Seventh Decimate

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  He released the woman. Holding up his hands, he let the men see that he did not reach for his weapons.

  Glowering, they raised her to her feet, escorted her away.

  Alone again, Prince Bifalt trembled with anger. He sloshed wine as he drank once more. Then he surged to his feet.

  “Wastrels!” he howled through the din of dancing feet, the squall of music. “Your lives are ease! You have no cares! You feast in lifeless deserts! You guzzle ale and wine where there is no water! You give welcome, but you have no hearts!

  “My people will be slaughtered!”

  At that moment, a hand touched Prince Bifalt’s shoulder. “Enough, Prince,” said Suti al-Suri. “Our wine strong for you.” His tone was inexplicably mild. “You sleep.”

  As if the chief scout’s words—or his touch—were an enchantment, the King of Belleger’s eldest son slumped into his own darkness.

  PART FOUR

  Sleeping, the Prince was not aware of time. He understood only darkness and complete rest in a place far from his doubts and fears. Strong arms of slumber cradled him, comfortable and contented. The fire in his heart had burned itself out, or had been quenched. He had no desire to wake.

  Eventually, however, he was touched by the sensation that unnatural quantities of time had slipped away. Hour and hours; perhaps days. At some point, he would need to rouse himself. Of course. He could not avoid it. But while he slept, he craved only sleep.

  Nothing except impossible responsibilities waited for him in the conscious world.

  Nevertheless, comfort and contentment left him. Without his consent, he began to dream: a formless something without shape or meaning. At first, it was nothing more than lurid streaks of color leaping like flames. Then, slowly, he realized that he was dreaming of fire. A fire for cooking? A bonfire? The inferno of heat in the heart of a forge—or in his own heart? He did not care. It was only a dream. It had no significance until he began to believe that he was being roasted alive.

  Still, he did not awaken. He fretted where he lay, jerked his head from side to side, batted his hands against a hard surface like the wall of a prison. Grinding his teeth, he groaned. But he remained asleep, dreaming of incineration despite his efforts to escape.

  Somehow, he clung to the mirage of himself until a great voice shook his bones. It shouted like thunder; like the breaking of the world.

  NOW are you ready?

  Burning, he began to break free.

  He could not open his eyes. He had been gone too long, and the sun was too bright. But he felt the rough bed where he lay and knew it was stone, rutted and pitted: old stone swept bare of dust and sand and life. He sweated under the fierce weight of heat, and smelled the scent of baked sand, and knew he was in the desert. He heard nothing except the scraping of distant breezes, the subtle spill of grit, and knew he was alone. Without looking, he knew Elgart and Klamath had been taken from him.

  Finally, he understood that the caravan was gone. He had been left to die.

  So much for promises of welcome. He had been drugged and abandoned because he had revealed his desire to rid Belleger of Amika. He had said too much about sorcerers. He had given Set Ungabwey reason to consider him dangerous—or the caravan master had received instructions from his own masters—or he and those powers had a standing agreement concerning men like the Prince—

  —or he was still being challenged. Still being asked to declare some kind of allegiance to men who wanted to own him.

  On cruel stone under the ferocious sun, a terrible clarity came to Prince Bifalt. Were the sorcerers who shouted in his thoughts men of power? Well and good. Let them wield as many Decimates as they had. Let them scorn the obstacles of distance and death. He, too, had power. He could lie where he was and let the sun have him. If his foes had some compelling need for his service, he could make them come to him. And if they did not, he could foil their demands by the simple expedient of refusing to move.

  Unfortunately, clarity was indeed terrible. It exposed too much. When he had convinced himself that he could choose his own death, he discovered he was unable or unwilling to take that course. His foes had another power, one they did not need to wield: the power to rescue or destroy his homeland. Belleger’s plight was a goad in his mind. It lashed his every thought. And he could easily imagine that his antagonists might give up on him. He was too stubborn. If they wanted a Bellegerin, they could find one more pliable. To claim King Abbator’s eldest son, they were willing to exert themselves—but to what extent? Prince Bifalt could not guess. He was sure only that if he exhausted their patience, he would be allowed to die wherever he pleased. Then Belleger would be lost.

  The goad was set. He could not turn his back on his father, or on his people. Although the truth galled him utterly, he could not set down his burdens. His own life was a mere feather in the scales, too light to outweigh Belleger’s need. He knew too well what sorcerers could do to their victims.

  Gritting his teeth, he rubbed his eyes to remove sleep and sand. With a thrust of his leg, he rolled himself onto his side, then onto his chest. When he had worked his arms under him, scraping them painfully on the stone, he pushed his torso upright until he was able to kneel. Finally, he opened his eyes.

  He needed a long moment to blink away the blur of dryness and heat. Then he was able to see.

  The vista around him was exactly the one he had expected and feared. The shape of the caravan track was not quite as he remembered it: it curved at different angles and different distances. But the stone of the track itself was the same, stripped bare by ancient forces, rutted by the passage of innumerable wagons, chipped and gouged by decades or centuries of iron-shod hooves. The dunes piling high on both sides, east and west, were unchanged, as forbidding as barricades. The breezes playing on their crests brought no relief to the valleys. And the sun— It felt hot enough to forge rifle barrels. The sky was dulled to a grey brown by the haze of heat.

  No sign remained to suggest that Set Ungabwey’s train had been here. From south to north, every span of the track was bare of refuse, fire-blackened stones, scattered ashes. The caravan had carried away or destroyed even its own waste. No visible watcher regarded Prince Bifalt’s kneeling form.

  And his weapons had been taken from him. He did not have as much as a dagger. Also his water flask was gone, his satchel, his bedroll. He had been left with nothing to cover his head.

  Was he ready now? Oh, yes. He was prepared to make promises that he did not intend to keep. He would not call it dishonorable to break his word. Men who had claimed and abused him so casually were not worthy of honor.

  Sickened as much by revulsion as by thirst and weakness, he forced himself to his feet. He did not doubt he would be heard.

  At first, his throat was too dry for sound. His tongue and lips were too raw to form words. But he was Prince Bifalt, King Abbator’s eldest son. He made himself able to speak.

  “I surrender,” he confessed. Even to himself, his thin wheeze was barely audible. “I am ready. Tell me why you want me. I will hear you. I will do what I can.” For his own sake, he required that much honesty. “I am ready now.”

  Then he sank back to his knees, bowed his head, and composed himself to wait for prostration or rescue.

  He had sprawled on his face without realizing it when he heard Elgart’s voice in the distance.

  “Highness!” called the guardsman. “They said you live, but I did not believe—”

  A heavy slide of sand covered Elgart’s words. Then came the hard clop of hooves cantering across the track. Confused by heat and thirst, the Prince could not tell whether they approached from east or west.

  Raising his head by an act of will, he saw a blur that may have been a familiar shape on horseback. The rider appeared to lead a second mount by its reins.

  “Highness!” repeated the guardsman. In a rush, he dismounted. By main force, he turne
d the Prince, lifted the Prince’s head. Squinting, Prince Bifalt saw a bulging leather flask in front of him. It smelled like water.

  With trembling hands, he took the flask. With Elgart’s help, he brought it to his mouth and drank sweet life.

  While the Prince quenched the misery of his tongue and throat, and sudden sweat beaded on his brow, Elgart flapped a large square of silk, making a brief breeze, then draped the cloth over Prince Bifalt’s head. Water and shade blessed the King’s son. They were bliss.

  Elgart sat in front of his commander, still supporting the flask. “I have food, Highness.” He spoke as if he addressed a man to whom simple words might exceed comprehension. “I will bring it when you can sit without help.”

  After a pause, he added, “Your surrender was heard. They sent me to bring you. To the Last Repository.”

  The Prince avoided his companion’s eyes. He could not endure their probing. Even simple words were not simple enough. He did not know how to interpret them.

  The last? he wondered. Then he forgot about it.

  Instead, he asked the first attainable question in his head. “Klamath?”

  “He rides to the King.” Carefully, the scarred rifleman urged Prince Bifalt to sit. “He was given a message. He will tell the King your quest has succeeded. In your name, he will ask the King to do nothing against Amika until you return. Belleger will be protected.” Elgart’s shrug suggested helplessness. “I do not understand it. But I heard it. I saw Klamath ride away.”

  “Across this desert?” croaked the Prince.

  “He was promised an easy path. He had a map. And he was glad to obey. He trusted what he was told.” Sourly, Elgart remarked, “He trusts too easily. It is his nature.”

  Prince Bifalt nodded. He felt unable to stop nodding. He had agreed to everything. And Klamath had said, We have too many enemies. And I have killed too many of them. I have seen too many Bellegerins die. Naturally, the man was glad to carry a message that seemed to imply the war might end.

  Now the Prince was able to ask, “You found it? The library?”

  Elgart removed his hands, assured himself the Prince was able to remain sitting. Then he rose to his feet. “Food, Highness. You are too weak to ride.”

  When he left, he seemed to vanish in the heat.

  Almost at once, however, he returned. Seated again, he unwrapped a bundle protected in oiled canvas. Squinting, Prince Bifalt saw grapes, apricots, and bread.

  The bread smelled fresh-baked. The fruits filled his mouth with juice and flavor when he bit into them. A sensation like singing ran through him. He had believed himself capable of choosing to end his life. He still believed it. Certainly, he had faced death in battle without flinching. But he had never wished to die. He did not wish it now. He wanted his false surrender to shift the balance between Belleger and Amika.

  Water and food gave him the strength to move his limbs. His mind began to resume some of its functions. He ate until he judged that he had satisfied his immediate needs. Sipping water now rather than gulping it, he met Elgart’s gaze.

  “You found it?” Speech still required effort. His voice quavered as if he were on the verge of tears. “The library? The Repository?”

  In the baking heat, the old scar dividing Elgart’s features seemed unnaturally pale. Complex emotions were written there. Relief? Alarm? They filled his gaze, confusing the Prince. Elgart had found him alive. What disturbed the guardsman now?

  He shook his head. “No, Highness.” He sounded uncharacteristically cautious. “We did not find it. We were taken to it. It was the caravan’s destination. If you had not done something to offend the caravan master— Or if you had not interrupted the dancing with your outrage—”

  Prince Bifalt remembered. He had accused Set Ungabwey of contributing to Belleger’s destruction. He had roared his anger and despair at the dancers around the bonfire. No doubt Master Ungabwey felt justified—

  Grimacing, Elgart stopped himself. Instead of continuing, he changed his explanation.

  “Klamath and I were drugged. You must have been. So were we. When we awoke, the train had already made camp at the gates of a castle. It looked high as a mountain, built like a mountain until it reached the sky. We—”

  “Wait,” commanded the Prince. His thoughts were sluggish. They did not move quickly enough to keep up with Elgart. “If you did not see the road, how did you find me?”

  Elgart looked away. “Like Klamath, I was given a map. An easy path through the dunes. Easy for horses. A ride of a few hours, no more. But too narrow for wagons. The caravan could not have gone that way.”

  “Wait,” repeated Prince Bifalt. He needed to understand what he was hearing. “You saw Klamath ride away? He left before you?” And now Elgart sounded unsure of himself? “Why?”

  Apparently, his arrival to rescue the Prince had troubling implications.

  Elgart studied the bare roadway. “The dawn after our drugged sleep,” he said reluctantly. “After the caravan reached the library. Klamath was sent to the King. He went at once. The caravan left the next day. After that, I was kept in the castle. Treated well enough. Food, ale, wine. Good quarters. And nothing else for two more days. Nothing until I was told to retrieve you.”

  Abruptly, the guardsman faced Prince Bifalt, exposing his chagrin. His shame.

  “Highness, I was frantic. I had failed you. I feared you were dead. Killed while Klamath and I were kept alive. I searched the train before it moved on. Then I made demands of the sorcerers—or of their servants—or of other visitors. I cursed and threatened. I had my rifle. I could have killed some of them. But I was ignored. Treated well, yes. Hells, Highness! They were kind to me. All my needs were met. But I was not answered. I could not find you. And I was not allowed outside the castle again. Until this morning.

  “Then a man spoke to me. Magister Avail, he called himself. He told me to bring you. He said you were ready. That is the word, is it not? Ready?” When Prince Bifalt nodded, Elgart continued. “He gave me a map with my path marked.

  “I cursed him. I knew you were dead. The caravan master betrayed you. He betrayed all of us. No man could survive so long in the desert. But that sorcerer did not appear to understand me. Highness, he did not appear to hear me. He only repeated that you were ready. He told me to bring you.

  “A servant gave me food and horses. He gave me your weapons. I rode out from the gates. When I followed the path, I found you.”

  Again Elgart looked away. “The Magisters have us. There is no escape. We must return to the castle. If we do not, we will die. The map ends here. I have too little water and food to wander among the dunes.

  “Highness—” His voice broke for a moment. “They sent me to ensure your surrender. To make you serve them. I did not know what to do, so I obeyed. If you were alive, I had to find you.”

  Prince Bifalt had nothing to say. No words at all. He had survived, asleep in the desert—for days? For days? It was impossible.

  Except by sorcery.

  Theurgists had heard his surrender. Apparently, they had accepted it. Now he was at their mercy.

  He could not pretend that he was surprised.

  But he had been at their mercy from the first, a toy for them to play with. He understood Elgart. They were both soldiers. Under the skin, they were brothers. In Elgart’s place, he would have done what the guardsman did.

  Instead of answering directly, he asked, “Do you know how long you slept?”

  Elgart frowned. “Highness?”

  “You and Klamath,” insisted the Prince. “From the night of dancing to the Repository gates, how many days? Do you know? If your wine was drugged? Do you know how far the train traveled while you were asleep?”

  Perplexed, the man shook his head. “I slept. When I woke up, I felt well. I thought it was just a day. How could it be more? But now I am not certain. It could have b
een one day or a dozen.”

  Prince Bifalt sighed. “Yet you did not starve while you slept, or die of thirst. The drug did not harm you. Think what that means. If you could not account for your own condition, how could you know mine? It is a great drug, Elgart. Great and terrible. It must have preserved my life until you were sent for me.

  “The men who supplied it knew what it could do. You did not.”

  He meant, What else could you have done? Do not doubt yourself. Blame the sorcerers. They use our lives like counters in a game. We are pawns until we know what they want.

  By increments, Elgart’s look of dismay became a more familiar sharpness. “I think, Highness,” he said slowly, “I begin to understand why you want to rid the world of sorcery. It makes every man who does not have it helpless. And those who have it become careless of other lives.”

  The Prince nodded to himself. Without sorcery, he thought, we would be dead—and Belleger would be defenseless. If these Magisters are allied with Amika—if they want to harm Belleger—why have they chosen me? Why have they kept me alive?

  Nothing that had been done to or for him made any sense. To the Magisters, he was only a game piece. They had no reason to care if he did not understand the game.

  He took more water. He returned the flask to his companion. Then he extended his hand.

  Elgart’s grasp helped him to his feet. When the Prince was able to stand, however, the guardsman hesitated. Awkward again, avoiding his commander’s gaze, he asked, “Highness? What will you do? They—the sorcerers—they believe you have surrendered. Will you obey? Will you turn against Belleger? If they demand it?”

  Prince Bifalt braced himself on Elgart’s shoulder. The veteran was all he had left of his homeland. Even Klamath was gone beyond his reach. He made the same promises he would have made to his father.

  “I cannot guess what they want with me. They are a mystery. A curse. I understand nothing except my task. I will search for Marrow’s book. If I find it, we will contrive an escape. If I do not, I will learn what they think my surrender means. I will try to gain their trust. Perhaps, then, they will give me the book.