Serpent Mage

by Margaret Weis

  “I told him that Grundle and I had found a place in back of the longhouse where we could … well, that is …”

  “Listen in?” Haplo suggested.

  “We have a right,” Grundle stated. “This all happened because of us. We should be there.”

  “I agree,” said Haplo quietly, to calm the irate dwarf. “I'll see what I can do. Now, finish telling me about Devon.”

  “At first, he seemed almost angry to see me. He said he didn't want to listen to anything our parents said. He didn't care. Then, suddenly, he cheered up. He was almost too cheerful, somehow. It was … kind of awful.” She shuddered.

  “He told me he was hungry. He knew dinner would be a long time coming, what with the meeting and all, and he asked me if I could find him something to eat. I told him I could and tried to persuade him to come with me. He didn't want to leave the guesthouse, he said. The people staring at him made him nervous.

  “I thought it would be good if he ate something; I don't think he's eaten in days. And so I left to fetch food. There were other elves with him. On the way, I ran into Grundle, looking for me. I brought her along, thinking she might he able to cheer up Devon. When we got back to the lodge”— Alake spread her hands—“he was gone.”

  Haplo didn't like the sounds of any of this. He'd known people in the Labyrinth who suddenly couldn't take it anymore, couldn't stand the pain, the horror, the loss of a friend, a mate. He'd seen the ghastly cheerfulness that often came after a severe despondency.

  Alake saw the grim expression on his face. She moaned, covered her mouth with her hand. Grundle tugged at her side whiskers in black gloom.

  “Tie's probably just taking a walk,” Haplo repeated. “Did you look for him in the village? Maybe he went after Eliason?”

  “He didn't,” said Alake softly. “When we got back to the guesthouse, I searched around back. I found … tracks. His tracks, I'm certain. They lead right into the jungle.”

  That clinches it, thought Haplo. Aloud, he added, “Keep quiet. Try to act as if nothing's the matter, and take me there, quickly.”

  The three hurried back to the elven guesthouse. They took a circuitous route, kept to the fringes of the crowds, avoided the assembly gathered around the longhouse.

  Haplo could see Dumaka, greeting the dwarven dignitaries. He was glancing about, perhaps in search of the Patryn. At that moment, Eliason stepped forward, prepared to present his party. Haplo was thankful to note that there were numerous elves present; he hoped they all had long names.

  Alake led him to the back of the guesthouse, pointed to the moist ground. The tracks were footprints—too long and narrow for dwarves—and undoubtedly made by booted feet. Phondrans, without exception, all went barefoot.

  Haplo swore silently beneath his breath.

  “Have the other elves in the guesthouse missed him yet?”

  “I don't think so,” Alake replied. “They're all outside, watching the ceremony.”

  “I'll go look for him. You two stay here, in case he comes back.”

  “We're going with you,” said Grundle.

  “Yes. He's our friend.” Alake joined her.

  Haplo glared at them, but the dwarf's jaw was set firm, her small arms crossed defiantly over her chest. Alake regarded him calmly, steadfastly. There would be an argument, and he didn't have time.

  “Come on, then.'

  The two girls started down the path, stopped when they realized Haplo wasn't following.

  “What is it? What are you doing?” Alake asked. “Shouldn't we hurry?”

  Haplo had squatted down, was quickly tracing sigla in the mud over the elf's footprints. He breathed soft words; the sigla flashed green, and suddenly began to grow and sprout. Plants and weeds sprang up, covering the path, obliterating any sign of the elf's footprints.

  “This is no time,” snapped Grundle, “to start a garden.”

  “They'll be looking for him soon.” Rising to his feet, Haplo watched the plants completely overrun the path. “I'm making certain no one comes after us. We'll do what needs to be done, tell whatever story we need to tell. Agreed?”

  “Oh!” murmured Alake, biting her lip.

  “Agreed?” Haplo stared at the two grimly.

  “Agreed,” Grundle said, subdued.

  “Agreed,” Alake repeated unhappily.

  They left the campsite behind, followed the elf's footprints into the jungle.

  At first, Haplo thought that perhaps Grundle might have inadvertently guessed the truth. It appeared that the despondent young elf was simply intent on trying to walk off his misery. The tracks kept to the open path. Devon hadn't bothered to conceal his whereabouts, he wasn't attempting to hide from anyone, and he must have known that Alake, at least, would come after him.

  And then, abruptly, the tracks ended.

  The path continued on, smooth, unmarked. The plant life on each side was dense, too dense to penetrate without leaving some sort of trace, and not a leaf was disturbed, not a flower crushed, a stalk bent.

  “What'd he do? Grow wings?” the dwarf grumbled, peering into the shadows.

  “So to speak,” said Haplo, looking up into the trailing vines.

  The elf must have taken to the trees. A swift glance farther into the jungle's dark shadows showed him something else.

  His first thought was, Damn! Another elven mourning period!

  “You girls go back now,” he said firmly, but suddenly Alake gave a shriek, and before he could stop her, she had plunged into the undergrowth.

  Haplo jumped after her, dragged her back, shoved her hard into Grundle. The two fell over each other. Haplo ran on, glancing back over his shoulder to make certain he'd delayed the two from following.

  The dwarf, in her thick boots, had become entangled in the vines. Alake seemed prepared to leave her friend to fend for herself, started after Haplo. Grundle set up a howl of rage that could be heard for miles.

  “Shut her up!” Haplo ordered, crashing through the thick jungle foliage.

  Alake, anguish twisting her face, turned back to help Grundle.

  Haplo reached Devon.

  The elf had formed a noose out of vines, wrapped it around his neck, and jumped from a tree limb to what he had hoped would be his death.

  Looking at the limp body, swinging grotesquely in a spiral on its vine, Haplo thought at first the young man had succeeded. Then he saw two of the elf's fingers twitch. It might be a death spasm, it might not.

  Haplo shouted the runes. Blue and red sigla flashed through the air, burst on the vine, severed it. The body plunged down into the undergrowth.

  Reaching the young man, Haplo grabbed hold of the vine around the neck, wrenched it loose. Devon wasn't breathing. He was unconscious, his face discolored, lips blue. The vine had cut into the flesh of his slender neck, left it bruised and bleeding. But, Haplo saw after a swift, cursory examination, the elf's neck wasn't broken, the windpipe wasn't crushed. The vine had slipped, apparently, sliding up the neck instead of snapping it, as Devon had undoubtedly intended. He was still alive.

  But he wouldn't be alive long. Haplo felt for a pulse, life fluttered faintly beneath his fingers. The Patryn sat back on his heels, considering. He had no idea if what he intended would work or not. As far as he knew, it had never been tried on a mensch. But he seemed to remember Alfred saying something about using his magic to heal the child, Bane.

  Tf Sartan magic worked on a mensch, Patryn magic should work as well… or better.

  Haplo took hold of the elf's flaccid hands, Devon's left hand in Haplo's right, the Patryn's left hand holding the elf's right hand fast. The circle was joined.

  Haplo shut his eyes, concentrated. He was dimly aware, behind him, of Alake and Grundle. He heard them come to a halt, heard Alake whimper, Grundle's breath whistle through her teeth. Haplo paid no attention to them.

  He was giving his own life strength to Devon. Runes on his arms glowed blue. The magic flowed from him to the elf, carried Haplo's life with it, carried
Devon's pain and suffering back to Haplo.

  The Patryn experienced, vicariously, the terrible grief, the burning guilt, the bitter, gnawing regret that had tormented Devon, sleeping and waking, and had finally driven him to seek solace in oblivion. Haplo felt the shriveling fear right before the jump—the brain's instinct for self-preservation making a last desperate attempt to fight back.

  Then the decision. Pain, the horrible feeling of suffocation, the knowledge, peaceful and serene, that death was near and the torment would soon all be over…

  Haplo heard a groan, heard the rustle of the plants. He gasped for breath, opened his eyes.

  Devon stared up at him, face anguished, twisted, bitter. “You had no right,” he whispered hoarsely, his throat sore and bruised from the vine's grip. “I want to die! Let me die, damn you! Let me die!”

  Alake cried out. “No, Devon! You don't know what you're saying!”

  “He knows,” said Haplo grimly. He sat back on his heels, wiped his hand across his sweaty forehead. “You and Grundle go on back to the path. Let me talk to him.”

  “But—”

  “Go!” Haplo yelled angrily.

  Grundle tugged on Alake's hand. The two made their way back slowly through the trampled leaves and slashed plants to the path beyond.

  “You want to die,” Haplo said to the elf, who averted his head, shut his eyes. “Go ahead, then. Hang yourself. I can't stop you. But I'd appreciate it if you'd wait until after we get all this business about the sun-chasers settled, because I assume there'll be another long period of grieving over you, and the delay could endanger your people.”

  The elf refused to look at him. “They'll be all right. They have something to live for. I don't.” His words were a hoarse croak. He grimaced at the pain.

  “Yeah? Well, what do you think your parents will have to live for after they cut your body down from that tree limb? You have any idea what their last memory of you will be? Your face bloated, skin discolored, black as rotting fungus; your eyes bugged out of your head, your tongue sticking out of your mouth?”

  Devon blanched, cast Haplo a hate-filled glance, and turned his head again. “Go away,” he muttered.

  “You know”—Haplo continued as if he hadn't heard— “if your body hangs there long enough, the carrion birds'll come. The first thing they go for is the eyes. Your parents may not even recognize their son—or what's left of him, when the birds are finished, not to mention the ants and the flies—”

  “Stop!” Devon tried to shout, but it came out a sob.

  “And there's Alake and Grundle. They lost one friend, now they'll lose another. You didn't give them a thought, either, I suppose? No, just yourself. The pain, I can't bear the pain,'” Haplo mimicked the elf's light, piping voice.

  “What do you know about it?” Devon cried.

  “What do I know about it… about pain,” Haplo repeated softly. “Let me tell you a story, then All leave you to kill yourself, if that's what you want. I knew a man, once, in the Laby— a place I lived. He was in a fight, a terrible fight, for his life. In that place, you have to fight to stay alive, you don't fight to die. Anyway, this man was hurt horribly. Wounds … all over his body. His suffering was beyond belief, beyond endurance.

  “The man defeated his enemies. The chaodyn lay dead around him. But he couldn't go on. He hurt too much. He could have tried to heal himself with his magic, but it didn't seem to him to be worth the effort. He lay on the ground, letting the life seep out of him. Then something happened to change his mind. There was a dog …

  “The dog.” Haplo paused, a strange, lonely ache constricting his heart. All this time, how could he have forgotten the dog?

  “What happened?” Devon whispered, blue eyes intent upon the man. “What happened … with the dog?”

  Haplo frowned, rubbed his chin; sorry, in a way, he'd brought it up, glad, in a way, to remember.

  “The dog. The animal had fought the chaodyn and it had been hurt, too. It was dying, in such pain that it couldn't walk. Yet, when the dog saw the man's suffering, it tried to help him. The dog didn't give up. It started to crawl, on its belly, to get help, its courage made the man feel ashamed.

  “A dumb brute, with nothing to live for—no hopes or dreams or ambitions—and it fought to go on living. And I had everything. I was young, strong; I'd won a great victory. And I was about to throw it all away … because of the pain.”

  “Did the dog die?” Devon asked softly. Weak as a sick child, like a child, he wanted to hear the end of the story.

  The Patryn wrenched himself back from his memories.

  “No, the man healed the dog, healed himself.” He hadn't noticed his lapse, hadn't noticed that he and “the man” had gotten rather mixed. “He rose to a position of power among his people. He changed the course of people's lives …”

  “Saved people from dragon-snakes? Or maybe themselves?” Devon asked, with a twisted, rueful smile.

  Haplo stared at him, then grunted. “Yeah, maybe. Some thing like that. Well, what's it going to be? Shall I leave you here to try again?”

  Devon glanced up at the cut vine, dangling over his head. “No. No, All come … with you.” He tried to sit up, and fainted.

  Haplo reached out his hand, felt for the pulse. It was stronger, steadier. He brushed aside a lock of flaxen hair caught in the dried blood on the neck.

  “It will get better,” he told the unconscious young man. “You won't forget her, but the remembering won't hurt as much.”

  1One reason the elves arc extremely amenable to the constantly shifting nature of their coral dwellings. All furniture, clothing, bedding, and such-like would have to be moved anyway.

  2It is a widely held belief among the Elmas that the short life span of humans is due entirely to their unfortunate habit of sleeping on the ground. Phondrans, on the other hand, view the tall elven beds with horror, are terrified that they will roll off in the night and kill themselves. The Gargan find the entire argument ridiculous. As long as there is solid stone above him, a dwarf could sleep standing on his head. Unfortunately, however, this is one reason many dwarves do not travel comfortably by ship.

  THE MEETING OF THE ROYAL FAMILIES OPENED WITH STIFF formalities, cold glances, unspoken resentment. From there, it moved to open hostility, hot words, and bitter recriminations.

  Eliason's position against war had not altered with the passage of time.

  “I am quite willing to set sail in the sun-chasers and find this new realm,” he stated. “And I will undertake to negotiate with these … er… Sartan, since all know that elves are skilled in such diplomatic endeavors. I cannot see how these Sartan could refuse such a reasonable request, particularly when we explain how we will bring them much-needed goods and services. My advisers, having given the matter considerable study, have determined that this Sartan race must be relatively new to this realm themselves. We think it likely they'll actually be quite glad to see us.”

  Eliason's face darkened. “But if not, if the Sartan refuse, well, after all, it is their realm. We will simply look elsewhere.”

  “Fine,” said Dumaka sourly. “And while you are looking, what will you eat? Where will you find the food to feed your people? Will you grow corn in the cracks in the deck? Or has elven magic come up with a way to pull bread out of air? We have calculated that we can carry barely enough supplies for the journey as it is, considering all the mouths we'll have to feed. There will be room for no more.”

  “The supply of fish is plentiful,” said Eliason mildly.

  “Of course,” Dumaka retorted, “but not even an elf could live exclusively on a diet of fish! Without fruits and vegetables, the mouth-sickness1 will come upon our people.”

  Yngvar looked horrified at the mere thought of being forced to live on fish.2 The dwarf planted his feet firmly on the ground, glared round at the assembly. “You argue over who stole the pie when the pie hasn't even been cooked yet! The sun-chasers are cursed; the dwarves will have nothing to do with them.
And, after consultation with the Elders, we have determined that we will allow no one to have anything to do with them, lest the curse will come back on us. It is our intention to scuttle the things, send them to the bottom of the Goodsea. We will build more ourselves, without the help of snakes.”

  “Yes, that's a good idea,” said Eliason. “There will be time—”

  “There will not be time!” Dumaka fumed. “You elves were the ones who figured up how many cycles we had—”

  “You dwarves are worse than superstitious children!” Delu was arguing loudly. “The ships are no more cursed than I am!”

  “And who's certain about you, Witch?” Hilda flashed back, side whiskers bristling.

  At that moment, one of the doorkeepers, attempting to give the impression he was deaf and blind to the turmoil around him, crept into the longhouse and whispered something to Dumaka. The chieftain nodded, gave an order. Everyone else had ceased talking, wondering what this interruption portended. No one ever disturbed a royal meeting unless it was a matter of life and death. The doorkeeper departed swiftly on his errand. Dumaka turned to Eliason.

  “Your guards have discovered the young man, Devon, to be missing. They've searched the camp, but no trace of him can be found. I've called out the trackers. Don't worry, my friend,” the chief said, his anger forgotten at the sight of the elf's anxiety. “We'll find him.”

  “A young fool's gone for a walk!” Yngvar snapped irritably. “Why all the fuss?”

  “Devon has been very unhappy of late,” said Eliason in a low voice. “Very unhappy. We fear…” His voice failed. He shook his head.

  “Ach!” said Yngvar gravely, in sudden understanding. “That's the way of it, is it?”

  “Grundle!” Hilda called out sharply, loudly. “Grundle! Come in here, this instant!”

  “What are you doing, Wife? Our daughter's in the cave—”

  “Take the sack off your head,”3 Hilda retorted. “Our daughter's no more in that cave than I am.” She stood up, raised her voice threateningly. “Grundle, I know you're out there, spying! Alake, this is serious. I won't tolerate any more nonsense from you girls!”