Fire Sea

by Margaret Weis

“Come the rebellion,” said the others, in a sort of reverent litany.

  Alfred sighed bleakly, sank into a chair, and wondered what he was going to do. The dog curled up at his feet. He felt numb, unable to think or react of his own volition. He wasn't a man of action, not like Haplo.

  Events move me, Alfred reflected sadly, I don't move events. He supposed that he should be doing something to bring about an end to the practice of the long-forbidden art of necromancy, but what? He was one man, alone. And not a very strong man or a very wise one at that.

  The only thought in his mind, his only wish, his only desire, was to flee this horrible world, run away, escape, forget it, and never be reminded of it again.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said the duke, coming up and touching Alfred deferentially on the knee.

  Alfred jumped, and lifted a frightened face.

  “Are you well?” Jonathan asked in concern.

  Alfred nodded, waved a vague hand, mumbled something about a tiring walk.

  “You mentioned being interested in the history of our wars. My wife and the earl and Tomas are planning our strategy for sneaking away the prince. They sent me off.” Jonathan smiled, shrugged. “I simply don't have the head for plots. My task is to entertain you. But if you're too tired and you'd rather retire, Tomas will show you to your room—”

  “No, no!” The last thing Alfred wanted was to be left alone with his thoughts. “Please, I'd be very interested in hearing about … wars.” He had to force the word out past the lump in his throat.

  “I can only tell you about the ones fought around here.” The duke pulled up a chair, made himself comfortable. “Tea? Biscuits? Not hungry. Where shall I start? Necropolis was originally nothing more than a small town, mostly a place where people came to wait until they could move to other parts of Abarrach. But, after a while, the Sartan and the mensch—there were mensch back then—began to look around and decide that life was good here and that they didn't need to move. The city grew rapidly. People began to farm the fertile land. Crops flourished. Unfortunately, the mensch didn't.”

  Jonathan spoke in a carefree, cheerful manner that Alfred found quite shocking.

  “You don't seem to care much about them,” he observed, gently rebuking. “You were supposed to protect those weaker than yourselves.”

  “Oh, I think our ancestors were extremely upset, at first,” said Jonathan defensively. “Devastated, in fast”-But it really wasn't our fault. The help they were promised from other worlds never came. The magic needed to keep the mensch alive in this grim world was simply too great. Our ancestors couldn't provide it. There was nothing they could do. Eventually, they quit blaming themselves. Most of them, back then, came to believe that the era of the Dying of the Mensch was something inevitable, necessary.”

  Alfred said nothing, shook his head sadly.

  “It was during this era, possibly in reaction to it,” Jonathan continued, “that the art of necromancy was first studied.”

  “The forbidden art,” Alfred corrected, but in such soft tones that the duke didn't hear him.

  “Now that they no longer had to support the mensch, they discovered they could live quite well in this world. They invented iron ships to sail the Fire Sea. Colonies of Sartan spread throughout Abarrach, trade was established. The realm of Kairn Necros came into being. And as they progressed, so did the art of necromancy. Soon the living were living off the dead.”

  Yes, Alfred could see it all as Jonathan talked.

  Life in Abarrach was good. Death was not bad, either. But then, just when everything (not counting the mensch, who by this time had been mostly forgotten anyway) seemed to be going so well, it all began to go terribly wrong.

  “The Fire Sea and all the magma lakes and rivers and oceans were cooling and receding. Realms that had previously been trading neighbors became bitter enemies, hoarding their precious supplies of food, fighting over the life-giving colossus. That's when the first wars were fought.

  “I guess it would be more correct to term them brawls or skirmishes, not really wars. Those,” Jonathan said more seriously and solemnly, “would come later. Our ancestors apparently didn't know much about waging war at that time.”

  “Of course not!” Alfred said severely. “We abhor warfare. We are the peacemakers. We promote peace!”

  “You have that luxury,” said Jonathan quietly. “We did not.”

  Alfred was struck, startled by the young duke's words. Was peace a luxury available only to a “fat” world? He recalled Prince Edmund's people, ragged, freezing, starving; watching their children, their elderly die while inside this city was warmth, food. What would I do if I was in their position? Would I meekly die, watch my children die? Or would I fight? Alfred shifted in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable.

  I know what I'd do, he thought bitterly. I'd faint!

  “As time passed, our people became more adept at war.” Jonathan sipped at a cup of kairn-grass tea. “The young men began to train as soldiers, armies were formed. At first, they tried to fight with magic as their weapon, but that took too much energy away from the magic needed to survive.

  “And so we studied the art of ancient weaponry. Swords and spears are far cruder than magic, but they're effective. Brawls became battles and, inevitably, led to the great war of about a century ago—the War of Abandonment.

  “A powerful wizardess named Bethel claimed that she had discovered the way out of this world. She announced that she was planning to leave and would take those who wanted to go with her. She drew a large following. If the people had left, it would have decimated the population that was rapidly dwindling anyway. To say nothing of the fact that everyone feared what might happen if the “Gate” as she called it was opened. Who knew what terrible force might rush in and seize control?

  “The dynast of Kairn Necros, Kleitus VII, forbid Bethel and her followers to leave. She refused to obey and led her people across the Fire Sea to the Pillar of Zembar, preparatory to abandoning the world. The battles between the two factions raged off and on for years, until Bethel was betrayed and captured. She was being ferried across the Fire Sea when she escaped her captors and flung herself into the magma, to keep her corpse from being resurrected. Before she jumped, she cried out what later became known as the prophecy about the Gate.”

  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

  THE 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.”