Dragon Wing

37

Jarre’s hand slid nervelessly from Alfred’s. She could not move; the strength seeped from her body. She shrank back against the archway, leaning on it for support. Alfred never seemed to notice. He walked ahead, leaving the Geg, shaken and trembling, to wait for him.

The chamber he entered was vast; Jarre couldn’t recall ever seeing such a huge open space in her life—a space not inhabited by some whirly, clanging, or thumping part of the Kicksey-Winsey. Made of the same smooth, flawless stone as the tunnels, the walls of the chamber glowed with a soft white light that began to shine from them when Alfred set his foot inside the archway. It was by this light that Jarre saw the coffins. Set into the walls, each covered by glass, the coffins numbered in the hundreds and held the bodies of men and women. Jarre could not see the people closely—they were little more than silhouettes against the light. But she could tell that they were of the same race as Alfred and the other gods who had come to Drevlin. The bodies were tall and slender and lay resting with arms at their sides.

The floor of the chamber was smooth and wide, and the coffins encircled it in rows that extended up to the high domed ceiling. The chamber itself was completely empty. Alfred moved slowly, looking all around him in wistful recognition, as does someone returning home after a long absence. The light in the room grew brighter, and Jarre saw that there were symbols on the floor, similar in shape and design to the runes that had lit their way. There were twelve sigla, each carved singular and alone, never touching or overlapping. Alfred moved carefully among these, his gangly, ungainly form weaving its way across the empty chamber in a solemn dance, the lines and movements of his body appearing to imitate the particular sigil over which he was passing.

He made a complete circuit of the chamber, drifting across the floor, dancing to silent music. He glided close to each rune but never touched it, gliding away to another, honoring each in turn, until finally he came to the center of the chamber. Kneeling, he placed his hands upon the floor and began to sing. Jarre could not understand the words he sang, but the song filled her with a joy that was bittersweet because it did nothing to lighten the terrible sadness. The runes on the floor glittered brightly, almost blinding in their radiance during Alfred’s song. When he ceased, their gleaming light began to fade and, within moments, was gone.

Alfred, standing in the center, sighed. The body that had moved so beautifully in the dance stooped, the shoulders rounded. He looked over at Jarre and gave her a wistful smile, “You’re not still frightened?” He made a weak gesture toward the rows of coffins. “Nobody here can harm you. Not anymore. Not that they would have anyway—at least, not intentionally.” He sighed and, turning in his place, looked long around the room. “But how much harm have we done unintentionally, meaning the best? Not gods, but with the power of gods. And yet lacking the wisdom.”

He walked, slowly and with head bowed, over to a row of coffins that stood very near the entrance, near Jarre. Alfred placed his hand on one of the crystal windows, his fingers stroking it with an almost caressing touch. Sighing, he rested his forehead against another coffin up above. Jarre saw that the coffin he touched was empty. The others around it held bodies in them, and she noticed—her attention called to these because of him—that they seemed all to be young. Younger than he is, she thought, her gaze going to the bald head, the domed forehead carved with lines of anxiety, worry, and care that were so pronounced a smile only deepened them.

“These are my friends,” he said to Jarre. “I told you about them as we were coming down here.” He smoothed the crystal closure with one hand. “I told you that they might not be here. I told you that they might have gone. But I knew in my heart what I told you wasn’t true. They would be here. They will be here forever. Because they’re dead, you see, Jarre. Dead before their time. I am alive long after!”

He closed his eyes, then covered his face with his hand. A sob wrenched the tall, ungainly body that leaned against the coffins. Jarre didn’t understand. She hadn’t listened to anything about these friends, and she could not and did not want to think about what she was seeing. But the man was grieving and his grief was heartbreaking to witness. Looking at the young people with their beautiful faces, serene and unmarred and cold as the crystal behind which they lay, Jarre understood that Alfred did not grieve for one but for many, himself among them.

Wrenching herself from the archway, she crept forward and slipped her hand into his. The solemnity, the despair, the sorrow of the place and of this man had affected Jarre deeply—just how deeply, she would not come to know until much later in her life. During that future time of great crisis when it seemed to her that she was losing all that was most valuable to her, everything he said—the story of Alfred and his losses and those of his people—would come back to her.

“Alfred. I’m sorry.”

The man looked down at her, the tears glistening on his eyelashes. Squeezing her hand, he said something that she did not understand, for it was not in her language, nor in any other language that had been spoken for long ages in the realm of Arianus.

“This is why we failed,” he said in that ancient language. “We thought of the many . . . and forgot the one. And so I am alone. And left perhaps to face by myself a peril ages old. The man with the bandaged hands.” He shook his head.

“The man with the bandaged hands.”

He left the mausoleum without looking back. No longer afraid, Jarre walked with him.

Hugh woke at the sound. Starting up, pulling his dagger from his boot, he was on the move before he had completely thrown off sleep. It took him but an instant to collect himself, his eyes blinking back the blur of waking, adjusting to the dim glow of glimmerglamps shining from the never-sleeping Kicksey-Winsey. There was the sound again. He was heading in the right direction; it had come from behind one of the grilles located on the side of the vat.

Hugh’s hearing was acute, his reflexes quick. He had trained himself to sleep lightly, and he was, therefore, not pleased to discover Haplo, fully awake, calmly standing near the air shaft as if he’d been there for hours. The sounds—scuffling and scraping—could now be heard clearly. They were getting closer. The dog, fur bristling around its neck, stared up at the shaft and whined softly.

“Shhst!” Haplo hissed, and the dog quieted. It walked around in a nervous circle and came back to stand beneath the shaft again. Seeing Hugh, Haplo made a motion with his hand. “Cover that side.”

Hugh did not hesitate, but obeyed the silent command. To argue about leadership now would have been foolhardy, with some unknown something creeping toward them in the night and the two of them with only their bare hands and one dagger to fight it. He reflected, as he took up his stance, that not only had Haplo heard and reacted to the sound, he had moved so softly and stealthily that Hugh, who had heard the sound, had not heard Haplo. The scuffling grew louder, nearer. The dog stiffened and bared its teeth. Suddenly there came a thump and a muffled “Ouch!” Hugh relaxed. “It’s Alfred.”

“How in the name of the Mangers did he find us?” Haplo muttered. A white face pressed against the grillwork from the inside.

“Sir Hugh?”

“He has a wide range of talents,” remarked Hugh.

“I’d be interested in hearing about them,” returned Haplo. “How do we get him out?” He peered inside the grillwork. “Who’s that with you?”

“One of the Gegs. Her name’s Jarre.”

The Geg poked her head beneath Alfred’s arm. The space they were in was, seemingly, a tight fit, and Alfred was forced to scrunch up until he practically doubled in two to make room.

“Where’s Limbeck?” Jarre demanded. “Is he all right?”

“He’s over there, asleep. The grille’s bolted fast on this side, Alfred. Can you work any of the bolts out from yours?”

“I’ll see, sir. It’s rather difficult . . . without any light. Perhaps if I used my feet, sir, and kicked—”

“Good idea.” Haplo backed out of the way, the dog trotting at his heels.

“It’s about time his feet were good for something,” said Hugh, moving to the side of the vat. “It’s going to make one hell of a clatter.”

“Fortunately, the machine’s doing an excellent job of clattering itself. Stand back, dog.”

“I want to see Limbeck!”

“In just a moment, Jarre,” came Alfred’s mollifying voice. “Now, if you’ll just scoot over there and give me some room.”

Hugh heard a thud and saw the grillwork shiver slightly. Two more kicks, a groan from Alfred, and the grille popped off the side of the vat and fell to the ground.

By now, Limbeck and Bane were both awake and had come over to stare curiously at their midnight callers. Jarre slid out feet-first. Landing on the floor of the vat, she raced to Limbeck, threw her arms around him, and hugged him tight.

“Oh, my dear!” she said in a fierce whisper. “You can’t imagine where I’ve been! You can’t imagine it!”

Limbeck, feeling her trembling in his arms, somewhat bewilderedly smoothed her hair and gingerly patted her on the back.

“But, never mind!” said Jarre, returning to the serious business at hand. “The newssingers say the High Froman’s going to turn you over to the Welves. Don’t worry. We’re going to get you out of here now. This air shaft Alfred found leads to the outskirts of the city. Where we’ll go once we leave here, I’m not quite certain, but we can sneak out of Wombe tonight and—”

“Are you all right, Alfred?” Hugh offered to help extricate the chamberlain from the shaft.

“Yes, sir.”

Tumbling out of the air shaft, Alfred attempted to put his weight on his legs, and crumpled over in a heap on the ground. “That is, perhaps not,” he amended from where he sat on the floor of the vat, a pained expression on his face. “I am afraid I’ve damaged something, sir. But it’s not serious.” Standing on one foot, with Hugh’s help, he leaned back against the vat. “I can walk.”

“You couldn’t walk when you had two good feet.”

“It’s nothing, sir. My knee—”

“Guess what, Alfred!” interrupted Bane. “We’re going to fight the elves!”

“I beg your pardon, Your Highness!”

“We’re not going to have to escape, Jarre,” Limbeck was explaining. “At least I’m not. I’m going to make a speech to the Welves and ask for their help and cooperation. Then the Welves will fly us to the realms above. I’ll see the truth, Jarre. I’ll see it for myself!”

“Make a speech to the Welves!” Jarre gasped, her breath completely taken away by this astounding revelation.

“Yes, my dear. And you’ve got to spread the word among our people. We’ll need their help. Haplo will tell you what to do.”

“You’re not going to ... fight anyone, are you?”

“No, my dear,” said Limbeck, stroking his beard. “We’re going to sing.”

“Sing!” Jarre stared from one to another in blank astonishment. “I ... I don’t know much about elves. Are they fond of music?”

“What’d she say?” Hugh demanded. “Alfred, we’ve got to get this plan moving! Come here and translate for me. I have to teach her that song before morning.”

“Very well, sir,” said Alfred. “I assume, sir, you are referring to the song of the Battle of Seven Fields?”

“Yes. Tell her not to worry about what the words mean. They’ll have to learn to sing it in human. Have her memorize it line by line and say it back to us to make sure she’s got the words. The song shouldn’t be too difficult for them to learn. Kids sing it all the time.”

“I’ll help!” Bane volunteered.

Haplo, squatting on the ground, stroked the dog, watched and listened, and said nothing.

“Jarre? Is that her name?” Hugh approached the two Gegs, Bane dancing at his side. The man’s face was dark and stern in the flickering light. Bane’s blue eyes gleamed with excitement. “Can you rally your people, teach them this song, and have them there at the ceremony?” Alfred translated. “This king of yours said the Welves will be here this day at noon. That doesn’t give you much time.”

“Sing!” Jarre murmured, staring at Limbeck. “Are you really going? Up there?” Taking off his spectacles, Limbeck rubbed them on his shirt sleeve and put them on again. “Yes, my dear. If the Welves don’t mind—”

“ ‘The Welves don’t mind,’” Alfred translated to Hugh, giving him a meaningful glance.

“Don’t worry about the Welves, Alfred,” interposed Haplo. “Limbeck’s going to make a speech.”

“Oh, Limbeck!” Jarre was pale, biting her lip. “Are you sure you should go up there? I don’t think you should leave us. What will WUPP do without you? You going off like that—it will seem like the High Froman’s won!” Limbeck frowned. “I hadn’t thought about that.” Removing his spectacles, he began to clean them again. Instead of putting them back on, he absentmindedly stuck them in his pocket. He looked at Jarre and blinked, as if wondering why she was all blurry. “I don’t know. Perhaps you’re right, my dear.” Hugh ground his teeth in frustration. He didn’t know what had been said, but he could see the Geg was having second thoughts, and that was going to lose him his ship and probably his life. He looked impatiently at Alfred to help, but the chamberlain, limping on one foot, appeared undignified and storklike, also very sad and unhappy. Hugh was just admitting to himself that he might have to rely on Haplo when he saw the man, with a signal of his hand, send the dog forward.

Gliding across the floor of the vat, the animal came to Limbeck and thrust its muzzle in the Geg’s hand. Limbeck started at the unexpected touch of the cold nose, and jerked his hand away. But the dog remained, looking up at him intently, the bushy tail slowly brushing from side to side. Limbeck’s nearsighted gaze was drawn slowly and irresistibly from the dog to its master. Hugh glanced swiftly back at Haplo to see what message he was giving, but the man’s face was mild and tranquil, with that quiet smile.

Limbeck’s hand absently stroked the dog, his eyes fixed on Haplo. He sighed deeply.

“My dear?” Jarre touched him on the arm.

“The truth. And my speech. I must make my speech. I’m going, Jarre. And I’m counting on you and our people to help. And when I come back, when I’ve seen the Truth, then we’ll start the revolution!”

Jarre recognized his stubborn tone, knew it was hopeless to argue. She wasn’t certain she wanted to argue anyway. Part of her was stirred at the thought of what Limbeck was doing. It was the beginning of the revolution, really and truly. But he would be leaving her. She hadn’t realized, until now, how much she truly loved him.

“I could come too,” she offered.

“No, my dear.” Limbeck gazed at her fondly. “It wouldn’t do for both of us to be gone.” He took a step forward, put his hands out to where it looked to his nearsighted eyes her shoulders were. Jarre, used to this, moved up to be right where he thought she was. “You must prepare the people for my return.”

“I’ll do it!”

The dog, afflicted by a sudden itch, sat down, scratching at its fur with a hind foot.

“You can teach her the song now, sir,” said Alfred. Alfred translating, Hugh gave Jarre his instructions, taught her the song, then bundled her back into the air shaft. Limbeck stood beneath it and, before she left, reached up to hold her hand.

“Thank you, my dear. This will be for the best. I know it!”

“Yes, I know it too.”

To hide the trouble in her voice, Jarre leaned down and gave Limbeck a shy kiss on the cheek. She waved her hand to Alfred, who gave her a small solemn bow; then she hastily turned and began to climb through the air shaft. Hugh and Haplo lifted the grille and put it back in place as best they could, hammering at it with their fists.

“Are you hurt very badly, Alfred?” asked Bane, struggling against sleepiness and an unwillingness to return to bed and possibly miss out on something.

“No, Your Highness, thank you for asking.”

Bane nodded and yawned. “I think I’ll just lie down, Alfred. Not to sleep, mind you, just to rest.”

“Allow me to straighten your blankets, Your Highness.” Alfred cast a swift sidelong glance over to Hugh and Haplo, pounding at the grille. “Might I trouble Your Highness with a question?”

Bane yawned until his jaws cracked. Eyelids drooping, he plopped down on the floor of the vat and said sleepily, “Sure.”

“Your Highness”—Alfred lowered his voice, keeping his eyes fixed on the blanket that he was, as usual, clumsily twisting and knotting and doing everything but straightening—“when you look at that man Haplo, what do you see?”

“A man. Not very good-looking but not very ugly, not like Hugh. That Haplo’s not very much of anything, if you ask me. Here, you’re making a mess of that, as usual.”

“No, Your Highness. I can manage.” The chamberlain continued to maul the blanket. “About my question—that really wasn’t what I meant, Your Highness.” Alfred paused, licking his lips. He knew that this next question would undoubtedly start Bane thinking. Yet Alfred felt at this juncture he had no choice. He had to know the truth.

“What can you see with your . . . special vision?” Bane’s eyes widened, then narrowed, glistening with shrewdness and cunning. But the intelligence in them was gone so swiftly, masked by the bright gloss of innocence, that Alfred, if he had not seen it before, might not have believed he saw it then.

“Why do you ask, Alfred?”

“Just out of curiosity, Your Highness. Nothing more.” Bane regarded him speculatively, perhaps gauging how much more information he was likely to wheedle from the chamberlain, perhaps wondering whether he could gain more by telling the truth or lying or a judicious mixture of both. Giving Haplo a wary sidelong glance, Bane leaned confidentially near to Alfred and said softly, “I can’t see anything.”

Alfred sat back on his heels, his careworn face drawn and troubled. He stared intently at Bane, trying to judge whether or not the child was sincere.

“Yes,” continued Bane, taking the man’s look for a question. “I can’t see anything. And there’s only one other person I’ve met who’s the same—you, Alfred. What do you make of that?” The child gazed up at him with bright, shining eyes.

The blanket suddenly seemed to spread itself out, smooth and flat, without a wrinkle. “You can lie down now, Your Highness. We have, it seems, an exciting day tomorrow.”

“I asked you a question, Alfred,” said the prince, stretching out obediently.

“Yes, Your Highness. It must be coincidence. Nothing more.”

“You’re probably right, Alfred.” Bane smiled sweetly and closed his eyes. The smile remained on his lips; he was inwardly enjoying some private joke. Alfred, nursing his knee, decided that, as usual, he had made a mush of things. I gave Bane a clue to the truth. And against all express orders to the contrary, I took a being of another race into the Heart and the Brain and brought her back out again. But does it matter anymore? Does it really matter?

He couldn’t help himself, his gaze went to Haplo, who was settling down for the night. Alfred knew the truth now, yet he resisted it. He told himself it was coincidence. The boy had not met every person in the world. There might be many whose past lives were not visible to him through the medium of his clairvoyance. The chamberlain watched Haplo lie down, saw him give the dog a pat, saw the dog take up a protective position at the man’s side. I have to find out. I must know for certain. Then my mind will be at rest. I can laugh at my fears.

Or prepare to face them.

No, stop thinking like that. Beneath the bandages, you will find sores, as he said.

Alfred waited. Limbeck and Hugh returned to their beds, Hugh casting a glance in Alfred’s direction. The chamberlain pretended to sleep. The prince had drifted off, seemingly, but it might be well to make sure. Limbeck lay awake, staring up into the top of the vat, worrying, afraid, repeating to himself all his resolutions. Hugh leaned back against the vat’s side. Taking out his pipe, he stuck it between his teeth and gazed moodily at nothing. Alfred did not have much time. He propped himself on one elbow, keeping his shoulders hunched, his hand held close to his body, and faced Limbeck. Raising his index and middle fingers, Alfred drew a sigil in the air. Whispering the rune, he drew it again. Limbeck’s eyelids lowered, opened, lowered, quivered, and finally shut. The Geg’s breathing became even and regular. Turning slightly, keeping his movements smooth and stealthy, Alfred faced the assassin and drew the same sigil. Hugh’s head dropped. The pipe slipped from between his teeth and fell into his lap. Alfred’s gaze turned to Bane, and he made the same sign; if the child hadn’t been asleep before this, he was now. Then, facing Haplo, Alfred drew the rune and whispered the same words, only now with more concentration, more force.

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.