Perhapshe was back on Arianus. Perhaps he hadn't really gone anywhere! Perhaps he'd open his eyes and find the dog, grinning at him.
Alfred clamped his eyes tightly shut; his facial muscles ached from the strain. But either curiosity or the stabbing pain shooting through his lower back got the better of him. Groaning, he opened his eyes, sat up, and looked nervously around.
He could have wept for relief.
He was in a large room, circular, lit by lovely, soft white light that emanated from the marble walls. The floor beneath him was marble, inlaid with runes—sigla he knew and recognized. The ceiling arched comfortingly overhead, a dome supported by delicate columns. Embedded in the walls of the room were row after row of crystal chambers, chambers meant to hold people in stasis, chambers that had, tragically, become coffins.
Alfred knew where he was—the mausoleum on Arianus. He was home. And, he decided at once, he would never leave. He would stay in this underground world forever. Here he was safe. No one knew about this place, except for one mensch, a dwarf named Jarre, and she had no means of finding her way back. No one could ever find it now, protected as it was by powerful Sartan magic. The war between the elves and dwarves and humans could rage on Arianus and he would not be part of it. Iridal could search for her changeling son and he would not help. The dead could walk on Abarrach and he would turn his back on all except the familiar, the silent blessed dead that were his companions once more.
After all, one man, alone, what can I do? he asked himself wistfully.
Nothing.
What can I be expected to do?
Nothing.
Who could possibly expect me to do it?
No one.
Alfred repeated that to himself. “No one.” He recalled the wonderful, awful experience on Abarrach when he hadseemed to know with certainty that some sort of higher power for good was present in the universe, to know that he wasn't alone, as he had supposed all these years.
But the knowledge, his certainty, had faded, died with young Jonathan, who had been destroyed by the dead and the lazar of Abarrach.
“I must have imagined it,” said Alfred sadly. “Or perhaps Haplo was right. Perhaps I created that vision we all experienced and didn't know I created it. Like my fainting, or like casting that spell that took the magical life from the dead. And, if that's true, then what Haplo said was true as well. I led poor Jonathan to his death. Deceived by false visions, false promises, he sacrificed himself for nothing.”
Alfred bowed his head into his trembling hands, his thin shoulders slumped. “Everywhere I go, disaster follows. And therefore, I won't go anywhere. I won't do anything. I'll stay here. Safe, protected, surrounded by those I once loved.”
He couldn't, however, spend the remainder of his life on the floor. There were other rooms, other places to go. The Sartan had once lived down here. Shaking, stiff, and sore, he endeavored to stand up. His feet and legs appeared to have other ideas, resented being forced back to work. They crumbled beneath him. He fell, persisted in trying to stand, and, after a moment, managed to do so. Once he was finally upright, his feet seemed inclined to wander off one way when he actually had it in mind to go the opposite.
Finally, all his body parts more or less in agreement as to the general direction he was headed, Alfred propelled himself toward the crystal coffins, to bid fond greeting to those he had left far too long. The bodies in the coffins would never return his greeting, never speak words of welcome to him. Their eyes would never open to gaze at him with friendly pleasure. But he was comforted by their presence, by their peace.
Comforted and envious.
Necromancy. The thought flitted across his mind, skittering like a bat. You could bring them back to life.
But the dread shadow lay over him only momentarily. He wasn't tempted. He had seen the dire consequences ofnecromancy on Abarrach. And he
Alfred clamped his eyes tightly shut; his facial muscles ached from the strain. But either curiosity or the stabbing pain shooting through his lower back got the better of him. Groaning, he opened his eyes, sat up, and looked nervously around.
He could have wept for relief.
He was in a large room, circular, lit by lovely, soft white light that emanated from the marble walls. The floor beneath him was marble, inlaid with runes—sigla he knew and recognized. The ceiling arched comfortingly overhead, a dome supported by delicate columns. Embedded in the walls of the room were row after row of crystal chambers, chambers meant to hold people in stasis, chambers that had, tragically, become coffins.
Alfred knew where he was—the mausoleum on Arianus. He was home. And, he decided at once, he would never leave. He would stay in this underground world forever. Here he was safe. No one knew about this place, except for one mensch, a dwarf named Jarre, and she had no means of finding her way back. No one could ever find it now, protected as it was by powerful Sartan magic. The war between the elves and dwarves and humans could rage on Arianus and he would not be part of it. Iridal could search for her changeling son and he would not help. The dead could walk on Abarrach and he would turn his back on all except the familiar, the silent blessed dead that were his companions once more.
After all, one man, alone, what can I do? he asked himself wistfully.
Nothing.
What can I be expected to do?
Nothing.
Who could possibly expect me to do it?
No one.
Alfred repeated that to himself. “No one.” He recalled the wonderful, awful experience on Abarrach when he hadseemed to know with certainty that some sort of higher power for good was present in the universe, to know that he wasn't alone, as he had supposed all these years.
But the knowledge, his certainty, had faded, died with young Jonathan, who had been destroyed by the dead and the lazar of Abarrach.
“I must have imagined it,” said Alfred sadly. “Or perhaps Haplo was right. Perhaps I created that vision we all experienced and didn't know I created it. Like my fainting, or like casting that spell that took the magical life from the dead. And, if that's true, then what Haplo said was true as well. I led poor Jonathan to his death. Deceived by false visions, false promises, he sacrificed himself for nothing.”
Alfred bowed his head into his trembling hands, his thin shoulders slumped. “Everywhere I go, disaster follows. And therefore, I won't go anywhere. I won't do anything. I'll stay here. Safe, protected, surrounded by those I once loved.”
He couldn't, however, spend the remainder of his life on the floor. There were other rooms, other places to go. The Sartan had once lived down here. Shaking, stiff, and sore, he endeavored to stand up. His feet and legs appeared to have other ideas, resented being forced back to work. They crumbled beneath him. He fell, persisted in trying to stand, and, after a moment, managed to do so. Once he was finally upright, his feet seemed inclined to wander off one way when he actually had it in mind to go the opposite.
Finally, all his body parts more or less in agreement as to the general direction he was headed, Alfred propelled himself toward the crystal coffins, to bid fond greeting to those he had left far too long. The bodies in the coffins would never return his greeting, never speak words of welcome to him. Their eyes would never open to gaze at him with friendly pleasure. But he was comforted by their presence, by their peace.
Comforted and envious.
Necromancy. The thought flitted across his mind, skittering like a bat. You could bring them back to life.
But the dread shadow lay over him only momentarily. He wasn't tempted. He had seen the dire consequences ofnecromancy on Abarrach. And he
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