The dog, of course, was most important. But if Alfred’s suspicions were right about the animal, all would be well.
He forced himself to wait patiently a few more moments, letting the magical enchantment draw everyone down into deep sleep. No one moved. All was quiet. Slowly and cautiously, Alfred crept to his feet. The spell was powerful; he might have run round the vat shouting and screaming, blowing horns and beating drums, and not a person there would have so much as blinked an eye. But his own irrational fears held him back, halted his steps. He sneaked forward, moving easily, without a limp, for he had been shamming the pain in his knee. But as slowly as he moved, the pain might have been real, the injury truly debilitating. His heart pulsed in his throat. Spots burst and danced in his eyes, obscuring his vision.
He forced himself on. The dog was asleep, its eyes closed, or he never would have succeeded in creeping up on its master. Not daring to breathe, fighting suffocating spasms in his chest, Alfred dropped to his knees beside the slumbering Haplo. He reached out a hand that shook so he could hardly guide it to where it must go, and he stopped and would have said a prayer had there been a god around to hear it. As it was, there was only himself. He shoved aside the bandage that was wound tightly around Haplo’s hand. There were, as he had suspected, the runes.
Tears stung Alfred’s eyes, blinding him. It took all his strength of will to draw the bandage back over the tattooed flesh so that the man would not notice it had been disturbed. Barely able to see where he was going, Alfred stumbled back to his blanket and hurled himself down. It seemed that he did not stop falling when his body touched the floor, but that he continued to fall and went spiraling down into a dark well of nameless horror.
38
The captain of the elven ship Carfa’shon[14] was a member of the royal family. Not a very important member, but a member nonetheless—a fact of which he himself was extraordinarily conscious and expected all others around him to be likewise. There was, however, one small matter of his royal blood that it was never wise to bring up, and this was an unfortunate relationship to Prince Reesh’ahn, the leader of the rebellion among the elves.
In the halcyon days of yore, the captain had been wont to state modestly that he was nothing less than a fifth cousin of the dashing young and handsome elven prince. Now, following Reesh’ahn’s disgrace, Captain Zankor’el assured people that he was nothing more than a fifth cousin and that was stretching a cousin or two.
According to the manner and custom of all elven royalty, be they rich or poor, Captain Zankor’el served his people by working hard and energetically during his life. And, again in the manner and custom of those of royal lineage, he expected to continue serving them at the time of his death. The lords and ladies of the royal family are not allowed to slip peacefully into oblivion at their deaths. Their souls are captured before they can flutter away to spend days in eternal spring meadows. The royal souls are then held in stasis by the elven wizards, who draw upon the souls’ energy to work their magic. It is necessary, therefore, that wizards constantly attend the members of the royal family, ready at any time—day or night, in peace or during a raging battle—to grab up souls should death occur. Wizards designated for such duty have a formal title, “weesham,” by which they are referred to in polite society. Generally, however, they are known as “geir”—a word whose ancient meaning is “vulture.”
The geir follow the royal elves from childhood to old age, never leaving them. A geir comes to the baby at his birth, watches his first steps, travels with him during the years of his schooling, sits beside the bed—even the bridal bed—every night, and attends him in the hour of his death.
Elven wizards who accept this duty that, to the elves, has become sacred, are carefully trained. They are encouraged to develop a close personal relationship with those over whom their wings spread a dark shadow. A geir is not allowed to marry, and thus the charge becomes his or her entire life, taking the place of husband, wife, and child. Since the geir are older than their charges—generally being in their twenties when they accept responsibility for infants—they frequently assume the additional roles of mentor and confidant. Many deep and abiding friendships grow between shadow and shadowed. In such instances, the geir often does not long outlive his charge, but delivers the soul to the Cathedral of the Albedo and then creeps away himself to die of grief.
And thus those of the royal family live, from birth on, with the constant reminder of their mortality hovering at their shoulders. They have come to be proud of the geir. The black-robed wizards mark royal status and symbolize to the elves that their leaders serve not only in life but also after death. The presence of the geir has the additional effect of increasing royal power. It is hard to refuse the elven king anything he wants with that dark-robed figure standing always at his side.
It is thought by some that the Order of the Kir Monks may have developed among humans as a corrupt form of the Elven Shadows. The Kir Monks, being a secret and closed organization, refuse to discuss their origins. Legend has it, however, that they were founded by a group of human wizards who were endeavoring to discover the secret of soul-capture. The wizards failed to achieve their goal, but the order they founded remained. Ordinary humans—those not possessing magical talents—were allowed to enter, and over the years, the monks gradually turned from the attempt to cheat death to a worship of it. If the members of the royal family, particularly the younger members, are somewhat wild and foolhardy and live life with a devil-may-care attitude, it is understandable. Royal parties are often chaotic affairs. The wine flows freely and there is a frantic, hysterical edge to the merriment. A glittering, gaily dressed elf maiden dances and drinks and lacks for nothing that will give her joy, but, look where she will, she must see the geir standing, back to the wall, the geir’s gaze never leaving the one whose life—and most important, death—is in the geir’s trust.
The captain of the elven watership had his attendant geir, and it must be admitted that there were those aboard who wished the captain’s geir godspeed in his work; the majority of those serving the captain expressing (quietly) the opinion that the captain’s soul would be far more valuable to the elven kingdom if it was no longer attached to the captain’s body. Tall, slender, and handsome, Captain Zankor’el had a great personal regard for himself and none at all for those who had the distinct misfortune not to be of high rank, not to be of royal birth, and—in short—not to be him.
“Captain.”
“Lieutenant.” This was always spoken with a slight sneer.
“We are entering the Maelstrom.”
“Thank you, lieutenant, but I am not blind, nor am I as stupid as perhaps was your last, late captain. Having seen the storm clouds, I was able to deduce almost instantly that we were in a storm. If you like, you may go pass the word around to the rest of the crew, who may, perhaps, not have noticed.” The lieutenant stiffened, his fair-skinned face flushed a delicate crimson.
“May I respectfully remind the captain that it is my duty by law to inform him that we have entered dangerous skies?”
“You may remind him if you like, but I wouldn’t, for he finds you to be teetering on the edge of insubordination,” returned the captain, gazing out the portals of the dragonship, a spyglass to his eye. “Now, go below and take charge of the slaves. That is one duty, at least, you are fit for.” These last words were not spoken aloud but, by the captain’s tone, they were implied. The lieutenant—and everyone else on the bridge-heard them quite clearly.