Margaret Weis - Fire Sea

The same runes were tattooed over most of his body. He kept himself covered with heavy clothing—a long-sleeved shirt, a leather vest, leather trousers tucked into tall leather boots, a scarf tied close around his neck. No sigla adorned the grim, square-jawed, cleanshaven face, no runes appeared on the palms of the hands or the fingers or the soles of his feet. The rune-magic might interfere with the mental processes and those of the senses: touch, sight, smell, hearing.

“I’m curious,” said Alfred, watching the proceedings with interest. “Why do you bother to disguise yourself? It’s been centuries since . . . since . . .” he faltered, not certain where to go from here.

“Since you threw us in that torture chamber you called a prison?” Haplo finished, glancing at Alfred coolly.

The Sartan’s head bowed. “I didn’t realize ... I didn’t understand. Now, I do. I’m sorry.”

“Understand? How could you possibly understand unless you’ve been there?” Haplo paused, wondering again, uncomfortably, where Alfred had spent his journey through Death’s Gate. “You’ll be sorry, all right, Sartan. We’ll see how long you last in the Labyrinth. And to answer your question, I disguise myself because there could be people out there—like yourself, for example—who remember the Patryns. My Lord does not want anyone to remember—not yet, at least.”

“There are those such as myself, who would remember and try to stop you. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?” Alfred sighed. “I cannot stop you. I am one. You, from what I gather, are many. You didn’t find any trace of my people alive on Pryan, did you?”

Haplo looked at the man sharply, suspecting some sort of trick, though he couldn’t imagine what. He had a sudden vision of those rows of tombs, of the young, dead corpses. He guessed at the desperate search that had taken Alfred to every part of Arianus—from the high realms of the selfaccursed wizards to the lowly realms of the slavelike Gegs. He experienced the terrible grief of coming to realize, finally, that he alone had survived, his race and all its dreams and plans were dead.

What had gone wrong? How could godlike beings have dwindled, vanished? And if such a disaster could happen to the Sartan, could it also happen to us?

Angry, Haplo shrugged off the thought. The Patryns had survived a land determined to slaughter them—proof that they had been right all along. They were the strongest, the most intelligent, the fittest to rule.

“I found no trace of the Sartan on Pryan,” Haplo said, “except a city that they’d built.”

“A city?” Alfred looked hopeful.

“Abandoned. Long ago. A message they left behind said something about some type of force driving them out.”

Alfred appeared bewildered. “But that’s impossible. What type of force could it have been? There is no force, except perhaps your own, that could destroy or even intimidate us.”

Haplo wound the bandages around his right hand, glanced at the Sartan from beneath lowered brows. He seemed to be sincere, but Haplo had journeyed with Alfred in Arianus. The Sartan wasn’t as simpleminded as he appeared. Alfred had discovered Haplo to be a Patryn long before Haplo had discovered Alfred to be a Sartan.

If he did know anything about such a force, he wasn’t talking. The Lord of the Nexus would have it out of him, however.

Haplo tucked the ends of the bandages neatly beneath the shirt cuffs and whistled to the dog, who leapt eagerly to its feet.

“Are you ready, Sartan?”

Alfred blinked in surprise. “Yes, I’m ready. And, since we’re speaking the human language, it might be better if you called me by my name instead of ‘Sartan.’ ”

“Hell, I don’t even call the dog by name and that animal means a lot more to me than you do.”

“There might be those who remember the Sartan, as well as the Patryns.”

Haplo gnawed his lower lip, conceded that the man had a point. “Very well, ‘Alfred.’” He managed to make it sound insulting. “Although that’s not your real name, is it?”

“No. It’s one I adopted. Unlike yours, my true name would sound very strange to the mensch.”

“What is your real name? Your Sartan name? If you’re wondering, I can speak your language—although I don’t like to.”

Alfred drew himself straighten “If you speak our language, you know then that to speak our names is to speak the runes and draw on the power of the runes. Therefore, our true names are known only to ourselves and to those who love us. A Sartan’s name can be spoken only by another Sartan.”

“Just as your name”—Alfred raised a delicate finger, pointed suddenly at Haplo’s breast—“is marked on your skin and may be read only by those whom you love and trust. You see, I also speak your language. Although I don’t like to.”

“Love!” Haplo snorted. “We don’t love anyone. Love is the greatest danger there is in the Labyrinth, since whatever you love is certain to die. As for trust, we had to learn it. Your prison taught us that much-We had to trust each other, because that was the only way we could survive. And speaking of survival, you might want to make certain I stay healthy, unless you think you can pilot this ship back through Death’s Gate yourself.”

“And what happens if my survival depends on you?”

“Oh, I’ll see that you survive, all right. Not that you’ll thank me for it later.”

Alfred looked at the steering stone, the sigla etched on it. He would recognize each sigla, but they were arranged in far different patterns from those he knew. Elven and human languages use the same letters of the alphabet, yet the languages are vastly dissimilar. And although he might be able to speak the Patryn language, Haplo was certain the Sartan couldn’t work the Patryn magic.

“No, I’m afraid I couldn’t manage steering this ship,” Alfred said.

Haplo laughed briefly, derisively, started for the door, then stopped. Turning, he held up a warning hand.

“Don’t try that fainting trick with me. I warn you! I can’t be responsible for what happens if you pass out.”

Alfred shook his head. “I can’t control the fainting spells, I’m afraid. Oh, in the beginning I could. I used it to disguise my magic, like those bandages you wear. What else could I do? I could no more reveal I was a demigod than you could! Everyone would have wanted to use me. Greedy men demanding I give them wealth. Elves demanding I kill the humans. Humans demanding I rid them of the elves . . .”

“And so you fainted.”

“I was beset by robbers.” Alfred lifted his hands, looked down at them. “I could have obliterated them with a word. I could have turned them to solid stone. I could have melted their feet to the pavement. I could have charmed them utterly . . . and left my mark indelibly on the world. I was frightened—not of them, but of what I had the power to do to them. My mental turmoil and anguish was too great for my mind to bear. When I came to myself, I knew how I had solved the dilemma. I had simply fainted dead away. They took what they wanted and left me alone. And now I can’t control the spells. They simply . . . happen.”

“You can control it. You just don’t want to. It’s become an easy way out.” The Patryn pointed over the ship’s hull to the blazing lava sea, burning bright around them. “But if you faint and fall into a puddle in this world, that fainting spell’s liable to be your last!

“Let’s go, dog. You, too, Alfred.”

Left the ship moored at the dock, its magic keeping it afloat in the air above the magma flow. He was not concerned over anything happening to the vessel, runes of protection guarded it better than he could have guarded it in person, would permit no one to enter in his absence. Not that this appeared likely. No one approached the ship, no dock authority demanded to know their business, no hucksters swarmed over to push their wares, no sailors lounged about, idly eyeing the cut of their jib.