Seventh Decimate

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “What will you tell me now?”

  The King’s son had prepared himself. He was ready.

  “I need Hexin Marrow’s book. You are aware that Amika has used it to deprive Belleger of sorcery. I want it to restore my people. But I want more. I want to deprive Amika in turn. I want to drive them and break them until they can do nothing except surrender. I want to extinguish Amika as a separate realm. If I fail, they will surely do the same to us.

  “In addition”—he swallowed an unexpected impulse to hold back—“I hope to repay the disrespect of your summons. You did not ask for my consent. I did not give it.”

  “Extinguish Amika?” retorted Magister Marrow. “Repay us? You astonish me.” He did not sound especially surprised. “Your desires are reprehensible. You covet bloodshed.

  “But your wishes are wasted,” he added at once. “You cannot satisfy them. Still, I will not reproach you. Clearly, your wits are too slow for your needs. You suffer under a misapprehension that misleads you. Have you not spoken with Commander Forguile?”

  “When?” snapped the Prince. Given the chance, he would not have approached the Amikan. But he had a practical excuse. “You forbade me. When we parted yesterday, you instructed me to remain in my quarters.”

  The librarian stared sightlessly. In an altered tone, he confessed, “So I did. I apologize. I was hasty.”

  Rearranging more books, apparently seeking to distract himself from contrition, he answered a question Prince Bifalt had asked the day before. “The commander has been with us for a season or more. He speaks respectfully. He listens with attention. But he is relentless. His petitions never end. And when he is not repeating them, he devotes his hours to the library.

  “The first ten rounds are open to all, but only the fourth interests him. That is where we keep our volumes on the many arts of warfare. His appetite for them is insatiable. He studies the uses of trenches and redoubts. He devours treatises on the strategies and tactics of sieges. He pursues expertise concerning siege engines. He compares running battles with direct conflicts. He has consumed every text on edged and piercing weapons. Yet the knowledge he desires most eludes him.”

  Abruptly, the librarian focused his full attention on the Bellegerin. “Above all others, Prince, Commander Forguile hungers for the book I have given you. He wants Sylan Estervault’s A Treatise on the Fabrication of Cannon Using Primitive Means. I hid it among Hexin Marrow’s Decimates to prevent him from finding it.”

  Prince Bifalt stared. “Why?” He meant more questions than he could express quickly. He chose the simplest one. “What does he want with so much knowledge? He does not need it. Amika has enough men to overrun us, more than enough. Our rifles cannot withstand sorcery. They are too few to withstand an army. He cannot need—”

  “He does,” asserted the sorcerer. Then he corrected himself. “He believes he does. His people lack the secret of making rifles. They have failed often. He believes they must have some defense against the carnage of Belleger’s guns.”

  “Why?” repeated the Prince, too confused for any other query.

  Magister Marrow sighed. “Here is your misapprehension. Truth for truth, Prince. Amika did not deprive you of sorcery. No Amikan has seen Seventh Decimate. Commander Forguile certainly has not. And Amika itself has been denied its use of sorcery. Like Belleger, Amika cannot wield any of the Decimates.

  “That is our doing. We deprived both realms. Amika is blameless for your loss.”

  We—? Prince Bifalt’s world reeled yet again. The very stone under him seemed to stagger. It became a threat. Shocked out of his composure, he protested, “You lie!”

  The librarian shrugged. “When I have reason to lie, I do not hesitate.” If he took offense, he did not show it. “But since our purpose is to test each other, lies will not serve me. Here is the book.” He picked up a tome from a nearby pile. “It has not left my possession.”

  He held the volume so that the Prince could see its cover. The lettering was distinct.

  Hexin Marrow.

  Seventh Decimate.

  It was the reason for everything Prince Bifalt had endured, everyone he had lost, every suffering inflicted on his people.

  Indirectly, it was also the secret with which Slack had taunted him before dying. Slack had known that Amika had no theurgy.

  The librarian did not surrender the book.

  While Prince Bifalt gaped in dismay and mounting rage, Sirjane Marrow continued. “Amika has known for some time that Belleger’s loss matches theirs. They are a more subtle people. Their spies are more effective than yours.” As he spoke, his tone became severe. “But they also know your animosity matches theirs. If it did not, they would have conquered you long ago. And now you have rifles. That is why Commander Forguile searches for Estervault’s Treatise. He believes—with some justice—that men are not enough. His people have suffered as much as yours. As many soldiers have spent their lives. As many children starve. You imagine you are weaker than your foes. They think otherwise, for better reasons. They have no rifles. They suspect that you are unable to make more, but they do not know how many you have set aside to destroy them.”

  He paused briefly to emphasize his next words. “Without cannon, Amika cannot save itself from Belleger. Now that knowledge is yours. Do you want to break your foes? You have the means.”

  Prince Bifalt hardly heard the sorcerer. His shock was too great: he was deaf with fury. “It is you. From the first, you have been our true enemy. You made us weak.” Acid spat and steamed in his veins. “Why?”

  He meant, How dare you? You have not earned so much arrogance.

  “I would like to think,” replied his host, “our purpose is obvious.”

  “It is not obvious. It is wrong.”

  Now Magister Marrow appeared surprised. He cocked an eyebrow. “How so?”

  Prince Bifalt gathered himself. If he could not cut the old man down, or shoot him outright, he could hammer at him with honest abhorrence.

  “Do you call it right that one man has talent and another does not? That one can kill another in perfect safety? That you determine life and death for a people you have never met? Does an accident of birth supply you with virtue?”

  The Magister shrugged again. “It is not right or wrong. It is a fact. The world will not change itself to comfort your desire for justice.”

  “Yet,” raged the Prince, “you call it right to interfere in the fates of realms—to choose who will endure and who will perish—to impose your will on all the world. You, who are nothing more than a man with a talent others lack.”

  A man is not a man at all—

  “The right is mine,” retorted the librarian sternly, “because the power is mine.”

  But then his tone softened. “You refuse to understand. Misapprehensions still rule you. I see that I must tell you the truth you do not grasp.

  “My power is sorcery. It extends to sorcery—and therefore to those with the gift for sorcery. But it does not extend to the wills of men. Not even to those whose talents I efface or strengthen. I cannot make their choices for them. I cannot make yours. I can only encourage you to a choice I desire. I cannot prevent your defiance. Your mind—every mind—is closed to me. I cannot see it, or alter it. I cannot impose acceptance when you choose rejection.”

  —if he cannot enter and enjoy every chamber of himself.

  Magister Marrow sounded honest. He was making an effort to sound honest. Certainly, the Prince could have chosen to die alone in the desert. But that was the only choice he had been allowed. Serve us or die.

  His outrage carried him past the sorcerer’s obfuscations.

  “And that is your truth? It is not enough. It does not excuse you. You say I am able to choose, but you do not say what you want me to choose. You keep that truth to yourself.”

  What would rejection cost him, except death? What
would acceptance gain him, apart from servitude?

  “Why am I here? Why have you summoned me? And do not tell me I am here for Estervault’s book. Do not say you wish victory for Belleger. That will be a lie. I will not believe it.”

  In response, the sorcerer scowled darkly. His tone became adamant. “Very well. You demand an answer. It is this.

  “We want you as Belleger’s emissary to Amika. We want you to negotiate terms with Amika. We want you to forge peace.

  “You are your father’s eldest son. Amika will heed you. Your father himself will heed you. But he will not choose peace if you do not persuade him. Amika will not.”

  Prince Bifalt gaped like a fish. “Peace with Amika?” The librarian’s audacity stunned him. Sirjane Marrow’s arrogance had no limits. “You expect me to grovel for peace?”

  The librarian snorted. “If that is how you choose to think of Belleger’s survival.”

  “No,” snapped the Prince instantly. “Tell the whole truth.” Shock fed his anger. It was fire. “Have you urged Commander Forguile to beg Belleger for peace?”

  “I have,” answered the Magister. “He refused. And I could not fault his reasons. Why do you suppose that most of your spies and all of your emissaries for generations did not return? They were killed. The Amikan kings have no interest in peace. They covet only victory. And now you have rifles. Amika does not. The advantage is yours. King Smegin might well execute the commander if he suggested peace.”

  Prince Bifalt dismissed that assertion. It was a distraction. It was surely accurate; but it was not honest. Belleger was nearly destitute: Amika had more men. Rifles were not the whole truth. They did not justify how he had been used, or what had been done to his people.

  Through his teeth, he retorted, “Yet you treat my enemy as an honored guest while you maneuver to compel me. I am done with your ploys and half-truths. Answer plainly.

  “What will you do if I refuse? If I accept, how will I be anything more than your tool?”

  He himself would not be a man if he could not enter and enjoy his own chambers.

  Magister Marrow spread his hands. He seemed to consider himself irrefutable. “If you consent, you will do so because you have chosen that path. The initiative will be yours. The terms will be those you negotiate.

  “Peace will preserve Belleger. War will not. Why would you refuse? Peace will not make you a tool. It will make you the savior of your people.”

  “No,” repeated the Prince. He did not shout. Words could not contain his vehemence. Instead, he uttered them like splashes of blood from the cut of a blade. “I will not allow Belleger’s fate to be determined by men who have not risked their lives in its defense. You have no stake in our war. You do not care what becomes of us. You do not seek peace for our sake. You want a defensible border, nothing more. You want vassals for your own war. When it comes, we will be your western buffer. You will sacrifice us against sorcerers who hunger for your destruction.

  “I will not be your servant. I will not seek peace on your terms. I will not impose them on my people. They are dishonest. There is no honor in them.”

  Again the librarian cocked an eyebrow. “You have spoken with Amandis,” he observed. “No doubt she was eloquent. But she is a devotee of Spirit, an assassin. Her world is skill and killing. It is war. Our world is knowledge. It requires peace. We strive to surround ourselves with peace so that there will be no war between sorcerers.

  “Our motives are not yours. How could they be? But they do not diminish the worth of your consent—or the dishonor of your refusal.”

  Now, thought the King’s son. Now I will finally have truth.

  “Yet I have refused,” he replied, steady as stone. “We will earn whatever becomes of us. It will not be chosen for us.”

  “You will sacrifice your people?” The old man sounded baffled; thwarted. “You prefer war? You can accept Belleger’s ruin?”

  “I do not sacrifice them,” snarled Prince Bifalt. “You do. The power is yours. To you, I am nothing more than a pawn. You cannot fault your pawns when they fail you.

  “You have tested me. Now you are tested. What will you do to me?”

  Abruptly, Magister Marrow slapped his table with both hands. Braced on them, he rose from his chair and leaned closer to the Prince. His blind eyes searched the Bellegerin.

  Prince Bifalt held the sightless glare without flinching. At the same time, however, he realized that he and the librarian were no longer alone. Indistinct at the edges of his vision, Magister Avail and Magister Rummage stood a few steps behind him, one on either side.

  He ignored them. Did Magister Marrow want witnesses? Did he need defenders? Would they use their theurgies against him? Let them try. Their presence made no difference.

  Earlier, the old sorcerer had been severe. He had been stern and censorious. Now he matched the Prince’s anger with his own.

  “Do to you? Nothing. You are a fool. We will not trouble ourselves to harm you.

  “But we will not accept your refusal. You understand only animosity and conflict. So be it. I propose a compromise you can comprehend. A bargain. A way to earn what becomes of you.

  “Our disagreement will be resolved by mortal combat. You will fight to the death against a champion of my choosing. If you prevail, I will give you Marrow’s Seventh Decimate, to use or abuse as you see fit. I will give you both the book and the ability to act upon its secrets.

  “If my champion kills you, I will continue as I am. My failure with Belleger will not stop me. I will turn my efforts to Amika.

  “But know this, Prince,” he warned. “I am not concerned with fairness or equality or justice. I do not promise you hope.”

  Then he straightened to his full height, glowering down at the man who defied him. “The choice is yours. Earn your fate. Consent or fight. Approach Amika and argue for peace, or hazard your life to gain what you desire. One or the other. But choose now. I have no more patience for you.

  “Your alternative,” he concluded, “if you believe you have one, is to saddle a horse and leave. Take Estervault’s book. You have the means to destroy Amika, but it will not serve you. You will not live to reach your homeland. We will let you wander in the desert until the sun consumes your bones.”

  Prince Bifalt understood the Magister. —turn my efforts to Amika. The sorcerer meant that he would help Amika defeat Belleger. The Prince’s death would deliver Estervault’s treatise to Commander Forguile.

  Still, King Abbator’s son did not hesitate. He had never felt less inclined to falter. He had no other thought in his head. Why else had he been born? Why else had he sworn not to fail his father, or his people, or Belleger?

  Facing Sirjane Marrow’s opaque gaze, he replied, “I will fight.”

  Then he turned away.

  As he passed between the other sorcerers, he saw sorrow on Magister Avail’s face, moisture in the portly man’s eyes. The hunchback’s grin flashed a vicious vindication. To both men, he nodded without expression, masking the surge of his heart.

  Outside the chamber, however, he allowed himself the exultation of a man who had achieved a difficult victory. With every stride, the fury in his veins felt more and more like music. It was the calling of trumpets.

  At last—at last—he had found his way. He had seen the sorcerers for what they were. And he had won his chance to humble them.

  His eagerness lingered until a servant had guided him back to his quarters. When his door was closed and bolted, however, and he had spent a time pacing out his gladness from wall to wall, his thoughts turned to the challenge ahead of him; and his mood changed.

  He did not know who the Magisters would choose to be their champion. He only knew that the contest would be unfair, unequal, unjust.

  But unfair how? Unjust how? For a time, the thrust of Sirjane Marrow’s warning eluded him. To his mind, any form of single
combat would be unequal in his favor. Against the Amikan, he would not deign to use his rifle. But against some more formidable opponent—Magister Rummage, perhaps, or a stranger from an alien land, or even Amandis—he would not hesitate to shoot. With a bullet ready in the chamber, he could kill as suddenly as any sorcerer. And one hit would be enough to defeat his challenger. If his shot did not end the fight instantly, the wound would give him time to recock his gun.

  Did the librarian have some other champion ready? Whoever it was would suffer the same fate.

  Why, then, had Magister Marrow warned him?

  Long moments and long strides passed before an entirely different interpretation of the librarian’s attitude, the librarian’s threat, occurred to him. Its jolt stopped him where he stood.

  He could have saved Belleger without the risk of mortal combat. He had been given Estervault’s book. He already possessed the means to destroy Amika. His foes had no sorcery. All Belleger needed was enough time to fabricate cannon.

  Then—

  Prince Bifalt sat down heavily in the nearest chair. Even seated, he felt that he was losing his balance.

  He had no reason to risk mortal combat. He did not need the seventh Decimate. Even without Marrow’s book, Belleger’s victory had been made certain. The librarian had said as much. The King’s son could have saved his people with a simple lie.

  A simple Yes. I will be Belleger’s emissary. I will grovel for peace.

  The Magisters would not have known his promise was false. They were able to speak in his mind, but they had no gift to hear his thoughts. Magister Marrow had admitted it. If they knew what was in his heart, they would not have needed to summon him. They would not have needed to test or trick him; lie to him themselves.

  No doubt they would have questioned his acquiescence. But they would have accepted it eventually. What else could they have done? The truth would be hidden from them until he returned to Belleger and began to prepare his people.

  A simple lie. A lie he had never considered telling.