OLD PROVINCES, ABARRACH

“AND THEN, FATHER,” said Jera, “the phantasm began to take shape and form—”

“Become solid, Daughter?”

“No.” Jera hesitated, thoughtful, frowning, trying to put her memories into words. “It remained ethereal, translucent. If I tried to touch it, my hand would feel nothing. But yet I could see ... features, details. The insignia he wore on his breastplate, the shape of his nose, battle scars on his arms. Father, I could see the man’s eyes! Yes, his eyes! He looked at me, looked at all of us. And it was as if he’d won a great victory. Then, he ... disappeared.”

Jera spread her hands. So provocative were her words and so eloquent her gesture that Alfred could almost see again the diaphanous figure dwindle and fade like morning mist beneath an ever-shining sun.

“You should have seen,” added Jonathan with his warm, boyish laugh, “the expression on old Pons’s face!”

“Mmmm, yes,” muttered the earl.

Jera flushed delicately. “Husband dear, this matter is really quite serious.”

“I know, darling, I know.” Jonathan struggled to regain his self-composure. “But you have to admit, it was funny ...”

A smile crept over Jera’s lips. “More wine, Papa,” she said, and hastily moved to fill her father’s glass.

When she thought the earl wasn’t watching, Jera shook her head in fond, mock reproof at her husband, who grinned back at her and winked.

The earl saw and wasn’t amused. Alfred had the uncomfortable impression there wasn’t much that went on around him that the earl didn’t see. A dried-up, wizened husk of a man, the earl kept his beady black-eyed gaze constantly darting about the room, then suddenly sent the darts into Alfred.

“I’d like to see you do that spell of yours.” The earl spoke as if Alfred had performed a rather ingenious card trick. The earl leaned forward in his chair, balancing himself on sharp-pointed elbows. “Do it again. I’ll call one of the cadavers. Which one. Daughter, can we afford to spare—”

“I—I couldn’t!” Alfred stammered, becoming more and more flustered as he sought to grope his way through the morass threatening to engulf him. “It was impulse. Act of the ... the moment, you see. I looked up and ... there was that sword c-coming down. The runes ... just popped into my head ... er ... so to speak.”

“And just popped back out again, eh?” The earl jabbed a sharp-boned finger into Alfred’s ribs. Every part of the old man’s body appeared to have been honed on a grindstone.

“So to speak,” returned Alfred faintly.

The earl chuckled and poked him again. Alfred could almost envision truth being sucked out of him like blood whenever that knifelike finger or those knifelike eyes touched him. But what was the truth? Did he truly not know what he’d done? Or was one part of him hiding it from the other, as he’d grown so adept at doing over these many years of being forced to conceal his true identity?

Alfred passed a shaking hand through his thinning hair.

“Father, leave him be.” Jera came to stand at Alfred’s side, placed her hands on his shoulders. “More wine, Sir?”

“No, thank you, Your Grace.” Alfred’s glass stood untouched, untasted. “If you would excuse me, I’m very tired. I’d like to lay down ...”

“Of course, Sir,” said Jonathan. “We’ve been thoughtless, keeping you up well into the dynast’s sleep time after what must have been a terrible cycle for you—”

More than you know, Alfred said to himself sadly, with a shudder. Far more than you know! He rose unsteadily to his feet.

“I’ll show you to your room,” Jera offered.

The faint sound of a bell chimed softly through the gas-lighted darkness. All four in the room hushed, three of them exchanged conscious glances.

“That will be news from the palace,” said the earl, starting to rise on creaking limbs.

“I’ll go,” Jera said. “We daren’t trust the dead.” She left them, disappearing into the shadows.

“You’ll want to hear this, I’m sure, Sir,” said the earl, black eyes glittering. He waved a hand, inviting—or ordering—Alfred to be seated.

Alfred had no choice but to sink back down into the chair, although he was miserably conscious of the fact that he didn’t want to hear whatever news came swiftly and secretly in what, for this world, were the waning hours of the cycle.

The men waited in silence, Jonathan’s face was pale and troubled, the old earl looked crafty and enthused. Alfred stared bleakly, hopelessly at a blank wall.

The earl lived in Old Province, on what had once been a large and affluent estate. Ages ago, the land had been alive, worked by immense numbers of cadavers. The house had overlooked waving stands of kairn grass and tall, blue-flowered lanti trees. Now the house itself had become a cadaver. The lands round it were barren, lifeless seas of ash-mud created by the endless rain.

The earl’s dwelling was not a cavern-formed structure, as were many in Necropolis, but had been built of blocks of stone, reminding Alfred strongly of the castles the Sartan had created during the height of their power in the High Realms of Arianus.

The castle was large, but most of the back rooms had been shut off and abandoned, their upkeep difficult to maintain because the only person who dwelt here was the earl and the cadavers of old servants. But the front part of the house was exceptionally well preserved, compared to other mournful and dilapidated dwellings they had passed during the carriage ride through the Old Provinces.

“Its the ancient runes, you see,” the earl told Alfred, with a sharp glance. “Most people took them off. Couldn’t read them and thought they made the place look old-fashioned. But I left them on, took care of them. And they’ve taken care of me. Kept my house standing when many another’s sunk into dust.”

Alfred could read the runes, could almost feel the strength of the magic upholding the walls over the centuries. But he said nothing, fearful of saying too much.

The lived-in portion of the castle consisted of downstairs utility rooms: a kitchen, servants’ quarters, pantry, front and back entry-ways, and a laboratory where the earl conducted his experiments in attempting to bring life back to the soil of the Old Provinces. The two levels above were divided into comfortable family living quarters: bedchambers, guest rooms, drawing room, dining area.

A dynast clock[9] headed for its bedchamber, indicating the current time. Alfred thought longingly of bed, sleep, blessed oblivion, if only for a few hours before returning to this waking nightmare.

He must have actually dozed off, because when a door opened, he experienced the unpleasant tingling sensation of being awakened from a nap he had never meant to take. Blinking, he focused bleary eyes on Jera and a man wrapped in a black cloak, emerging from a doorway at the far end of the room.

“I thought you should hear this news from Tomas himself, in case you had any questions,” said Jera.

Alfred knew, then, that the news was bad and he let his head sink into his hand. How much more could he take?

“The prince and the stranger with the rune-covered skin are both dead,” said Tomas in a low voice. He stepped into the light, pulled the cowl from off his head. He was a young man, near Jonathan’s age. His robes were dirty, fouled with mud as if he had ridden hard and fast. “The dynast executed both of them this very night in the palace gaming room.”

“Were you present? Did you see it happen?” the earl demanded, sharp-hewn face jutting forward, seeming to slice the air in its eagerness.

“No, but I talked to a dead guard whose duty it was to take the bodies to the catacombs. It told me that the preserver was being set to work to maintain both men.”

“The dead told you!” The old man sneered. “You can’t trust the dead.”

“I am well aware of that, Milord. I pretended that I didn’t know the dynast had canceled his rune-bone game and blundered into the gaming room. The cadavers were cleaning up a great pool of blood—fresh blood. A blood-covered spear, its tip notched, lay nearby. There can be little doubt. The men are dead.”

Jera shook her head, sighed. “Poor prince. Poor young man, so. handsome, honorable. But one’s ill fortune can be another’s good luck, as they say.”

“Yes,” said the old man fiercely, eagerly. “Our luck!”

“All we need do is rescue the cadavers. The prince and your friend’s.” Jera turned briskly to Alfred. “It will be dangerous, of course, but—my dear sir,” she said in sudden consternation, “are you all right? Jonathan, bring him a glass of stalagma.”

Alfred sat staring at her, unable to move, unable to think in any rational manner. Words burst forth from him. He rose, clumsy and stumbling, to his feet. “Haplo, the prince—dead. Murdered. My own people. Killing wantonly. And you—you callous ... Treating death as if it were nothing more than a mild inconvenience, a nuisance, like a cold in the head!”

“Here, drink this.” Jonathan held out a glass of a foul-smelling liquor. “You should have eaten more at dinner—”

“Dinner!” Alfred cried hoarsely. He knocked the glass away, backed up until he bumped into a wall and could go no farther. “The lives of two people have been torn from them and you can talk only of eating more dinner! Of ... of recovering their ... their bodies!”

“Sir, I assure you. The corpses will be well treated.” This from Tomas, the stranger. “I know the late-cycle preserver, personally. He is highly skilled in this art. You will note little change in your friend—”

“Little change!” Alfred ran his trembling hand over his bald head. “It is death that gives life its meaning. Death, the great equalizer. Man, woman, peasant, king, rich, poor: all of us fellow travelers to our journey’s end. Life is sacred, precious, a thing to value, to cherish, not to be taken lightly or wantonly. You have lost all respect for death and thereby all respect for life. Stealing a man’s life is no more a crime to you than ... than stealing his money!”

“Crime!” countered Jera. “You talk of crime? You were the one who committed the crime! You destroyed the body, sent the phantasm into oblivion where it will chafe forever, bereft of any form or shape.”

“It had form, it had shape!” Alfred cried. “You saw it! The man was finally free!” He paused, confounded by what he’d said.

“Free?” Jera stared at him in bewilderment. “Free to do what? Free to go where?”

Alfred flushed hotly, shivered with chills. The Sartan, demigods. Capable of forging worlds from one that was doomed. Capable of creation. But creation had been brought about by destruction. Our magic led the way to necromancy. This next step was inevitable. From controlling life, to controlling death.

Yet why is that so terrible? Why does every fiber of my being revolt against this practice?

He saw, once again, the mausoleum back on Arianus, the bodies of his friends lying in their tombs. He’d felt a sadness when he had visited them the last time before he’d left Arianus. His sorrow was not so much for them, he realized, as for himself. Left alone.

He recalled, as well, the deaths of his parents in the Labyrinth ...

No, Alfred remembered confusedly. That had been Haplo’s parents. But he’d felt the tearing grief, the raging anger, the terrible fear. ... Again, for himself. For Haplo, that is. Left alone. The mangled bodies who had fought and struggled had found peace at last. Death had taught Haplo to hate, hate the enemy who had locked his parents inside the prison that had killed them. But, although Haplo might not know it himself, death had taught him other lessons, as well.

And now Haplo was dead. And I’d almost begun to think there was a chance that he ...

A whine broke in on Alfred’s thoughts. The swipe of a tongue, cold and wet on his skin, made him jump.

A black, nondescript dog gazed up at him worriedly, cocked its head to one side. It raised a paw, placed it on Alfred’s knee. Liquid brown eyes offered consolation for trouble felt, if not understood.

Alfred stared at the dog, then, recovering from his initial shock, he threw his arms around the animal’s neck. He could almost have wept.

The dog had been prepared to offer sympathy, but such rough familiarity was apparently not to be tolerated. It wriggled out of Alfred’s grasp, regarded the man in puzzlement.

Why all the fuss? it seemed to say. I’m only obeying orders.

Watch him. Haplo’s final command.

“G-good boy,” Alfred said, reaching out gingerly to pat the furry black head.

The dog submitted to the caress, indicating, with a dignified air, that head patting was acceptable and the relationship might advance to ear scratching, but a line had to be drawn somewhere and it hoped that Alfred understood.

Alfred did understand.

“Haplo’s not dead! He’s alive!” he cried.

Looking around, he saw everyone in the room staring at him.

“How did you do that?” Jera’s face was livid, her lips white. “The beast’s corpse was destroyed! We saw it!”

“Tell me, Daughter! What are you talking about?” her father demanded irascibly.

“That ... that dog, Father! It was the one the guard threw into the mud pit!”

“Are you sure? Maybe it resembles—”

“Of course I’m sure, Father! Look at Alfred. He knows the dog! And the dog knows him!”

“Another trick. How did you manage this one?” the earl asked. “What marvelous magic is this? If you can restore cadavers that have been destroyed—”

“I told you, Father!” Jera gasped, hardly able to speak for awe. “The prophecy!”

Silence. Jonathan gazed at Alfred with the undisguised and fascinated wonder of a child. The earl, his daughter, and the stranger regarded the Sartan with shrewd, thoughtful eyes, perhaps plotting how best they could make use of him.

“No trick! Not me! I didn’t do anything,” Alfred protested. “It wasn’t my magic that brought the dog back. It’s Haplo’s—”

“Your friend? But, I assure you, sir, he’s dead,” said Jonathan, with a glance at his wife that said plainly, Poor man’s gone mad.”

“No, no, he’s not dead. Your friend, here, must be mistaken. You didn’t actually see the body, did you?” Alfred asked.

“I didn’t. But the blood, the spear—”

“I tell you,” Alfred insisted, “that the dog would not be here if Haplo were dead. I can’t explain how I know, because I am not even certain my theory about the animal is the correct one. But I do know this. It would take more than a spear to kill my ... er ... friend. His magic is powerful, very powerful.”

“Well, well. There’s no use arguing over it. Either he’s alive or he isn’t. All the more reason for us to get him, or what’s left of him, out of the dynast’s clutches,” said the earl. He turned to Tomas. “And, now, sir, when will the resurrection on the prince be performed?”

“Three cycles hence, according to my source, Milord.”

“That gives us time,” Jera said, twining her fingers together, her expression thoughtful. “Time to plan. And time to get a message to his people. When Prince Edmund doesn’t return, they will guess what has happened. They must be warned not to do anything until we’re ready.”

“Ready? Ready for what?” asked Alfred, perplexed.

“War,” said Jera.

War. Sartan fighting Sartan. In all the centuries of Sartan history, there had never been such a tragedy. We sundered a world to save it from conquest by our enemy and we succeeded. We won a great victory.

And lost.