“My companion’s name is Alfred. And you’re right. He is different. We come from different worl—er . . . cities. He joined up with me because he had no one else. He is the last survivor of his race.”
A sympathetic murmur arose from the crowd. Alfred sat up weakly, cast a swift, frightened glance around him. The dead guards were out of sight. He breathed somewhat easier and, with the help of the necromancer, struggled awkwardly to stand up. Brushing off his clothes, he made a bobbing bow to the prince.
“Is this true?” Edmund said, pity and compassion softening his tone. ‘Are you the last of your people?”
“I thought I was,” said Alfred, speaking Sartan, “until I found you.”
“But you are not one of us,” Edmund said, growing more and more perplexed. “I understand your speech, as I understand his”— he waved a hand at Haplo—”but it, too, is different. Tell me more.”
Alfred appeared highly confused. “I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Tell us how you came to be here in this cave,” suggested the necromancer.
Alfred cast the Patryn a wild look. His hands fluttered vaguely. “I—we sailed … in a ship. It’s docked over there. Somewhere.” He gestured vaguely, having lost all sense of direction. “We heard voices and came looking to see who was down here.”
“Yet you thought we might be a hostile army,” the prince said. “Why didn’t you run away?”
Alfred smiled wanly, gently. “Because we didn’t find a hostile army. We found you and your people, honoring your dead.”
A nice way to put it, Haplo thought. The prince was impressed with the answer.
“You are one of us. Your words are my words, even though they are different. Far different. In your words”—the prince hesitated, trying to articulate his thoughts—”I see radiant light and a vast expanse of endless blue. I hear rushing wind and I breathe fresh, pure air that needs no magic to filter out its poison. In your words I hear .. . life. And that makes my words sound dark and cold, like this rock on which we stand.”
Edmund turned to Haplo. “And you, too, are one of us, but you’re not. In your words I hear anger, hatred. I see a darkness that is not cold and lifeless but is alive and moving, like a living entity. I feel trapped, caged, a yearning for escape.”
Haplo was impressed, although he endeavored not to show it.
He would have to be careful around this perceptive young man. “I am not like Alfred,” the Patryn said, choosing his words carefully, “in that my people still survive. But they are being held prisoner in a place far more terrible than you can ever imagine. The hatred and anger are for those who imprisoned us. I am one of the fortunate who managed to survive and escape. I am looking now for new lands where my people can find homes—”
“You won’t find them here,” said the necromancer coldly, abruptly.
“No,” Edmund agreed. “No, you won’t find homes here. This world is dying. Already our dead outnumber the living. If nothing changes, I foresee a time, and it is coming on us very soon, when the dead alone will rule Abarrach.”
CHAPTER * 15
SALFAG CAVERNS, ABARRACH
“NOW WE MUST PROCEED WITH THE RESURRECTION. AFTER THAT, WE would be honored if you would be our guests and join our repast. It is meager,” Edmund added with a rueful smile, “but we are happy to share what we have.”
“Only if you will allow us to add our food to yours,” Alfred said, bobbing another awkward bow.
The prince looked at Alfred, at his empty hands. He looked at Haplo and his empty, rune-covered hands. Edmund appeared somewhat puzzled, but was too polite to question. Haplo glanced at Alfred to see if he was astonished over this peculiar statement of the prince’s. How could a Sartan food supply be limited when they, like the Patryns, had almost limitless powers of magic to increase it? Haplo caught Alfred glancing with raised eyebrows at him. The Patryn quickly averted his gaze, refusing to give the Sartan the satisfaction of knowing that they were sharing similar thoughts.