Fire Sea

38

... A sense of regret and sadness filled Alfred. And although painful to him, the sorrow and unhappiness were better—far better—than the lack of feeling he’d experienced prior to joining this brotherhood. Then he had been empty, a husk, a shell containing nothing. The dead—those dreadful creations of those who were beginning to dabble in necromancy—had more life than he. Alfred sighed deeply, lifted his head. A glance around the table revealed similar feelings softening the faces of the men and women gathered together in this sacred chamber.

The sadness, the regret wasn’t bitter. Bitterness comes to those who have brought tragedy on themselves, through their own misdeeds, and Alfred foresaw a time for his people when bitter sorrow must encompass them all, unless the madness could be halted.

He sighed again. Just moments before, he had been radiant with joy, peace had spread like a balm over the boiling magma sea of his doubts and fears. But that heady sense of exaltation could not last in this world. He must return to face its problems and perils and thus the sadness, the regret.

A hand reached out, clasped his. The hand’s grip was firm, the hand’s skin smooth and unwrinkled, a contrast to Alfred’s aged, parchment-paper skin, his weakened grasp.

“Hope, brother,” said the young man quietly. “We must have hope.”

Alfred turned to look at the man seated beside him. The young was handsome, strong, resolute—fine steel from a forging fire.

No doubts marred its shining surface, its blade was honed to a sharp, cutting edge. The young man looked familiar to Alfred. He could almost put a name to him, but not quite.

“I try,” answered Alfred, blinking back the tears that suddenly misted his eyes “Perhaps it’s because I’ve seen so much during my long life. I’ve known hope before, only to watch it wither and die, as did the mensch, left in our care. Our people are rushing headlong into evil—madmen rushing to the edge of the cliff, intent on hurling themselves into the abyss below. How can we stop them? Our numbers are too few—”

“We will stand before them,” said the young man. “Reveal to them the truth .. .”

And be carried over the edge of the cliff with them, thought Alfred. He kept the words to himself; let the young man live while he could in the bright dream.

“How,” he said instead, sadly, “do you suppose it all went wrong?”

The young man had the answer, the young always have the answers. “Throughout history, man has feared the forces in the world he could not control. He was alone in an immense universe that appeared uncaring. Thus in the ancient days, when the lightning flashed and thundered, he cried to the gods to save him.

“In the more recent past, man began to understand the universe and its laws. Through technology and science, he developed the means to control the universe. Unfortunately, like the rabbi who created the golem, man discovered he could not control his own creation. Instead of coming to control the universe, he came near to destroying it.

“After the holocaust, man had nothing to believe in; all his gods had abandoned him. He turned to himself, to the forces within himself. And he found the magic. Over time, the magic brought us more power than we’d ever attained in our many thousand years of striving. We didn’t need the gods anymore. We were the gods.”

“Yes, so we believed,” agreed Alfred, pondering. “And being a god was a heavy responsibility, burdensome—or so we told ourselves: ruling over and controlling the lives of those weaker than ourselves, depriving them of their freedom to determine their paths through life, forcing them to walk the one path we deemed good....”

“Yet how we enjoyed it!” said the young man.

Alfred sighed. “How we enjoyed it. How we enjoy it still and hunger after it! That’s why it is going to be difficult, so very difficult—”

“Brethren.” A woman, seated at the head of the table, broke in. “They are coming.”

No tongue spoke a word, only the eyes communicated. Heads turned, each person looked searchingly at those beside him, receiving strength and reassurance. Alfred saw resolution and fierce joy light the eyes of the young man.

“Let them come!” he said suddenly. “We are not misers, bent on hoarding the gold we have discovered! Let them come and we will share it with them, gladly!”

The other young people who were gathered around the table caught fire from the young man’s torch. Burning with inspiration, they cried out in agreement. Their elders smiled indulgently, sorrowfully. Many lowered their eyelids, not wanting their own bitter knowledge and unfortunate wisdom to snuff out the life of the bright flame.

Besides, thought Alfred, perhaps we are wrong. Perhaps the young are right. After all, why should this be revealed to us if we are not to carry it forth . . .

Sounds could be heard outside the sealed chamber, sounds indicative of many people. And it was not the sound of footsteps marching in response to order and discipline. It was the shuffling, stomping, confused sound of indiscipline, of chaos and riot, of the mob. The Sartan seated around the table again exchanged glances, doubtful, questioning.

No one can enter this chamber unless we open it. We can stay sealed up in here forever, reveling in our knowledge, keeping it only for ourselves.

“Our brother is right,” said the eldest Sartan among them. A venerable woman whose body was frail and fragile as that of a bird’s, her indomitable spirit and powerful magic had led them to the marvelous discovery. “We have been the miser, hiding our wealth beneath the mattress, living in poverty by day, taking our gold out in the darkness of the night to gaze at it with covetous eyes and then returning it to its hiding place. Like the miser, who does no good with his gold, we will soon shrivel and dry up inside. It is not only our responsibility to share our wealth, it is our joy. Remove the runes of protection.”

It is the right thing to do, I know, thought Alfred, lowering his head. But I am not strong. I am afraid.

A hand closed over his, a hand that was warm and strong and tried to share the confidence of the self that guided it.

“They will listen to us,” said the young man softly, exultantly. “They must!”

The bright and beautiful white-blue light faded, dimmed, and died. The sounds beyond the sealed doors were suddenly louder and far more ominous, sounds of shouts and jeers, anger and hatred. Alfred’s heart quailed. His hand, held fast in the young man’s, trembled.

We are right. What we do is right, he kept reminding himself. But, oh, it is hard!

The stone doors ground open. The mob burst into the room, those in back shoving those in front of them to reach their goal. The people in front, however, came to a halt, nonplussed by the calm demeanor and grave, solemn countenances of those gathered around the table. A mob feeds off fear. Faced by reason and calm, the mob finds some of its energy begin to drain away.

The enraged shouts dwindled to mutterings, broken occasionally by the yell of someone in the back, demanding to know what was happening. Those who had crowded into the room, intent on violence, looked foolish and sought among themselves for a leader, someone to rekindle the comforting flame of rage.

A man stepped forward. Alfred’s heart, which had been lifted by a sudden flutter of hope, sank in despair, wings broken. The man was clad in black, one of those practicing the newly discovered and previously forbidden art of necromancy. He was powerful, charismatic, and it was rumored that he was seeking to set himself up as king.

He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the old woman, gazing on him as she might have gazed on an obstreperous child who has just interrupted its elders, asked mildly, “Why have you and your followers disturbed us in our work, Kleitus?”

“Because your work is the work of heretics and we have come to put an end to it,” the necromancer answered.

“Our work here was established by the council—”

“—who deeply regret their actions!” Kleitus sneered.

Those standing behind him voiced their approbation. He knew himself to be in control, now. Or perhaps, Alfred realized with a sudden flash of terrifying insight, Kleitus had been in control all along. His was the spark that had ignited the fire. Now he had only to blow on the coals to create a raging inferno.

“The council set you the task of contacting the other worlds, to explain to them our desperate peril and beg them to send the aid promised to us before the Sundering. And what was the result? For months you did nothing. Then, suddenly, you come forward prattling nonsense that only a child would believe—”

“If it is nonsense,” cut in the old woman, her voice smooth and calm, a contrast to the rising, strident tones of her accuser, “then why disturb us? Let us continue on—”

“Because it is dangerous nonsense!” Kleitus shouted. He lapsed into silence, seeking to gain control over himself. An intelligent man, he knew that wild hacking and slashing was as self-destructive in verbal parry as it was in actual swordplay. His voice, when he spoke, had regained its discipline. “Because, unfortunately, there are some of our people who have the guileless minds of children. And others, like this one.” Kleitus’s gaze rested on the young man. The necromancer’s eyes darkened in anger. “Young people who have been lured into your trap by the bright bauble you dangled in front of them!”

The young man said nothing, the hand holding Alfred’s tightened its firm grip, the handsome face became more serene. What was this young man to Kleitus? He couldn’t be his son, Kleitus wasn’t old enough to have fathered one this age. Younger brother, perhaps, who had looked to the older brother in worship before finding out the truth? Apprentice to a once-idolized teacher? It occurred to Alfred that he didn’t know the young man’s name. Names had never been important to those gathered around the table. Something told Alfred, deep inside, that he would never know it. And that, somehow, it would not matter.

Alfred felt stronger. He was able to return the pressure of the young man’s grip. The young man looked at him, and smiled.

Unfortunately, this smile was oil thrown on Kleitus’s smoldering blaze. “You stand accused of corrupting the minds of our youth! There”—he pointed a stabbing finger at the young man—“is our proof!”

The crowd surged forward, its anger rumbled like the belching of the Fire Sea, breaking out of the cracks in the ground.

The old woman thrust aside the hands of those of her brethren who respectfully sought to assist her and rose to her feet under her own power. “Take us before the council, then!” she returned in a voice that quelled the fiery tide. “We will answer any charges brought against us!”

“The council is a bunch of doddering fools, who, in their misguided efforts to preserve peace, have put up with your rantings far too long. The council has turned over leadership to me!”

The mob cheered. Kleitus, emboldened, moved the accusing finger from the young man to the old woman.

“Your heretical lies will do no more harm to the innocent!”

The mob’s cheering grew louder, more sinister. They surged forward again. Blades flashed, blades of sword and knife.

“Those who wield steel in this sacred chamber will find the point turned to their own breasts!” the old woman warned.

It was Kleitus who raised a hand, brought the mob to a halt, brought their clamor to a grumbling quiet. He didn’t act to stop the threat out of fear or mercy; he was demonstrating his control, letting it be known that he could release his wolf pack any time he chose.

“We mean you no harm,” he said smoothly. “Agree to go forth publicly and tell the people that you have been lying to them. Tell them.. .” Kleitus paused, spinning his web. “Tell them that you did, in fact, contact the other worlds. That you hoped to preserve their riches for yourselves. Actually, now that I think of it, such a scheme is probably not far from the truth.”

“Liar!” cried the young man, jumping to his feet. “You know what we have done! I told you! I told you everything! I only wanted to share with you—” Hands outspread, he turned to those gathered around the table. “Forgive me. I have brought this on us.”

“It would have come,” said the old woman softly. “It would have come. We are too early ... or too late. Resume your place at the table.”

Sorrowing, the young man slumped back into his chair. It was Alfred’s turn to offer comfort, what comfort there could be. He rested his hand on the young man’s arm.

Brace yourself, he told him silently. Brace yourself for what must come. Too early . . . too late. Please, not too late! Hope is all we have left.

Kleitus was saying something: “. . . appear in public, denounce yourselves as charlatans. Suitable punishment will be determined. And now stand aside from that table!” he commanded, his voice cold and grinding as the stone door. Several of his followers came forward, iron hammers and chisels in their hands.

“What do you intend to do, Kleitus?”

He shifted the pointing finger again, this time to the white wood. “It will be destroyed, lest it lead others to evil!”

“To the truth, don’t you mean?” the old woman said quietly. “Isn’t that what you fear?”

“Stand aside! Or you will meet the same fate!”

The young man raised his head, stared, stricken, at Kleitus. Only now, he was beginning to understand what terrible purpose the necromancer had in mind. Alfred felt profoundly sorry for the young man. The old woman remained standing. As a body, the men and women gathered around the table rose to stand with her.

“You are wasting your time and possibly your lives, Kleitus. You may silence our voices, but others will come after us. The table will not be destroyed!”

“You plan on defending it?” Again, Kleitus sneered.

“Not with our bodies. With our prayers. Brethren, do no violence. Harm no one. These are our people. Raise no magical defenses. None will be needed. I warn you again, Kleitus!” The old woman’s voice rose strong and proud. “This chamber is sacred, blessed. Those who bring violence will—”

A bow snapped, an arrow sped over the table, thudded into the woman’s breast.

“—be forgiven,” she whispered, and slumped down, red blood staining the white wood.

A flash of movement. Alfred turned. A man raised his bow, arrow aimed straight at Alfred. The man’s face was twisted with fear and the anger fear breeds, Alfred couldn’t move. He couldn’t have cast a magical defense if he’d wanted to. The man drew back the bowstring, prepared to let fly. Alfred stood waiting for death. Not courageously, he realized sadly, but rather foolishly.

A strong hand, coming from behind Alfred, shoved him to one side, and he was falling. . . .