NECROPOLIS, ABARRACH

THE DOG’S CONDITION gradually worsened. by the next cycle, it couldn’t move at all, but lay on its side, flanks heaving, panting for breath. The animal refused all attempts to feed it or give it water.

Although everyone in the house was sorry for the dog’s suffering, no one, except Alfred, was much concerned. Their thoughts were on the raid on the castle, the rescue of the prince’s cadaver. Their plans were made, discussed and viewed from every conceivable angle for flaws. None could be found.

“It’s going to be almost ridiculously easy,” said Jera, at breakfast.

“I do beg your pardon,” said Alfred in timid tones, “but I spent some time at court on ... er ... well, the world from which I come, and King Stephen’s ... that is ... the king’s dungeons were quite heavily guarded. How do you plan—”

“You’re not involved.” The earl snorted. “So don’t concern yourself.”

I may yet be involved, Alfred thought. His glance strayed to the sick dog. He said nothing aloud, however, preferring to bide his time until he had more facts.

“Don’t be so cantankerous, Milord,” said Jonathan, laughing. “We trust Alfred, don’t we?”

Silence fell over the group, a faint blush suffused Jera’s cheek. She glanced involuntarily at Tomas, who met her look, shook his head slightly, and lowered his gaze to his plate. The earl snorted again. Jonathan glanced from one to the other in perplexity.

“Oh, come now—” he began.

“More tea, sir?” Jera interrupted, lifting the stoneware kettle and holding it over Alfred’s teacup. “No, thank you, Your Grace.”

No one else said anything. Jonathan started to speak again, but was stopped by a look from his wife. The only sounds were the labored breathing of the dog and the occasional rattle of cutlery or the clink of a pottery plate. All seemed vastly relieved when Tomas rose from the table.

“If you will excuse me, Your Grace.” A bow to Jera. “It is time for my appearance at court. Although I am not of the least importance”—he added with a self-deprecating smile—“this cycle of all cycles I should do nothing to draw attention to myself. I must be seen at my regular place at my regular time.”

Alfred lurked about on the fringes of the group until everyone had separated and gone about their morning tasks. Tomas was alone on the lower floor, heading out the door of his dwelling. Alfred emerged from a shadowy corner, plucked at the sleeve of the man’s robe.

Tomas gave a start, stared around with livid face and wide eyes. “Excuse me,” said Alfred, taken aback. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Tomas frowned when he saw who had hold of him. “What do you want?” he demanded impatiently, shaking free of Alfred’s grip.

“I’m late as it is.”

“Would it be possible—could you speak to your friend in the dungeons and find out the ... the condition of my friend?”

“I told you before. He’s alive, just as you said,” Tomas snapped.

“That’s all I know.”

“But you could find out ... today,” Alfred insisted, somewhat surprised at his own temerity. “I have the feeling he has fallen ill. Gravely ill.”

“Because of the dog!”

“Please ...”

“Oh, very well. I’ll do what I can. But I don’t promise anything. And now I must be leaving.”

“Thank you, that’s all I—”

But Tomas was gone, hastening out the door and joining the throng of living and dead crowding the streets of Necropolis,

Alfred sat down beside the dog, stroked its soft fur with a soothing hand. The animal was extremely ill.

Later that day, Tomas returned. It was near the dynast's dining hour, a time when the courtiers, those unfortunates who had not been asked to dinner, departed for their own pleasures.

“Well, what news?” Jera asked. “All is well?”

“All is well,” Tomas answered gravely. “His Majesty will resurrect the prince during the lamp dimming hour.”[12]

“And we have permission to visit the Queen Mother?”

“The queen was most pleased to grant permission herself.”

Jera nodded at her father. “All is ready. I wonder, however, if we shouldn’t—”

Tomas cast a significant glance at Alfred, and the duchess fell silent.

“Excuse me,” Alfred murmured, rising stiffly to his feet. “I’ll leave you alone—”

“No, wait.” Tomas raised his hand, his expression grew more grave. “I have news for you, and this affects us all and affects our plans, I’m afraid. I spoke to my friend the sleep-shift preserver, before he left the castle this morning. I am sorry to relate that what you feared, Alfred, is true. Your friend is rumored to be dying.”

*

Poison.

Haplo knew it the moment the first cramps twisted his gut, knew it when the nausea swept over him. He knew it, but he wouldn’t admit it to himself. It made no sense! Why?

Weak from vomiting, he lay on the stone bed, bent double by the clenching pain that stabbed at his vitals with knives of fire. He was parched, suffering from thirst. The waking-shift preserver brought him water. He had just strength enough to dash the cup from her hand. The cup smashed on the rock floor. The preserver withdrew hurriedly. The water seeped rapidly into the cracks in the floor. Haplo collapsed on the bed, watched it disappear, and wondered, Why?

He attempted to heal himself, but his efforts were feeble, halfhearted, and at length he gave up. He’d known from the outset healing wouldn’t work. A cunning and subtle mind—a Sartan mind—had devised his murder. The poison was powerful, acting equally on his magic and his body. The complex, interconnecting circle of runes that was his life’s essence was falling apart and he couldn’t put it back together again. It was as if the edges of the runes were being burned away, they wouldn’t link up. Why? “Why?”

It took Haplo a dazed moment to realize that his question had been repeated out loud. He lifted his head—every movement was fraught with pain, every movement took extraordinary will and effort. His eyes dimming with death’s shadow, he could barely make out the dynast, standing outside his cell. “Why what?” Kleitus asked quietly.

“Why ... murder me?” Haplo gasped. He gagged, wretched, doubled over, clutching his stomach. Sweat rolled down his face, he suppressed an agonized cry.

“Ah, you understand what is happening to you. Painful, is it? For that, we are sorry. But we needed a poison that was slow to do its work and we didn’t have much time to devote to study. What we devised is crude, albeit efficient. Is it killing you?”

The dynast might have been a professor, inquiring of a student if his experiment in alchemy was proceeding satisfactorily.

“Yes, damn it! It’s killing me!” Haplo snarled.

Anger filled him. Not anger at dying. He’d been near death before, the time the chaodyns attacked him, but then he’d been content to die. He’d fought well, defeated his enemies. He’d been victorious. Now he was dying ignominiously, dying at the hands of another, dying shamefully, without being able to defend himself.

Lunging off the stone bed, he hurled himself at the cell door, fell to the floor. He reached out a grasping hand and clutched at the hem of the dynast’s robe before the startled man had time to withdraw.

“Why?” Haplo demanded, clinging to the purple-dyed black fabric. “I would have taken you ... Death’s Gate!”

“But I don’t need you to take me,” replied Kleitus calmly. “I know where Death’s Gate is. I know how to get through it. I don’t need you ... for that.” The dynast bent down, his hand moved to touch the rune-covered hand holding on to the black robes.

Haplo grit his teeth, but did not loosen his grasp. Delicate fingers traced over the runes on the Patryn’s skin.

“Yes, now you begin to understand. It takes so much of our magical ability to bring life to the dead that it drains us. We hadn’t realized how much until we met you. You tried to hide your power but we felt it. We could have thrown a spear at you, thrown a hundred spears at you, and none would have so much as scratched you. True? Yes, of course it’s true. In fact, we could probably have dropped this castle on top of you and you would have emerged alive and well.” The fingers continued to trace the tattooed runes, slowly, longingly, with desire.

Haplo stared, understanding, disbelieving.

“There is nothing more we can gain from our magic. But there is a great deal we can gain from yours! That is why,” the dynast concluded briskly, rising to his feet, looking down at Haplo from what seemed to the dying man to be a tremendous height, “we couldn’t afford to injure your body. The rune patterns must be left unblemished, unbroken, to be studied at our leisure. Undoubtedly your cadaver will be of assistance in explaining the meaning of the sigla to me.

“ ‘Barbaric’ our ancestors called your magic. They were dolts. Add the power of your magic to ours and we will be invincible. Even, we surmise, against this so-called Lord of the Nexus.”

Haplo rolled over on his back. His hand released its grip on the dynast’s robe; he no longer had the strength left in his fingers to maintain it.

“And then there is your comrade, your ally—the one who can bring death to the dead.”

“Not friend,” Haplo whispered, barely aware of what he was saying or what was being said to him. “Enemy.”

Kleitus smiled. “A man who risks his life to save yours? I think not. Tomas gathered, from certain things this man has said, that he abhors necromancy and that he would not come to restore your corpse, if you were dead. Most likely he would flee this world, and we would lose him. We inferred, however, that there must be some sort of empathic connection between the two of you. It turned out we were right. Tomas reports that your friend knows, somehow, that you are dying. Your friend believes that there is a chance you might be saved. There isn’t, of course, but that won’t matter to your friend. Or, at least it won’t matter to him long.”

The dynast drew aside the hem of his robe. “And now I must commence the resurrection of Prince Edmund.”

Haplo heard the man’s voice receding, heard the rustle of the robe’s fabric along the floor and the voice became the rustle, or perhaps the rustle was the voice. “Don’t worry. Your agony is almost over. We would imagine the pain eases, near the end. “And so you see, Haplo, there is no need for you to ask why The prophecy,” came the rustling voice. “It is all for the prophecy.”

Haplo lay on his back, on the floor, too weak to move. That bastard’s right. The pain is beginning to fade ... because my life is fading. I’m dying. I’m dying and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I’m dying in fulfillment of a prophecy.

“What is ... the prophecy?” Haplo cried out.

But his cry was, in reality, nothing more than a breath. No one answered. No one heard him. He couldn’t even hear himself.