Fire Sea

by Margaret Weis

  “The Queen Mother. Down here.” Alfred was completely baffled. “Did she commit some crime?”

  “Oh, dear no!” Jonathan was shocked. “She was a very great lady when she was alive. It was her corpse that proved rather difficult.”

  “Her corpse,” Alfred repeated weakly, leaning against the damp stone wall.

  “Constantly interfering,” said Jera in a low voice. “She simply could not understand that she was no longer wanted at royal functions. Her cadaver kept barging in at the most inopportune moments. Finally, there was nothing the dynast could do but lock the corpse away down here, where she can't cause trouble. It's quite fashionable to visit her, however. And it does please the dynast. He was a good son, if not much else.”

  “Hush!” Tomas said sharply. “The chamberlain's returning.

  “This way, if you will be so good,” called the man in sonorous tones.

  The narrow hall and dank walls echoed back the sounds of rustling robes and shuffling feet. A man clad in untrimmed black robes bowed, stood deferentially to one side. Was it Alfred's imagination or did Tomas and this black-robed apparition exchange telling glances? Alfred began to shiver with cold and apprehension.

  They came to an intersection that formed the shape of a cross; narrow hallways branched off in four directions. Alfred darted a swift glance down the hall to his right. Darkly shadowed cells ranged along either side of the hall. The Sartan tried to catch a glimpse of the prince, or possibly Haplo. He saw nothing, and he didn't dare take time for a closer inspection. He had the uncanny feeling that the preserver's eyes were fixed on him.

  The chamberlain turned to the left and the group trooped behind him. Rounding a corner, they stepped into a blaze of light that nearly blinded them after the dim light of the hallways. Sumptuously adorned and appointed, the cavern might have been lifted intact from the royal chambers, except for the iron cell bars, which marred the effect. Behind the bars, surrounded by every possible luxury, a well-preserved cadaver sat in a high-backed chair drinking air from an empty teacup. The corpse was clad in robes of silver thread, and gold and jewels glittered on waxen fingers. Her silver hair was beautifully coiffed and cared for.

  A young woman clad in plain black robes sat in a chair near her, making desultory conversation. Alfred realized, with a shock, that the young woman was alive; the living actually serving the dead.

  “The Queen Mother's private necromancer,” said Jera.

  The young woman brightened when she saw them, her expression grew eager. She rose quickly and respectfully from her seat. The cadaver of the Queen Mother glanced their way, made a stately invitational motion with its wrinkled hand.

  “I will wait to accompany you out of the catacombs, Your Graces,” said the chamberlain. “Please do not remain long. Her Most Gracious Majesty is easily tired.”

  “We could not think of taking you from your duties,” Jera protested smoothly. “Don't let us inconvenience you. We know the way.”

  At first the chamberlain would not hear of such a thing but Her Grace was persuasive and His Grace was careless with a bag of golden coins that happened to fall into the chamberlain's hands by accident. The chamberlain left them, returning down the hallway, his staff thumping against the floor. Alfred watched him depart, thought he saw the chamberlain nod once at the black-robed preserver. Alfred broke out into a cold sweat. Every fiber in his body was urging him to either run or faint or perhaps do both simultaneously.

  The young woman had moved to open the cell door.

  “No, my dear, that won't be necessary,” Jera said softly.

  The conspirators stood together, listening, waiting for the sound of the chamberlain's staff to disappear in the distance. When it could no longer be heard, the preserver beckoned.

  “This way!” he called, motioning them toward him.

  They moved swiftly. Alfred, glancing back, saw the bitter disappointment in the young woman's face, saw her sink back down into her chair, heard her resume—in a dull, lifeless voice—her conversation with the corpse.

  The preserver led them down the hall opposite to the one in which the Queen Mother was housed. It was far darker than the hall they'd just left, far darker than any hall they'd walked yet. Alfred, hurrying along next to Tomas, saw numerous gas lamps on the wall, but for some reason most of them were unlit. Either they'd blown out… or they'd been turned off.

  Only one lamp in the hallway remained lighted. It beamed out from somewhere ahead, making the surrounding darkness that much darker by contrast. Drawing near, Alfred saw that the light shone on a corpse sitting on a stone slab. The eyes stared straight ahead, its arms dangled listlessly between its knees.

  “That's the prince's cell!” said Tomas, his voice tight and hard. “The one with the light in it. Your friend is in the cell across from the cadaver.”

  Jera, in her eagerness, darted ahead. Jonathan kept close pace behind his wife. Alfred was forced to concentrate on keeping both his feet headed in the same general direction. He found himself at the rear and he suddenly realized that the preserver, who had been in the lead, had unaccountably dropped back behind him. Tomas, too, was no longer around.

  From out of the darkness came the clank and rattle of armor. Alfred saw the danger, saw it clearly in his mind, if not with his eyes. He drew a breath to shout a warning, forgot to watch where he was going. The toe of one foot caught on the heel of his other foot. He pitched forward, came down hard on the rock surface, the force of his impact slamming the breath from his body. His cry became nothing more than a whoosh of air, followed by a twanging sound behind him. An arrow flew over his head, pierced the air where he'd been standing.

  Peering ahead, fighting desperately to breathe, Alfred saw Jonathan and Jera, two shapes silhouetted against the light—perfect targets.

  “Jonathan!” Jera screamed. The two shapes converged confusingly. A flight of arrows sped at them.

  Unconsciousness sought to claim Alfred, to draw him into its comfortable oblivion. He battled it back and managed to gasp out the runes, his subconscious bringing words to lips that had no idea what they were speaking.

  A heavy weight crashed on top of Alfred, who wondered dazedly if he'd brought the cavern roof down on them. But he realized, from the smell and the feel of chill flesh and cold armor plate against his skin, that he'd succeeded in performing the magic he'd performed once before. He had killed the dead.

  “Jera!” Jonathan's voice, panic-stricken, disbelieving, rose to a shriek. “Jera!”

  The soldier's corpse had fallen across Alfred's legs. The Sartan pulled himself out from beneath it. A phantasm floated around him, taking on the living form and shape of the body it had left, before it wafted away into the darkness. Alfred was vaguely aware of footsteps—living footsteps— running swiftly back down the hallway and of the preserver kneeling beside the soldier-corpse, speaking to it imperatively, commanding it to rise.

  Alfred had no clear idea in his mind of what to do, where to go. He made it to his feet and peered around in terrified confusion. Grief-choked, ragged sobs drew him forward, into the darkness.

  Jonathan knelt on the floor. He held Jera in his arms.

  The two had almost reached the prince's cell. The light of the gas lamp above it streamed over them, shone off the shaft of an arrow, buried deep, lodged in Jera's right breast. Her eyes were fixed on her husband's face and, just as Alfred reached them, her lips parted in a sigh that took the last breath from her body.

  “She jumped in front of me,” Jonathan cried dazedly. “The arrow was meant for me and… she jumped in front of me. Jera!” He shook the corpse, as if he were trying to waken a deep sleeper. Her lifeless hand slid to the floor. Her head lolled to one side. The beautiful hair fell over her face, covering it like a shroud.

  “Jera!” Jonathan clasped her to his breast.

  Alfred could still hear the voice of the preserver, attempting to raise the dead guard.

  “But he'll soon realize that's futile and summon other guards
. Maybe that's where Tomas, the traitor, went.” Alfred was talking to himself, knew he was talking to himself, but he couldn't seem to help it. “We have to get away, but where do we go? And where's Haplo?”

  A soft groaning came to him as if in response to the sound of the name, cutting beneath Jonathan's cries and the preserver's chants. Alfred looked around hurriedly, saw Haplo lying on the floor near his cell door.

  Swift-spoken runes and a graceful weaving of the hands, all done without conscious thought on Alfred's part, reduced the iron bars of the cell to small piles of rust lined up in a neat row.

  Alfred touched Haplo's neck. He could not find the heartbeat, the life's pulse had sunk low, and he feared he was too late. Reaching out a gentle, trembling hand, he turned the man's head to the light. He saw the eyelids flutter. He could feel a soft stirring of warm breath on the skin of the hand that he held near the Patryn's cracked and parched lips. He was alive, but just barely.

  “Haplo!” Alfred leaned near, whispering urgently. “Haplo! Can you hear me!” Watching anxiously, he saw the man's head nod with a feeble motion. Relief flooded through him. “Haplo! Tell me what happened to you? Is it sickness? A wound? Tell me! I”—Alfred drew a deep breath, but there had really never been any doubt over his decision—“I can heal you—”

  “No!” The crusted lips could barely move, but Haplo managed to form the word, managed to summon enough breath to speak it aloud. “I won't … owe my life … Sartan.” He ceased talking, shut his eyes. A spasm convulsed his body and he cried out in agony.

  Alfred hadn't foreseen this, couldn't think how to handle it. “You wouldn't owe your life to me! I owe you!” He was babbling, but it was the only thing he could think to do under the circumstance. “You saved my life from the dragon. On Arian—”

  Haplo sucked in a breath. He opened his eyes, reached out and gripped Alfred's robes. “Shut up and … listen. You can do … one thing for me … Sartan. Promise! Swear!”

  “I—I swear,” Alfred said, not knowing what else to say. The Patryn was very near death.

  Haplo was forced to pause, summon his waning strength. He ran his swollen tongue over lips coated with a strange, black substance. “Don't let them … resurrect me. Burn … my body. Destroy it. Understand.” The eyes opened, gazed intently into Alfred's. “Understand?”

  Slowly, Alfred shook his head. “I can't let you die.”

  “Damn you!” Haplo gasped, his weak hand losing its grasp.

  Alfred traced the runes in the air, began his chant. His only question now, the only dread left in his heart was: would his magic work on a Patryn?

  Behind him, he heard, like an echo of his own words, the soft phrase, “I won't let you die!” And he heard the chanting of runes. Alfred, concentrating on his work, paid no attention.

  “Damn you!” Haplo cursed him.

  CHAPTER 33

  THE CATACOMBS,

  ABARRACH

  FOLLOWING ALFRED'S FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH HAPLO ON Arianus, the Sartan took pains to study the Patryns, the ancient enemy. The early Sartan were meticulous record keepers, and Alfred delved into the mass of histories and treatises kept in the record vaults in the mausoleum beneath Drevlin. He searched particularly for information on the Patryns themselves and their concepts of magic. He found little, the Patryns having been wary of revealing their secrets to their enemies. But one text struck him particularly, and it came now to his mind.

  It had been written, not by a Sartan, but by an elven wizardess, who had formed a romantic liaison (brief and volatile) with a Patryn.

  The concept of the circle is the key to the understanding of Patryn magic. The circle rules not only the runes they tattoo upon their bodies and how those runes are structured, but it also extends into every facet of their lives—the relationship between the mind and body, relationships between two people, relationships with the community. The rupture of the circle, whether it be injury to the body, the destruction of a relationship, or rupture in the community, is to be avoided at all costs. The Sartan and others who have encountered the Patryns and are familiar with their harsh, cruel, and dictatorial personalities are continually amazed at the strong loyalty these people feel for their own kind. (And only their own kind!) To those who understand the concept of the circle, however, such loyalty is not surprising. The circle preserves the strength of their community by cutting the community off from those the Patryns consider beneath them. [There followed irrelevant material concerning the wizardess and her failed love affair.] Any illness or injury that strikes down a Patryn is seen to have broken the circle established between body and mind. In healing practices among the Patryns, the most important factor is to reestablish the circle. This may be done by the wounded or sick person himself or it may be done by another Patryn. A Sartan who understood the concept might possibly be able to perform the same function, but it is highly doubtful 1: if the Patryn would permit it and 2: if even a Sartan would be inclined to exhibit such mercy and compassion for an enemy who would turn around and slaughter him without compunction.

  The mensch wizardess had not had much use for either Patryns or Sartan. Alfred, on originally reading the text, was somewhat indignant at the woman's tone, feeling sure his people were being unfairly maligned. Now, he wasn't so certain.

  Mercy and compassion … to an enemy who would show you none himself. He had read the words lightly, glibly, without thinking about them. Now he didn't have time to think about the question, but it occurred to him that somewhere in that sentence was the answer.

  The circle of Haplo's being was broken, shattered. Poison, Alfred guessed, noting the black substance on the lips, the swollen tongue, the evidence around him that the man had suffered terrible sickness.

  “I must mend the circle, then I can mend the man.”

  Alfred took hold of Haplo's rune-tattooed hands—the Patryn's left hand held in the Sartan's right, the Sartan's right hand holding the Patryn's left. The circle was formed. Alfred closed his eyes, shutting out every sound around him, banishing the knowledge that more guards were coming, that they were still in deadly peril. Softly, he began to sing the runes.

  Warmth surged through him, blood pulsed strongly in his body, life welled up inside him. The runes carried the life from his heart and head to his left arm and his left hand and he sensed it passing through his hand to Haplo's hand. The chill skin of the dying man grew warm to the touch. He heard, or thought he heard, the man's breathing grow stronger.

  Patryns have the ability to block Sartan spells, to obviate their power. Alfred was truly afraid, at first, that Haplo might do just that. But he was either too weak to tear apart the weaving of the runes Alfred spun around him, or the urge to survive was too strong.

  Haplo was growing better, but, suddenly, Alfred himself was gripped with pain. The poison entered his system, flowing from the Patryn to the Sartan, stabbing at his insides with knives of flame. Alfred gasped and moaned and doubled over, nausea twisting bowels and stomach, seeming likely to tear him apart.

  An enemy who would turn around and slaughter him without compunction.

  A horrifying suspicion came over Alfred. Haplo was killing him! The Patryn cared nothing about his own life, he would die and use this opportunity to take his enemy with him.

  The suspicion vanished in an instant. Haplo's hands, growing warmer and stronger, clasped the Sartan's more tightly, giving what life and strength he had to give back to Alfred. The circle between the two was truly forged, truly complete.

  And Alfred knew, with a feeling of overwhelming sadness, that Haplo would never forgive him.

  “Stop! No! What are you doing?” Someone was yelling in panic.

  Alfred came back to his surroundings, to their peril, with a jolt. Haplo sat upright and, although he was pale and shivering, he was breathing normally, his eyes were clear, their gaze fixed on Alfred with grim enmity.

  Haplo broke the circle, jerking his hands from Alfred's grip “Are … are you all right?” Alfred asked, peering at Haplo
anxiously.

  “Leave me alone!” Haplo snarled. He attempted to stand, fell back.

  Alfred stretched forth a solicitous hand. Haplo shoved him away roughly.

  “I said leave me alone!”

  Gritting his teeth, he leaned against the stone bed and pulled himself up off the floor. He was about to attempt to stand, when he glanced out the cell, over Alfred's shoulder. The Patryn's eyes narrowed, his body tensed.

  Becoming aware of the panicked shouting behind him, Alfred swung around hastily. The preserver was yelling, but he was yelling at the duke, not at Alfred.

  “You're insane! You can't do such a thing! It is against all the laws! Stop it, you fool!”

  Jonathan was singing the runes, working the magic on the body of his dead wife.

  “You don't know what you are doing!”

  The preserver lunged at Jonathan, attempted to drag him away from the corpse. Alfred heard the preserver add something about a “lazar,” but the Sartan didn't understand the incoherent shout.

  Jonathan flung the preserver off him with a strength born of grief, despair, and madness. The man slammed into a wall, struck his head, and crumpled to the floor. The duke paid no attention to him, paid no attention to the sounds of pounding footsteps, far away, but drawing closer. Holding the still-warm body of his wife to his breast, Jonathan continued to sing the runes, tears running down his face.

  “The guards are coming,” said Haplo, his voice sharp-edged, cutting. “You've probably saved my life just to get me killed again. I don't suppose you gave any thought as to how we get out of here?”

  Alfred looked involuntarily back down the way they'd come, realized the sound of the pounding boots emanated from precisely the same direction. “I … I—” he stammered.

  Haplo snorted in derision, glanced grimly at the duke. “He's too far gone to be of any help to us.” The Patryn stood up, somewhat shakily, nearly falling back on the stone bed. A furious look warned Alfred to keep his distance. Haplo regained his balance, staggered out of the cell, peered down the hallway that continued on into impenetrable darkness.