Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman - Deathgate Cycle 3

Deathgate Cycle

Volume 3

FIRE SEA

MARGARET WEIS AND TRACY

HICKMAN

PROLOGUE

I'VE TRAVELED THROUGH DEATH'S GATE FOUR TIMES, YET I DON'T remember

anything about the journey. Each time I've entered the Gate/ I've been unconscious. The first trip I

made was to the world of Arianus, there and back—a trip that was nearly my last. [1]

On my return trip, I acquired a dragonship, built by the elves of Arianus. It's far stronger and much

more suitable than my first ship. I enhanced its magic and brought this ship back with me to the

Nexus, where My Lord and I worked diligently to further increase the magic protecting the ship.

Runes of power cover almost every inch of its surface.

I flew this ship to my next assignment, the world of Pryan. Once again/I sailed through Death's

Gate. Once again, I lost consciousness. I awakened to find myself in a realm where there is no

darkness, only endless light.

I performed my task satisfactorily on Pryan, at least as far as My lord was concerned. He was

pleased with my work.

I was not. [2]

On leaving Pryan, I endeavored to remain conscious, to see the Gate and experience it. The magic

of my ship protects it and me to the extent that we both arrive at our destination completely safe

and undamaged. Why, then, was I blacking out? My Lord hinted that it must be a weakness in me,

a lack of mental discipline. I resolved not to give way. To my chagrin, I remembered nothing.

One moment I was awake, looking forward to entering the small dark hole that seemed far too tiny

to contain my ship. The next moment I was safely in the Nexus.

It is important that we learn as much as possible about the journey through Death's Gate. We will

be transporting armies of Patryns, who must arrive on these worlds prepared to fight and conquer.

My Lord has given the matter considerable study, poring over the texts of the Sartan, our ancient

enemy, who built Death's Gate and the worlds to which it leads. He has just now informed me, on

the eve of my journey to the world of Abarrach, that he has made a discovery.

*

I have this moment returned from meeting with My Lord. I confess that I am disappointed. I mean

this as no detriment to My Lord—a man I revere above all others in this universe—but his

explanation of Death's Gate makes little sense. How can a place exist and yet not exist? How can it

have substance and be ephemeral? How does it measure time marching ahead going backward?

How can its light be so bright that I am plunged into darkness?

My Lord suggests that the Death's Gate was never meant to be traversed! He can't tell what its

function is—or was. Its purpose may have been nothing more than to provide an escape route from

a dying universe. I disagree. I have discovered that the Sartan intended there to be some type of

communication between worlds. This communication was, for some reason, not established. And

the only connection I have found between worlds is Death's Gate.

All the more reason that I must remain conscious on my next journey. My Lord has suggested to

me how to discipline myself to achieve my goal. He warns me, however, that the risk is extremely

great.

I won't lose my life; my ship's magic protects me from harm.

But I could lose my mind. [3]

CHAPTER

KAIRN TELEST, ABARRACH

"FATHER, WE HAVE NO CHOICE. YESTERDAY, ANOTHER CHILD DIED. The day before,

his grandmother. The cold grows more bitter, every day. Yet," his son pauses, "I'm not certain it is

the cold, so much, as the darkness, Father. The cold is killing their bodies, but it is the darkness that

is killing their spirit. Baltazar is right. We must leave now, while we still have strength enough to

make the journey."

Standing outside in the dark hallway, I listen, observe, and wait for the king's reply.

But the old man does not immediately respond. He sits on a throne of gold, decorated with

diamonds large as a man's fist, raised up on a dais overlooking a huge hall made of polished

marble. He can see very little of the hall. Most of it is lost in shadow. A gas lamp, sputtering and

hissing on the floor at his feet, gives off only a dim and feeble light.

Shivering, the old king hunches his shoulders deeper into the fur robes he has piled over and around

him. He slides himself nearer the famt edge of the throne, nearer the gas lamp, although he knows

he wffl extract no warmth from the flickering flame. I believe it is the Comfort of the light he

seeks. His son is right. The darkness is killing us.

"Once there was a time," the old king says, "when the lights in the palace burned all night long. We

danced all night long. We'd grow too hot, with the dancing, and we'd run outside the palace walls,

run out into the streets beneath the cavern ceiling where it was cool, and we'd throw ourselves into

the soft grass and laugh and laugh." He paused. "Your mother loved to dance."

"Yes, Father, I remember." His son's voice is soft and patient.

Edmund knows his father is not rambling. He knows the king has made a decision, the only one he

can make. He knows that his father is now saying good-bye.

"The orchestra was over there." The old king lifts a gnarled finger, points to a corner of the hall

shrouded in deep darkness. "They'd play all during the sleep-half of the cycle, drinking parfruit

wine to keep the fire in their blood. Of course, they all got drunk. By the end of the cycle, half of

them weren't playing the same music as the other half. But that didn't matter to us. It only made us

laugh more. We laughed a lot, then."

The old man hums to himself, a melody of his youth. I have been standing in the shadows of the

hall, all this time, watching the scene through a crack in the nearly closed door. I decide that it is

time to make my presence known, if only to Edmund. It is beneath my dignity to snoop. I summon

a servant, send it to the king with an irrelevant message. The door creaks open, a draught of chill air

wafts through the hall, nearly dousing the flame of the gas lamp. The servant shambles into the hall,

its shuffling footfalls leaving behind whispering echoes in the all-but-empty palace.

Edmund raises a warding hand, motions the servant to withdraw. But he glances out the door,

acknowledges my presence with a slight nod, and silently bids me wait for him. He does not need

to speak or do more than that nod of the head. He and I know each other so well, we can

communicate without words.

The servant withdraws, its ambling footsteps taking it back out. It starts to shut the door, but I

quietly stop it, send it away. The old king has noticed the servant's entrance and exit, although he

pretends that he doesn't. Old age has few prerogatives, few luxuries. Indulging oneself in

eccentricities is one of them. Indulging oneself in memory—another.

The old man sighs, looks down at the golden throne on which he sits. His gaze shifts to a throne

that stands next to his, a throne done on a smaller scale, meant for a woman's smaller frame, a

throne that has long been empty. Perhaps he sees himself, his youthful body strong and tall, leaning

over to whisper in her ear, their hands reaching out to each other. Their hands were clasped

together always, whenever they were near.

He holds her hand sometimes now, but that hand is chill, colder than the cold pervading our world.

The chill hand destroys the past for him. He doesn't go to her much, now. He prefers memory.

The gold gleamed in the light, then," he tells his son. "The diamonds sparkled sometimes until we

couldn't look at them. They were so brilliant they'd make the eyes water. We were rich, rich beyond

belief. We reveled in our wealth.

"All in innocence, I think," the old king adds, after some thought. "We were not greedy, not

covetous. 'How they'll stare, when they come to us. How they'll stare when they first set eyes on

such gold, such jewels!' we'd say to ourselves. The gold and diamonds in this throne alone would

have bought a nation back in their world, according to the ancient texts. And our world is filled

with such treasures, lying untouched, untapped in the stone.

"I remember the mines. Ah, that was long ago. Long before you were born, My Son. The Little

People were still among us, then. They were the last, the toughest, the strongest. The last to survive.

My father took me among them when I was very young. I don't remember much about them except

their fierce eyes and thick beards that hid their faces and their short, quick fingers. I was frightened

of them, but my father said they were really a gentle people, merely rude and impatient with

outsiders."

The old king sighs heavily. His hand rubs the cold metal arm of the throne, as if he could bring the

light back to it. "I understand now, I think. They were fierce and rude because they were frightened.

They saw their doom. My father must have seen it, too. He fought against it, but there was nothing

he could do. Our magic wasn't strong enough to save them. It hasn't even been strong enough to

save ourselves.

' "look, look at this!" The old king becomes querulous, beats a knotted fist on the gold. "Wealth!

Wealth to buy a nation. And my people starving. Worthless, worthless."

He stares at the gold. It looks dull and sullen, almost ugly, '^fleeting back the feeble fire that burns

at the old man's feet. The diamonds no longer sparkle. They, too, look cold and dead. Their

•jte^their life—is dependent on man's fire, man's life. When that

*** is gone, the diamonds will be black as the world around them.

"They're not coming, are they, Son?" the old king asks.

"No, Father," his son tells him. Edmund's hand, strong and warm, closes over the old man's gnarled,

shivering fingers. "I think, if they were going to come, they would have come by now."

"I want to go outside," the old king says suddenly.

'Are you sure, Father?" Edmund looks at him, concerned.

"Yes, I'm sure!" The old king returns testily. Another luxury of old age—indulging in whims.

Wrapping himself tighter in the fur robes, he rises from the throne, descends the dais. His son

stands by to aid his steps, if necessary, but it isn't. The king is old, even by the standards of our

race, who are long-lived. But he is in good physical condition, his magic is strong and supports him

better than most. He has grown stoop-shouldered, but that is from the weight of the many burdens

he's been forced to bear during his long life. His hair is pure white, it whitened when he was in his

middle years, whitened during the time of his wife's brief illness that took her from him.

Edmund lifts the gas lamp, carries it with them to light the way. The gas is precious, now; more

precious than gold. The king looks at the gas lamps hanging from the ceiling, lamps that are dark

and cold. Watching him, I can guess his thoughts. He knows he shouldn't be wasting the gas like

this. But it isn't wasting, not really. He is king and someday, someday soon perhaps, his son will be

king. He must show him, must tell him, must make him see what it was like before. Because, who

knows? The chance might come when his son will return and make it what it once had been.

They leave the throne room, walk out into the dark and drafty corridor. I stand where they may be

certain to see me. The light of the gas lamp illuminates me. I see myself reflected in a mirror

hanging on a wall across from them. A pale and eager face, emerging from the darkness, its white

skin and glittering eyes catching the light, looming suddenly out of the shadows. My body, dad in

black robes, is one with the eternal sleep that has settled on this realm. My head appears to be

disembodied, hanging suspended in the darkness. The sight is frightening. I startle myself.

The old king sees me, pretends not to. Edmund makes a swift, negating gesture, shakes his own

head ever so slightly. I bow and withdraw, returning to the shadows.

"Let Baltazar wait," I hear the old king mutter to himself. "He'll get what he wants eventually. Let

him wait now. The necromancer has time. I do not."

They walk the halls of the palace, two sets of footfalls echoing loudly through the empty corridors.

But the old man is lost in the past, listening to the sounds of gaiety and music, recalling the shrill

giggle of a child playing tag with his father and mother through the halls of the palace.

I, too, remember that time. I was twenty when Prince Edmund was born. The palace teemed with

life: aunts and uncles, cousins by birth and by marriage, courtiers — always agreeable and smiling

and ready to laugh — council members bustling in and out with business, citizens presenting

petitions or requesting judgments. I lived in the palace, serving my apprenticeship to the king's

necromancer, A studious youth, I spent far more time in the library than I did on the dance floor.

But I must have absorbed more than I thought. Sometimes, in the sleep-half, I imagine I can still

hear the music.

"Order," the old king was saying. "It was all orderly, back then. Order was our heritage, order and

peace. I don't understand what happened. Why did it change? What brought the chaos, what

brought the darkness?"

"We did, Father," replies Edmund steadily. "We must have."

He knows differently, of course. I've taught him better than that. But he will always go out of his

way to avoid an argument with his father. Still, after all these years, striving desperately for love.

I follow them, my black slippers make no noise on the cold stone floors. Edmund knows I am with

them. He glances back occasionally, as if relying on my strength. I gaze at him with fond pride, the

pride I might have felt for my own son. Edmund and I are close, closer than many fathers and sons,

closer than he is to his own father, although he won't admit it. His parents were so deeply involved

with each other, they had little time for the child their love created. I was the boy's tutor and, over

time, became the lonely youth's friend, companion, adviser.

Now he is in his twenties, strong and handsome and virile. He will make a good king, I tell myself,

and I repeat the words several times over, as if they were a talisman and would banish the shadow

that lies over my heart.

At the end of the hallway stand giant, double doors, marked with symbols whose meanings have

been forgotten, symbols that have, with time and progress, been partially obliterated. The old man

waits, holding the lamp while his son, muscular shoulders straining, shoves aside the heavy metal

bar that keeps the palace doors shut and locked.

The bar is a new addition. The old king frowns at it. Perhaps he is remembering a time, before

Edmund was born, when there was no need for a physical barrier. Magic kept the doors shut then.

Over the years, however, the magic was needed for other, more important tasks—such as survival.

His son pushes on the doors and they swing open. A blast of cold air blows out the gas lamp. The

cold is bitter, fierce, penetrates the fur robes. It reminds the old king that, chill as is the palace, its

walls and their magic offer some protection from the blood-freezing, bone-numbing darkness

outside.

"Father, are you certain you're up to this?" Edmund asks worriedly.

"Yes," the old man snaps, although my guess is that he wouldn't have gone if he'd been alone.

"Don't worry about me. If Baltazar has his way, we'll all be out in this before long."

Yes, he knows I'm near, knows I'm listening. He's jealous of my influence over Edmund. All I can

say is, Old man, you had your chance.

"Baltazar has found a route that takes us down through the tunnels, Father. I explained that to you

before. The air will grow wanner, the deeper into the world we penetrate."

"Found such a fool notion in a book, I suppose. No use lighting the damn thing," the old king

remarks, referring to the lamp. "Don't waste your magic. I don't need a light. Many and many are

the times I've stood on this colonnade. I could walk it blindfolded."

I can hear them moving through the darkness. I can almost see the king thrust aside Edmund's

proffered arm—the prince is dutiful and loving to a father who little deserves it—and stalk

unhesitatingly through the doors. I stand in the hallway and try to ignore the cold biting at my face

and hands, numbing my feet.

"I don't hold with books," the king remarks bitterly to his son, whose footfalls I can hear, walking

at his side. "Baltazar spends far too much time among the books."

Perhaps anger feels good inside the old man, warm and bright, like the fire of the lamp.

"It was the books told us that they were going to return to us and look what came of that! Books."

The old king snorts. "I don't trust them-I don't think we should trust them! Maybe they were

accurate centuries ago, but the world's changed since then. The routes that brought our ancestors to

this realm are probably gone, destroyed."

"Baltazar has explored the tunnels, as far as he dared go, and he found them safe, the maps

accurate. Remember, Father, that the tunnels are protected by magic, by the powerful, ancient

magic that built them, that built this world."

'Ancient magic!" The old king's anger comes fully to the surface, burns in his voice. "The ancient

magic has failed. It was the failure of the ancient magic that brought us to this! Ruin where there

was once prosperity. Desolation where there was once plenty. Ice where there was once water.

Death where there was once life!"

He stands on the portico of the palace and looks before him. His physical eyes see the darkness that

has closed over them, sees it broken only by tiny dots of light burning sporadically here and there

about the city. Those dots of light represent his people and there are too few of them, far too few.

The vast majority of the houses in the realm of Kairn Telest are dark and cold. Like the queen,

those who now remain in the houses can do very well without light and warmth; it isn't wasted on

them.

His physical eyes see the darkness, just as his physical body feels the pain of the cold, and he

rejects it. He looks at his city through the eyes of memory, a gift he tries to share with his son. Now

that it is too late.

"In the ancient world, during the time before the Sundering, they say there was an orb of blazing

fire they called a sun. I read this in a book," the old king adds drily. "Baltazar isn't the only one who

can read. When the world was sundered into four parts, the sun's fire was divided among the four

new worlds. The fire was placed in the center of our world. That fire is Abarrach's heart, and like

the heart, it has tributaries that carry the life's blood of warmth and energy to the body's limbs."

I hear a rustling sound, a head moving among many layers of clothing. I can imagine the king

shifting his gaze from the dying city, huddled in darkness, to stare far beyond the city's walls. He

can see nothing, the darkness is complete. But, perhaps, in his mind's eye, he sees a land of light

and warmth, a land of green and growing things beneath a high cavern ceiling frescoed with

glittering stalactites, a land where children played and laughed.

"Our sun was out there." Another rustling. The old king lifts his hand, points into the eternal

darkness.

"The colossus," Edmund says softly.

He is patient with his father. There is much, so much to be done, and he stands with the old man

and listens to his memories.

"Someday his son will do the same for him," I whisper hopefully, but the shadow that lies over our

future will not lift from my heart.

Foreboding? Premonition? I do not believe in such things, for they imply a higher power, an

immortal hand and mind meddling in the affairs of men. But I know, as surely as I know that he

will have to leave this land of his birth and his father's birth and of the many fathers before him,

that Edmund will be the last king of the Kairn Telest.

I am thankful, then, for the darkness. It hides my tears.

The king is silent, as well; our thoughts running along the same dark course. He knows. Perhaps he

loves him now. Now that it is too late.

"I remember the colossus, Father," says his son hastily, mistaking the old man's silence for

irritation. "I remember the day you and Baltazar first realized it was failing," he adds, more

somberly.

My tears have frozen on my cheeks, saving me the need to wipe them away. And now I, too, walk

the paths of memory. I walk them in the light... the failing light.. . .

CHAPTER * 2

KAIRN TELEST, ABARRACH

,.. THE COUNCIL CHAMBER OF THE KING OF THE REALM OF KAIRN Telest is thronged

with people. The king is meeting with the council, made up of prominent citizens whose heads of

household served in this capacity when the people first came to Kairn Telest, centuries before.

Although matters of an extremely serious nature are under discussion, the meeting is orderly and

formal. Each member of the council listens to his fellow members with attention and respect. This

includes His Majesty.

The king will issue no royal edicts, set forth no royal commands, make no royal proclamations. All

matters are voted on by the council. The king acts as guide and counselor, gives his advice, casts

the deciding vote only when the issue is equally divided.

Why have a ruler at all? The people of Kairn Telest have a distinct need for propriety and order.

We determined, centuries before, that we needed some type of governmental structure. We

considered Ourselves, our situation. We knew ourselves to be more a family than a community, and

we decided that a monarchy, which provides a parent-figure, combined with a voting council would

be the wisest, most appropriate form of government.

We have never had reason to regret the decision of our ancestors. The first queen chosen to rule

produced a daughter capable of carrying on her mother's work. That daughter produced a son, and

thus has the reign of Kairn Telest been handed down through generation after generation. The

people of Kairn Telest are well satisfied and content. In a world that seems to be constantly

changing around us—change over which we apparently have no control—our monarchy is a strong

and stable influence.

'And so the level of the river is no higher?" the king asks, his gaze going from one concerned face

to another.

The council members sit around a central meeting table. The king's chair stands at the head. His

chair is more elaborate than the other chairs, but remains on a level equal with theirs.

"If anything, Your Majesty, the river has dropped farther. Or so it was yesterday, when I checked."

The head of the Fanner's Guild speaks in frightened, gloom-laden tones. "I didn't go by to see

today, because I had to leave early to arrive at the palace on time. But I've little hope that it would

have risen in the night."

'And the crops?"

"Unless we get water to the fields in the next five cycles' time, we've lost the bread-grain, for

certain. Fortunately, the kairn grass is doing well—it seems to be able to thrive under almost

impossible conditions. As for the vegetables, we've set the field hands to hauling water to the

gardens, but that's not working. Hauling water is a new task for them. They don't understand it, and

you know how difficult they can be when they're given something new."

Heads nod around the table. The king frowns, scratches his bearded chin. The farmer continues,

seeming to feel the need to explain, perhaps to offer a defense.

"The hands keep forgetting what they're supposed to be doing and wander off. We find them, back

at work on their old jobs, water buckets left to lie on the ground. By my calculations, we've wasted

more water this way than we've used on the vegetables."

'And your recommendation?"

"My recommendation." The farmer glances around the table, seeking support. He sighs. "I

recommend that we harvest what we can, while we can. It will be better to save the little we have

than to let it all shrivel up and die in the fields. I brought this parfruit to show you. As you see, it's

undersize, not yet ripe. It shouldn't be picked for another sixteen cycles, at least. But if we don't

gather it now, it'll wither and die on the vine. After the harvest, we can do another planting and

perhaps, by that time, the river will have returned to its normal—"

"No," calls a voice, a voice new to the room and to the meeting. I have been kept waiting in the

antechamber long enough. It is obvious that the king isn't going to send for me. I must take matters

into my own hands. "The river will not return, at least not anytime goon, and then only if some

drastic change occurs that I do not foresee. The Hemo is reduced to a muddy trickle and, unless we

are indeed fortunate, Your Majesty, I believe it may dry up altogether." The king turns, scowls in

irritation as I enter. He knows that I am for more intelligent than he is and, therefore, he doesn't

trust me. But he has come to rely on me. He's been forced to. Those few times he did not, when he

went his own way, he came to regret it. That is why I am now necromancer to the king.

"I was planning to send for you when the time was right, Bal-tazar. But," the king adds, his frown

growing deeper, "it seems you can't wait to impart bad news. Please be seated and give the council

your report." From the tone of his voice, he would like to blame the bad news on me personally.

I sit down at a chair at the far end of the rectangular meeting table, a table carved of stone. The eyes

of those gathered around the table turn slowly, reluctant to look directly at me. I am, I must admit,

an unusual sight.

Those who live inside the gigantic caverns of the stone world of Abarrach are naturally pale

complected. But my skin is a dead white, a white so pallid it appears to be almost translucent and

has a faint bluish cast given by the blood veins that lay close beneath the skin's thin surface.

The unnatural pallor comes from the fact that I spend long hours shut up in the library, reading

ancient texts. My jet black hair— extremely rare among my people, whose hair is almost always

white, dark brown at the tips—and the black robes of my calling make my complexion appear to be

even whiter by contrast.

Few see me on a daily basis, for I keep to the palace, near my beloved library, rarely venturing into

town or into the royal court. My appearance at a council meeting is an alarming event. I am a

presence to be feared. My coming casts a pall over the hearts of those in attendance, much as if I'd

spread my black robes over them.

I begin by standing up. Extending my hands flat on the table, I lean on them slightly so that I seem

to loom over those staring back at me in rapt fascination.

"I suggested to His Majesty that I undertake to explore the Hemo, track it back to its source, and

see if I could discover what was causing the water to drop so severely. His Majesty agreed that this

suggestion was a good one, and I set out."

I notice several council members exchange glances with each other, their brows darkening. This

exploration had not been discussed or sanctioned by the council, which means that they are, of

course, immediately against it.

The king sees their concern, stirs in his chair, seems about to come to his own defense. I slide into

the breach before he can say a word.

"His Majesty proposed that we inform the council and receive their approbation, but I opposed such

a move. Not out of any lack of respect for the members of the council," I hasten to assure them,

"but out of the need to maintain calm among the populace. His Majesty and I were then of the

opinion that the drop in the river level was a freak of nature. Perhaps a seismic disturbance had

caused a section of the cavern to collapse and block the river's flow. Perhaps a colony of animals

had dammed it up. Why needlessly upset people? Alas"—I am unable to prevent a sigh—"such is

not the case."

The council members regard me with growing concern. They have become accustomed to the

strangeness of my appearance, and now they begin to discern changes in me. I am aware that I do

not look good, even worse than usual. My black eyes are sunken, ringed by purple shadows. The

eyelids are heavy and red rimmed. The journey was long and fatiguing. I have not slept in many

cycles. My shoulders slump with exhaustion.

The council members forget their irritation at the king acting on his own, without consulting them.

They wait, grim faced and unhappy, to hear my report.

"I traveled up the Hemo, following the river's banks. I journeyed beyond civilized lands, through

the forests of laze trees that stand on our borders, and came to the end of the wall that forms our

kairn. But I did not find the river's source there. A tunnel cuts through the cavern wall and,

according to the ancient maps, the Hemo flows into this tunnel. The maps, I discovered, proved

accurate. The Hemo has either cut its own path through the cavern wall or the river runs along a

path formed for it by those who made our world in the beginning. Or perhaps a combination of

both."

The king shakes his head at me, disliking my learned digressions. I see his expression of annoyance

and, slightly inclining my head to acknowledge it, return to the subject at hand.

"I followed the tunnel a great distance and discovered a small lake set in a box canyon, at the

bottom of what once must have been a magnificent waterfall. There, the Hemo plunges over a sheer

rock cliff, falling hundreds of footspans, from a height equal to the height of cavern ceiling above

our heads."

The citizens of Kairn Telest appear impressed. I shake my head, warning them not to get their

hopes up.

"I could tell, from the vast dimensions of the smooth plane of the wall's rock surface and from the

depth of the lake bed below, that the river's flow had once been strong and powerful. Once, I judge,

a man standing beneath it might have been crushed by the sheer force of the water falling on him.

Now, a child could bathe safely in the trickle that flows down the cliff's side."

My tone is bitter. The king and council members watch me warily, uneasily.

Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman - Deathgate Cycle 3 - Fire Sea

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