“We know nothing more about these visions than you do. They came to us too fast and when we tried to lay hold of one, it slipped away, like the laze through our fingers. But what we are seeing, Pons, are other worlds! Worlds beyond Death’s Gate, as the ancient texts write. We are certain of it! The people must not come to know this, Pons. Not until we are ready.”
“No, of course not, Sire.”
The dynast’s face was grave, his expression hard, resolute. “This realm is dying. We have leeched off other realms to maintain it—”
We have decimated other realms to maintain it, Pons corrected, but only in his own thoughts.
“We’ve kept the truth from the people for their own good, of course. Otherwise there would be panic, chaos, anarchy. And now comes this prince and his people—”
“—and the truth,” said Pons.
“Yes,” agreed the dynast. “And the truth.”
“Your Majesty, if I may speak freely—”
“Since when, Pons, do you do anything else?”
“Yes, Sire,” The Lord High Chancellor smiled faintly. “What if we were to allow these wretched people admittance, establish them—say—in the Old Provinces. The land is almost completely worthless to us now that the Fire Sea has retreated.”
“And have these people spread their tales of a dying world? Those who think the earl a doddering old fool would suddenly begin to take him seriously.”
“The earl could be handled—” The Lord High Chancellor emitted a delicate cough.
“Yes, but there are more like him. Add to their numbers a prince of Kairn Telest, talking of his cold and barren realm, and his search for a way out, and you will destroy us all. Anarchy, riots! Is that what you want, Pons?”
“By the ash, no!” The Lord High Chancellor shuddered.
“Then quit prattling nonsense. We will portray these invaders as a threat and declare war against them. Wars always unite the people. We need time, Pons! Time! Time to find Death’s Gate ourselves, as the prophecy foretold.”
“Majesty!” Pons gasped. “You! The prophecy. You?—”
“Of course, Chancellor,” Kleitus snapped, appearing slightly put out. “Was there ever any doubt in your mind?”
“No, certainly not, Your Majesty.” Pons bowed, thankful for the chance to conceal his face until he could rearrange his features, banish astonishment and replace it with abiding faith. “I am overwhelmed by the suddenness of ... of everything, too much happening at once.” This, at least, was true enough.
“When the time is right, we will lead the people forth from this world of darkness to one of light. We have fulfilled the first part of the prophecy—”
Yes, and so has every necromancer in Abarrach, thought Pons.
“It remains now for us to fulfill the rest,” Kleitus continued.
“And can you, Your Majesty?” asked his chancellor, obediently taking his cue from the dynast’s slightly raised eyebrow.
“Yes,” answered Kleitus.
This astonished even Pons. “Sire! You know the location of Death’s Gate?”
“Yes, Pons. At long last, my studies have provided me with the answer. Now you understand why this prince and his ragtag followers, arriving at precisely this moment, are such a nuisance.”
A threat, Pons translated. For if you could discover the secret of Death’s Gate from the ancient writings, then so could others. The “ripple” you experienced did not enlighten you so much as terrify you. Someone may have beat you to it. That is the real reason this prince and his people must be destroyed.
“I stand humbled before your genius, Majesty.” The chancellor bowed low.
Pons was, for the most part, sincere. If he had doubts, it was only because he had never quite taken the prophecy seriously. He hadn’t even truly believed in it. Obviously, Kleitus did. Not only believed in it, but had gone about fulfilling it! Had he actually discovered Death’s Gate? Pons might have been dubious, except for the sight of those fantastic images. The visions had sent a thrill through the chancellor’s mind and body as nothing else had done these past forty years. Recalling what he’d seen, he felt, for a moment, quite wild with excitement and was forced to discipline himself severely, wrench himself back from bright and hopeful worlds to the dark and dreary business at hand.
“Your Majesty, how are we to start this war? It is obvious the Kairn Telest do not want to fight—”
“They will fight, Pons,” said the dynast, “when they find out that we have executed their prince.”
19
Prince Edmund told his people where he was going and why. They listened in unhappy silence, afraid of losing their prince, yet knowing that there was no other way.
“Baltazar will be your leader in my absence,” Edmund announced simply, at the end. “Follow him, obey him as you would me.”
He left amid silence. Not one found words to call out a blessing to him. Although in their hearts they feared for him, they feared a terrible, bitter death even more and so they let him go in silence, choked by their own guilt.
Baltazar accompanied the prince back to the end of the cavern, arguing all the way that Edmund should at least take bodyguards—the most stalwart of the new dead—into Necropolis. The prince refused.
“We come to our brethren in peace. Bodyguards imply mistrust.”
“Call it a guard of honor then,” Baltazar urged. “It is not right that Your Highness goes unattended. You will look like . . . like . . .”
“Like what I am,” Edmund said in grim tones. “A pauper. A prince of the starving, the destitute. If the price we must pay to find help for our people is bending our pride to this dynast then I will kneel gladly at his feet.”
“A prince of Kairn Telest, kneeling!” The necromancer’s black brows formed a tight-knit knot above shadowed eyes.
Edmund halted, rounded on the man. “We could have remained standing upright in Kairn Telest, Baltazar. We’d be frozen stiff in that posture, of course—”
“Your Highness is correct. I beg your pardon.” Baltazar sighed heavily. “Still, I don’t trust them. Admit it to yourself, Edmund, if you refuse to admit it to me or anyone else. These people destroyed our world deliberately. We come on them as a reproach.”
“So much the better, Baltazar. Guilt softens the heart—”
“Or hardens it. Be wary, Edmund. Be cautious.”
“I will, my dear friend. I will. And, at least, I don’t travel quite alone.” The prince’s gaze glanced off Haplo, lounging idly against the cave wall, and Alfred, endeavoring to pull his foot out of a crack in the floor. The dog sat at the prince’s feet and wagged its tail.
“No.” Baltazar agreed dryly. “And I like that least of all, somehow. I don’t trust these two any more than I trust this so-called dynast. There, there. I’ll say nothing more except farewell, Your Highness! Farewell!”
The necromancer clasped the prince close. Edmund returned the embrace fondly and both men separated, the one heading out the cavern, the other remaining behind, watching the red of the Fire Sea bathe the prince in its lurid light. Haplo whistled, and the dog dashed up to trot along at its master’s side.
They reached Safe Harbor without incident, if one didn’t count stopping to haul the nervous Alfred out of whatever predicament he managed to blunder into along the way. Haplo came close to impatiently ordering the Sartan to utilize his magic, float as he had done when they entered the cavern, let magic lift those clumsy feet up over rocks and crevices.
But Haplo kept quiet. He guessed that both he and Alfred were far stronger in magic than any of these people. He didn’t want them to know how strong. Conjuring up fish had them awestruck, and that was a spell a child could perform. Never reveal a weakness to an enemy, never reveal a strength. Now all he had to worry about was Alfred. Haplo decided, after reflection, that Alfred wouldn’t be tempted to give away his true powers. The man had spent years trying to conceal his magic. He wasn’t about to use it now.