Dragon Wing (The Death Gate Cycle #1)

by Margaret Weis

  Limbeck’s hand absently stroked the dog, his eyes fixed on Haplo. He sighed deeply.

  “My dear?” Jarre touched him on the arm.

  “The truth. And my speech. I must make my speech. I’m going, Jarre. And I’m counting on you and our people to help. And when I come back, when I’ve seen the Truth, then we’ll start the revolution!”

  Jarre recognized his stubborn tone, knew it was hopeless to argue. She wasn’t certain she wanted to argue anyway. Part of her was stirred at the thought of what Limbeck was doing. It was the beginning of the revolution, really and truly. But he would be leaving her. She hadn’t realized, until now, how much she truly loved him.

  “I could come too,” she offered.

  “No, my dear.” Limbeck gazed at her fondly. “It wouldn’t do for both of us to be gone.” He took a step forward, put his hands out to where it looked to his nearsighted eyes her shoulders were. Jarre, used to this, moved up to be right where he thought she was. “You must prepare the people for my return.”

  “I’ll do it!”

  The dog, afflicted by a sudden itch, sat down, scratching at its fur with a hind foot.

  “You can teach her the song now, sir,” said Alfred.

  Alfred translating, Hugh gave Jarre his instructions, taught her the song, then bundled her back into the air shaft. Limbeck stood beneath it and, before she left, reached up to hold her hand.

  “Thank you, my dear. This will be for the best. I know it!”

  “Yes, I know it too.”

  To hide the trouble in her voice, Jarre leaned down and gave Limbeck a shy kiss on the cheek. She waved her hand to Alfred, who gave her a small solemn bow; then she hastily turned and began to climb through the air shaft.

  Hugh and Haplo lifted the grille and put it back in place as best they could, hammering at it with their fists.

  “Are you hurt very badly, Alfred?” asked Bane, struggling against sleepiness and an unwillingness to return to bed and possibly miss out on something.

  “No, Your Highness, thank you for asking.”

  Bane nodded and yawned. “I think I’ll just lie down, Alfred. Not to sleep, mind you, just to rest.”

  “Allow me to straighten your blankets, Your Highness.” Alfred cast a swift sidelong glance over to Hugh and Haplo, pounding at the grille. “Might I trouble Your Highness with a question?”

  Bane yawned until his jaws cracked. Eyelids drooping, he plopped down on the floor of the vat and said sleepily, “Sure.”

  “Your Highness”-Alfred lowered his voice, keeping his eyes fixed on the blanket that he was, as usual, clumsily twisting and knotting and doing everything but straightening-“when you look at that man Haplo, what do you see?”

  “A man. Not very good-looking but not very ugly, not like Hugh. That Haplo’s not very much of anything, if you ask me. Here, you’re making a mess of that, as usual.”

  “No, Your Highness. I can manage.” The chamberlain continued to maul the blanket. “About my question-that really wasn’t what I meant, Your Highness.” Alfred paused, licking his lips. He knew that this next question would undoubtedly start Bane thinking. Yet Alfred felt at this juncture he had no choice. He had to know the truth.

  “What can you see with your … special vision?”

  Bane’s eyes widened, then narrowed, glistening with shrewdness and cunning. But the intelligence in them was gone so swiftly, masked by the bright gloss of innocence, that Alfred, if he had not seen it before, might not have believed he saw it then.

  “Why do you ask, Alfred?”

  “Just out of curiosity, Your Highness. Nothing more.”

  Bane regarded him speculatively, perhaps gauging how much more information he was likely to wheedle from the chamberlain, perhaps wondering whether he could gain more by telling the truth or lying or a judicious mixture of both.

  Giving Haplo a wary sidelong glance, Bane leaned confidentially near to Alfred and said softly, “I can’t see anything.”

  Alfred sat back on his heels, his careworn face drawn and troubled. He stared intently at Bane, trying to judge whether or not the child was sincere.

  “Yes,” continued Bane, taking the man’s look for a question. “I can’t see anything. And there’s only one other person I’ve met who’s the same-you, Alfred. What do you make of that?” The child gazed up at him with bright, shining eyes.

  The blanket suddenly seemed to spread itself out, smooth and flat, without a wrinkle. “You can lie down now, Your Highness. We have, it seems, an exciting day tomorrow.”

  “I asked you a question, Alfred,” said the prince, stretching out obediently.

  “Yes, Your Highness. It must be coincidence. Nothing more.”

  “You’re probably right, Alfred.” Bane smiled sweetly and closed his eyes. The smile remained on his lips; he was inwardly enjoying some private joke.

  Alfred, nursing his knee, decided that, as usual, he had made a mush of things. I gave Bane a clue to the truth. And against all express orders to the contrary, I took a being of another race into the Heart and the Brain and brought her back out again. But does it matter anymore? Does it really matter?

  He couldn’t help himself, his gaze went to Haplo, who was settling down for the night. Alfred knew the truth now, yet he resisted it. He told himself it was coincidence. The boy had not met every person in the world. There might be many whose past lives were not visible to him through the medium of his clairvoyance. The chamberlain watched Haplo lie down, saw him give the dog a pat, saw the dog take up a protective position at the man’s side.

  I have to find out. I must know for certain. Then my mind will be at rest. I can laugh at my fears.

  Or prepare to face them.

  No, stop thinking like that. Beneath the bandages, you will find sores, as he said.

  Alfred waited. Limbeck and Hugh returned to their beds, Hugh casting a glance in Alfred’s direction. The chamberlain pretended to sleep. The prince had drifted off, seemingly, but it might be well to make sure. Limbeck lay awake, staring up into the top of the vat, worrying, afraid, repeating to himself all his resolutions. Hugh leaned back against the vat’s side. Taking out his pipe, he stuck it between his teeth and gazed moodily at nothing.

  Alfred did not have much time. He propped himself on one elbow, keeping his shoulders hunched, his hand held close to his body, and faced Limbeck. Raising his index and middle fingers, Alfred drew a sigil in the air. Whispering the rune, he drew it again. Limbeck’s eyelids lowered, opened, lowered, quivered, and finally shut. The Geg’s breathing became even and regular. Turning slightly, keeping his movements smooth and stealthy, Alfred faced the assassin and drew the same sigil. Hugh’s head dropped. The pipe slipped from between his teeth and fell into his lap. Alfred’s gaze turned to Bane, and he made the same sign; if the child hadn’t been asleep before this, he was now.

  Then, facing Haplo, Alfred drew the rune and whispered the same words, only now with more concentration, more force.

  The dog, of course, was most important. But if Alfred’s suspicions were right about the animal, all would be well.

  He forced himself to wait patiently a few more moments, letting the magical enchantment draw everyone down into deep sleep. No one moved. All was quiet.

  Slowly and cautiously, Alfred crept to his feet. The spell was powerful; he might have run round the vat shouting and screaming, blowing horns and beating drums, and not a person there would have so much as blinked an eye. But his own irrational fears held him back, halted his steps. He sneaked forward, moving easily, without a limp, for he had been shamming the pain in his knee. But as slowly as he moved, the pain might have been real, the injury truly debilitating. His heart pulsed in his throat. Spots burst and danced in his eyes, obscuring his vision.

  He forced himself on. The dog was asleep, its eyes closed, or he never would have succeeded in creeping up on its master. Not daring to breathe, fighting suffocating spasms in his chest, Alfred dropped to his knees beside the slumbering Haplo. He reac
hed out a hand that shook so he could hardly guide it to where it must go, and he stopped and would have said a prayer had there been a god around to hear it. As it was, there was only himself.

  He shoved aside the bandage that was wound tightly around Haplo’s hand.

  There were, as he had suspected, the runes.

  Tears stung Alfred’s eyes, blinding him. It took all his strength of will to draw the bandage back over the tattooed flesh so that the man would not notice it had been disturbed. Barely able to see where he was going, Alfred stumbled back to his blanket and hurled himself down. It seemed that he did not stop falling when his body touched the floor, but that he continued to fall and went spiraling down into a dark well of nameless horror.

  CHAPTER 38

  DEEPSKY, ABOVE THE MAELSTROM

  THE CAPTAIN OF THE ELVEN SHIP CARFA’SHON [14] WAS A MEMBER OF THE ROYAL FAMILY. Not a very important member, but a member nonetheless-a fact of which he himself was extraordinarily conscious and expected all others around him to be likewise. There was, however, one small matter of his royal blood that it was never wise to bring up, and this was an unfortunate relationship to Prince Reesh’ahn, the leader of the rebellion among the elves.

  In the halcyon days of yore, the captain had been wont to state modestly that he was nothing less than a fifth cousin of the dashing young and handsome elven prince. Now, following Reesh’ahn’s disgrace, Captain Zankor’el assured people that he was nothing more than a fifth cousin and that was stretching a cousin or two.

  According to the manner and custom of all elven royalty, be they rich or poor, Captain Zankor’el served his people by working hard and energetically during his life. And, again in the manner and custom of those of royal lineage, he expected to continue serving them at the time of his death. The lords and ladies of the royal family are not allowed to slip peacefully into oblivion at their deaths. Their souls are captured before they can flutter away to spend days in eternal spring meadows. The royal souls are then held in stasis by the elven wizards, who draw upon the souls’ energy to work their magic.

  It is necessary, therefore, that wizards constantly attend the members of the royal family, ready at any time-day or night, in peace or during a raging battle-to grab up souls should death occur. Wizards designated for such duty have a formal title, “weesham,” by which they are referred to in polite society. Generally, however, they are known as “geir”-a word whose ancient meaning is “vulture.”

  The geir follow the royal elves from childhood to old age, never leaving them. A geir comes to the baby at his birth, watches his first steps, travels with him during the years of his schooling, sits beside the bed-even the bridal bed-every night, and attends him in the hour of his death.

  Elven wizards who accept this duty that, to the elves, has become sacred, are carefully trained. They are encouraged to develop a close personal relationship with those over whom their wings spread a dark shadow. A geir is not allowed to marry, and thus the charge becomes his or her entire life, taking the place of husband, wife, and child. Since the geir are older than their charges-generally being in their twenties when they accept responsibility for infants-they frequently assume the additional roles of mentor and confidant. Many deep and abiding friendships grow between shadow and shadowed. In such instances, the geir often does not long outlive his charge, but delivers the soul to the Cathedral of the Albedo and then creeps away himself to die of grief.

  And thus those of the royal family live, from birth on, with the constant reminder of their mortality hovering at their shoulders. They have come to be proud of the geir. The black-robed wizards mark royal status and symbolize to the elves that their leaders serve not only in life but also after death. The presence of the geir has the additional effect of increasing royal power. It is hard to refuse the elven king anything he wants with that dark-robed figure standing always at his side.

  It is thought by some that the Order of the Kir Monks may have developed among humans as a corrupt form of the Elven Shadows. The Kir Monks, being a secret and closed organization, refuse to discuss their origins. Legend has it, however, that they were founded by a group of human wizards who were endeavoring to discover the secret of soul-capture. The wizards failed to achieve their goal, but the order they founded remained. Ordinary humans-those not possessing magical talents-were allowed to enter, and over the years, the monks gradually turned from the attempt to cheat death to a worship of it.

  If the members of the royal family, particularly the younger members, are somewhat wild and foolhardy and live life with a devil-may-care attitude, it is understandable. Royal parties are often chaotic affairs. The wine flows freely and there is a frantic, hysterical edge to the merriment. A glittering, gaily dressed elf maiden dances and drinks and lacks for nothing that will give her joy, but, look where she will, she must see the geir standing, back to the wall, the geir’s gaze never leaving the one whose life-and most important, death-is in the geir’s trust.

  The captain of the elven watership had his attendant geir, and it must be admitted that there were those aboard who wished the captain’s geir godspeed in his work; the majority of those serving the captain expressing (quietly) the opinion that the captain’s soul would be far more valuable to the elven kingdom if it was no longer attached to the captain’s body.

  Tall, slender, and handsome, Captain Zankor’el had a great personal regard for himself and none at all for those who had the distinct misfortune not to be of high rank, not to be of royal birth, and-in short-not to be him.

  “Captain.”

  “Lieutenant.” This was always spoken with a slight sneer.

  “We are entering the Maelstrom.”

  “Thank you, lieutenant, but I am not blind, nor am I as stupid as perhaps was your last, late captain. Having seen the storm clouds, I was able to deduce almost instantly that we were in a storm. If you like, you may go pass the word around to the rest of the crew, who may, perhaps, not have noticed.”

  The lieutenant stiffened, his fair-skinned face flushed a delicate crimson. “May I respectfully remind the captain that it is my duty by law to inform him that we have entered dangerous skies?”

  “You may remind him if you like, but I wouldn’t, for he finds you to be teetering on the edge of insubordination,” returned the captain, gazing out the portals of the dragonship, a spyglass to his eye. “Now, go below and take charge of the slaves. That is one duty, at least, you are fit for.” These last words were not spoken aloud but, by the captain’s tone, they were implied. The lieutenant-and everyone else on the bridge-heard them quite clearly.

  “Very good, sir,” responded Lieutenant Bothar’in. The crimson had drained from his face, leaving him livid with suppressed anger.

  None of the other crew members dared catch the lieutenant’s eye. It was absolutely unheard-of for the second in command to be sent down to the galley during a descent. The captain himself always took this hazardous duty, for control of the wings was essential to the ship’s safety. It was a dangerous place to be during a descent-their former captain had lost his life down there. But a good captain placed the safety of ship and crew above his own, and the elven crew-seeing their lieutenant descend into the galley, their captain remaining at ease up top-could not forbear exchanging dark looks.

  The dragonship dipped down into the storm. The winds began to buffet it about. Lightning flared, partially blinding them; thunder roared, nearly deafening them. Down below, the human galley slaves, wearing the body harnesses that connected them by cables to the wings, fought and wrestled to keep the ship upright and flying through the storm. The wings had been pulled in as far as possible to lessen the magic in order for them to descend. But the wings could not be drawn in completely, or else the magic would cease to work completely and they would plummet down, out of control, to crash upon Drevlin below. A delicate balance had to be maintained, therefore-not a difficult task in fair, clear weather but extremely difficult in the midst of a raging storm.

  “Wh
ere’s the captain?” demanded the overseer.

  “I’m taking over down here,” answered the lieutenant.

  The overseer took one look at the lieutenant’s pale, tense face, the clenched jaw and tightly drawn lips, and understood.

  “It probably ain’t proper to say this, sir, but I’m glad you’re here and he ain’t.”

  “No, it is not proper to say that, overseer,” replied the lieutenant, taking up his position in the front of the galley.

  The overseer wisely said nothing more. He and the ship’s wizard, whose job it was to maintain the magic, glanced at each other. The wizard shrugged slightly; the overseer shook his head. Then both went about their business, which was critical enough to demand their full and complete attention.

  Up above, Captain Zankor’el stood spread-legged, braced upon the heaving deck, staring through his spyglass down into the swirling mass of black clouds. His geir sat on a deck chair beside him; the wizard-green with sickness and terror-clung for dear life to anything he could get his hands on.

  “There, weesham, I believe I can see the Liftalofts. Just a glimpse, in the eye of those swirling clouds.” He offered the spyglass. “Do you want to take a look?”

  “May the souls of your ancestors forbid!” said the wizard, shuddering. It was bad enough he had to travel in this frail and fragile contraption of skin and wood and magic, without having to look at where he was going. “What was that?”

  The wizard reared up his head in alarm, his sharply pointed, beardless chin quivering. A crash had sounded from below. The ship listed suddenly, throwing the captain off his feet.

  “Damn that Bothar’in!” Zankor’el swore. “I’ll have him brought up on charges!”

  “If he’s still alive,” gasped the pale-faced wizard.

  “He better hope for his sake he isn’t,” snarled the captain, picking himself up.

  Swift glances flashed about the crew, and one rash young elf actually opened his mouth to speak, but was nudged in the ribs by a fellow crewman. The midshipman swallowed his mutinous words.