Margaret Weis - Fire Sea

Jonathan followed after, his head bowed, ignoring the others’ talk, absorbed in his own thoughts. He had changed since yesterday, however. His step was no longer aimless and stumbling, but firm and resolute. He took an interest in their surroundings and in his own well-being, walking the span with care and caution.

“He’s young, after all,” said Alfred softly, watching anxiously as the duke, accompanied by the cadaver, arrived at the end of the bridge. “His instinct for self-preservation has won out over the desire to end his despair by ending his life.”

“Look at his face,” said Haplo, wishing for the hundredth time that Alfred would keep out of his brain and stop saying what he, Haplo, was thinking.

Jonathan had lifted his head to stare at the prince’s phantasm novering near him. The young face, lit by the magma’s fiery glow, was prematurely aged; grief and horror had tightened the once-smiling mouth, shadowed the light of the eyes. But the sullen uncaring desperation and despair were gone, replaced by a thoughtful, introspective study. His gaze was fixed most often on the prince.

The tunnel continued to carry them upward, the floor slanting upward at a steep angle as if it couldn’t wait to leave behind the horror of what lay below. But what horror lay ahead? Haplo didn’t know and at this point didn’t care.

“What did you do to him with that spell of yours?” He kept talking to distract himself, keep his mind off his thirst. A gesture sent the dog back to watch over the duke and the cadaver.

“It was only a simple sleep spell—” Alfred stumbled, fell head-lone over his own feet.

Haplo walked grimly on, ignoring sounds of scrabbling and panting behind.

“It’s grown rather dark,” Alfred said timidly, catching up with Haplo. “We could use the guiderunes for light—”

“Forget it! I’ve had enough Sartan magic to last a lifetime. And I wasn’t referring to your sleep spell. I meant that spell you cast over him in that chamber back there.”

“You’re mistaken. I didn’t cast any spell. I saw what you saw and what he saw. At least, I think I did...” Alfred glanced at Haplo sideways, an open invitation to talk about what they’d seen.

The Patryn snorted and continued on in silence.

The tunnel widened, grew lighter. Other tunnels branched off from it, heading in several different directions. The air was cooler, more moist, easier to breathe. Gas lamps hissed, formed pools of yellow light that alternated with pools of darkness. Haplo had no doubt they were nearing the city.

What would they find once they reached the top? Guards posted, waiting for them? All exits blocked?

Water. That was all Haplo cared about at this moment. At least, there would be water. He’d fight an army of the dead for one swallow.

Behind him, the prince and Jonathan spoke together in low tones. The dog trotted along at their feet, a quiet, unobtrusive spy on their conversation.

“Whatever happens, it will all be my fault,” Jonathan was saying. His tone was sad, regretful. He was accepting blame, not whining in self-pity. “I’ve always been heedless, reckless! I forgot all I’d been taught. No, that’s not quite true. I chose to forget it. I knew what I was doing was wrong when I worked the magic on Jera.... But I couldn’t bear to let her go!”

He paused a moment, added, “We Sartan became obsessed with life. We lost our respect for death. Even a semblance of life, a horrible mockery of life, was better for us than death. Such an attitude came from thinking of ourselves as gods. What is it, after all, that separates man from the gods? Ultimate rule over life and death. We were able to control life with our magic. We worked until we were able to control death—or thought we had.”

He’s speaking about himself and his people in the past tense, Haplo realized. He might have been eavesdropping on a conversation between two cadavers, instead of one.

“You are beginning to understand,” said the prince.

“I want to understand more,” Jonathan spoke humbly

“You know where to look for the answers.”

Back in that damn chamber, no doubt. Or just have good, old Alfred sing his blasted runes at you again. What is it I’m supposed to remember? I saw it all so clearly.. . . Saw what clearly? ... I understood . . . understood what? If only I could recall. ...

The hell with it! I know everything I need to know. My lord is all-powerful, all-wise, all-knowing. My Lord will one day rule this world and all others. My duty is to My Lord and to his cause. These doubts, these confusing vagaries are a trick of the Sartan’s.

“Haplo .. .” Alfred’s voice.

“What now?”

Turning around, Haplo saw that the Sartan had again come to grief. Alfred lay sprawled on the stone floor, his face twisted with pain. He raised his hand, held it palm out.

“If you think I’m helping you, forget it. You can lie there and rot for all I care.”

The dog hurried up to Alfred, began to lick the man’s cheek. Haplo turned away in disgust.

“No, it’s not that! I think—that is ... I’ve found water. I—I’m lying in a puddle.”

Alfred had, unfortunately, soaked up quite a bit of the water on his clothes, but once they had a small amount of the precious liquid, they could magically replicate more. Haplo searched until he discovered the source, a steady drip of water draining through a crack in the ceiling.

“We must be near the upper level. Best stay alert. Don’t drink too much,” he cautioned. “It’ll cramp the stomach. Slowly, in small sips.” He found it difficult to follow his own advice. The liquid was muddy and tasted faintly of sulfur and iron, even after magic had purified it. But it quenched thirst, kept the body going.

“Some gods we are,” said Haplo to himself, sucking on a piece of cloth he’d dipped in the puddle. He caught Alfred’s swift glance and scowled, turned away in irritation. Why had such a thought crossed his mind? The Sartan had put it there, no doubt. . .

The dog lifted its head, ears pricked. It growled low and softly.

“Someone’s coming!” Haplo whispered, twisting, catlike, to his feet.

A figure in black robes emerged from the shadows at the end of the corridor. It moved slowly, haltingly, as if injured or greatly fatigued, and made frequent stops to look back over its shoulder.

“Tomas!” cried Jonathan suddenly, although how he could tell one black-robed necromancer from another was beyond Haplo’s ability to fathom. “Traitor!” Before anyone could stop him, the young duke sprinted forward, robes flapping behind him.

Tomas whirled around to face them, his panicked shriek echoed through the corridors. He tried to run. An injured leg or ankle gave out, and he fell to the stone floor. Crawling on hands and knees, he attempted to drag himself away. Jonathan caught up with him easily, placed a hand on the man’s shoulder.

Screaming fearfully, Tomas lurched over on his back, raised his hands over his face. “No, please! Don’t! Please! No!” he babbled, over and over, writhing in a paroxysm of terror, his body twitching and rolling on the floor.

The duke stared at the man. “Tomas! I’m not going to hurt you! Tomas!” Jonathan attempted to catch hold of the wretched man, soothe him. But the sight of hands approaching him only increased his panic.

“Shut him up!” ordered Haplo furiously. “He’ll have every guard in the palace down on us!”

“I can’t!” Jonathan looked helpless. “He’s ... he’s gone mad!”

Alfred knelt beside Tomas, began weaving his hands over him, chanting the runes.

“Don’t put him to sleep, Sartan! We need information.”

Alfred shot Haplo a stern, reproachful glance.

“You want to carry him through the corridors with us?” Haplo demanded. “Or just leave him here, unconscious?”