He saw, once again, the mausoleum back on Arianus, the bodies of his friends lying in their tombs. He’d felt a sadness when he had visited them the last time before he’d left Arianus. His sorrow was not so much for them, he realized, as for himself. Left alone.
He recalled, as well, the deaths of his parents in the Labyrinth. . . .
No, Alfred remembered confusedly. That had been Haplo’s parents. But he’d felt the tearing grief, the raging anger, the terrible fear. .. . Again, for himself. For Haplo, that is. Left alone. The mangled bodies who had fought and struggled had found peace at last. Death had taught Haplo to hate, hate the enemy who had locked his parents inside the prison that had killed them. But, although Haplo might not know it himself, death had taught him other lessons, as well.
And now Haplo was dead. And I’d almost begun to think there was a chance that he …
A whine broke in on Alfred’s thoughts. The swipe of a tongue, cold and wet on his skin, made him jump.
A black, nondescript dog gazed up at him worriedly, cocked its head to one side. It raised a paw, placed it on Alfred’s knee. Liquid brown eyes offered consolation for trouble felt, if not understood.
Alfred stared at the dog, then, recovering from his initial shock, he threw his arms around the animal’s neck. He could almost have wept.
The dog had been prepared to offer sympathy, but such rough familiarity was apparently not to be tolerated. It wriggled out of Alfred’s grasp, regarded the man in puzzlement.
Why all the fuss? it seemed to say. I’m only obeying orders.
Watch him. Haplo’s final command.
“G-good boy,” Alfred said, reaching out gingerly to pat the furry black head.
The dog submitted to the caress, indicating, with a dignified air, that head patting was acceptable and the relationship might advance to ear scratching, but a line had to be drawn somewhere and it hoped that Alfred understood.
Alfred did understand.
“Haplo’s not dead! He’s alive!” he cried.
Looking around, he saw everyone in the room staring at him.
“How did you do that?” Jera’s face was livid, her lips white. “The beast’s corpse was destroyed! We saw it!”
“Tell me, Daughter! What are you talking about?” her father demanded irascibly.
“That.. . that dog, Father! It was the one the guard threw into the mud pit!”
‘Are you sure? Maybe it resembles—”
“Of course I’m sure, Father! Look at Alfred. He knows the dog! And the dog knows him!”
“Another trick. How did you manage this one?” the earl asked. “What marvelous magic is this? If you can restore cadavers that have been destroyed—”
“I told you, Father!” Jera gasped, hardly able to speak for awe. “The prophecy!”
Silence. Jonathan gazed at Alfred with the undisguised and fascinated wonder of a child. The earl, his daughter, and the stranger regarded the Sartan with shrewd, thoughtful eyes, perhaps plotting how best they could make use of him.
“No trick! Not me! I didn’t do anything,” Alfred protested. “It wasn’t my magic that brought the dog back. It’s Haplo’s—”
“Your friend? But, I assure you, sir, he’s dead,” said Jonathan, with a glance at his wife that said plainly, Poor man’s gone mad.”
“No, no, he’s not dead. Your friend, here, must be mistaken. You didn’t actually see the body, did you?” Alfred asked.
“I didn’t. But the blood, the spear—”
“I tell you,” Alfred insisted, “that the dog would not be here if Haplo were dead. I can’t explain how I know, because I am not even certain my theory about the animal is the correct one. But I do know this. It would take more than a spear to kill my… er… friend. His magic is powerful, very powerful.”
“Well, well. There’s no use arguing over it. Either he’s alive or he isn’t. All the more reason for us to get him, or what’s left of him, out of the dynast’s clutches,” said the earl. He turned to Tomas. “And, now, sir, when will the resurrection on the prince be performed?”
“Three cycles hence, according to my source, Milord.”