Margaret Weis - Fire Sea

The prince’s expression altered, grew sad. Or perhaps Alfred only sensed the sadness, and his mind willed the cadaver’s expression to change accordingly.

“I grieve for my people and their suffering. But they are the living and no longer my responsibility. I have left them and gone beyond. My words are for the dead,”

“But what will you do?” Alfred asked helplessly. “What can you do for them?”

“I don’t know yet,” said the phantasm. “But I will be told. Your living body needs sleep. I will keep watch while you rest. Fear nothing. No one will find us. For the time being, you are safe.”

Alfred had little choice except to trust the prince and give way to weariness. Magic, even Sartan magic, had its physical limitations, as had been proven on this terrible world. He could draw on it only so long before his strength needed replenishing. He made himself as comfortable as possible on the hard rock floor.

The dog, who had been keeping a wary eye on Alfred, was satisfied that it, too, could relax. Curling up beside its master, the animal rested its head on Haplo’s chest, but kept its eyes open.

Haplo awoke from a long sleep that had healed his body, but had not brought peace or ease to his mind. He was unaccountably restless, vague anger gnawed at him. Lying on the floor in the darkness, he stroked the dog’s head, and attempted to figure out what was the matter with him.

He had something of extreme importance to do or say or tell someone. Something urgent, something of value and. . . he couldn’t remember what it was.

“Arrant nonsense,” he told the dog. “Impossible. If it were that important, I’d remember it.” But, try as he might, he couldn’t, and the lost knowledge burned within him, another kind of poison.

Added to his disquiet were hunger and a raging thirst. He’d had nothing to eat or drink since the supper that had nearly been his last. He sat up, glanced about, searching for water—perhaps a tiny rivulet streaming through a crack in the wall, a drop falling from the ceiling. He could use a drop to create more with his rune-magic, but he couldn’t conjure water out of solid rock.

No water. Nothing. Everything was going wrong, had gone wrong ever since he’d arrived on this blasted world. At least he knew where to lay the blame.

Alfred lay hunched up on his side, his mouth wide open, snoring softly.

I should have let the bastard die back there. Especially after he cast that spell on me, made me see those people around that table, made me say—Haplo shook free of the unpleasant memory. But at least now we’re even. I saved his life in return for him saving mine. I don’t owe him a damn thing.

Haplo stood up suddenly, startling the dog, who jumped to its feet and stared at him with an air of faint reproach.

“You are setting off on your own.” Prince Edmund’s cadaver stood motionless at the end of the corridor, near the sealed door, near where Jonathan lay in spellbound sleep on the floor.

“I travel faster that way.” Haplo stretched his arms, rubbed a stiff neck. He didn’t like looking at the phantasm. The sight made him think again of whatever it was he’d forgotten.

“You’re going to leave without the guiding runes.” The phantasm wasn’t attempting to persuade him, apparently. It didn’t seem to care, was merely pointing out the obvious. It was probably lonely, liked hearing itself talk.

“I figure we’re at the bottom of the catacombs,” said Haplo. “I’ll find a corridor that leads back up, follow it until I get to the top. I can’t end up much worse than I’ve ended up following him!”

He gestured at Alfred, who had rolled over on his stomach, his backside hunched up in a most undignified position.

“Besides,” Haplo grunted, “I’ve been in worse places. I was born in one. C’mon, dog.”

The dog yawned and stretched, front paws extended, rocked forward, back legs extended, then shook itself all over.

“Do you know what is going on up there?” The phantasm’s gleaming-eyed gaze lifted.

“I can guess,” Haplo muttered, not liking to discuss it.

“You will never reach your ship alive. You will become like Kleitus and Jera—souls trapped in dead bodies, hating the mockery of life that binds them to this realm, fearing the death that would free them.”

“That’s my risk,” retorted Haplo, but the palms of his hands grew clammy. Sweat broke out on his body, chilling him, although the air in the tunnel was warm and oppressive.

All right, I’m afraid! We respect fear, we’re not ashamed of it—so the elders taught us in the Labyrinth. The rabbit feels no shame fleeing the fox, the fox feels no shame fleeing the lion. Listen to your fear, confront it, understand it, deal with it.

Haplo walked over, faced the phantasm of the prince. He could see through it, see the wall in back of it, and he knew from the cool, intent stare of the eyes that, in much the same way, it could see through him.

“Tell me the prophecy.”

“My words,” said the prince, “are for the dead.”

Haplo turned abruptly, moving swiftly, and fell over the dog, who had been trotting along behind. He stepped on the animal’s fore paw. The dog yelped in pain, sprang backward, cringing, wondering what it had done wrong.

Alfred woke with a start. “What—? Where—?” he gabbled.

Haplo cursed fluently, held out his hand to the dog. “I’m sorry, boy. Come here. I didn’t mean it.”

The animal accepted the apology, came forward graciously to be scratched behind the ears, indicated that there were no hard feelings.

Seeing only Haplo, Alfred gulped in relief, mopped his brow. “Are you feeling better?” he asked anxiously.

The question annoyed Haplo almost beyond endurance. A Sartan, concerned for my health! He gave a brief, bitter laugh and turned away, continued his search for water.

Alfred sighed, shook his bald head. He was obviously in misery, his stiff body twisted like an old gnarled tree. He watched Haplo a moment, guessed what he must be doing.

“Water, that’s a good idea. My throat is raw. I can barely talk—”

“Then don’t!” Haplo made a fourth fruitless circuit of the runnel, the dog trotting along at his heels. “Nothing here. There’s bound to be water near the surface. We better get started.” He walked over to the duke, nudged him with his foot. “Wake up, Your Grace.”

“Oh, dear! I forgot.” Alfred flushed. “He’s under a spell. He was dying. Well, he wasn’t, but he thought he was and the power of suggestion...”

“Yeah. I know all about the power of suggestion! You and your spells! Wake him up and let’s get out of here. And no more guide-runes, either, Sartan!” Haplo held up a warning finger. “The Labyrinth only knows where they’d lead us next! This time, you follow me. And be quick about it or I’ll leave without you.”

But he didn’t. He waited. He waited for Alfred to wake the duke, waited for the wretched Jonathan to come to his senses.

Haplo waited, fretting with impatience, tormented by his thirst, but he waited.

When he asked himself why he had changed his mind about going off alone, he answered himself that traveling in numbers made sense.

The tunnel climbed steadily upward, led them out and away from the Chamber of the Damned to the shores of a vast pool of magma. Its fire lit the cavern’s eternal night with a red glow. There was no way around it, they could only go over it. A narrow rock bridge spanned the molten lava, a thin black line snaking over an inferno. They moved across it in single file.

The sigla tattooed on Haplo’s skin glowed blue, their magic protected him from the heat and the fumes. Alfred chanted beneath his breath; either his magic was aiding his breathing or his walking, Haplo wasn’t certain, but he guessed the walking, amazed that the clumsy-footed Sartan made it over the treacherous span.