Seventh Decimate

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  When he had filled a tray amid the noise and steam of the kitchen, he took a chair at a far table and composed himself to eat. Since he had no obvious alternative, he concentrated on continuing to rebuild his strength.

  —not a man at all—

  Hells! That traitorous sorcerer had cursed him.

  He ate quickly, like a soldier before a battle. But he was not done when his enemy entered the refectory. At once, the Amikan strode past the ends of the tables toward him.

  Prince Bifalt’s nerves sprang taut. He gripped the hilt of his saber, loosened it in its scabbard; confirmed that his rifle hung free on his shoulder. Then, by an act of will, he placed both hands flat on the table where they were clearly visible. Poised in every muscle, he watched his foe’s approach.

  Passing between the chairs, the Amikan came to stand across the table from him. The man’s face was rigidly blank as he folded his arms behind him. With a disturbing lack of inflection, he said, “Bellegerin.”

  Feigning ease, the Prince leaned back in his chair. While he held his enemy’s gaze, he watched the man’s arms obliquely, alert to sudden movements. In an insolent drawl, he demanded, “Why do you come to me, Amikan?”

  The man’s shrug sent a quiver of expectation through the Prince. But the Amikan did not shift his arms. His reply betrayed only a hint of sarcasm. “Apparently, I am expected to do penance for your attack on me. Among sorcerers, absurdity passes for reason. But I am their guest. I cannot refuse. I must show as much willingness as I am able to stomach. It is not much, but I do what I can.

  “They have asked me to take you to—” He faltered for an instant, then shrugged again. “I consider him the Repository’s overlord. He is the librarian.”

  Prince Bifalt scowled to conceal the leaping of his heart. With his hands still flat on the table, he rose from his chair. “Magister Rummage,” he said distinctly, “is insane. I do not want more broken bones. Like you, I will stomach what I can. I accept your offer.”

  The Amikan raised an eyebrow. He appeared surprised by the Prince’s manner. Perhaps he had expected Prince Bifalt to refuse. Perhaps he wanted that. A harsh “No” would have spared him another moment in the presence of a Bellegerin. It would certainly have spared him the pretense of courtesy. But then he shrugged; nodded. Turning his back—a tempting target—he moved away.

  The Prince allowed himself a feral grin as he followed. The librarian, he thought. The keeper of the books. He will answer me.

  From that moment on, Prince Bifalt paid close attention to his route through the keep. He foresaw a need to find his own way to and from the librarian—and then to the great entry hall and the stables. At the same time, however, he remained acutely conscious of the Amikan a step ahead of him. There was too much he did not understand. After two turnings and a stair apparently high enough to reach the level of the outer ramparts, a sudden thought occurred to him: a way to learn more about where he stood in the Last Repository.

  Hoping to startle an honest reply from his guide, he asked, “Were you summoned?”

  His enemy paused on the stair, looked back at him over his shoulder. “Summoned? No. Sent. Who would summon me? King Smegin commanded me to this duty.” His lack of inflection had a tinge of fatality. “If I had known I would be forced to contend with a Bellegerin butcher, I would have refused the task.”

  Provoked by that word, butcher, Prince Bifalt almost cried out, Why? Why did King Smegin send his man here when the seventh Decimate had already ensured Belleger’s destruction? And why did the Amikan call Bellegerins butchers? The butchery was all on Amika’s side. King Smegin’s men killed their own wounded. They used their own children to bait an ambush. They tried to hamstring oxen. And King Fastule had savaged Queen Malorie with the Decimate of pestilence when she wed Fastule’s brother.

  But the Prince bit back everything that was in his heart. He refused to reveal so much of himself to his foe. This challenge was one of taunts, not of truth.

  Heavy with sarcasm, he retorted, “You enjoy calling us butchers. I am surprised you can justify yourself so easily.”

  Finally, anger flashed in the Amikan’s eyes. Baring his teeth, he came down a step, although he kept his arms locked behind him. “I call you butchers,” he snarled, “because that is what you are. You have rifles, but they are not enough for you. You have come here seeking some more crushing advantage. Naturally, my people call you butchers.”

  Then he regained his self-possession. More softly, he sneered, “When our children misbehave, their parents warn them that they will be taken by Bellegerins. The children prefer beatings. Bellegerin is the worst threat they know.

  “We fight only to defend ourselves. We were prosperous before Belleger tried to take what is ours. We will be prosperous again when Belleger no longer exists.”

  A shout rose in Prince Bifalt, but he stopped it between his teeth. This accusation had the sound of truth, and it shocked him. Did Amika fight only to defend itself? That was a lie. But the idea that Amikan parents used the name of their enemy to frighten their children—! The Prince had not expected so much honesty. He was not prepared for it.

  And he had no answer.

  Biting the inside of his cheek, he kept silent. His hands he clasped across his chest to demonstrate that he did not reach for his weapons. What else could he do? To frighten their children? He wanted to kill the Amikan at once. Or try to. If he were fast enough, he might succeed before Magister Rummage broke him. But then his quest would end in blood and folly. All hope for his people would be gone.

  His foe did not deign to glance at him again. Turning away, the man resumed leading King Abbator’s son up the stairs and across the halls of the castle. Their passage gave Prince Bifalt time to calm his breathing and steady his mind—to set aside the impact of what the Amikan had said—before they reached their destination.

  Abruptly, they came to an entryway without doors or attendants. Beyond the threshold lay a chamber twice the size of the Prince’s quarters. It was brightly lit, but not by cressets or lamps. Across the angled ceiling, a row of clerestory windows filled the space with midmorning sunlight; and along one wall, more windows with their shutters open provided a view of the keep’s ramparts. After days in its closed depths, the effect of so much sunshine blurred Prince Bifalt’s vision.

  Blinking, he studied the chamber.

  Its only furnishings were a long trestle table like those in the refectory, more than a dozen tall stools scattered between him and the table, and opposite them—behind the table—a massive armchair that looked too heavy to shift. Irregular piles of books and scrolls covered the table, some ten or more volumes high, others spilled here and there as if they had been tossed aside. In no apparent order, sheaves of papers bound together by strings joined tomes with elegantly tooled leather bindings. Books the size of a man’s hand were mixed with folios that could not have been opened by anyone with short arms.

  In the armchair, only his head and shoulders visible over the disarray of texts, sat an old man with long, flowing hair and a heavy beard, both as white as the opaque film that filled his eyes. He was as blind as blank paper.

  “Bellegerin,” announced the Amikan flatly, “here is the librarian of the Last Repository. He is Magister Marrow.”

  Without another word, the man turned and left the chamber.

  Staring, Prince Bifalt forgot his enemy. He forgot courtesy. Diplomacy was gone from his head. “Marrow?” he demanded unsteadily. “Hexin Marrow?”

  “Prince Bifalt.” The blind man faced his visitor as if he knew exactly where the Prince stood. “You are here at last. And very welcome.” His voice held a complex mixture of timbres, some amiable and soothing, others irascible, ready for anger. His blindness and the beard hiding his mouth made his expression unreadable. “Hexin Marrow was my grandfather six generations removed. And no librarian. Too busy researching and writing. I am Sirjane Marrow
. I tend his legacy. Among other tasks.

  “Take a stool. Rest your nerves. I can feel your fears from here. Your legs will start to tremble soon.”

  The sorcerer was right. Every muscle in Prince Bifalt’s body was stretched tight. Sirjane Marrow was the keeper of the books: the door to Belleger’s future, for good or evil. Scrambling to recover his scattered wits, the Prince seated himself. Fortunately, the stool was tall enough to let him keep his gaze fixed on the librarian. He could not stop staring.

  No inhabitant of the castle had called him by his name.

  Nodding at the Prince’s compliance, Magister Marrow said in a neutral tone, “You wanted to speak with me.”

  Prince Bifalt took hold of his confusion. Caution, he reminded himself. Reticence. He was facing a man who could erase him from life with a word. A man who had kept him alive in order to manipulate him. A man who did not merit trust. The Prince needed a counselor’s skills here, not a soldier’s. He did not want to repeat the mistake he had made in Set Ungabwey’s carriage.

  But he had little subterfuge in his nature. He could only be who he was.

  Doing his best, he replied, “I believed, Magister, you wanted to speak with me.”

  He meant, Tell me, old man. What do you want?

  “Oh, I do, I do,” said the librarian, flapping a hand dismissively. “But we have plenty of time. You could have refused. We gave you opportunities. Why did you come?”

  Remembering the voice he had heard only in his mind, Prince Bifalt mustered an illusion of calm. “Your summons was urgent.”

  Magister Marrow nodded. “It was. It is. As is your purpose. We can wait.”

  His manner suggested that he was not prepared to wait much longer.

  The Prince glared. “King Abbator of Belleger, my father, gave me a quest. I strive to complete it.”

  “As you should.” The sorcerer managed to sound simultaneously relaxed and impatient. “It is your duty.

  “What is it?”

  The King’s son tried again. “I could explain more clearly if I knew why you summoned me.”

  And why me? Why not some other Bellegerin? A former Magister with a trained mind? A counselor with more subtlety?

  Again, Magister Marrow flapped a hand. “Nonsense. You are our guest. We have a reputation for hospitality. Your needs take precedence. We will try to satisfy you. Later, we will decide whether you can satisfy us.”

  That was a challenge Prince Bifalt could not refuse. Taking his courage in both hands, he answered bluntly, “Hexin Marrow’s Seventh Decimate. I need it. If I can, I need to use it.”

  Although Magister Marrow raised his eyebrows, he did not sound surprised. “A trivial request. I expected something greater. Something to change the world, a man as indignant as you are.

  “I will show you the book, of course. Nothing could be simpler. Why do you need it?”

  The Prince felt that he was taking a great risk. “Belleger will die without it.”

  “Is that all?” The theurgist’s tone suggested disappointment. “I should have guessed.” Then he said more briskly, “But of course, of course. Come with me, Prince. Until now, you have been immured. You have not seen the library.”

  Without difficulty, he slid his chair aside and rose to his feet.

  He was taller than Prince Bifalt had supposed, at least a head taller than the Prince himself. In outward appearance, only his beard and blindness distinguished him from Magister Avail and Magister Rummage: his raiment and sandals were the same as theirs. Where the plump sorcerer took his ease, however, and the hunchback was goaded by haste or violence, Magister Marrow emanated authority.

  Weaving his way between the stools, he strode from the chamber.

  Prince Bifalt hurried to follow. The troubled thudding of his heart insisted that the librarian had acceded too readily. Magister Marrow had motives other than hospitality. Did he trust his guest’s—his victim’s—surrender? The Prince did not believe it.

  Later, we will decide whether you can satisfy us. That implied a test of some kind. Yet another challenge.

  Had the monk who had taken him to the infirmary betrayed him? Had Elgart revealed too much to Amandis? Did the Magisters here know he loathed sorcery? Did they know he yearned for Amika’s absolute defeat?

  As he pursued the librarian through several passages to a wide flight of stairs reaching high into the keep, Prince Bifalt’s resolve hardened. Was he being tested? He could devise tests of his own. Even in battle, he was not a man who outwitted his opponents. But he had learned how to probe them—and to take advantage of what he discovered.

  For the first time, he wondered whether the seventh Decimate could be used to deprive the Repository’s Magisters themselves of sorcery.

  An exciting prospect. The perfect punishment for what had been done to him; for what theurgy and arrogance had done to his world. Nevertheless, he pushed it out of his mind. It was a mirage. Despite Magister Marrow’s assurances, he doubted that he would be given the book. Sorcerers did not teach their secrets to the ungifted. Men like the librarian treasured their superiority. And if the Prince held Seventh Decimate in his hands, he might not be able to read it. The peoples of the world spoke too many incomprehensible languages. Marrow’s text might be written in a foreign tongue.

  And even if he could read the book, he might not be able to use it. He had no gift for sorcery.

  His mission required patience.

  Ahead of him, the librarian ascended the stair with an ease that belied his age. The Prince trotted upward until he climbed at the blind man’s side. Then he attempted a test.

  Abruptly, he stated, “One of your guests is Amikan.”

  He meant, At least one. And he is not the first.

  “Ah, yes.” Magister Marrow sounded unaccountably cheerful. “Commander Forguile. He leads the Amikan monarch’s honor guard.

  “His conduct is better than yours.”

  Prince Bifalt missed a step. Swearing to himself, he recovered. “Why is he here?”

  “Ask him,” returned the sorcerer.

  “He will not tell me.” Of that, the Prince was certain. Commander Forguile had already answered the question without revealing anything.

  The librarian did not pause in his ascent. “Would you tell him? If he asked you?”

  Hells, the Prince thought. “No. He is my enemy.”

  “Then,” concluded Magister Marrow, “you have no cause for complaint.”

  Prince Bifalt stared. Vexation hissed between his teeth. “Who complained? I did not. I asked you why he is here. I did ask him. He gave me no real answer.” We will be prosperous again when Belleger no longer exists. “If you will not tell me, I will put my question another way.

  “How many of his kind have come before me?”

  Magister Marrow seemed to chuckle privately, playing a game he enjoyed. “Ask him.”

  The Prince gripped the hilt of his saber with one hand. With the other, he clasped the shoulder strap of his rifle. The librarian was mocking him. He knew that; but he had no answer for it. Frustrated again—endlessly frustrated—he concentrated on the stairs.

  Only the book, he told himself. Only the book matters. When he had it—when he had taken it to Belleger—he would have time to think about ways to repay the affront of his summons.

  Finally, he and his guide reached the head of the stair. The air at this level seemed thin: he had difficulty drawing enough into his lungs. Sweat moistened his brow. In contrast, the old sorcerer breathed easily, and all his movements were strong, as if he had limitless stamina.

  Sure of his way despite his blindness, Magister Marrow led the Prince around a curved wall to a formal entryway with obscure symbols engraved above its arch. Following the librarian, Prince Bifalt entered the library itself.

  They stood on the floor of one of the immense circles or wheels
he had studied as he and Elgart had approached the Repository. The floor was round and open, a sheet of stone polished smooth by centuries of use, and so wide that it surely occupied much of its wheel. Still, there was room near the walls for at least twenty of the castle’s familiar trestle tables, all supplied with a number of chairs, and some occupied by men and women. Either alone or in small groups, these people pored over books. Taken together, they were a motley collection of the diverse races and styles Prince Bifalt had seen in the refectory. Among them were a few monks, and fewer savages like the shaman. Most of the rest were more elegantly or elaborately clad. However, they included several men and women wearing the plain robes of sorcerers.

  A handful of the students or scholars raised their heads when Magister Marrow and the Prince entered. The others remained bent over their interests.

  The volumes they studied must have come from the bookcases circling the walls: dozens of bookcases of various sizes, some so tall that their higher shelves could only be reached with ladders, some deep and broad to accommodate scrolls. A few showed empty spaces where tomes had been removed. Most were full. Prince Bifalt had never seen so many books in one place. Hells, he had never seen so many bookcases—

  Yet this was only the first of the library’s many stacked levels or wheels. And he could count them all. The clear space where he and the librarian stood had been cut out from the floors above him, leaving those levels open, slab upon slab, until they reached the Repository’s vaulted ceiling. Each opening was guarded by a high railing that suggested a balcony: a balcony wide enough to hold more trestle tables, more chairs; many more bookcases.

  Squinting upward had a vertiginous effect on Prince Bifalt, as if he were peering down into a fatal pit instead of up at the ceiling. He had to bow his head and plant his feet in order to stop the spinning of the world.

  When he looked upward again, the effect diminished slowly.