, barely a shadow, twisted in the air like mist rising from a pond. The cadaver lifted its wasted, waxen hand in acceptance of the homage, but then the head with the golden crown and its fixed, expressionless eyes, swiveled this way and that, as if wondering what to do next. The prince's own head bowed, his shoulders slumped. The necromancer drew near.
“I am sorry, Your Highness.”
“It isn't your fault, Baltazar. You told me what to expect.”
The corpse of the king remained standing before its people, its regal pose a terrible mockery of what the man had once been.
“I had hoped he might be different,” said Edmund, speaking in a low voice, as if the dead man might overhear him. “In life, he was so strong, so resolute—”
“The dead can be nothing more than they are, My Lord. For them, their life ends when the mind ceases to function. We can return life to the body, but there our power stops. We cannot give them the ability to learn, to react to the living world around them. Your father will continue to be king, but only to those to whom he was king before their deaths.”
The necromancer gestured. The dead king had turned the sightless eyes to the back of the cavern, to the dead who stood there. The corpses bowed in homage and the dead king, its phantasm whispering in grief, abandoned the living who did not know him anymore, and went to join the dead.
Edmund started to go after him. Baltazar plucked him by the sleeve.
“Your Majesty …” The necromancer indicated with a glance that they needed to talk in private. The two drew apart from the rest of the people, who made way for them in respect.
Haplo, with a casual gesture, sent the dog after them. The dog pushed near Edmund's leg. Unconsciously, the man's hand reached down to pet the soft fur. Haplo heard, through the animal's ears, every word that was said.
“… you should take the crown!” the necromancer was urging in low tones.
“No!” The prince's response was sharp. His eyes were on the cadaver of his father, walking with proud and ghastly mien among the legions of the dead. “He wouldn't understand. He is king.”
“But, My Liege, we need a living king—”
“Do we?” Edmund's smile was bitter. “Why? The dead outnumber us. If the living are content to follow me as their prince, then I am content to remain their prince. Enough, Baltazar. Don't push me.”
The youthful voice hardened, the eyes flashed. The necromancer bowed silently, glided off to other duties involving the cadavers. Edmund stood by himself a long while, his thoughts turned inward. The dog whined, nuzzled the hand absently petting him. The prince glanced down, smiled wanly.
“Thank you for your comfort, Friend,” he said to the dog. “And you are right, I am being a neglectful host,”
Recalled to his guests, Edmund came over to seat himself down on the rock floor beside Haplo and Alfred.
“We had animals like this among us once.” Edmund fondled the dog, who wagged its tail and licked his hand. “I remember, as a boy—” He paused, sighed, then shook his head. “But you're not interested in that. Please, be seated. Forgive the informality,” he added. “If we were in my palace in my land, I would entertain you with royal ceremony. But, then, if we were in my palace, we'd be freezing to death, so I suppose you prefer it where you are. I know I do. At least, I think I do.”
“What terrible occurrence destroyed your kingdom?” Alfred asked.
The prince looked at him with narrowed eyes. “The same occurrence that destroyed yours, undoubtedly. At least, so I must guess, to judge by what I've seen on my travels.”
Edmund was regarding them with renewed suspicion. Alfred stammered, appeared highly confused. Haplo sat forward, attempted to salvage the situation by changing the subject. “Did I hear something about food?”
Edmund gestured. “Marta, bring our guests supper!”
The old woman approached respectfully, carrying in her hands several dried fish. She set the fish down before them and, bowing, rose to leave.
But Haplo, watching her, saw her eyes dart jealously to the fish, then to himself and to Alfred.
“Go, old woman,” the prince said sharply. His cheeks were flushed. It seemed he had noted the look, as well.
“Wait,” Haplo called. Reaching out, he handed some of the fish back. “Take this for yourself. As we said, Your Highness,” he added, when he saw Edmund start to protest, “we can provide our own.”
“Yes.” Alfred joined in eagerly, glad to have something to do. He lifted the fish in his hands. The old woman, clasping the food close to her bosom, hastened away.
“I am deeply shamed,” Edmund began, but his words died on his lips.
Alfred was singing the runes to himself, his voice raised in the high-pitched nasal whine that seemed to pierce right through Haplo's head. The Sartan held one fish in his hand, then he held two, then three appeared. Ceasing the c
hant, Alfred handed the food to the prince, who stared at it, wide-eyed. The Sartan offered another fish, deferentially, to Haplo.
His runes glowed blue and red and where there had been one fish there were now twelve, then twenty-four. Haplo arranged the fish on the flat rock, remembered to give one to the dog, who—with an uneasy glance at the dead—dragged its dinner off to a dark recess to enjoy it in private.
“Such magic is wonderful, truly wonderful,” the prince said in awed tones.
“But… you can do this,” Alfred said, nibbling at the salty-tasting flesh. Hearing a sound, he looked up.
A child, a living child, was staring enviously at the dog. Alfred motioned the boy near and handed the fish to him. The boy caught hold of it, and hurried off. He presented the dried fish to an adult male, who stared at it in astonishment. The child pointed back at them. Haplo had the distinct feeling he was about to go into the seafood trade.
“It is said that in the old days we could perform such feats,” Edmund remarked, his awed gaze fixed on the meat. “But now our magic is concentrated on our survival in this world….” He glanced back at the cadavers, standing patiently in the shadows. “And on theirs.”
Alfred shuddered, seemed about to say something.
Haplo gave him a swift poke in the ribs, and the Sartan fell meekly silent and began to conjure up more fish.
“You'll find food and supplies in that town,” Haplo said, nodding back toward it. “Surely you saw that much while you were there.”
“We are not thieves!” Edmund raised his chin proudly. “We will not take what is not ours. If our brethren in the city offer it freely, that will be different. We will work, we will pay them back.”
“Some of our people think it is our ‘brethren’ who should be paying us back, My Liege.” The new voice came from Baltazar. He stared with stern eyes at the magic being performed.
Quietly and without fuss, Haplo was replicating fish with his magic and handing it to those who crept near. Alfred was doing the same. A large crowd surrounded them. The necromancer said nothing until everyone had been fed and departed. Crossing his legs beneath the black robes, he seated himself and picked up a bit of the food.
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