“Of course not!” Alfred said severely. “We abhor warfare. We are the peacemakers. We promote peace!”
“You have that luxury,” said Jonathan quietly. “We did not.”
Alfred was struck, startled by the young duke’s words. Was peace a luxury available only to a “fat” world? He recalled Prince Edmund’s people, ragged, freezing, starving; watching their children, their elderly die while inside this city was warmth, food. What would I do if I was in their position? Would I meekly die, watch my children die? Or would I fight? Alfred shifted in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable.
I know what I’d do, he thought bitterly. I’d faint!
“As time passed, our people became more adept at war.” Jonathan sipped at a cup of kairn-grass tea. “The young men began to train as soldiers, armies were formed. At first, they tried to fight with magic as their weapon, but that took too much energy away from the magic needed to survive.
“And so we studied the art of ancient weaponry. Swords and spears are far cruder than magic, but they’re effective. Brawls became battles and, inevitably, led to the great war of about a century ago—the War of Abandonment.
“A powerful wizardess named Bethel claimed that she had discovered the way out of this world. She announced that she was planning to leave and would take those who wanted to go with her. She drew a large following. If the people had left, it would have decimated the population that was rapidly dwindling anyway. To say nothing of the fact that everyone feared what might happen if the “Gate” as she called it was opened. Who knew what terrible force might rush in and seize control?
“The dynast of Kairn Necros, Kleitus VII, forbid Bethel and her followers to leave. She refused to obey and led her people across the Fire Sea to the Pillar of Zembar, preparatory to abandoning the world. The battles between the two factions raged off and on for years, until Bethel was betrayed and captured. She was being ferried across the Fire Sea when she escaped her captors and flung herself into the magma, to keep her corpse from being resurrected. Before she jumped, she cried out what later became known as the prophecy about the Gate.”
Alfred pictured the woman standing on the bow, screaming defiance. He pictured her hurling herself into the flaming ocean. He lost the thread of Jonathan’s tale, picked it up again only when the young man suddenly lowered his voice.
“It was during that war that armies of the dead were first formed and pitted against each other. In fact, it’s said that some commanders actually ordered the killing of their own living soldiers, to provide themselves with troops of cadavers . . .”
Alfred’s head jerked up. “What? What are you telling me? Murdered their own young men! Blessed Sartan! To what black depths have we sunk?” He was livid, shaking. “No, don’t come near me!” He raised a warding hand, rose distractedly from his chair. “I must get out of here! Leave this place!” It seemed, from his fevered attitude, that he meant to run out of the house that instant.
“Husband, what have you been saying to upset him like this?” demanded Jera, coming into the room with Tomas. “My dear sir, please sit down, calm yourself.”
“I was only telling him that old story about the generals killing their own men during the war—”
“Oh, Jonathan!” Jera shook her head. “Certainly, you can leave, Alfred. Any time you want. You’re not a prisoner here!”
Yes, I am! Alfred groaned inwardly. I’m a prisoner, a prisoner of my own ineptness! I came through Death’s Gate by sheer accident! I would never have the courage or the knowledge to get back alone!
“Think about your friend,” Tomas added soothingly, pouring out a cup of kairn tea. “You don’t want to leave your friend behind, do you, Sir?”
“I’m sorry.” Alfred collapsed back into his chair. “Forgive me. I’m ... tired, that’s all. Very tired. I think I’ll go to bed. Come on, boy.”
He laid a trembling hand on the dog’s head. The animal looked up at him, whimpered, slowly brushed its tail against the floor, but didn’t move.
The whimper had an odd note to it, a sound that Alfred had never heard the dog make before. He took more notice, looked down at it intently. The dog tried to lift its head, let it sink back weakly on its paws. The tail wagging increased slightly, however, to indicate that it appreciated the man’s concern.
“Is there something wrong?” asked Jera, staring down at the dog. “Do you think the animal’s sick?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know much about dogs I’m afraid,” Alfred mumbled, feeling dread shrivel him up inside.
He did know something about this dog, or at least suspected. And if what he suspected was true, then whatever was wrong with the dog was wrong with Haplo.
30
The dog’s condition gradually worsened. By the next cycle, it couldn’t move at all, but lay on its side, flanks heaving, panting for breath. The animal refused all attempts to feed it or give it water.
Although everyone in the house was sorry for the dog’s suffering, no one, except Alfred, was much concerned. Their thoughts were on the raid on the castle, the rescue of the prince’s cadaver. Their plans were made, discussed and viewed from every conceivable angle for flaws. None could be found.
“It’s going to be almost ridiculously easy,” said Jera, at breakfast.
“I do beg your pardon,” said Alfred in timid tones, “but I spent some time at court on ... er ... well, the world from which I come, and King Stephen’s .. . that is ... the king’s dungeons were quite heavily guarded. How do you plan—”
“You’re not involved.” The earl snorted. “So don’t concern yourself.”
I may yet be involved, Alfred thought. His glance strayed to the sick dog. He said nothing aloud, however, preferring to bide his time until he had more facts.
“Don’t be so cantankerous, Milord,” said Jonathan, laughing. “We trust Alfred, don’t we?”
Silence fell over the group, a faint blush suffused Jera’s cheek. She glanced involuntarily at Tomas, who met her look, shook his head slightly, and lowered his gaze to his plate. The earl snorted again. Jonathan glanced from one to the other in perplexity.
“Oh, come now—” he began.
“More tea, sir?” Jera interrupted, lifting the stoneware kettle and holding it over Alfred’s teacup. “No, thank you, Your Grace.”
No one else said anything. Jonathan started to speak again, but was stopped by a look from his wife. The only sounds were the labored breathing of the dog and the occasional rattle of cutlery or the clink of a pottery plate. All seemed vastly relieved when Tomas rose from the table.
“If you will excuse me, Your Grace.” A bow to Jera. “It is time for my appearance at court. Although I am not of the least importance”—he added with a self-deprecating smile—“this cycle of all cycles I should do nothing to draw attention to myself. I must be seen at my regular place at my regular time.”
Alfred lurked about on the fringes of the group until everyone had separated and gone about their morning tasks. Tomas was alone on the lower floor, heading out the door of his dwelling. Alfred emerged from a shadowy corner, plucked at the sleeve of the man’s robe.
Tomas gave a start, stared around with livid face and wide eyes. “Excuse me,” said Alfred, taken aback. “I didn’t mean to startle you,”
Tomas frowned when he saw who had hold of him. “What do you want?” he demanded impatiently, shaking free of Alfred’s grip.
“I’m late as it is.”
“Would it be possible—could you speak to your friend in the dungeons and find out the ... the condition of my friend?”
“I told you before. He’s alive, just as you said,” Tomas snapped.
“That’s all I know.”