No water. Nothing. Everything was going wrong, had gone wrong ever since he’d arrived on this blasted world. At least he knew where to lay the blame.
Alfred lay hunched up on his side, his mouth wide open, snoring softly.
I should have let the bastard die back there. Especially after he cast that spell on me, made me see those people around that table, made me say—Haplo shook free of the unpleasant memory. But at least now we’re even. I saved his life in return for him saving mine. I don’t owe him a damn thing.
Haplo stood up suddenly, startling the dog, who jumped to its feet and stared at him with an air of faint reproach.
“You are setting off on your own.” Prince Edmund’s cadaver stood motionless at the end of the corridor, near the sealed door, near where Jonathan lay in spellbound sleep on the floor.
“I travel faster that way.” Haplo stretched his arms, rubbed a stiff neck. He didn’t like looking at the phantasm. The sight made him think again of whatever it was he’d forgotten.
“You’re going to leave without the guiding runes.” The phantasm wasn’t attempting to persuade him, apparently. It didn’t seem to care, was merely pointing out the obvious. It was probably lonely, liked hearing itself talk.
“I figure we’re at the bottom of the catacombs,” said Haplo. “I’ll find a corridor that leads back up, follow it until I get to the top. I can’t end up much worse than I’ve ended up following him!”
He gestured at Alfred, who had rolled over on his stomach, his backside hunched up in a most undignified position.
“Besides,” Haplo grunted, “I’ve been in worse places. I was born in one. C’mon, dog.”
The dog yawned and stretched, front paws extended, rocked forward, back legs extended, then shook itself all over.
“Do you know what is going on up there?” The phantasm’s gleaming-eyed gaze lifted.
“I can guess,” Haplo muttered, not liking to discuss it.
“You will never reach your ship alive. You will become like Kleitus and Jera—souls trapped in dead bodies, hating the mockery of life that binds them to this realm, fearing the death that would free them.”
“That’s my risk,” retorted Haplo, but the palms of his hands grew clammy. Sweat broke out on his body, chilling him, although the air in the tunnel was warm and oppressive.
All right, I’m afraid! We respect fear, we’re not ashamed of it—so the elders taught us in the Labyrinth. The rabbit feels no shame fleeing the fox, the fox feels no shame fleeing the lion. Listen to your fear, confront it, understand it, deal with it.
Haplo walked over, faced the phantasm of the prince. He could see through it, see the wall in back of it, and he knew from the cool, intent stare of the eyes that, in much the same way, it could see through him.
“Tell me the prophecy.”
“My words,” said the prince, “are for the dead.”
Haplo turned abruptly, moving swiftly, and fell over the dog, who had been trotting along behind. He stepped on the animal’s fore paw. The dog yelped in pain, sprang backward, cringing, wondering what it had done wrong.
Alfred woke with a start. “What—? Where—?” he gabbled.
Haplo cursed fluently, held out his hand to the dog. “I’m sorry, boy. Come here. I didn’t mean it.”
The animal accepted the apology, came forward graciously to be scratched behind the ears, indicated that there were no hard feelings.
Seeing only Haplo, Alfred gulped in relief, mopped his brow. “Are you feeling better?” he asked anxiously.
The question annoyed Haplo almost beyond endurance. A Sartan, concerned for my health! He gave a brief, bitter laugh and turned away, continued his search for water.
Alfred sighed, shook his bald head. He was obviously in misery, his stiff body twisted like an old gnarled tree. He watched Haplo a moment, guessed what he must be doing.
“Water, that’s a good idea. My throat is raw. I can barely talk—”
“Then don’t!” Haplo made a fourth fruitless circuit of the runnel, the dog trotting along at his heels. “Nothing here. There’s bound to be water near the surface. We better get started.” He walked over to the duke, nudged him with his foot. “Wake up, Your Grace.”
“Oh, dear! I forgot.” Alfred flushed. “He’s under a spell. He was dying. Well, he wasn’t, but he thought he was and the power of suggestion...”
“Yeah. I know all about the power of suggestion! You and your spells! Wake him up and let’s get out of here. And no more guide-runes, either, Sartan!” Haplo held up a warning finger. “The Labyrinth only knows where they’d lead us next! This time, you follow me. And be quick about it or I’ll leave without you.”
But he didn’t. He waited. He waited for Alfred to wake the duke, waited for the wretched Jonathan to come to his senses.
Haplo waited, fretting with impatience, tormented by his thirst, but he waited.
When he asked himself why he had changed his mind about going off alone, he answered himself that traveling in numbers made sense.
41
The tunnel climbed steadily upward, led them out and away from the Chamber of the Damned to the shores of a vast pool of magma. Its fire lit the cavern’s eternal night with a red glow. There was no way around it, they could only go over it. A narrow rock bridge spanned the molten lava, a thin black line snaking over an inferno. They moved across it in single file.
The sigla tattooed on Haplo’s skin glowed blue, their magic protected him from the heat and the fumes. Alfred chanted beneath his breath; either his magic was aiding his breathing or his walking, Haplo wasn’t certain, but he guessed the walking, amazed that the clumsy-footed Sartan made it over the treacherous span.
Jonathan followed after, his head bowed, ignoring the others’ talk, absorbed in his own thoughts. He had changed since yesterday, however. His step was no longer aimless and stumbling, but firm and resolute. He took an interest in their surroundings and in his own well-being, walking the span with care and caution.
“He’s young, after all,” said Alfred softly, watching anxiously as the duke, accompanied by the cadaver, arrived at the end of the bridge. “His instinct for self-preservation has won out over the desire to end his despair by ending his life.”
“Look at his face,” said Haplo, wishing for the hundredth time that Alfred would keep out of his brain and stop saying what he, Haplo, was thinking.
Jonathan had lifted his head to stare at the prince’s phantasm novering near him. The young face, lit by the magma’s fiery glow, was prematurely aged; grief and horror had tightened the once-smiling mouth, shadowed the light of the eyes. But the sullen uncaring desperation and despair were gone, replaced by a thoughtful, introspective study. His gaze was fixed most often on the prince.
The tunnel continued to carry them upward, the floor slanting upward at a steep angle as if it couldn’t wait to leave behind the horror of what lay below. But what horror lay ahead? Haplo didn’t know and at this point didn’t care.
“What did you do to him with that spell of yours?” He kept talking to distract himself, keep his mind off his thirst. A gesture sent the dog back to watch over the duke and the cadaver.
“It was only a simple sleep spell—” Alfred stumbled, fell head-lone over his own feet.
Haplo walked grimly on, ignoring sounds of scrabbling and panting behind.
“It’s grown rather dark,” Alfred said timidly, catching up with Haplo. “We could use the guiderunes for light—”
“Forget it! I’ve had enough Sartan magic to last a lifetime. And I wasn’t referring to your sleep spell. I meant that spell you cast over him in that chamber back there.”
“You’re mistaken. I didn’t cast any spell. I saw what you saw and what he saw. At least, I think I did...” Alfred glanced at Haplo sideways, an open invitation to talk about what they’d seen.