Serpent Mage

by Margaret Weis

  “Those who have escaped are filled with hatred for us, hatred that has been bred into them for countless generations. A hatred that is in every way justifiable, as far as I'm concerned. I… I was there, you see, for a brief time … in another body.”

  His newfound courage was rapidly evaporating beneath the blazing glare of Samah's eyes. Alfred shriveled up, shrank back into himself. His hands plucked at the frayed lace on the sleeves of his shirt hanging limply beneath the worn velvet of his top coat.

  “What are you talking about, Brother?” Samah demanded. “This is impossible! The Labyrinth was meant to teach, to instruct. It was a game—a hard game, a difficult game—but nothing more than that.”

  “It turned into a deadly game, I'm afraid,” said Alfred, but he spoke to his shoes. “Still, there might be hope. You see, this Patryn I know is a most complex man. He has a dog-”

  Samar's eyes narrowed. “You seem very sympathetic to the enemy, Brother.”

  “No, no!” Alfred babbled. “I really don't know the enemy. I only know Haplo. And he's—”

  But Samah was not interested. He brushed aside Alfred's words as so much dust. “This Patryn I saw in your mind was free, traveling through Death's Gate. What is his purpose?”

  “Ex-exploration—” Alfred stammered.

  “No, not exploration!” Samah rose to his feet, stared hard at Alfred, who fell back before the penetrating gaze. “Not exploration. Reconnaissance!”

  Samah glowered, glanced in grim triumph at the other Council members. “It seems we have, after all, awakened at a propitious time, Brethren. Once again, our ancient enemy intends to go to war.”

  1You will note Alfred does not use a formal title, such as “sir” or “my lord” when speaking to the Head of the Council, which was the ruling body in Sartan society. Such distinctions of rank or class were supposedly unknown in Sartan society at the time of the Sundering. It would, however, have been more correct of Alfred to refer to Samah as Brother. The fact that Alfred does not indicates his continued distrust of his own people.

  MORNING, ANOTHER MORNING OF DESPAIR, OF FEAR, THE mornings are the worst time for me. I wake from terrible dreams and for a minute I pretend Fm back in my bed in my home and I tell myself that the dreams are nothing more than that. But I can't ignore the fact that the horror-filled dreams might, at any time, become reality. We have not seen any sign of the dragon-snakes, but we know Someone is watching us. We are none of us seaman, we have no idea how to steer this ship, yet Something is steering it. Something guides it. And we have no idea what.

  Dread keeps us from even venturing on the upper deck. We have fled to the lower part of the ship, where the Something seems content to leave us alone.

  Each morning, Alake, Devon, and I meet and try to swallow the food for which we have no appetite. And we look at each other and we ask ourselves silently if today will be the day, the last day.

  The waiting is the most awful part. Our terror grows in us daily. Our nerves are ragged, taut. Devon—good-natured Devon—quarreled with Alake over some little offhand remark she made about elves that he took completely the wrong way. I can hear them now, still raving at each other. It's not anger that harries them, but fear. I think the fear will drive us mad.

  In remembering, I can, for a while, forget. I will tell about our leave-taking.

  It was bitter and grievous. As it turned out, making that initial decision to give ourselves up to the dragon-snakes was the easy part. We composed ourselves, dried our tears, and talked over what we were going to say to our parents. We chose Alake as our speaker and went out to the terrace.

  Our parents were not prepared for the sight of us. Eliason, having so recently lost his beloved wife to some elven malady, could not bear to look at Sabia, his only daughter and the very image of her lovely mother. He turned away, his eyes filled with tears.

  At this, Sabia lost her courage. Going to him, she put her arms around him and her tears mingled with his. Of course, this said everything.

  “You overheard!” Dumaka accused us, scowling. “You were listening again!”

  I had never seen him so furious. Alake's carefully planned speech died on her trembling lips.

  “Father, we mean to go. You cannot stop us …”

  “No!” he roared in a fury, and began pounding on the coral with his clenched fist, beating it, smashing it until I saw the pink turn red with his blood. “No! I will die before I submit to this—”

  “Yes, you will die!” Alake cried. “And our people will die! Is that what you want, Father?”

  “Fight!” Dumaka's black eyes flashed fire, foam frothed on his lips. “We will fight them! The beasts are mortal, just as we are. They have a heart that can be slashed open, a head that can be cut off—”

  “Yes,” said my father stoutly. “We will do battle.”

  His beard was torn. I saw great clumps of it lying on the floor at his feet. That was the first time I fully understood what our decision meant. I don't think we had made it lighdy, but we had made it considering only ourselves, thinking only of what we would suffer. Now I came to realize that though we might die and die horribly, we could only die once and it would be over and we would be safe with the One. Our parents (and those others who loved us) must suffer and die our deaths in their minds time and time again.

  I was so ashamed, I couldn't face him.

  He and Dumaka were ranting on about battle-axes and weapons they would manufacture and how the elves would enchant them. Eliason actually recovered enough to offer a few broken suggestions. I couldn't say a word. I began to think that maybe our people did have a chance, that we could fight the serpents and that our lives would be spared. And then I noticed Alake. She was strangely quiet, strangely calm.

  “Mother,” she said suddenly, coldly, “you have to tell them the truth,”

  Delu flinched. She cast her daughter a swift, smoldering glance that commanded silence, but it was too late. Her look made it worse, for we all saw plainly that she had something to hide.

  “What truth?” demanded my mother sharply.

  “I am not permitted to speak of it,” Delu said thickly, keeping her eyes averted from us all. “As my daughter well knows,” she added bitterly.

  “You must, Mother,” Alake persisted. “Or will you let them go blindly out to fight an enemy that cannot be defeated?”

  “What does she mean, Delu?”

  It was my mother again. She was the shortest person there. She is shorter even than I am. I can see her now, side whiskers quivering, chin jutted out, arms akimbo, feet planted firmly on the ground. Delu was tall and willowy; my mother came only to her waist. But, in my memory, it is my mother who stands tall to me that day, tall in her strength and courage.

  Delu crumbled, a tree falling to my mother's blade. The human sorceress sank down onto a low bench, her hands clasping and unclasping in her lap, her head bowed.

  “I can't go into detail,” she said in a low voice, “I shouldn't be telling you this much, but… but…” She swallowed, drew a quivering breath. “I'll try to explain. When a murder has been committed …”

  I pause here to note that humans do actually kill their own kind. I know you might find it difficult to believe, but it is the truth. One would think that considering their short life span they would hold life sacred. But no. They kill for the most paltry of reasons, greed, vengeance, and lust being chief among them.)

  “When a murder has been committed and the murderer cannot be found,” Delu was saying, “the members of the Coven can—by use of a spell whose very existence I should not now be revealing—gather information about the person who has perpetrated the deed.”

  “They can even conjure up an image of the person,” Alake added, “if they find a lock of hair or traces of the murderer's blood or skin.”

  “Hush, child. What are you saying?” her mother reprimanded, but her protest was weak, her spirit crushed.

  Alake continued. “A single thread can tell the Coven what the murd
erer wore. If the crime is recent, the shock of the outrage lingers in the very air and we can draw from it—”

  “No, Daughter!” Delu looked up. “That is enough. Suffice it to say that we can conjure an image not only of the murderer but also, for lack of a better term, the murderer's soul.”

  “And the Coven performed this spell in the village?”

  “Yes, Husband. It was magic. I was forbidden to tell you.”

  Dumaka did not look pleased, but he said nothing. Humans revere magic, hold it in awe and fear. Elves take a more practical view of it, but that may be because elven magic deals with more practical things. We dwarves never saw much point in either. Oh, certainly it saves time and labor, but one has to give up freedom to pay for it. After all, who ever really trusts a wizard? Apparently, not even a spouse.

  “And so, Delu, you cast this spell on the beast's droppings or whatever they left behind.” My mother single-mindedly dragged us all back to the subject at hand. “And just what did you find out about their souls?”

  “That they have none,” said Delu.

  My mother flung her hands in the air in exasperation, glanced at my father as much as to say they'd wasted their time for nothing. But I knew, from Alake's expression, that more was coming.

  “They have no souls,” Delu continued, fixing her stern gaze on my mother. “Can't you understand? All mortal beings have souls. Just as all mortal beings have bodies.”

  “And it's the bodies we're worried about,” snapped my mother.

  “What Delu is trying to say,” Alake explained, “is that these serpents have no souls and are, therefore, not mortal.”

  “Which means they are immortal?” Eliason stared at the girl in shock. “They can be killed?”

  “We are not certain,” Delu said wearily, rising to her feet. “That is why I thought it best not to bring it up. The Coven has never encountered any creatures like this. We simply do not know.”

  “But that is what you surmise?” Dumaka asked.

  Delu would have preferred not to answer, it seemed, but after a moment, she concluded she had no choice.

  “If what we have discovered is true, then they are not serpents. They are a creature of the genus known anciently as 'dragon.' The ancients held the dragon to be immortal, but that was probably only because the dragon was nearly impossible to kill. Not that it couldn't be killed.” She was briefly defiant, but her defiance quickly faded. “The dragon is extremely powerful. Especially in magic.”

  “We cannot fight the beasts,” said my father, “and have any hope of winning. Is that what you are saying? Because what I am saying is that it makes no difference to me! We will not voluntarily give up one dwarf—any dwarf—to them. And so will say my people.”

  I knew he was right. I knew we dwarves would see ourselves destroyed as a race before we would sacrifice one of our kind. I knew I was safe. I was filled with relief… and my shame deepened.

  Dumaka looked around, his dark eyes fierce. “I agree with Yvngar. We must fight them.”

  “But, Father,” Alake argued. “How can you doom all our people to death for my sake—”

  “I do not do this for your sake, Daughter,” Dumaka countered sternly. “I do this for the sake of our people. We give up one daughter to them and who knows but that next time these 'dragons' will demand all our daughters. And the time after that our sons. No!” He slammed his already bleeding hand on the coral. “We will fight. And so will say all our people!”

  “I will not give up my precious child,” Eliason whispered in a tear-choked voice.

  He was holding onto Sabia as tightly as if he saw the coils winding around her already. Sabia clung to him, weeping for his grief more than for her own.

  “Nor will my people ever agree to pay such a terrible price for their own well-being, even if, as Dumaka says, we could trust these snakes or dragons or whatever they be called.

  “We will fight,” Eliason continued, more resolutely. Then he sighed, and glanced around at us somewhat helplessly. “Though it has been many long, long epoches since elves went to battle. Still, I suppose the knowledge needed to make weapons is in our archives …”

  My father snorted. “And you think these beasts will wait around for you elves to read the books and then dig the ore and build the smithies before you can set blade to hilt. Bah! We must make do with what we have. I will send battle-axes—”

  “And I will provide you with spears and swords,” Dumaka struck in, hard-edged, battle lust burning.

  Delu and Eliason began to discuss and debate various military enchantments and mantras and cantrips. Unfortunately, elven magic and human were so dissimilar that neither could offer the other much assistance, but they both seemed to find comfort in at least the appearance of doing something constructive.

  “Why don't you girls go back to Sabia's room,” suggested my mother. “You've had a shock.” Coming over, she hugged me to her breast. “But I will always honor and remember my brave daughter, offering her life for her people.”

  My mother left to join my father in a spirited argument with Dumaka over battle-axes versus pole-axes, and we girls were forgotten.

  And so that was that. They'd made their decision. I felt that I should be rejoicing, but my heart—which had been strangely light after we'd chosen to sacrifice ourselves— felt as heavy as lead in my breast. It was all I could do to carry the burden; my feet dragged through the glistening, coral hallways. Alake was grim and thoughtful. Sabia was still occasionally shaken by sobs, and so we said nothing to each other until we reached the elf maid's room.

  Even then, we did not speak, at least aloud. But our thoughts were like streams of water, all traveling the same direction, at last converging. I knew this because I looked suddenly at Alake and found her looking at me. We both turned, at the identical moment, to look at Sabia, whose eyes widened. She sank weakly down upon her bed, and shook her head.

  “No, you can't be thinking that! You heard what my father said …”

  “Sabia, listen to me.” Alake's tone reminded me of times when we'd try to get the elf maid to agree to play a trick on our governess. “Are you going to be able to stand here in this room and watch your people being slaughtered before your eyes and say to yourself: I might have prevented this?”

  Sabia hung her head.

  I went over to her, put my arm around her shoulders. Elves are so thin, I thought. Their bones are so fragile you might break them with a touch.

  “Our parents will never permit us to go,” I said. “And so we must take matters into our own hands. If there is a chance, even a tiny chance, that we could be the saviors of our people, then we must take it.”

  “My father!” mourned Sabia, beginning to cry again. “It will break my father's heart.”

  I thought of my father, of the clumps of beard lying on the floor at his feet, of my mother hugging me, and my courage almost failed me. Then I thought of the dwarves caught in the dragon-snake's hideous, toothless mouths. I thought of Hartmut, his battle-ax shining, but looking small and powerless compared to the gigantic beasts.

  I think of him now, as I write, and of my father and my mother and my people, and I know that we did the right thing. As Alake said, I could not have stood and watched my people die and say to myself, I might have prevented this!

  “Tour father will have the elven people to think about, Sabia. He will be strong, for your sake, you may be sure of that. Grundle”—Alake's black eyes shifted to me, her manner was brisk, commanding—“what about the boat?”

  “It's moored in the harbor,” I said. “The captain and most of the crew will be ashore during the rest hours, leaving only a land-watch on board. We can handle them. I have a plan.”

  “Very well.” Alake left that to me. “We'll sneak away in the time of the deep sleep. Gather together whatever you think you might need. I assume that there is food and water on board the vessel?”

  “And weapons,” I added.

  That was a mistake. Sabia looked as i
f she might faint, and even Alake appeared dubious. I said no more. I didn't tell them that I, for one, meant to die fighting.

  “I will take what I need for my magic,” said Alake.

  Sabia gazed at us helplessly. “I could take my lute,” she offered.

  Poor girl. I think she had some vague idea of charming the dragon-snakes with her song. I almost laughed, caught Alake's eye, and sighed instead. Actually, once I thought about it, her lute and my ax would probably accomplish about the same thing.

  “Very well. We part now, to put together what we need. Be circumspect. Be quiet. Be secret! We'll send a message to our parents telling them that we're too upset to come down to dinner. The fewer people we see the better. Do you understand? You tell no one.” Alake fixed her stern gaze on Sabia.

  “No one … except Devon,” the elf maid replied.

  “Devon! Absolutely not! He'd talk you out of it.” Alake has a low opinion of men.

  Sabia bristled. “He is my chosen husband-to-be. He has a right to know. We keep nothing from each other. It is a matter of honor between us. He won't say anything to anyone if I ask him not to.”

  Her small, pointed chin quivered in defiance, her slender shoulders squared. Trust an elf to develop a backbone at the worst possible time.

  Alake didn't like it, but she could see as well as I that Sabia wouldn't be argued out of this.

  “You'll resist all his pleadings and tears and arguments?” Alake said crossly.

  “Yes,” said Sabia, a pretty flush coming to her pale cheeks. “I know how important this is, Alake. I won't fail you. And Devon will understand. You'll see. He is a prince, remember. He knows what it means to have a responsibility to our people.”

  I poked Alake in the ribs. “I have things to do,” I said gruffly. “And there's not much time.”

  The seasun was drifting beyond the far shore into the night. Already, the sea was dimming into deep purple; the servants were flitting about the palace, lighting the lamps.