THE CATACOMBS, ABARRACH

THE SLOPING FLOOR grew more level, gas lamps reappeared, gleaming yellow in the darkness. Alfred heard Jera’s breathing quicken slightly in excitement. He felt Jonathan’s body tense. Tomas, passing beneath a gas lamp, appeared almost as livid as one of the corpses. Alfred judged by these signs that they were nearing their goal. His heart fluttered, his hands shook, and he banished the comforting thought of fainting firmly from his mind.

The chamberlain brought them to a halt with an imperious gesture of his staff. “Please wait here. You will be announced.” He moved off, calling, “Preserver! Visitors for the Queen Mother.”

“Where are we?” Alfred took advantage of the moment to whisper to Jonathan.

“In the catacombs!” Jonathan answered, eyes glittering with fun and excitement.

“What?” Alfred was amazed. “The catacombs? Where Haplo and the prince—”

“Yes, yes!” Jera murmured.

“We told you it would be simple,” Jonathan added.

Tomas, Alfred noticed, said nothing, but stood off to one side, keeping in the shadows, out of the light of the gas lamps.

“Of course, we’ll have to go through with this farce of visiting the Queen Mother,” Jera whispered, peering impatiently into the catacombs for some sign of the chamberlain. “I wonder where he’s gone off to?”

“The Queen Mother. Down here.” Alfred was completely baffled. “Did she commit some crime?”

“Oh, dear no!” Jonathan was shocked. “She was a very great lady when she was alive. It was her corpse that proved rather difficult.”

“Her corpse,” Alfred repeated weakly, leaning against the damp stone wall.

“Constantly interfering,” said Jera in a low voice. “She simply could not understand that she was no longer wanted at royal functions. Her cadaver kept barging in at the most inopportune moments. Finally, there was nothing the dynast could do but lock the corpse away down here, where she can’t cause trouble. It’s quite fashionable to visit her, however. And it does please the dynast. He was a good son, if not much else.”

“Hush!” Tomas said sharply. “The chamberlain’s returning.”

“This way, if you will be so good,” called the man in sonorous tones.

The narrow hall and dank walls echoed back the sounds of rustling robes and shuffling feet. A man clad in untrimmed black robes bowed, stood deferentially to one side. Was it Alfred’s imagination or did Tomas and this black-robed apparition exchange telling glances? Alfred began to shiver with cold and apprehension.

They came to an intersection that formed the shape of a cross; narrow hallways branched off in four directions. Alfred darted a swift glance down the hall to his right. Darkly shadowed cells ranged along either side of the hall. The Sartan tried to catch a glimpse of the prince, or possibly Haplo. He saw nothing, and he didn’t dare take time for a closer inspection. He had the uncanny feeling that the preserver’s eyes were fixed on him.

The chamberlain turned to the left and the group trooped behind him. Rounding a corner, they stepped into a blaze of light that nearly blinded them after the dim light of the hallways. Sumptuously adorned and appointed, the cavern might have been lifted intact from the royal chambers, except for the iron cell bars, which marred the effect. Behind the bars, surrounded by every possible luxury, a well-preserved cadaver sat in a high-backed chair drinking air from an empty teacup. The corpse was clad in robes of silver thread, and gold and jewels glittered on waxen fingers. Her silver hair was beautifully coiffed and cared for.

A young woman clad in plain black robes sat in a chair near her, making desultory conversation. Alfred realized, with a shock, that the young woman was alive; the living actually serving the dead.

“The Queen Mother’s private necromancer,” said Jera.

The young woman brightened when she saw them, her expression grew eager. She rose quickly and respectfully from her seat. The cadaver of the Queen Mother glanced their way, made a stately invitational motion with its wrinkled hand.

“I will wait to accompany you out of the catacombs, Your Graces,” said the chamberlain. “Please do not remain long. Her Most Gracious Majesty is easily tired.”

“We could not think of taking you from your duties,” Jera protested smoothly. “Don’t let us inconvenience you. We know the way.”

At first the chamberlain would not hear of such a thing but Her Grace was persuasive and His Grace was careless with a bag of golden coins that happened to fall into the chamberlain’s hands by accident. The chamberlain left them, returning down the hallway, his staff thumping against the floor. Alfred watched him depart, thought he saw the chamberlain nod once at the black-robed preserver. Alfred broke out into a cold sweat. Every fiber in his body was urging him to either run or faint or perhaps do both simultaneously.

The young woman had moved to open the cell door.

“No, my dear, that won’t be necessary,” Jera said softly.

The conspirators stood together, listening, waiting for the sound of the chamberlain’s staff to disappear in the distance. When it could no longer be heard, the preserver beckoned.

“This way!” he called, motioning them toward him.

They moved swiftly. Alfred, glancing back, saw the bitter disappointment in the young woman’s face, saw her sink back down into her chair, heard her resume—in a dull, lifeless voice—her conversation with the corpse.

The preserver led them down the hall opposite to the one in which the Queen Mother was housed. It was far darker than the hall they’d just left, far darker than any hall they’d walked yet. Alfred, hurrying along next to Tomas, saw numerous gas lamps on the wall, but for some reason most of them were unlit. Either they’d blown out ... or they’d been turned off.

Only one lamp in the hallway remained lighted. It beamed out from somewhere ahead, making the surrounding darkness that much darker by contrast. Drawing near, Alfred saw that the light shone on a corpse sitting on a stone slab. The eyes stared straight ahead, its arms dangled listlessly between its knees.

“That’s the prince’s cell!” said Tomas, his voice tight and hard. “The one with the light in it. Your friend is in the cell across from the cadaver.”

Jera, in her eagerness, darted ahead. Jonathan kept close pace behind his wife. Alfred was forced to concentrate on keeping both his feet headed in the same general direction. He found himself at the rear and he suddenly realized that the preserver, who had been in the lead, had unaccountably dropped back behind him. Tomas, too, was no longer around.

From out of the darkness came the clank and rattle of armor. Alfred saw the danger, saw it clearly in his mind, if not with his eyes. He drew a breath to shout a warning, forgot to watch where he was going. The toe of one foot caught on the heel of his other foot. He pitched forward, came down hard on the rock surface, the force of his impact slamming the breath from his body. His cry became nothing more than a whoosh of air, followed by a twanging sound behind him. An arrow flew over his head, pierced the air where he’d been standing.

Peering ahead, fighting desperately to breathe, Alfred saw Jonathan and Jera, two shapes silhouetted against the light—perfect targets.

“Jonathan!” Jera screamed. The two shapes converged confusingly. A flight of arrows sped at them.

Unconsciousness sought to claim Alfred, to draw him into its comfortable oblivion. He battled it back and managed to gasp out the runes, his subconscious bringing words to lips that had no idea what they were speaking.

A heavy weight crashed on top of Alfred, who wondered dazedly if he’d brought the cavern roof down on them. But he realized, from the smell and the feel of chill flesh and cold armor plate against his skin, that he’d succeeded in performing the magic he’d performed once before. He had killed the dead.

“Jera!” Jonathan’s voice, panic-stricken, disbelieving, rose to a shriek. “Jera!”

The soldier’s corpse had fallen across Alfred’s legs. The Sartan pulled himself out from beneath it. A phantasm floated around him, taking on the living form and shape of the body it had left, before it wafted away into the darkness. Alfred was vaguely aware of footsteps—living footsteps—running swiftly back down the hallway and of the preserver kneeling beside the soldier-corpse, speaking to it imperatively, commanding it to rise.

Alfred had no clear idea in his mind of what to do, where to go. He made it to his feet and peered around in terrified confusion. Grief-choked, ragged sobs drew him forward, into the darkness.

Jonathan knelt on the floor. He held Jera in his arms.

The two had almost reached the prince’s cell. The light of the gas lamp above it streamed over them, shone off the shaft of an arrow, buried deep, lodged in Jera’s right breast. Her eyes were fixed on her husband’s face and, just as Alfred reached them, her lips parted in a sigh that took the last breath from her body.

“She jumped in front of me,” Jonathan cried dazedly. “The arrow was meant for me and ... she jumped in front of me. Jera!” He shook the corpse, as if he were trying to waken a deep sleeper. Her lifeless hand slid to the floor. Her head lolled to one side. The beautiful hair fell over her face, covering it like a shroud.

“Jera!” Jonathan clasped her to his breast.

Alfred could still hear the voice of the preserver, attempting to raise the dead guard.

“But he’ll soon realize that’s futile and summon other guards. Maybe that’s where Tomas, the traitor, went.” Alfred was talking to himself, knew he was talking to himself, but he couldn’t seem to help it. “We have to get away, but where do we go? And where’s Haplo?”

A soft groaning came to him as if in response to the sound of the name, cutting beneath Jonathan’s cries and the preserver’s chants. Alfred looked around hurriedly, saw Haplo lying on the floor near his cell door.

Swift-spoken runes and a graceful weaving of the hands, all done without conscious thought on Alfred’s part, reduced the iron bars of the cell to small piles of rust lined up in a neat row.

Alfred touched Haplo’s neck. He could not find the heartbeat, the life’s pulse had sunk low, and he feared he was too late. Reaching out a gentle, trembling hand, he turned the man’s head to the light. He saw the eyelids flutter. He could feel a soft stirring of warm breath on the skin of the hand that he held near the Patryn’s cracked and parched lips. He was alive, but just barely.

“Haplo!” Alfred leaned near, whispering urgently. “Haplo! Can you hear me!” Watching anxiously, he saw the man’s head nod with a feeble motion. Relief flooded through him. “Haplo! Tell me what happened to you? Is it sickness? A wound? Tell me! I”—Alfred drew a deep breath, but there had really never been any doubt over his decision—“I can heal you—”

“No!” The crusted lips could barely move, but Haplo managed to form the word, managed to summon enough breath to speak it aloud. “I won’t ... owe my life ... Sartan.” He ceased talking, shut his eyes. A spasm convulsed his body and he cried out in agony.

Alfred hadn’t foreseen this, couldn’t think how to handle it. “You wouldn’t owe your life to me! I owe you!” He was babbling, but it was the only thing he could think to do under the circumstance. “You saved my life from the dragon. On Arian—”

Haplo sucked in a breath. He opened his eyes, reached out and gripped Alfred’s robes. “Shut up and ... listen. You can do ... one thing for me ... Sartan. Promise! Swear!”

“I—I swear,” Alfred said, not knowing what else to say. The Patryn was very near death.

Haplo was forced to pause, summon his waning strength. He ran his swollen tongue over lips coated with a strange, black substance. “Don’t let them ... resurrect me. Burn ... my body. Destroy it. Understand.” The eyes opened, gazed intently into Alfred’s. “Understand?”

Slowly, Alfred shook his head. “I can’t let you die.”

“Damn you!” Haplo gasped, his weak hand losing its grasp.

Alfred traced the runes in the air, began his chant. His only question now, the only dread left in his heart was: would his magic work on a Patryn?

Behind him, he heard, like an echo of his own words, the soft phrase, “I won’t let you die!” And he heard the chanting of runes. Alfred, concentrating on his work, paid no attention.

“Damn you!” Haplo cursed him.