Margaret Weis - Fire Sea

Ive traveled through Deaths Gate four times, yet I dont remember anything about the journey. Each time Ive entered the Gate, Ive been unconscious. The first trip I made was to the world of Arianus, there and backa trip that was nearly my last.

On my return trip, I acquired a dragonship, built by the elves of Arianus. Its 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 Deaths 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.

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 Deaths 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 Deaths 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 Lorda man I revere above all others in this universebut his explanation of Deaths 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 Deaths Gate was never meant to be traversed! He cant tell what its function isor 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 Deaths 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 wont lose my life; my ships magic protects me from harm.

But I could lose my mind.

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, Im 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 kings reply.

But the old man does not immediately respond. He sits on a throne of gold, decorated with diamonds large as a mans 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 faint edge of the throne, nearer the gas lamp, although he knows he will 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. Wed grow too hot, with the dancing, and wed run outside the palace walls, run out into the streets beneath the cavern ceiling where it was cool, and wed throw ourselves into the soft grass and laugh and laugh. He paused. Your mother loved to dance.

Yes, Father, I remember. His sons 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. Theyd 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 werent playing the same music as the other half. But that didnt 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 allbut-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 servants entrance and exit, although he pretends that he doesnt. Old age has few prerogatives, few luxuries. Indulging oneself in eccentricities is one of them. Indulging oneself in memoryanother.

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 womans 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 doesnt 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 couldnt look at them. They were so brilliant theyd 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 theyll stare, when they come to us. How theyll stare when they first set eyes on such gold, such jewels! wed 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.