Margaret Weis - Fire Sea

“What is that noise?” Edmund asked, bringing the people to a halt.

“I believe, Your Highness,” I said hesitantly, “that what you are hearing is the sound of gases bubbling up from the depths of the magma.”

He looked eager, excited. I’d seen the same expression on his face when he was small and I had offered to take him on an excursion.

“How far are we from the lake?”

“Not far, I should judge, Your Highness.”

He started off. I laid a restraining hand on his arm.

“Edmund, take care. Our bodies’ magic has activated to protect us from the heat and the poisonous fumes, but our strength is not. We should proceed forward with caution, take our time.”

He stopped immediately, looked intently at me. “Why? What is to fear? Tell me, Baltazar.”

He knows me too well. I cannot conceal anything from him.

“My Prince,” I said, drawing him to one side, out of earshot of the people and the king. “I cannot put a name to my fear and, therefore, I am loathe to mention it.”

I spread the map out on a rock. We bent over it together. The people paid little attention to us. I could see the king watching us with suspicion, however, his brow dark and furrowed. “Pretend that we are discussing the route, Your Highness. I don’t want to unduly worry your father.”

Edmund, casting the king a worried glance, did as I requested, wondering in loud tones where we were.

“You see these runes, drawn over this lake on the map?” I said to him in a low voice. “I cannot tell you what they mean, but when I look at them I am filled with dread.”

Edmund stared at the sigla. “You have no idea what they say?”

“Their message has been lost in time, My Prince. I cannot decipher it.”

“Perhaps they warn only that the way is treacherous.”

“That could be it ...”

“But you don’t think so.”

“Edmund,” I said, feeling my face burn with embarrassment,

“I’m not sure what I think. The map itself doesn’t indicate a dangerous route. As you can see, a wide path runs around the shores of the lake. A child could travel it with ease.”

“The path might be cut or blocked by rock falls. We’ve certainly enough of that during our trip,” Edmund stated grimly. “Yes, but the original mapmaker would have indicated such an occurrence if it had happened during the time he was making the . If not, he wouldn’t have known about it. No, if these runes are to warn us of danger, that danger existed when this map was made.”

“But that was so long ago! Surely the danger’s gone by now. You’re like a rune-bone player beset by bad fortune. According to the 3, our luck is bound to change. You worry too much, Baltazar,” Edmund added, laughing and clapping me on the shoulder. “I hope so, My Prince,” I replied gravely. “Humor me. Indulge a necromancer’s foolish fears. Proceed with caution. Send the soldiers ahead to scout the area—”

I could see the king, glowering at us.

“Well, of course,” snapped Edmund, irritated that I should venture to tell him his duty. “I would have done so in any case. I will mention the matter to my father.”

Oh, Edmund, if only I had said more. If only you had said less. If only. Our lives are made up of “if onlys.”

“Father, Baltazar thinks the path around the lake may be dangerous. You stay behind with the people and let me take the soldiers—”

“Danger!” the old king flared, with a fire that had not burned in either body or mind for a long, long rime. Alas, that it should have blazed forth now! “Danger, and you tell me to stay behind! I am king. Or, at least, I was.”

The old man’s eyes narrowed. “I have noticed that you—with Baltazar’s help, no doubt—are attempting to subvert the people’s loyalty. I’ve seen you and the necromancer off in your dark corners, plotting and scheming. It won’t work. The people will follow me, as they have always followed me!”

I heard. Everyone heard. The king’s accusation echoed through the cavern. It was all I could do to keep from rushing forward and throttling the old man with my bare hands. I cared nothing for what he thought of me. My heart burned from the pain of the wound I saw inflicted on his son.

If only that fool king had known what a loyal and devoted son he had! If only he could have seen Edmund during those long, dreary cycles, walking by his father’s side, listening patiently to the old man’s mad ramblings. If only he could have seen Edmund, time and again, refuse to accept the crown, although the council knelt at his feet and begged him! If only ...

But, no more. One must not speak ill of the dead. I can only assume some lingering madness put such ideas in the king’s mind.

Edmund had gone deathly white, but he spoke with a quiet dignity that became him well. “You have misunderstood me, Father. It was necessary for me to take on myself certain responsibilities, to make certain decisions during the time of your recent illness. Reluctantly, I did so, as any here”—he gestured to the people, who were staring at their king in shock—“will tell you. No one is more pleased than I am to see you take, once more, your rightful place as ruler of the people of Kairn Telest.”

Edmund glanced at me, asking me silently if I wanted to reply to the accusation. I shook my head, kept my mouth closed. How could I, in honesty, deny the wish that had been in my heart, if not on my lips?

His son’s words had an effect on the old king. He looked ashamed, as well he might! He started to reach out his hand, started to say something, perhaps apologize, take his son in his arms, beg his forgiveness. But pride—or madness—got the better of him. The king looked over at me, his face hardened. He turned and stalked oft calling loudly for the soldiers.

“Some of you come with me,” the king commanded. “The rest of you stay here and guard the people from whatever danger the necromancer theorizes is about to befall us. He is full of theories, our necromancer. His latest is that he fancies himself the father of my son!”

Edmund started forward, burning words on his lips. I caught hold of his arm, held him back, shaking my head.

The king set off for the tunnel exit, followed by a small troop of about twenty. The exit was a narrow opening in the rock. The file of Soldiers, walking shoulder to shoulder, would have a difficult time squeezing their way through. In the distance, through the opening, the fiery light of the Lake of Burning Rock gleamed a fierce, bright red.

The people looked at each other, looked at Edmund. They seemed uncertain what to do or say. A few of the council members, however, shook their heads and made clucking sounds with their tongues. Edmund cast them a furious glance, and they immediately ftfl silent. When the king reached the end of the tunnel, he turned to face us.

“You and your necromancer stay with the people, Son,” he shouted, and the sneer that curled his lip was audible in his voice.

“Your king will return and tell you when it is safe to proceed.” Accompanied by his soldiers, he walked out of the tunnel. If only . . .

Dragons possess remarkable intelligence. One is tempted to say Malevolent intelligence, but, in fairness, who are we to judge a creature our ancestors hunted almost to extinction? I have no doubt that, if the dragons could or would speak to us, they would remind us that they have good cause to hate us.

Not that this makes it any easier.

“I should have gone with him!” were the first words Edmund spoke to me, when I gently tried to remove his arms from around his father’s broken, bleeding body. “I should have been at his side!”

If, at any moment in my life, I was ever tempted to believe that there might be an immortal plan, a higher power.... But no. To all my other faults, I will not add blasphemy!