“We hid in the outback for as long as we could. But our food supplies were scarce, our magic weakening daily. Finally, driven by hunger, we came back to this abandoned town, scavenged what meagre supplies remained, and moved into this cave. Now our food is almost completely gone and we have no hope of obtaining more. What little we have left goes to feed the very young, the sick . . .”
Balthazar paused, shut his eyes. He seemed about to faint. Alfred put his arm around him, supported him until he was able to sit by himself.
“Thank you,” Balthazar said, with a wan smile. “I am better now. These dizzy spells are a weakness with me.”
“A weakness brought on by lack of sustenance. My guess is that you have been depriving yourself of food so that your people could eat. But you are their leader. What will happen to them if you fall ill?”
“The same thing that will happen to them whether I live or die,” Balthazar said grimly. “We have no hope. No means of escape. We wait only for death.” His voice softened. “And after seeing what peace my prince found, I must confess that I am looking forward to it.”
“Come, come,” Alfred said hastily, alarmed by such talk. “We’re wasting time. If you have any food left at all, I can use my magic to provide more.”
Balthazar smiled wanly. “That would be a great help. And undoubtedly you have large stores of food on your ship.”
“Well, yes, of course, I—” Alfred stopped. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
“Now you’ve done it,” Haplo muttered.
“So that ship we saw is yours!” Balthazar’s eyes burned with a fevered glow. He stretched forth a skeletal hand, clutched at Alfred’s faded velvet lapel. “At last we can escape! Leave this world of death!”
“I—I—I—” Alfred stammered. “That is ... you see . . .”
Alfred could see—could see exactly where all this had been leading. He rose, trembling, to his feet.
“We will discuss this later. I need to be with my friend. To heal her. Then I will do what I can to help your people.”
Balthazar also stood up. He leaned near Alfred. “We will escape!” he said softly. “No one will stop us this time.”
Alfred gulped, backed up a pace. He said nothing. Balthazar said nothing. The two walked on, moving deeper into the cavern. The necromancer walked slowly and weakly, but he politely refused any type of aid. Alfred, miserable and unhappy, could not control his wandering feet. If it hadn’t been for the dog, he would have tumbled down any number of crevices, fallen over any number of rocks.
A mensch saying came to Alfred’s mind.
“Out of the frying pan. Into the fire.”
17
Balthazar remained silent during their walk, for which Alfred was extremely grateful. Having endeavored to extricate himself from one problem, he had—as usual—become embroiled in another. Now he had to find a way out of both. Try as he might, he could see no solution to either.
They walked on, the dog pattering watchfully behind. And then they came to the portion of the cavern in which the Sartan lived.
Alfred peered through the darkness. His worries about Haplo and Marit, his suspicions of Balthazar, were submerged beneath a wave of pity and shock. Fifty or so Sartan men, women, and a few—far too few—children were sheltered in this dismal cavern. The sight of them, their wretched plight, was heart-wrenching. Starvation had taken its terrible toll, but worse than physical deprivation, terror and fear and despair had left their souls as emaciated as their bodies.
Balthazar had done what he could to keep up their spirits, but he was near the end himself. Many of the Sartan had given up. They lay on the hard, cold floor of the cavern, doing nothing but staring into the darkness, as if beseeching it to come down and wrap around them.
Alfred knew such hopelessness well, knew where it could lead, for he himself had once walked that dread road. If it had not been for the coming of Haplo—and Haplo’s dog—Alfred might have followed the road to its bitter conclusion.
“This is what we live on,” Balthazar said, gesturing to a large sack. “Kairn-grass seed, meant to be used for planting, salvaged from Safe Harbor. We grind the seeds, mix them with water to make gruel. And this is the last sack. When it is gone . . .”
The necromancer shrugged.
What magical powers the Sartan had left were being used to simply stay alive, to breathe the poisonous air of Abarrach.
“Don’t worry,” said Alfred. “I will aid you. But first, I must heal Marit.”
“Certainly,” Balthazar said.
Marit lay on a pile of ragged blankets. Several Sartan women were tending her, doing what they could to make her comfortable. She’d been warmly covered, given water. (Alfred couldn’t help wondering at the apparent abundance of fresh water; the last time he’d been on Abarrach, water had been extremely scarce. He would have to remember to ask.)
Thanks to these ministrations, Marit had regained consciousness. She was quick to catch sight of Alfred. Weakly raising her hand, she reached out to him. He started to kneel beside her. Marit grabbed hold of him, nearly pulled him off-balance.
“What . . . where are we?” she asked through teeth clenched against the chills that shook her. “Who are these?”
“Sartan,” said Alfred, soothing her, trying to coax her to lie back down. “You are safe here. I’m going to heal you, then you need sleep.”
An expression of defiance hardened Marit’s face. Alfred was reminded of the time—another time—in Abarrach, when he’d healed Haplo, against his will.
“I can take care of myself,” Marit began, but her words were choked off. She couldn’t catch her breath.
Alfred took hold of her hands, her right in his left, her left in his right, completing, sharing the circle of their beings.
She attempted feebly to snatch her hand away, but Alfred was stronger now than she was. He held on to her tightly and began to sing the runes.
His warmth and strength flowed into Marit. Her pain and suffering and loneliness entered his. The circle wrapped around them, bound them together, and for just a brief instant, Haplo was included within it.
Alfred had a strange, eerie image of the three of them, floating on a wave of light and air and time, talking to each other.
“You have to leave Abarrach, Alfred,” Haplo said. “You and Marit. Go someplace safe, where Xar can’t find you.”
“But we can’t take the dog, can we?” Alfred argued. “Xar is right. The dog cannot pass through Death’s Gate. Not without you.”
She seemed surrounded by light, was beautiful in Alfred’s eyes. She leaned near Haplo, reached out her hand to him, but he couldn’t touch her. She couldn’t touch him. The wave carried them, supported them, but it also separated them.
“I lost you once, Haplo. I left you because I didn’t have the courage to love you. I have the courage now. I love you and I won’t lose you again. If the situation were reversed,” Marit continued, not letting him speak, “and I were the one lying back there on that stone bier, would you leave me? Then how can you think I am less strong than you are?”
Haplo’s voice faltered. “I don’t ask you to be less strong than I am. I ask you to be stronger. You must find the strength to leave me, Marit. Remember our people, fighting for their lives in the Labyrinth. Remember what will happen to them and to everyone in the four worlds if our lord succeeds in closing the Seventh Gate.”
“I can’t leave you,” Marit said.
Her love poured out from her. Haplo’s love flowed from him, and Alfred was the fine silk cloth through which both passed. The tragedy of their separation grieved him deeply. If he could have given them ease by tearing himself apart, he would have done so. As it was, he could only be a poor sort of go-between.