The preserver glowered, as if he considered this a waste of good water, but said nothing. He was obviously in haste to begin his work on the prince. Haplo lay down on the hard stone, cushioned by a few handfuls of scattered kairn grass.
A Sartan chant rose high-pitched and grating, echoing thinly through the cells. At the sound, it seemed another chant arose, almost unheard, a ghastly wailing groan of unutterable sorrow. The phantasms, Haplo told himself. But the sounds reminded him of the dog, of that last pain-filled yelp. He saw the eyes looking at him, confident that its master would be there to help, as Haplo had always been there. Faithful, believing in him, to the end.
Haplo grit his teeth, and blotted the sight from his mind. Digging his hand into his pocket, he drew out one of the rune-bones he’d managed to palm during the game. He couldn’t see it, in the darkness, but he turned it over in his hand, fingers tracing the sigla carved into the surface.
25
“And then, father,” said Jera, “the phantasm began to take shape and form—”
“Become solid, Daughter?”
“No.” Jera hesitated, thoughtful, frowning, trying to put her memories into words. “It remained ethereal, translucent. If I tried to touch it, my hand would feel nothing. But yet I could see .. . features, details. The insignia he wore on his breastplate, the shape of his nose, battle scars on his arms. Father, I could see the man’s eyes! Yes, his eyes! He looked at me, looked at all of us. And it was as if he’d won a great victory. Then, he ... disappeared.”
Jera spread her hands. So provocative were her words and so eloquent her gesture that Alfred could almost see again the diaphanous figure dwindle and fade like morning mist beneath an ever-shining sun.
“You should have seen,” added Jonathan with his warm, boyish laugh, “the expression on old Pons’s face!”
“Mmmm, yes,” muttered the earl.
Jera flushed delicately. “Husband dear, this matter is really quite serious.”
“I know, darling, I know.” Jonathan struggled to regain his self-composure. “But you have to admit, it was funny ...”
A smile crept over Jera’s lips. “More wine, Papa,” she said, and hastily moved to fill her father’s glass.
When she thought the earl wasn’t watching, Jera shook her head in fond, mock reproof at her husband, who grinned back at her and winked.
The earl saw and wasn’t amused. Alfred had the uncomfortable impression there wasn’t much that went on around him that the earl didn’t see. A dried-up, wizened husk of a man, the earl kept his beady black-eyed gaze constantly darting about the room, then suddenly sent the darts into Alfred.
“I’d like to see you do that spell of yours.” The earl spoke as if Alfred had performed a rather ingenious card trick. The earl leaned forward in his chair, balancing himself on sharp-pointed elbows. “Do it again. I’ll call one of the cadavers. Which one. Daughter, can we afford to spare—”
“I—I couldn’t!” Alfred stammered, becoming more and more flustered as he sought to grope his way through the morass threatening to engulf him. “It was impulse. Act of the ... the moment, you see. I looked up and ... there was that sword c-coming down. The runes .. . just popped into my head ... er... so to speak.”
“And just popped back out again, eh?” The earl jabbed a sharp-boned finger into Alfred’s ribs. Every part of the old man’s body appeared to have been honed on a grindstone.
“So to speak,” returned Alfred faintly.
The earl chuckled and poked him again. Alfred could almost envision truth being sucked out of him like blood whenever that knifelike finger or those knifelike eyes touched him. But what was the truth? Did he truly not know what he’d done? Or was one part of him hiding it from the other, as he’d grown so adept at doing over these many years of being forced to conceal his true identity?
Alfred passed a shaking hand through his thinning hair.
“Father, leave him be.” Jera came to stand at Alfred’s side, placed her hands on his shoulders. “More wine, Sir?”
“No, thank you, Your Grace.” Alfred’s glass stood untouched, untasted. “If you would excuse me, I’m very tired. I’d like to lay down ...”
“Of course, Sir,” said Jonathan. “We’ve been thoughtless, keeping you up well into the dynast’s sleep time after what must have been a terrible cycle for you—”
More than you know, Alfred said to himself sadly, with a shudder. Far more than you know! He rose unsteadily to his feet.
“I’ll show you to your room,” Jera offered.
The faint sound of a bell chimed softly through the gas-lighted darkness. All four in the room hushed, three of them exchanged conscious glances.
“That will be news from the palace,” said the earl, starting to rise on creaking limbs.
“I’ll go,” Jera said. “We daren’t trust the dead.” She left them, disappearing into the shadows.
“You’ll want to hear this, I’m sure, Sir,” said the earl, black eyes glittering. He waved a hand, inviting—or ordering—Alfred to be seated.
Alfred had no choice but to sink back down into the chair, although he was miserably conscious of the fact that he didn’t want to hear whatever news came swiftly and secretly in what, for this world, were the waning hours of the cycle.
The men waited in silence, Jonathan’s face was pale and troubled, the old earl looked crafty and enthused. Alfred stared bleakly, hopelessly at a blank wall.
The earl lived in Old Province, on what had once been a large and affluent estate. Ages ago, the land had been alive, worked by immense numbers of cadavers. The house had overlooked waving stands of kairn grass and tall, blue-flowered lanti trees. Now the house itself had become a cadaver. The lands round it were barren, lifeless seas of ash-mud created by the endless rain.
The earl’s dwelling was not a cavern-formed structure, as were many in Necropolis, but had been built of blocks of stone, reminding Alfred strongly of the castles the Sartan had created during the height of their power in the High Realms of Arianus.
The castle was large, but most of the back rooms had been shut off and abandoned, their upkeep difficult to maintain because the only person who dwelt here was the earl and the cadavers of old servants. But the front part of the house was exceptionally well preserved, compared to other mournful and dilapidated dwellings they had passed during the carriage ride through the Old Provinces.
“Its the ancient runes, you see,” the earl told Alfred, with a sharp glance. “Most people took them off. Couldn’t read them and thought they made the place look old-fashioned. But I left them on, took care of them. And they’ve taken care of me. Kept my house standing when many another’s sunk into dust.”
Alfred could read the runes, could almost feel the strength of the magic upholding the walls over the centuries. But he said nothing, fearful of saying too much.
The lived-in portion of the castle consisted of downstairs utility rooms: a kitchen, servants’ quarters, pantry, front and back entry-ways, and a laboratory where the earl conducted his experiments in attempting to bring life back to the soil of the Old Provinces. The two levels above were divided into comfortable family living quarters: bedchambers, guest rooms, drawing room, dining area.
A dynast clock[10] headed for its bedchamber, indicating the current time. Alfred thought longingly of bed, sleep, blessed oblivion, if only for a few hours before returning to this waking nightmare.
He must have actually dozed off, because when a door opened, he experienced the unpleasant tingling sensation of being awakened from a nap he had never meant to take. Blinking, he focused bleary eyes on Jera and a man wrapped in a black cloak, emerging from a doorway at the far end of the room.
10
diminutive clay model of the dynast himself set within its own miniature duplicate of the palace. As originally designed, the dynast doll was attuned magically to the dynast and portrayed the current time by its position within its play palace. Thus when the doll went to bed, the hour was the dynast’s sleeping hour. When the doll sat down to dinner, it was the dynast’s dining hour. When the magic on Abarrach grew weaker, the dolls began to keep less-than-perfect time.