Margaret Weis - Fire Sea

He wanted to scream, to cry out, but something—instinct again or perhaps only fear freezing his tongue—kept him silent. His parents fought bravely and well, but they were no match for the hulking bodies and sharp fangs and long, razorlike claws of the intelligent snogs. The killing took a long, long time.

And then, mercifully, it was over. His parents’ bodies—what was left of them when the snogs had finished their gorging—lay unmoving. His mother’s screams had ceased. Then came the frightening moment when Alfred knew that he was next, when he feared that they must see him, that he must be as highly visible as the bright red blood clotting the matted leaves on the ground. But the snogs were weary of their sport. Hunger and lust to kill both satisfied, they moved off, leaving Alfred alone in the brush.

He lay hidden a long time, near the bodies of his parents. The carrion beasts arrived to take their share of the spoils. He was afraid to stay, afraid to leave, and he couldn’t help whimpering, if only to hear the sound of his own voice and know that he was alive. And then two men were there, beside him, peering down at him, and he was startled for he hadn’t heard them gliding through the brush, moving more silently than the wind.

The men discussed him, as if he weren’t there. They eyed the bodies of his parents coldly, spoke of them without sympathy. The men were not cruel, only callous, as if they’d seen murder done all too many times before and the sight could no longer shock them. One of them reached down into the brush, dragged Alfred to his feet. They marched him over to stand beside the bodies of his butchered parents.

“Look at that,” the man told Alfred, holding the boy by the scruff of his neck and forcing him to stare at the gruesome sight. “Remember it. And remember this. It wasn’t snogs that killed your father and mother. It was those who put us in this prison and left us to die. Who are they, boy? Do you know?” The man’s fingers dug painfully into Alfred’s flesh.

“The Sartan,” Alfred heard himself answer and he knew then that he was Sartan and that he’d just killed those who had given him birth.

“Repeat it!” the man ordered him.

“The Sartan!” Alfred cried, and he wept.

“Right. Never forget that, boy. Never forget.”

Haplo fell into darkness, cursing, fighting, struggling to retain consciousness. His mind rebelled against him, dragged him under for his own good. He caught a glimpse of a light, as he seemed to be receding farther and farther away, and he exerted every ounce of his being to reach that light. He made it.

The falling sensation ended, all the strange sensations ended and he was filled with a vast sense of peace. He was lying on his back and it seemed to him that he had just awakened from a deep and restful slumber lit by beautiful dreams. He was in no hurry to rouse himself, but lay still, enjoying slipping into and out of sleep, listening to a sweet music in his mind. At length, he knew himself to be fully awake and he opened his eyes.

He lay in a crypt. He was startled, at first, but not frightened, as if he knew where he was but had forgotten and now that he remembered, everything was all right. He felt a sense of excitement and breathless anticipation. Something that he’d been waiting for a long time was about to happen. He wondered how to get out of the crypt, but knew the answer immediately when he asked himself the question. The crypt would open at his command.

Lying back restfully, Haplo glanced down at his body and was to see himself in strange clothes—long white robes. And he with a pang of terror, that the runes tattooed on his hands and were gone! And with the runes, his magic. He was helpless, helpless as a mensch!

But the knowledge came to him instantly, almost making him laugh at his own simplicity, that he wasn’t powerless. He possessed the magic—but it was inside him, not outside. Experimentally, he lifted his hand and examined it. The hand was slender and delicate. It traced a rune in the air and, at the same time, sang the rune to the a&pie door of his crystal crypt opened.

Haplo sat up and swung his legs over the side. He jumped Hghny down to the floor; his body tingled all over with the unaccustomed exertion. Turning, he looked back into the crystalline surface of the empty crypt and experienced a profound shock. He was looking at his own reflection, but his face didn’t look back. Alfred’s did. He was Alfred!

Haplo staggered, physically jolted by the knowledge. Of course, that explained the absence of runes on his skin. The Sartan magic worked from within to without, whereas Patryn magic worked from without to within.

Confused, Haplo looked from his own empty crypt to one located next to his. He saw in it a woman, young, lovely, her face calm and tranquil in repose. Looking at the woman, Haplo felt a warmth Wdl up inside him and he knew he loved her, knew he had loved her a long, long time. He moved over to her crypt and rested his hands upon the chill crystal. He gazed at her fondly, tracing every line of that (flowed face.

“|j|i1\nna,” he whispered, and caressed the crystal with his hands. A chill stole through Haplo, freezing his heart. The woman isn’t breathing. He could see clearly through the glass tomb that it supposed to have been a tomb but only a cocoon, a resting until it was time for them to emerge and take over their duties.

She wasn’t breathing!

Admittedly, the magical stasis slowed the body’s functions, watched the woman anxiously, willing the fabric across her to move, willing the eyelids to flicker. He waited and watched, pressed against the glass for hours, waited until his strength out, and he crumbled to the floor. And then, lying on the floor, he lifted his hand and stared at it again. He noticed now what he had not before. The hand was slender and delicate, but it was aged, wrinkled. Blue veins stood out clearly. Dragging himself to his feet, he stared into the crystal of the crypt and he saw his face.

“I am old,” he whispered, reaching out to touch the reflection that, when he had gone to sleep, had been bright with youth and alive with eager promise. Now it was aged, skin flabby and sagging, his head bare, the fringe of hair around the ears whitish gray.

“I am old,” he repeated, feeling panic surge through him. “I am old! I have aged! And it takes a long, long time for a Sartan to age! But not her! She is not old.” He stared back into her crypt. No, she was no older than he remembered her. Which meant she had not aged. Which meant she was . . .

“No!” Haplo cried, clutching at the crystal sides as if he would tear them apart, his fingers sliding down ineffectually. “No! Not dead! Not her dead and me alive! Not me alive and . . . and . . .”

He stepped back, looking around him, looking into the other crypts. Each one of them, except his, held a body. Inside each was a friend, a comrade, a brother, a sister. Those who were to come back to this world with him when it was time, come back to continue the work. There was so much to do! He ran to another crypt.

“Ivor!” he called, pounding on the crystal sides with his fingers. But the man lay unmoving, unresponsive. Frantic, Haplo ran to another and another, calling out each dear name, pleading incoherently with each one to wake, to be!

“Not me! Not me ... alone!”

“Or maybe not,” he said, stopping in his mad panic, hope cool and soothing inside him. “Maybe I’m not alone. I haven’t been out of the mausoleum yet.” He looked toward the archway that stood at the far end of the round chamber. “Yes, there are probably others out there.”

But he made no motion toward the door. Hope died, destroyed by logic. There were no others. If there had been, they would have ended the enchantment. He was the only survivor. He was alone. Which meant that somewhere, somehow, something had gone horribly wrong.