“I remember the mines. Ah, that was long ago. Long before you were born, My Son. The Little People were still among us, then. They were the last, the toughest, the strongest. The last to survive. My father took me among them when I was very young. I don’t remember much about them except their fierce eyes and thick beards that hid their faces and their short, quick fingers. I was frightened of them, but my father said they were really a gentle people, merely rude and impatient with outsiders.”
The old king sighs heavily. His hand rubs the cold metal arm of the throne, as if he could bring the light back to it. “I understand now, I think. They were fierce and rude because they were frightened. They saw their doom. My father must have seen it, too. He fought against it, but there was nothing he could do. Our magic wasn’t strong enough to save them. It hasn’t even been strong enough to save ourselves.
‘ “look, look at this!” The old king becomes querulous, beats a knotted fist on the gold. “Wealth! Wealth to buy a nation. And my people starving. Worthless, worthless.”
He stares at the gold. It looks dull and sullen, almost ugly, ‘^fleeting back the feeble fire that burns at the old man’s feet. The diamonds no longer sparkle. They, too, look cold and dead. Their
•jte^their life—is dependent on man’s fire, man’s life. When that
*** is gone, the diamonds will be black as the world around them.
“They’re not coming, are they, Son?” the old king asks.
“No, Father,” his son tells him. Edmund’s hand, strong and warm, closes over the old man’s gnarled, shivering fingers. “I think, if they were going to come, they would have come by now.”
“I want to go outside,” the old king says suddenly.
‘Are you sure, Father?” Edmund looks at him, concerned.
“Yes, I’m sure!” The old king returns testily. Another luxury of old age—indulging in whims.
Wrapping himself tighter in the fur robes, he rises from the throne, descends the dais. His son stands by to aid his steps, if necessary, but it isn’t. The king is old, even by the standards of our race, who are long-lived. But he is in good physical condition, his magic is strong and supports him better than most. He has grown stoop-shouldered, but that is from the weight of the many burdens he’s been forced to bear during his long life. His hair is pure white, it whitened when he was in his middle years, whitened during the time of his wife’s brief illness that took her from him.
Edmund lifts the gas lamp, carries it with them to light the way. The gas is precious, now; more precious than gold. The king looks at the gas lamps hanging from the ceiling, lamps that are dark and cold. Watching him, I can guess his thoughts. He knows he shouldn’t be wasting the gas like this. But it isn’t wasting, not really. He is king and someday, someday soon perhaps, his son will be king. He must show him, must tell him, must make him see what it was like before. Because, who knows? The chance might come when his son will return and make it what it once had been.
They leave the throne room, walk out into the dark and drafty corridor. I stand where they may be certain to see me. The light of the gas lamp illuminates me. I see myself reflected in a mirror hanging on a wall across from them. A pale and eager face, emerging from the darkness, its white skin and glittering eyes catching the light, looming suddenly out of the shadows. My body, dad in black robes, is one with the eternal sleep that has settled on this realm. My head appears to be disembodied, hanging suspended in the darkness. The sight is frightening. I startle myself.
The old king sees me, pretends not to. Edmund makes a swift, negating gesture, shakes his own head ever so slightly. I bow and withdraw, returning to the shadows.
“Let Baltazar wait,” I hear the old king mutter to himself. “He’ll get what he wants eventually. Let him wait now. The necromancer has time. I do not.”