The guards drew off to one side of the dock, began to talk in undertones, an edge of tension audible in the conversation.
Marit sighed. All was going as she had hoped. She remained standing where she was, arms crossed over her chest, in seeming unconcern. But her heart was heavy. Xar hadn’t told his people about the struggle in the Labyrinth. Perhaps he is trying to spare them pain, she argued. But something whispered back: perhaps he feared they might rebel against him.
As Haplo had rebelled . . .
Marit put her hand to her forehead, rubbed the sigil, which burned and itched. What was she doing? Wasting time. She needed to talk to Alfred. The guards were still debating, keeping only casual watch on their prisoners.
They know we’re not going anywhere, Marit said to herself bitterly. Moving slowly, so as not to draw attention to herself, she sidled closer to the Sartan.
“Alfred!” she whispered out of the side of her mouth.
He jumped, startled.
“Oh! What—”
“Shut up and listen!” she hissed. “When we arrive in Necropolis, I want you to cast a spell on these three.”
Alfred’s eyes bulged. He went nearly as white as a lazar and began shaking his head emphatically. “No! I couldn’t! I wouldn’t know—”
Marit was keeping an eye on her fellow Patryns, who seemed to be near reaching some consensus. “Your people once fought mine!” she said coldly. “I’m not asking you to kill anyone! Surely there’s some type of spell you can use that will incapacitate these guards long enough for us to—”
She was forced to break off, move away. The Patryns had ended their discussion and were returning.
“We will take you to Lord Xar,” said the guard.
“About time!” Marit returned irritably.
Fortunately, her irritation could be mistaken as eagerness to see her lord, not eagerness to shake Alfred until his teeth rattled.
He was silently pleading with her, begging her not to force this on him. He looked truly pathetic, pitiful.
And suddenly Marit realized why. He had never, in his entire life, cast a magical spell in anger on a fellow being, Patryn or mensch. He had gone to great lengths to avoid it, in fact—fainting, leaving himself defenseless, accepting the possibility that he might be killed rather than use his immense power to kill others.
The three guards, working together, began to redraw the sigla in the air. Concentrating on their magic, they were not paying close attention to their prisoners. Marit took firm hold of Alfred’s arm, as she might well have done if he were really her prisoner.
Digging her nails through the velvet fabric of his coat, she whispered urgently, “This is for Haplo. It’s our only chance.”
Alfred made a whimpering sound. She could feel him trembling in her grasp.
Marit only dug her nails in more deeply.
The Patryn leader motioned to them. The other two Patryns came to lead them forward. The sigil burned in the air, a flaring circle of flame.
Alfred pulled back. “No, don’t make me!” he said to Marit.
One of the Patryn guards laughed grimly. “He knows what lies ahead of him.”
“Yes, he does,” said Marit, staring hard at Alfred, granting him no reprieve, no hope of reprieve.
Taking firm hold of him, she pulled him into the fiery ring of magic.
12
I’m not asking you to kill! The realization struck Alfred. Incapacitate. Of course. That’s what she’d said. Incapacitate.
What had he been thinking? A shudder, starting inside the marrow of his bones, shook Alfred’s body. All he’d been able to think of was killing.
And he’d actually considered it!
It’s this world, he decided, horrified at himself. This world of death where nothing is permitted to die. That and the battle in the Labyrinth. And his anxiety, his soul-wrenching anxiety over Haplo. Alfred was so close to finding his friend, and these—his enemies—were blocking his way. Fear, anger . . .
“Make all the excuses you want,” Alfred accused himself. “But the truth of the matter is this—for one single instant, I was looking forward to it! When Marit told me to cast a spell, I saw the bodies of those Patryns lying at my feet and I was glad they were dead!”
He sighed. “ ‘You created us,’ the dragon-snakes said. And now I see how . . .”
Marit’s elbow dug into his ribs. Alfred came back to himself with a start that must have been perceptible, for the Patryns were looking at him oddly.
“I—I recognize this place,” he said for the sake of saying something.
And he did, much to his regret. They had walked through the Patryns’ magical tunnel, created by the possibility that they were here and not there. Now they stood in Necropolis.
A city of tunnels and corridors, burrowing far beneath the world’s stone surface, Necropolis had been a desolate, depressing place when Alfred last stood on its winding streets. But then, at least, it had been filled with people—his people, remnants of a race of demigods who had discovered, too late, that they weren’t.
Now the streets were empty, empty and blood-spattered. For it was here in these streets, in these houses, in the palace itself, where the dead Sartan had taken out their fury on the living. The dead roamed the hallways now. The terrifying lazar watched him from the shadows with their evershifting eyes—hating, despairing, vengeful.
The Patryns guided their prisoners down the empty, echoing streets, heading for the palace. One of the lazar joined them, trailed after, its shuffling footfalls scraping behind, its cold voice, with its eerie double, telling of what it would like to do to them.
Alfred shivered all over, and even the steel-nerved Patryns appeared shaken. Their faces tightened; the tattoos on their arms flared in defensive response. Marit had gone extremely pale; her jaw was clenched. She did not look at the thing, but walked forward, grimly resolute.
She’s thinking of Haplo, Alfred realized, and he himself was sick with horror. What if Haplo . . . what if he is now one of them? . . .
Alfred broke out in a chill sweat; his stomach wrenched. He felt faint—truly faint, sick and dizzy.
He came to a halt, forced to lean against a wall to support himself.
The Patryns stopped, turned. “What’s the matter with him?”
“He’s a Sartan,” Marit answered, her tone scornful. “He’s weak. What do you expect? I’ll deal with him.”
She turned toward him and Alfred saw—in her eyes—eagerness, expectation.
Blessed Sartan! She thinks this is an act! That I’m shamming, preparing to ... to cast the spell!
No! Alfred wanted to cry. No, you’ve got it all wrong. Not now ... I wasn’t thinking ... I can’t think . . .
But he knew he had to go through with it. The Patryns weren’t suspicious at the moment, but in about another half a second—as he stood staring and stammering—they would be.
What can I do? he wondered frantically. He had never fought a Patryn, never fought someone with magic that worked the same—only opposite—as his own. To make matters worse, the Patryns’ magical defenses were already raised, protecting them from the lazar. Possibilities whirled through Alfred’s mind, dazzling, confusing, terrifying.
I’ll make the cavern roof collapse.
(No, that would kill us all!)
I’ll bring a fire dragon up through the floor.
(No, same outcome!)
A flower garden will suddenly appear out of nowhere.
(What good will that do?!)
The lazar will attack.
(Someone might get hurt . . . )
The floor will open and swallow me up ...
(Yes! That’s it!)
“Hang on!” Alfred grabbed hold of Marit.
He began to do a dance, hopping from one foot to the other, faster and faster.
Marit clung to him. Alfred’s dance grew more frantic, his feet pounding on the rock floor.
The Patryns, who had at first assumed Alfred had gone mad, suddenly became suspicious. They made a lunge for him.
The magic sparked, the possibility occurred. The floor beneath Alfred’s feet crumbled. A hole gaped in the rock. He jumped into it, pulled Marit in with him. The two tumbled down through rock and choking dust, plunging into darkness.