Serpent Mage

by Margaret Weis

  But there was no answer. Yngvar looked solemn, tugged at his beard. Stepping outside, he motioned to one of his attendants, a young dwarf named Hartmut, and sent him off toward the cave.

  Yngvar returned to the longhouse, where Eliason was also on his feet. “I should go help search—”

  “And do what? End up losing yourself in the jungle? Our people will find him. All will be well, my friend—we pray to the One.”

  “We pray to the One,” Eliason repeated, and sat back down, his head in his hands.

  Then Yngvar spoke, “Aye, but where's that Haplo got to? Has anybody seen him'} Wasn't he supposed to be here? This meeting was his idea in the first place.”

  “You dwarves are suspicious of everything!” Dumaka shouted. “First, the dragon-snakes' magic. Now Haplo! And after he saved our children—”

  “He saved our children, but what do we truly know of him, Husband?” Delu asked. “Perhaps he brought them back, only to carry them off again!”

  “She's right!” Hilda came to stand by the human woman's side. “I say your trackers start looking for this Haplo!”

  “Fine!” said Dumaka, exasperated. “I'll send the trackers out looking for everyone—”

  “Chief!” The doorkeeper shouted, “They've found them! All of them!”

  Elves, humans, and dwarves rushed out of the longhouse. By this time, everyone in camp knew either what had occurred or what was rumored to have occurred. The royal families joined a throng heading toward the elven guesthouse.

  Human trackers escorted Haplo, Grundle, and Alake from the jungle. Haplo carried Devon in his arms. The elf had regained consciousness, smiled weakly, shamefaced at the attention.

  “Devon! Are you hurt? What happened?” Eliason shouldered his way through the crowd.

  “I'm … fine,” Devon managed, his voice coming out a croak.

  “He'll be all right,” Haplo said. “He had a nasty fall, got hung up in a vine. Let him rest. Where shall I put him?”

  “This way.” Eliason led the Patryn to the elven guesthouse.

  “We can explain everything,” Grundle announced.

  “I've no doubt of that,” her father muttered, eyeing his daughter grimly.

  Haplo carried Devon into the guesthouse, deposited the young man on his bed.

  “Thank you,” said Devon softly.

  Haplo grunted. “Get some sleep.”

  Devon, taking the hint, closed his eyes.

  “He needs rest,” said Haplo, coming to stand between Eliason and the young elf. “I think we should let him alone.”

  “But I want my physician to see to him—” Eliason began anxiously.

  “That won't be necessary. He's going to be all right. But now he needs rest,” Haplo repeated.

  Eliason looked past Haplo at the young elf lying exhausted, disheveled, on the bed. The girls had cleaned him up, washed the blood away, but the burns and marks left by the vine were plainly visible on his neck. The elven king looked back at Haplo.

  “He fell,” the Patryn repeated coolly. “Got tangled in a vine.”

  “Will it happen again, do you think?” Eliason asked quietly.

  “No.” Haplo shook his head. “I don't think so. We had a talk … about the dangers of climbing trees in the jungle.”

  “Thank the One,” Eliason murmured.

  Devon had fallen asleep. Haplo led the elven king back outside the guesthouse.

  “Alake and I took Devon for a walk,” Grundle was explaining to an attentive crowd. “I know I disobeyed you, Father”— the dwarf gave Yngvar a sidelong glance—“but Devon looked so unhappy and we thought this might cheer him—”

  “Humpf!” Yngvar snorted. “Very well, Daughter. We will discuss your punishment later. For now, go on with your story.”

  “Grundle and I wanted to speak to Devon alone,” Alake said. “There were too many people in the village, too much going on, and so we suggested a walk in the jungle. We talked and talked and it was hot and we were thirsty and then I noticed that one of the sugarjuice trees had fruit on it. I guess what happened was my fault, because I suggested that Devon climb up—”

  “And he was nearly at the top,” inserted Grundle, gesturing dramatically, “when he slipped and down he went, headfirst into a tangle of chokevines.”

  “They wrapped around his neck! He was caught. I… we didn't know what to do!” Alake's eyes were wide. “I couldn't get him down. He was too far off the ground. Grundle and I ran back to the village to get help. The first person we found was Haplo. He came with us and cut Devon down from the vines.”

  Alake looked at Haplo, standing on the edge of the crowd. Her eyes shone.

  “He saved Devon's life,” she said softly. “He used his magic and healed him! I saw it. Devon wasn't breathing. The vines had wrapped around his neck. Haplo put his hands on him and his skin glowed blue and suddenly Devon opened his eyes and … he was alive.”

  “Is this true?” Dumaka asked Haplo.

  “She's exaggerating, she was upset.” The Patryn shrugged. “The boy wasn't dead. He was out cold. He would have come around….”

  “I was upset,” Alake said, smiling, “but I wasn't exaggerating.”

  Everyone began to talk at once: Yngvar halfheartedly scolded his daughter for running away. Delu stated that it was foolish to attempt to climb a sugarjuice tree by oneself and that Alake should have known better than to allow it. Eliason said he thought the girls showed good sense in running for help and that they should thank the One Haplo had been there to avert another tragedy.

  “The One!” said Grundle, pouncing on the startled elven king. “Yes, you thank the One, who sent us this man”—she pointed her short, stubby finger at Haplo—“and then you turn around and toss the rest of the gifts the One provides into the Goodsea!”

  Everyone in camp fell silent, stared at the dwarf maid.

  “Daughter,” Yngvar began sternly.

  “Hush!” Hilda counseled, treading on his foot. “The child makes sense.”

  “And why will you throw these blessings away?” Grundle glared round at all of them. “Because you don't understand them and so you're afraid of them.” A scathing glance at the dwarves. “Or because you might have to fight to obtain them.” The elves came in for their share of her ire.

  “Well, we decided—Alake, Devon, and I. We're taking the sun-chaser with Haplo. We're sailing to Surunan. We'll go alone, if we have to—”

  “No, you won't, Grundle,” Hartmut said stoutly, coming to stand beside her. “I'll go with you.”

  “We'll go!” cried several young humans and “We'll come, too!” shouted numerous young elves.

  The cry was taken up by almost all the young people around. Grundle exchanged glances with Alake. The dwarf-maid turned to her parents.

  “Well, what have you started now, Daughter?” her father asked dourly. “Open rebellion against your own father?”

  “I'm sorry, Father,” Grundle answered, flushing. “But I truly believe it's for the best. You wouldn't let our people freeze … or the humans …”

  “Of course, he wouldn't,” said Hilda. “Admit it, Yngvar. Your feet grew too big for your head. You were looking for a way to back down. Our daughter's given you one. Will you take it?”

  Yngvar rumpled his beard. “I don't see that I have much choice,” he said, trying hard to frown and not quite succeeding. “The lass will be leading my own army against me, if I'm not careful.”

  He grunted and stomped off. Grundle looked after him anxiously.

  “Relax, dear,” said Hilda, smiling. “He's really quite proud of you.”

  And, indeed, Yngvar was stopping on his way to tell everyone, “That's my daughter!”

  “And my people will go.” Eliason bent down and kissed the dwarf soundly. “Thank you, Daughter, for showing us our folly. May the One bless and guide you always.” His eyes filled with tears. “And now, I must return to Devon.”

  Eliason left hurriedly.

  Grundle was tasting p
ower, obviously found it sweeter than sugarjuice, more intoxicating than dwarven ale. She glanced around, elated, for Haplo, saw him standing in the shadows, watching quietly.

  “I did it!” she cried, running over to him. “I did it! I said what you told me! They're going! All of them!”

  Haplo kept silent, his face was dark, expression impenetrable.

  “It was what you wanted, wasn't it?” Grundle demanded, irritated. “Wasn't it?”

  “Yeah, sure. It was what I wanted,” Haplo answered.

  “It's wonderful!” Alake came over to him, her smile dazzling. “All of us, sailing to new lives!”

  Two muscular humans ran over, lifted the dwarf-maid to their shoulders, and bore her off in triumph. Alake began to dance. A procession started, the humans chanting, elves singing, dwarven deep bass rivaling the booming of the drum.

  Sailing to new lives.

  Sailing to death.

  Haplo turned on his heel, walked into the darkness, leaving the bright firelight and revelry behind.

  1A reference to what the dwarves know as scurvy.

  2Dwarves have a low regard for fish and eat it only when no other, more substantial, food is available. A slang word among dwarves for fish is elmasfleish, or “elf-meat.”

  3Reference to a popular dwarven drinking game, the rules of which are far too complex to describe and probably wouldn't be believed anyway.

  ALFRED HAD NOT BEEN FORCED TO SPEND ALL THIS TIME A prisoner in the library. The Sartan Council met not once but on numerous occasions; the members were apparently having difficulty arriving at a decision concerning Alfred's transgression. Alfred was permitted to leave the library, return to the house. He would be confined to his room until the Council had reached a decision concerning him.

  The Council members were forbidden to discuss the proceedings, but Alfred was certain that Orla was the one coming to his defense. The thought warmed him, until he noticed that the wall between husband and wife had grown even higher, thicker. Orla was grave and reserved. Her husband cold with anger. They rarely spoke to each other. Alfred's resolve to leave strengthened. He wanted only to make his apologies to the Council, then he would be gone.

  “There is no need to lock me inside my room,” Alfred told Ramu, who served as his guard. “I give you my word as a Sartan that I will not attempt to escape. I ask only one favor of you. Could you see to it that the dog is allowed fresh air and exercise?”

  “I suppose we must comply,” Samah said ungraciously to his son, when Alfred's request was reported.

  “Why not dispose of the animal?” Ramu asked indifferently.

  “Because I have plans for it,” Samah replied. “I believe I will ask your mother to perform the task of walking the creature.” He and his son exchanged significant glances.

  Orla refused her husband's request. “Ramu can walk the animal. I want nothing to do with it.”

  “Ramu has his own life now,” her husband reminded her sternly. “He has his family, his own responsibilities. This Alfred and his dog are our responsibility. One for which you have only yourself to thank.”

  Orla heard the rebuke in his voice, was conscious of her guilt for having failed in that responsibility once already. And she had failed her husband again, tying up the Council with strings of arguments.

  “Very well, Samah,” she agreed coldly.

  She went early to Alfred's room the next morning, prepared to undertake the onerous task. She was cool, aloof, reminded herself that no matter what she had said in his defense to the Council, she was angry with this man, disappointed in him. Orla rapped sharply on his door.

  “Come in,” was the meek reply.

  Alfred didn't ask who it was, didn't suppose, perhaps, he had the right to know.

  Orla entered the room.

  Alfred, standing by the window, flushed crimson when he saw her. He took a tentative step toward her. Orla raised a warding hand.

  “I've come for the dog. I suppose the animal will accompany me?” she said, regarding it dubiously.

  “I … I think so,” said Alfred. “G-good dog. Go with Orla.” He waved his hand and, much to his astonishment, the animal went. “I want to thank—”

  Orla turned and walked out of the room, careful to shut the door behind her.

  She led the dog to the garden. Sitting down on a bench, she looked expectantly at the animal. “Well, play,” she said irritably, “or whatever it is you do.”

  The dog made a desultory turn or two about the garden, then returned and, laying its head on Orla's knee, gave a sigh and fixed its liquid eyes on her face.

  Orla was rather nonplussed at this liberty, and was uncomfortabie with the dog so near. She wanted very much to be rid of it and barely resisted an impulse to leap to her feet and run off. But she wasn't certain how the dog might react, seemed to vaguely recall, from what little she knew about the animals, that sudden movement might startle them into vicious behavior.

  Gingerly, reaching down her hand, she patted its nose.

  “There …” she said, as she might have spoken to an annoying child, “go away. There's a good dog.”

  Orla had intended to ease the dog's head off her lap, but the sensation of running her hand over the fur was pleasant. She felt the animal's life-force warm beneath her fingers, a sharp contrast to the cold marble bench on which she rested. And when she stroked its head, the dog wagged its tail, the soft brown eyes seemed to brighten.

  Orla felt sorry for it, suddenly.

  “You're lonely,” she said, bringing both hands to smooth the silky ears. “You miss your Patryn master, I suppose. Even though you have Alfred, he's not really yours, is he? No,” Orla added with a sigh, “he's not really yours.

  “He's not mine, either. So why am I worried about him? He's nothing to me, can be nothing to me.” Orla sat quietly, stroking the dog—a patient, silent, and attentive listener, one who drew from her more than she'd intended to reveal.

  “I'm afraid for him.' she whispered, and her hand on the dog's head trembled. “Why, why did he have to be so foolish? Why couldn't he have left well enough alone? Why did he have to be like the others? No,” she pleaded softly, “not like the others, Let him not be like the others!”

  Taking the dog's head in her hand, cupping it beneath the chin, she looked into the intelligent eyes that seemed to understand. “You must warn him. Tell him to forget what he read, tell him it wasn't worth it—”

  “I believe you are actually growing to like that animal,” Samah said accusingly, Orla jumped, hurriedly withdrew her hand. The dog growled. Rising with dignity, she shoved the animal aside, tried to wipe its drool from her dress.

  “I feel sorry for it,” she said.

  “You feel sorry for its master,” said Samah.

  “Yes, I do,” Oria replied, resenting his tone. “Is that wrong, Samah?”

  The Councillor regarded his wife grimly, then suddenly relaxed. Wearily, he shook his head. “No, Wife. It is commendable. I am the one who is the wrong. I've … overreacted”

  Orla was still inclined to be offended, held herself aloof. Her husband bowed coldly to her, turned to leave. Orla saw the lines of tiredness on his face, saw his shoulders slump with fatigue. Guilt assailed her. Alfred had been in the wrong, there was no excusing him. Samah had countless problems on his mind, burdens to bear. Their people were in danger, very real danger, from the dragon-snakes, and now this …

  “Husband,” she said remorsefully, “I am sorry. Forgive me for adding to your burdens, instead of helping to lift and carry them.”

  She glided forward, reached out, laid her hands on his shoulders, caressing, feeling his life-force warm beneath her fingers, as she'd felt the dog's. And she yearned for him to turn to her, to take her in his arms, to hold her fast. She wanted him to grant her some of his strength, draw some of his strength from her.

  “Husband!” she whispered, and her grasp tightened.

  Samah stepped away from her. He took hold of her hands in his, folded them
one on top of the other, and lightly, dryly, kissed the tips of her fingers.

  “There is nothing to forgive, Wife. You were right to speak in this man's defense. The strain is telling on both of us.”

  He released her hands.

  Orla held them out to him a moment longer, but Samah pretended not to see.

  Slowly, she lowered her hands to her sides. Finding the dog there, pressing against her knee, she absently scratched it behind its ear.

  “The strain. Yes, I suppose it is.” She drew a deep breath, to hide a sigh. “You left home early this morning. Has there been more news of the mensch?”

  “Yes.” Samah glanced about the garden, not looking at his wife. “The dolphins report that the dragon-snakes have repaired the mensch ships. The mensch themselves held a joint meeting and have decided to set sail for this realm. They are obviously planning on war.”

  “Oh, surely not,” Orla began.

  “Of course they mean to attack us,” Samah interrupted impatiently. “They are mensch, aren't they? When, in their entire bloody history, did they ever solve a problem except by the sword?”

  “Perhaps they've changed …”

  “The Patryn leads them. The dragon-snakes are with them. Tell me, Wife, what do you think they intend?”

  She chose to ignore his sarcasm. “You have a plan, Husband?”

  “Yes, I have a plan. One I will discuss with the Council,” he added, with an emphasis that was perhaps unconscious, perhaps deliberate.

  Orla flushed, faintly, and did not reply. There had been a time when he would have discussed this plan with her first. But not now, not since before the Sundering.

  What happened between us? She tried to remember. What did I say? What did I do? And how, she wondered bleakly, am I managing to do it all over again?

  “At this Council meeting, I will call for a vote to make our final decision concerning the fate of your ‘friend,’” Samah added.

  Again the sarcasm. Orla felt chilled, kept her hand on the dog to urge it to stay near her.