“I thought you should hear this news from Tomas himself, in case you had any questions,” said Jera.
Alfred knew, then, that the news was bad and he let his head sink into his hand. How much more could he take?
“The prince and the stranger with the rune-covered skin are both dead,” said Tomas in a low voice. He stepped into the light, pulled the cowl from off his head. He was a young man, near Jonathan’s age. His robes were dirty, fouled with mud as if he had ridden hard and fast. “The dynast executed both of them this very night in the palace gaming room.”
“Were you present? Did you see it happen?” the earl demanded, sharp-hewn face jutting forward, seeming to slice the air in its eagerness.
“No, but I talked to a dead guard whose duty it was to take the bodies to the catacombs. It told me that the preserver was being set to work to maintain both men.”
“The dead told you!” The old man sneered. “You can’t trust the dead.”
“I am well aware of that, Milord. I pretended that I didn’t know the dynast had canceled his rune-bone game and blundered into the gaming room. The cadavers were cleaning up a great pool of blood— fresh blood. A blood-covered spear, its tip notched, lay nearby. There can be little doubt. The men are dead.”
Jera shook her head, sighed. “Poor prince. Poor young man, so. handsome, honorable. But one’s ill fortune can be another’s good luck, as they say.”
“Yes,” said the old man fiercely, eagerly. “Our luck!”
“All we need do is rescue the cadavers. The prince and your friend’s.” Jera turned briskly to Alfred. “It will be dangerous, of course, but—my dear sir,” she said in sudden consternation, “are you all right? Jonathan, bring him a glass of stalagma.”
Alfred sat staring at her, unable to move, unable to think in any rational manner. Words burst forth from him. He rose, clumsy and stumbling, to his feet. “Haplo, the prince—dead. Murdered. My own people. Killing wantonly. And you—you callous .. . Treating death as if it were nothing more than a mild inconvenience, a nuisance, like a cold in the head!”
“Here, drink this.” Jonathan held out a glass of a foul-smelling liquor. “You should have eaten more at dinner—”
“Dinner!” Alfred cried hoarsely. He knocked the glass away, backed up until he bumped into a wall and could go no farther. “The lives of two people have been torn from them and you can talk only of eating more dinner! Of… of recovering their . . . their bodies!”
“Sir, I assure you. The corpses will be well treated.” This from Tomas, the stranger. “I know the late-cycle preserver, personally. He is highly skilled in this art. You will note little change in your friend—”
“Little change!” Alfred ran his trembling hand over his bald head. “It is death that gives life its meaning. Death, the great equalizer. Man, woman, peasant, king, rich, poor: all of us fellow travelers to our journey’s end. Life is sacred, precious, a thing to value, to cherish, not to be taken lightly or wantonly. You have lost all respect for death and thereby all respect for life. Stealing a man’s life is no more a crime to you than . . . than stealing his money!”
“Crime!” countered Jera. “You talk of crime? You were the one who committed the crime! You destroyed the body, sent the phantasm into oblivion where it will chafe forever, bereft of any form or shape.”
“It had form, it had shape!” Alfred cried. “You saw it! The man was finally free!” He paused, confounded by what he’d said.
“Free?” Jera stared at him in bewilderment. “Free to do what? Free to go where?”
Alfred flushed hotly, shivered with chills. The Sartan, demigods. Capable of forging worlds from one that was doomed. Capable of creation. But creation had been brought about by destruction. Our magic led the way to necromancy. This next step was inevitable. From controlling life, to controlling death.
Yet why is that so terrible? Why does every fiber of my being revolt against this practice?