“Yes, yes.” The dynast sighed. He’d formerly had little use for history, for a past dead and gone, a corpse decayed beyond the point of resurrection.
Or, perhaps not.
The task proved enormous. We Sartan were few in number. In order to facilitate the rebirth of the world, we went forth and taught the most rudimentary use of magic to the lesser peoples, reserving the true nature and power of the Wave for ourselves, that we might maintain control and prevent the catastrophe that had occurred from reoccurring.
Fondly, we believed that we were the Wave. Too late, we realized that we ourselves were only a part of the Wave, that we had become a bulge in the Wave and that the Wave would take corrective action. Too late, we discovered that some of us had forsaken the altruistic goals of our work. These wizards sought power through the magic, they sought rulership of the world. Patryns, they called themselves, “Those Who Return to Darkness.”
“Ah!” Kleirus took a breath and settled himself to read more carefully and concisely.
The Patryns named themselves thus in mockery of us, their brethren, and because, in the beginning, they were forced to work in dark and secret places in order to remain hidden from us. They are a close-knit people, fiercely loyal to each other and to their one abiding goal, which is the absolute and complete domination of the world.
“Absolute and complete domination,” the dynast repeated, rubbing his forehead with his hand.
It proved impossible to penetrate such a closed society and learn their secrets. We Sartan tried, but those we sent among the Patryns disappeared; it can only be assumed that they were discovered and destroyed. Thus we know little about the Patryns or their magic.
Kleirus scowled in disappointment, but continued reading.
It is theorized that the Patryns’ use of rune-magic is grounded in the physical portion of the Wave, whereas our magic tends to be based in the spiritual. We sing the runes and dance them and draw them in the air, resorting to physically transcribing them when necessity dictates.
The Patryns, on the other hand, rely heavily on the physical representation of the runes themselves, even going so far as to paint them on their own bodies in order to enhance their magic. I trace—
The dynast stopped, returned, and read the words over again. ‘Paint them on their own bodies in order to enhance their magic.’ He continued on, reading aloud. ‘I trace, as a curiosity, some of the rune structures that they have been known to use. Note the similarity to our runes, but note also that it is the barbaric manner in which the sigla are constructed that radically alters the magic, creating—as it were—an entirely new language of crude but forceful magical power.’
Kleirus lifted several of the rune-bones from his game and placed them on the page, next to the drawings of that ancient Sartan author. The matches were almost perfect. “It’s so blasted obvious. Why didn’t I ever notice before?”
Shaking his head, vexed at himself, he resumed reading.
The Wave, for the moment, appears stable. But there are those among us who fear that the Patryns are growing stronger and that the Wave is beginning to bulge again. There are some who argue that we must go to war, stop the Patryns now. There are some, myself included, who caution that we must do nothing to upset the balance or the Wave will bulge in the other direction.
The treatise continued on, but the dynast closed the text. It contained nothing more about the Patryns, wandered into speculation about what might happen if the Wave bulged. The dynast already knew the answer. It had, and then had come the Sundering, and then life in this tomb of a world. So much he knew of the history of the Sartan.
But he had forgotten the Patryns, the ancient enemy, bringers of darkness, possessors of a “crude but forceful” magical power.
“Absolute and complete domination ...” he repeated softly to himself. “What fools we’ve been. What complete and utter fools. But it isn’t too late. They think they’re clever. They think they can catch us unawares. But it won’t work.”
After several more moments’ reflection, he beckoned to one of the cadavers. “Send for the Lord High Chancellor.”
The dead servant left, returning almost instantaneously with Pons, whose value lay in the fact that he was always where he could be easily found when he was wanted and was conveniently absent when he wasn’t.
“Your Majesty,” said Pons, bowing low.
“Has Tomas returned?”
“Just this moment, I believe.”
“Bring him to us.”
“Here, Your Majesty?”
Kleitus paused, glanced around, nodded. “Yes, here.”
The matter being an important one, Pons went on the errand himself. One of the cadavers might have been dispatched to fetch the young man, but there was always the possibility, with the dead servants, that the cadaver might bring back a basket of rez flowers, having completely forgotten its original instructions.
Pons returned to one of the public rooms, where large numbers of couriers and suitors were wont to be found. The dynast’s appearance in the room would have struck them like a bolt of lightning from the colossus, shocking them into a frenzy of fawning and bowing and scraping. As it was, the appearance of the Lord High Chancellor sent a mild jolt through the throng. A few of the lower-ranking members of the nobility bowed humbly, the upper echelon ceased their rune-bone playing and conversations and turned their heads. Those who knew Pons well gave him greeting, much to the jealous envy of those who did not.
“What’s up, Pons?” asked one languidly.
The Lord High Chancellor smiled. “His Majesty is in need—”
Numerous couriers rose instantly to their feet.
“—of a living messenger,” Pons finished. He gazed about the room with apparent bored indifference.
“Errand boy, huh?” A baron yawned.
The upper echelon, knowing that this was a menial task, one that probably wouldn’t even involve actually seeing the dynast, returned to their games and gossip.
“You, there.” Pons gestured to a young man standing near the back of the room. “What is your name?”
“Tomas, My Lord.”
“Tomas. You’ll do. Come this way.”
Tomas bowed in silent acquiescence and followed the Lord High Chancellor out of the antechamber into the private and guarded section of the palace. Neither spoke, beyond one brief exchange of significant glances on leaving the antechamber. The Lord High Chancellor preceded the young man, who walked several paces behind Pons as was proper, his hands folded in his sleeves, his black and untrimmed cowl drawn low over his head.
The Lord High Chancellor paused outside the library, made a sign to the young man to wait. Tomas did as he was bid, standing silently in the shadows. One of the dead guards thrust open the stone door. Pons looked inside, Kleitus had returned to his reading. On hearing the door open, he glanced up and—seeing his minister—nodded.
Pons beckoned to the young man, who slid out of the shadows and in through the door. The Lord High Chancellor entered with him, shut the door softly behind him. The cadavers guarding His Majesty took up their positions.
The dynast returned to perusing the text spread out on the table before him.
The young man and Pons stood quietly, waiting.
“You have been to the earl’s dwelling, Tomas?” Kleitus asked, without looking up.
“I have just now returned, Sire,” said the young man, bowing.
“And you found them there—the duke and duchess and the stranger?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“And you did as you were told?”
“Yes, of course, Sire.”
“With what result?”
“A—a rather peculiar result, Sire. If I may explain—” Tomas took a step forward.
Kleitus, eyes on his text, waved a negligent hand.
Tomas frowned, glanced at Pons, the young man asking if the dynast was paying attention.
The Lord High Chancellor answered with a peremptory rais
e of his eyebrows, meaning, “His Majesty is paying far more attention to you than you might wish.”
Tomas, now appearing somewhat uncomfortable, launched into his report. “As Your Majesty is aware, the duke and duchess believe that I am one of their party, involved in this misguided rebellion.” The young man paused to bow, to demonstrate his true feelings.
The dynast turned a page.
Tomas, receiving no acknowledgment, continued, discomfiture growing. “I told them of the prince’s murder—”
“Murder?” Kleitus stirred, the hand turning the page paused.
Tomas cast Pons a pleading glance.
“Forgive him, Majesty,” the Lord High Chancellor said softly, “but that is how the rebels would view the prince’s lawful execution. Tomas must appear to join in their views, in order to convince them that he is one of them, and thus remain useful to Your Majesty.”
The dynast resumed the turning of his page, smoothed it with his hand.
Tomas, with a small sigh of relief, continued, “I told them that the man with the rune-painted skin was dead, as well.” The young man hesitated, uncertain how to continue.
“With what result?” Kleitus prompted, running a finger down the page.
“The man’s friend, the one who killed the dead, denied the report.”
The dynast looked up from his reading. “Denied it?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. He said he knew that his friend, whom they called ‘Haplo,’ was alive.”
“He knew it, you say?” The dynast exchanged glances with the Lord High Chancellor.
“Yes, Sire. He seemed quite firmly convinced of the fact. It had something to do with a dog—”
His Majesty was about to say something, but the Lord High Chancellor raised a finger in a warding, albeit highly respectful, manner.
“Dog?” Pons asked. “What about a dog?”
“A dog entered the room while I was there. It went up to the stranger, whose name is Alfred. This Alfred appeared quite pleased to see the dog and he said that now he knew Haplo wasn’t dead.”
“What did this dog look like?”
Tomas thought back. “A largish animal. Black fur, with white eyebrows. It’s very intelligent. Or seems so. It ... listens. To conversations. Almost as if it understood—”
“The very animal, Sire.” Pons turned to Kleitus. “The one that was thrown into the boiling mud pit. I saw it die! Its body sucked down beneath the ooze.”
“Yes, that’s exactly right!” Tomas appeared amazed. “That’s what the duchess said, Your Majesty! She and the duke couldn’t believe their eyes. The duchess Jera said something about the prophecy. But the stranger, Alfred, denied most vehemently that he’d had anything to do with it.”
“What did he say about the dog, how it came to be alive?”
“He said he couldn’t explain, but if the dog is alive, then Haplo must be alive.”
“Exceedingly strange!” murmured Kleitus. “And did you find out, Tomas, how these two strangers managed to make their way to Kairn Necros?”
“A ship, Sire. According to the duke, who told me as I was leaving, they arrived in a ship which they left docked at Safe Harbor.
The ship is made of a strange substance and is, by the duke’s account, covered with runes, much like the stranger Haplo’s body.”
“And what do the duke and duchess and the old earl plan to do now?”
“They are sending, this cycle, a message to the prince’s people, telling them of their ruler’s untimely death. In three cycles’ time, when the resurrection is complete, the duke and duchess plan to rescue the prince’s cadaver and return him to his people and urge them to declare war on Your Majesty. The earl’s faction will join with the people of Kairn Telest.”
“So, in three cycles, they plot to break into the palace dungeons and rescue the prince.”
“That is true, Sire.”
“And you offered them your willing assistance, Tomas?”
“As you commanded me, Sire. I am to meet with them this night, to go over the final details.”
“Keep us apprised. You run a risk, you know that? If they discover you are a spy, they will kill you and send you into oblivion.”
“I welcome the risk, Sire.” Tomas placed his hand over his heart, bowed low. “I am completely devoted to Your Majesty.”
“Continue your good work and your devotion will be rewarded.” Kleitus lowered his eyelids, resumed his reading.
Tomas looked at Pons, who indicated that the interview was at an end. Bowing again, the young man left the library alone, escorted through the dynast’s private chambers by one of the servant cadavers.
When Tomas was gone and the door shut behind him, Kleitus looked up from his book. It was obvious, from the staring, searching expression, that he hadn’t seen the page lying open before him. He was looking far away, far beyond the cavern walls surrounding him.
The Lord High Chancellor watched the eyes grow dark and shadowed, saw lines deepen in the forehead. A tingle of apprehension knotted Pons’s stomach. He glided nearer, treading softly, not daring to disturb. He knew he was wanted, because he had not been dismissed. Approaching the table, he sat down in a chair and waited in silence.
A long time passed. Kleitus stirred, sighed.
Pons, knowing his cue, asked softly, “Your Majesty understands all this: the arrival of the two strangers, the man with the runes on his skin, the dog that was dead and is now alive?”
“Yes, Pons, we believe we do.”
The Lord High Chancellor waited, again, in silence.
“The Sundering,” said the dynast. “The cataclysmic war that would once and for all bring peace to our universe. What if we told you that we didn’t win that war as we have so fondly assumed all these centuries? What if we told you, Pons, that we lost?”
“Sire!”
“Defeat. That is why the help that was promised us never came. The Patryns have conquered the other worlds. Now they wait, poised, to take over this one. We are all that remains. The hope of the universe.”
“The prophecy!” Pons whispered, and there was true awe in his tone. At last, he was beginning to believe.
Kleitus noticed his minister’s conversion, noticed that faith came rather late, but smiled grimly and said nothing. It wasn’t important.
“And now, chancellor, leave us,” he added, coming out of his momentary reverie. “Cancel all our engagements for the next two cycles. Say that we have received disturbing news concerning the hostile enemy force across the Fire Sea and that we are making preparations to protect our city. We will see no one.”
“Does that include Her Majesty, Sire?”
The marriage had been one of convenience, meant to do nothing more than maintain the dynastic rule. Kleitus XIV had produced Kleitus XV, along with several other sons and daughters. The dynasty was assured.
“You, alone, are excepted, Pons. But only in an emergency.”
“Very good, Sire. And where will I find Your Majesty if I am in need of counsel?”
“Here, Pons,” said Kleitus, glancing around the library. “Studying. There is much to be done, and only two cycles in which to do it.”
CHAPTER 27
OLD PROVINCES, ABARRACH
THE TIME PERIOD was known as the dynast’s waking hour and, although the dynast himself was far away in the city of Necropolis, the household in Old Province was up and stirring. The dead had to be roused from their slumber time state of lethargy, the magic that kept them functional renewed, and their daily tasks urged on them. Jera, as necromancer in her father’s house, moved among the cadavers, chanting the runes that brought the mockery of life to the servants and workers.
The dead do not sleep, as do the living. They are told at slumber time to sit down and not move about, for fear of disturbing the living members of the household. The cadavers obediently take themselves to whatever out-of-the-way spot can be found for them and wait, motionless and silent, through the sleeping hours.
“The
y do not sleep, but are they dreaming?” Alfred wondered, regarding them with wrenching pity.
It may have been his imagination, but he fancied that during this time when contact with the living was forgone, set aside until the morrow, the faces of the dead grew sad. The phantasm shapes hovering over their physical husks cried out in despair. Lying on his bed, Alfred tossed and turned, his rest broken by the restless sighs of whispered keening.
“What a quaint fancy,” said Jera, over breakfast.
The duke and duchess and Alfred dined together. The earl had already broken his fast, she explained apologetically, and had gone downstairs to work in his laboratory. Alfred was able to obtain only a vague idea of what the old man was doing, something about experimenting with varieties of kairn grass to see if he could develop a hardy strain that could be grown in the cold and barren soil of the Old Provinces.
“The moaning sound must have been the wind you heard,” Jera continued, pouring kairn-grass tea and dishing up rashers of torb.[11] (Alfred, who had been afraid to ask, was vastly relieved to note that a living female servant did the cooking.)
“Not unless the wind has a voice and words to speak,” Alfred said, but he said it to his plate and no one else heard him.
“You know, I used to think the same thing when I was a child,” said Jonathan. “Funny, I’d forgotten all about it until you brought it up. I had an old nanny who used to sit with me during sleep-time and, after she died, her corpse was reanimated and, naturally, she came back into the nursery to do what she’d always done in life. But I couldn’t sleep with her in there, after she was dead. It seemed to me she was crying. Mother tried to explain it was just my imagination. I suppose it was, but at that time it was very real to me.”
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