The female necromancer kept her face covered, her cowl pulled low over her head. Attracted by the sound of the rich, smooth voice, Haplo was extremely curious to see her features. But she stood unmoving as the rocks around her. Occasionally, he heard her voice, chanting the runes that kept the dead functional.
Baltazar, breathing heavily from the exertion, joined the prince and the two moved out of the tunnel to the neutral territory in front of each army. The young necromancer advanced in his turn, meeting them halfway. Haplo sent the dog trotting after the prince. The Patryn leaned back against a wall, settled himself comfortably.
Alfred, huffing and puffing, tumbled into him. “Did you hear what Baltazar said to me? He knows about Death’s Gate!”
“Shhh!” ordered Haplo irritably. “Keep your voice down or everyone in this blasted place will know about Death’s Gate! Yes, I heard him. And, if he wants to go, I’ll take him.”
Alfred stared, aghast. “You can’t mean that!”
Haplo kept his eyes fixed on the negotiators, disdained to answer.
“I understand!” Alfred said, voice trembling. “You want... this knowledge!” The Sartan pointed a finger at the rows of cadavers lined up in front of them.
“Damn right.”
“You will bring doom on us all! You will destroy everything we created!”
“No!” Haplo said, shifting suddenly, jabbing his words into Alfred’s breast with his finger. “You Sartan destroyed everything! We Patryns will return it to what it was! Now shut up, and let me listen.”
“I’ll stop you!” Alfred stated, bravely defiant. “I won’t let you do this. I—” Loose gravel gave way beneath his foot. He slid, slipped. His hands scrabbled frantically in the air, but there was nothing to hold onto and he landed on the hard rock floor with a thud.
Haplo glanced down at the balding middle-aged man who lay in a pathetic heap at his feet. “Yeah, you do that,” the Patryn said, grinning. “You stop me.” Lounging against the wall, he turned his attention to the parley.
“What is it you want of us?” the young necromancer was asking, once the formalities of introduction had been effected.
The prince recited his story, telling it well, with dignity and pride. He made no accusations against the people of Kairn Necros but took care to attribute the wrongs his own people had suffered to mischance or ignorance of the true situation.
The Sartan language, even in its corrupt form, is adept at conjuring up images in the mind. By his expression, it was obvious that the young necromancer saw far beneath the surface of Edmund’s words. The young man attempted to keep his face impassive, but a flutter of doubt and selfconscious guilt brought a crease to the smooth forehead and a slight tremor to the lips. He glanced swiftly at the female standing motionless at the rear of the army, inviting her help.
The woman, understanding, glided forward and arrived in time to hear the end of the prince’s tale.
Removing the cowl from her head with a graceful motion of two fair hands, the woman turned a soft-eyed gaze on Edmund. “Truly, you have suffered much. I am sorry for you and for your people.”
The prince bowed. “Your compassion does you honor, mistress—”
“Madam,” she corrected him, glancing, with a smile, at the necromancer standing beside her. “My public name[6] is Jera. This man is my husband, Jonathan of the ducal House of Rift Ridge.”
“My Lord Jonathan, you are blessed in your wife,” said Edmund with courtesy. “And you, Your Grace, in your husband.”
“Thank you, Your Highness. Your story is indeed a sorrowful one,” Jera continued. “And I fear that my people are, in many ways, responsible for your misfortune—”
“I spoke no word of blame,” said Edmund.
“No, Your Highness.” The woman smiled. “But it is all too easy to see accusation in the images your words conjure. I do not believe, however”—a frown creased the marble-smooth forehead—“that the dynast will take kindly to his subjects coming to him as beggars—”
Edmund drew himself up tall and straight. Baltazar, who had previously said no word, glowered dourly, black brows drawn tight, black eyes reflecting the lurid red of the magma sea.
“Dynast!” Baltazar repeated incredulously. “What dynast? And to whom do you refer as subjects? We are an independent monarchy—”
“Peace, Baltazar.” Edmund laid his hand on the wizard’s arm. “Your Grace, we do not come to beg of our brethren.” He emphasized the word. “Among our dead we number fanners, skilled artisans, warriors. We ask only to be given the chance to work, to earn our bread and shelter in your city.”
The woman stared at him. “Truly, you didn’t know you were under the jurisdiction of Our Most Holy Dynastic Majesty?”
“Your Grace”—Edmund appeared embarrassed at being forced to contradict—“I am the ruler of my people, their only ruler—”
“But, then, of course!” Jera clasped her hands together, her expression bright and eager. “That explains everything. It’s all a dreadful misunderstanding! You must come immediately to the capital, Your Highness, and make your obeisance to His Majesty. My husband and I will be honored to escort you and give you introduction.”
“Obeisance!” Baltazar’s black beard stood out against his livid complexion. “It is rather for this selfproclaimed dynast—”
“I thank you for your gracious invitation, Duchess Jera.” Edmund’s hand clasped his minister’s arm with slightly more pressure than must have been exactly comfortable. “The honor in accompanying you is mine. I cannot leave my people, however, with a hostile army camped before them.”
“We will withdraw our army,” offered the duke, “if you pledge your word that your army will not sail across the sea.”
“Since my army has no ships, such a feat is impossible, Your Grace.”
“Begging Your Highness’s pardon, a ship is docked at Safe Harbor. We have never seen its like before and we assumed that it—”
“Ah, now I understand!” Edmund nodded, glanced back at Haplo and Alfred. “You saw the ship and thought we intended to sail our army across the sea. As you mentioned, Your Grace, there is, much misunderstanding among us. The ship belongs to two strangers, who landed at Safe Harbor just this cycle. We were pleased to entertain them with what hospitality we could, although,” the prince added, flushing, pride vying with shame, “they gave us more than we could offer them.”
Alfred clambered to his feet. Haplo stood straight. The duchess turned to them. Her face, although not beautiful by any purity or regularity of feature, was made attractive by an expression of singular intelligence and an obviously strong and resolute will. The eyes, a green-flecked brown, were exceedingly fine, reflecting the quickness of the mind that moved behind them. Her gaze flicked over the two strangers and Jera immediately picked out Haplo as the ship’s owner.
“We passed your vessel, sir, and found it extremely interesting—”
“What type of runes are those?” her husband interjected with boyish eagerness. “I’ve never seen—”
“My dear,” his wife interposed gently, “this is hardly the time or place for discussions of rune-lore. Prince Edmund will want to inform his people of the honor that awaits him in being presented to His Dynastic Majesty. We will meet you in Safe Harbor, Your Highness, at your convenience.” Jera’s green eyes focused on Haplo and, behind him, Alfred. “It would be our honor, as well, to introduce these strangers to our fair city.”
Haplo regarded the woman thoughtfully. This prince hadn’t known him for the ancient enemy, but the Patryn had come to realize, by this conversation, that Edmund’s people were nothing more than a small satellite circling a larger and brighter sun. A sun that might be much better informed.
6
Sartan have two names, private and public. As Alfred told Haplo previously in the story, a Sartan’s private name can give those who know it power over them. A Sartan’s private name, therefore, would be revealed only to those he or she loved and trusted.