Elven Star

32

The first part of the voyage to the stars was relatively peaceful. Awed and frightened by the sight of the ground sliding beneath them, the mensch—elven and human—huddled together, pathetically eager for each other’s company and support. They talked repeatedly of the catastrophe that had struck them. Wrapped in the warm blanket of shared tragedy, they attempted to draw even the dwarf into their circle of good fellowship. Drugar ignored them. He sat morose and melancholy in a corner of the bridge, moving from it infrequently, and then only under the duress of dire need. They spoke eagerly about the star to which they were sailing, about their new world and new life. Haplo was amused to observe that, once they were actually on their way to a star, the old man became extremely evasive in describing it.

“What is it like? What causes the light?” asked Roland.

“It is a holy light,” said Lenthan Quindiniar in mild rebuke. “And shouldn’t be questioned.”

“Actually, Lenthan’s right … sort of,” said Zifnab, appearing to grow extremely uncomfortable. “The light is, one might say, holy. And then there’s night.”

“Night? What’s night?”

The wizard cleared his throat with a loud harrumph and glanced around as if for help. Not finding any, he plunged ahead. “Well, you remember the storms you have on your world? Every cycle at a certain time it rains? Night’s similar to that, only every cycle, at a certain time, the light… well… it disappears.”

“And everything’s dark!” Rega was appalled.

“Yes, but it’s not frightening. It’s quite comforting. That’s the time when everyone sleeps: Makes it easy to keep your eyelids shut.”

“I can’t sleep in the dark!” Rega shuddered, and glanced at the dwarf, sitting silently, ignoring them all. “I’ve tried it. I’m not sure about this star. I’m not sure I want to go.”

“You’ll get used to it.” Paithan put his arm around her. “I’ll be with you.” The two snuggled close. Haplo saw looks of disapproval on the faces of the elves, who were watching the loving couple. He saw the same expressions mirrored on the faces of the humans.

“Not in public,” Roland said to his sister, jerking her away from Paithan. There was no further conversation among the mensch about the star. Trouble, Haplo foresaw, was coming to paradise.

The mensch found that the ship was smaller than it had first appeared. Food and water supplies disappeared at an alarming rate. Some of the humans began to remember they had been slaves, some of the elves recalled that they had been masters.

The convivial get-togethers ended. No one discussed their destination—at least as a group. The elves and humans met to talk over matters, but they met separately now and kept their voices low.

Haplo sensed the growing tension and cursed it and his passengers. He didn’t mind divisiveness. He was, in fact, intent on encouraging it. But not on his ship.

Food and water weren’t a problem. He had laid in stores for himself and the dog—making certain he had a variety this time—and he could easily replicate what he had. But who knew how long he would have to feed these people and put up with them? Not without a certain amount of misgiving, he had set his course based on the old man’s instructions. They were flying toward the brightest star in the heavens. Who knew how long it would take them to reach it?

Certainly not Zifnab.

“What’s for dinner?” asked the old wizard, peering down into the hold, where Haplo stood, pondering these questions. The dog, standing at Haplo’s side, looked up and wagged his tail. Haplo glanced at it irritably.

“Sit down!” he muttered.

Noting the relatively small amount of supplies remaining, Zifnab appeared slightly crestfallen, also extremely hungry.

“Never mind, old man. I can take care of the food!” said Haplo. It would mean using his magic again, but at this point, he didn’t suppose it mattered. What interested him more was their destination and how long it would be before he could rid himself of his refugees. “You know something about these stars, don’t you?”

“I do?” Zifnab was wary.

“You claim you do. Talking to them about”—he jerked a thumb in the direction of the main part of the ship where the mensch generally gathered—“this ‘new’ world …”

“New? I didn’t say anything about ‘new,’” Zifnab protested. The old man scratched his head, knocking his hat off. It tumbled down into the hold, landed at Haplo’s feet.

“New world … being reunited with long-dead wives.” Haplo picked up the battered hat, toyed with it.

“It’s possible!” cried the wizard shrilly. “Anything’s possible.” He reached out a tentative hand for the hat. “M—mind you don’t crush the brim.”

“What brim? Listen, old man, how far are we away from this star? How many days of travel to get there?”

“Well, er, I suppose.” Zifnab gulped. “It all depends … on … on how fast we’re traveling! That’s it, how fast we’re traveling.” He warmed to his subject. “Say that we’re moving at the speed of tight… . Impossible, of course, if you believe physicists. Which I don’t, by the way. Physicists don’t believe in wizards—a fact that I, being a wizard, find highly insulting. I have taken my revenge, therefore, by refusing to believe in physicists. What was the question?”

Haplo started over again, trying to be patient. “Do you know what these stars really are?”

“Certainly,” Zifnab replied in lofty tones, staring down his nose at the Patryn.

“What are they?”

“What are what?”

“The stars?”

“You want me to explain them?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Well, I think the best way to put this”—sweat broke out on the old man’s forehead—“in layman’s terms, to be concise, they’re … er … stars.”

“Uh huh,” said Haplo grimly. “Look, old man, just how close have you actually been to a star?”

Zifnab mopped his forehead with the end of his beard, and thought hard. “I stayed in the same hotel as Clark Gable once,” he offered helpfully, after an immense pause.

Haplo gave a disgusted snort, sent the hat spinning up and out of the hatchway. “All right, keep playing your game, old man.” The Patryn turned back, studying the supplies—a barrel of water, a cask of salted targ, bread and cheese, and bag of tangfruit. Sighing, scowling, Haplo stood staring moodily at the water barrel.

“Mind if I watch?” asked Zifnab politely.

“You know, old man, I could end this real quick. Jettison the ‘cargo’—if you take my meaning. It’s a long way down.”

“Yes, you could,” said Zifnab, easing himself onto the deck, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the hatch. “And you’d do it in a minute, too. Our lives mean nothing to you, do they, Haplo? The only one who has ever mattered to you is you.”

“You’re wrong, old man. For what it’s worth, one person has my allegiance, my loyalty. I’d lay down my life to save his and feel cheated that I couldn’t do more for him.”

“Ah, yes,” Zifnab said softly. “Your lord. The one who sent you here.” Haplo scowled. How the hell did the old fool know that? He must have inferred it from things I’ve let drop. It was careless, very careless. Damn!

Everything’s going wrong! The Patryn gave the water barrel a vicious kick, splitting the staves, sending a deluge of tepid liquid over his feet. I’m used to being in control; all my life, every situation, I’ve been in control. It was how I survived the Labyrinth, how I completed my mission successfully on Arianus. Now I’m doing things I never meant to do, saying things I never meant to say! A bunch of mutants with the intelligence of your average rutabaga nearly destroy me. I’m hauling a group of mensch to a star and putting up with a crazy old man, who’s crazy like a fox.

“Why?” Haplo demanded aloud, shoving aside the dog, who was eagerly lapping up the spill. “Just tell me why?”

“Curiosity,” said the old man complacently. “It’s killed more than a few cats in its day.”

“Is that a threat?” Haplo glanced up from beneath lowered brows.

“No! Heavens, no!” Zifnab said hastily, shaking his head. “Just a warning, dear boy. Some people consider curiosity a very dangerous concept. Asking questions ofttimes leads to the truth. And that can get you into a great deal of trouble.”

“Yeah, well, it depends on what truth you believe in, doesn’t it, old man?” Haplo lifted a piece of wet wood, traced a sigla on it with his finger, and tossed it back into the comer. Instantly, the other pieces of broken barrel leapt to join it. Within the space of a heartbeat, the barrel stood intact. The Patryn drew runes on both the barrel and in the empty air next to it. The barrel replicated itself, and soon numerous barrels, all filled with water, occupied the hold. Haplo traced fiery runes in the air, causing tubs of salted targ meat to join the ranks of water barrels. Wine jars sprang up, clinking together musically. Within a few short moments, the hold was loaded with food. Haplo climbed the ladder leading up out of the hold. Zifnab moved aside to let him past.

“All in what truth you believe in, old man,” the Patryn repeated.

“Yes. Loaves and fishes.” Zifnab winked slyly. “Eh, Savior?” Food and water led, somewhat indirectly, to the crisis that came near solving all of Haplo’s problems for him.

“What is that stench?” demanded Aleatha. “And are you going to do something about it?”

It was about a week into their journey; time being estimated by a mechanical hour flower the elves had brought aboard. Aleatha had wandered up to the bridge, to stand and stare out at the star that was their destination.

“The bilge,” stated Haplo absently, trying to devise some method of measuring the distance between themselves and their destination. “I told you, you’re all going to have to take turns pumping it out.”

The elves of Arianus, who had built and designed the ship, had devised an effective system of waste management, utilizing elven machinery and magic. Water is scarce and extremely valuable on the air world of Arianus. As the basis for monetary exchange, not a drop is wasted. Some of the first magicks created on Arianus dealt with the conversion of waste water back into pure liquid. Human water wizards dealt directly with nature’s elements, obtaining pure water from foul. Elven wizards used machines and alchemy to achieve the same effect, many elves swearing that their chemical wizardry produced better-tasting water than the humans’ elemental magic.

On taking over the ship, Haplo had removed most of the elven machinery, leaving only the bilge pump in case the ship took on rainwater. The Patryns, through their rune magic, have their own methods of dealing with bodily waste, methods that are highly secret and protected—not out of shame, but out of simple survival. An animal will bury its droppings to keep an enemy from tracking it.

Haplo had not, therefore, been overly worried about the problem of sanitation. He’d checked the pump. It worked. The humans and the elves aboard ship could take turns at it. Preoccupied with his mathematical calculations, he thought no more of his conversation with Aleatha, other than making a mental note to set everyone to work.

His figuring was interrupted by a scream, a shout, and the sounds of voices raised in anger. The dog, dozing beside him, leapt to its feet with a growl.

“Now what?” Haplo muttered, leaving the bridge, descending to the crew’s quarters below.

“They’re not your slaves any longer, Lady!”

The Patryn entered the cabin, found Roland—red-faced and shouting—standing in front of a pale, composed, and icily calm Aleatha. The human contingent was backing up their man. The elves were solidly behind Aleatha. Paithan and Rega, looking distraught, stood, hand in hand, in the middle. The old man, of course—when there was trouble—was nowhere to be found.

“You humans were born to be slaves! You know nothing else!” retorted a young elf, the cook’s nephew—a particularly large and strong specimen of elven manhood.

Roland surged forward, fist clenched, other humans behind. The cook’s nephew leaped to the challenge, his brothers and cousins behind him. Paithan jumped in, attempted to keep the elf off Roland, and received a smart rap on the head from a human who had been a slave of the Quindiniar family since he was a child and who had long sought an opportunity to vent his frustrations. Rega, going in to help Paithan, found herself caught in the middle.

The melee became general, the ship rocked and lurched and Haplo swore. He’d been doing that a lot lately, he noticed. Aleatha had withdrawn to one side, watching with detached interest, keeping her skirt clear of possible blood.

“Stop it!” Haplo roared. Wading into the fight, he grabbed bodies, flung them apart. The dog dashed after him, snapping and growling and nipping painfully at ankles. “You’ll knock us out of the air!”

Not exactly true, the magic would hold the ship up, but it was certainly a frightening concept and one that he calculated would end the hostilities. The fight came to a reluctant halt. Opponents wiped blood from split lips and broken noses and glowered at each other.

“Now what the hell is going on?” Haplo demanded. Everyone started to talk at once. At the Patryn’s furious gesture, everyone fell silent. Haplo fixed his gaze on Roland. “All right, you started it. What happened?”

“It’s Her Ladyship’s turn to pump out the bilge,” said Roland, breathing heavily and rubbing bruised abdominal muscles. He pointed at Aleatha. “She refused to do it. She came in here and ordered one of us to do it for her.”

“Yeah! That’s right!” The humans, male and female, agreed angrily.

Haplo had a brief and extremely satisfying vision of using his magic to part the ship’s staves and send all these wretched and irritating creatures plummeting down however many hundreds of thousands of miles to the world below.

Why didn’t he? Curiosity, the old man had said. Yes, I’m curious, curious to see where the old man wants to take these people, curious to see why. But Haplo could foresee a time—and it was rapidly approaching—when his curiosity would begin to wane. Something of his ire must have been visible on his face. The humans hushed and fell back a pace before him. Aleatha, seeing his gaze come to focus on her, paled, but held her ground, regarding him with cold and haughty disdain. Haplo said nothing. Reaching out, he caught hold of the elf woman’s arm and hauled her from the cabin.

Aleatha gasped, screamed, and held back. Haplo jerked her forward, dragging her off her feet. Aleatha fell to the deck. The Patryn yanked her back up, and kept going.

“Where are you taking her?” Paithan cried, real fear in the elf’s voice. From out of the comer of his eye, Haplo saw Roland’s face drain of color. From his expression, it looked as if he thought Haplo were going to hurl the woman from the top deck.

Good, he thought grimly, and continued on.

Aleatha soon had no breath left to scream; she had to cease her struggles and concentrate on keeping on her feet or be pulled along the deck. Haplo descended a ladder, the elf woman in tow, and stood between decks in the small, smelly, dark part of the ship where the bilge pump stood. Haplo shoved Aleatha forward. She stumbled headlong into the’apparatus.

“Dog,” he said to the animal, who had either followed him or materialized beside him, “watch!”

The dog sat obediently, head cocked, eyes on the elf woman. Aleatha’s face was livid. She glared at Haplo through a mass of disheveled hair. “I won’t!” she snarled and took a step away from the pump. The dog growled, low in its throat.

Aleatha glanced at it, hesitated, took another step.

The dog rose to its feet, the growl grew louder.

Aleatha stared at the animal, her lips tightened. Tossing her ashen hair, she walked past Haplo, heading for the passage that led out.

The dog covered the distance between them in a jump, planted itself in front of the woman. Its growl rumbled through the ship. Its mouth parted, showing sharp, curved, yellow-white teeth. Aleatha stepped backward hastily, tripped on her skirt, and nearly fell.

“Call him off!” she screamed at Haplo. “He’ll kill me!”

“No, he won’t,” said the Patryn coolly. He pointed to the pump. “Not so long as you work.”

Casting Haplo a look that the woman obviously wished was a dagger, Aleatha swallowed her rage, turned her back on the dog and the Patryn. Head held high, she walked over to the pump. Grasping the handle in both delicate, white hands, she lifted it up, shoved it down, lifted it up; shoved it down. Haplo, peering out a porthole, saw a spew of foul-smelling water gush out over the ship’s hull, spray into the atmosphere below.

“Dog, stay. Watch,” he instructed, and left.

The dog settled down, alert, vigilant, never taking its eyes from Aleatha. Emerging from below deck, Haplo found most of the mensch gathered at the top of the ladder, waiting for him. He drew himself up level with them.

“Go back about your business,” he ordered, and watched them slink off. He left them, returning to the bridge and his attempts to fix their position. Roland massaged his aching hand, injured when he’d delivered a hard right to the elf. The human tried to tell himself Aleatha got just what she deserved, it served her right, it wouldn’t hurt the bitch to turn her hand to a little work. When he found himself walking the passageway, heading for the pumping room, he called himself a fool.

Pausing in the hatchway, Roland stood silently and watched. The dog lay on the deck, nose on paws, eyes on Aleatha. The elf woman paused in her work, straightened and bent backward, trying to ease the stiffness and pain in a back unaccustomed to bending to hard labor. The proud head drooped, she wiped sweat from her forehead, looked at the palms of her hands. Roland recalled—more vividly than he’d expected—the delicate softness of the small palms. He could imagine the woman’s skin, raw and bleeding. Aleatha wiped her face again, this time brushing away tears.

“Here, let me finish,” offered Roland gruffly, stepping over the dog. Aleatha whirled to face him. To his amazement, she stiff-armed him out of the way and began to work the pump with as much speed as the weariness of her aching arms and the smarting of her stinging palms would allow. Roland glared at her. “Damn it, woman! I’m only trying to help!”

“I don’t want your help!” Aleatha shook the hair out of her face, the tears out of her eyes.

Roland intended to turn on his heel, walk out, and leave her to her task. He was going to rum and go. He was leaving. He was … putting his arm around her slender, waist and kissing her.

The kiss was salty, tasting of sweat and tears. But the woman’s lips were warm and responsive, her body yielded to him; she was softness and fragrant hair and smooth skin—all tainted faintly by the foul reek of the bilge. The dog sat up, a slightly puzzled expression in its eyes, and glanced around for its master. What was it supposed to do now?

Roland drew back, releasing Aleatha, who staggered slightly when his arms were withdrawn.

“You are the most pig-headed, selfish, irritating little snot I ever met in my life! I hope you rot down here!” said Roland coldly. Turning on his heel, he marched out.

Eyes wide in wonder, mouth parted, Aleatha stared after him. The dog, confused, sat down to scratch an itch.

Haplo had finally almost figured it out. He had developed a crude theodolite that used the stationary position of the four suns and the bright light that was their destination as common reference points. By checking daily the positions of the other stars visible in the sky, the Patryn observed that they appeared to be changing their position in relationship to Dragon Star. The motion was due to the motion of his ship, the consistency of his measurements led to a model of amazing symmetry. They were nearing the star, no doubt about it. In fact, it appeared …

The Patryn checked his calculations. Yes, it made sense. He was beginning to understand, beginning to understand a lot. If he was correct, his passengers were going to be in for the shock of their—

“Excuse me, Haplo?”

He glanced around, angry at being interrupted. Paithan and Rega stood in the doorway, along with the old man. Trust it—Zifnab’d show up now that the trouble was settled.

“What do you want? And make it quick,” Haplo muttered.

“We … uh … Rega and I … we want to be married.”

“Congratulations.”

“We think it will draw the people together, you see—”

“I think it’ll more likely touch off a riot, but that’s your problem.” Rega appeared a bit downcast, looked at Paithan uncertainly. The elf drew a deep breath, carried on.

“We want you to perform the ceremony.”

Haplo couldn’t believe he’d heard right. “You what?”

“We want you to perform the ceremony.”

“By ancient law,” struck in Zifnab, “a ship’s captain can marry people when they’re at sea.”

“Whose ancient law? And we’re not at sea.”

“Why … uh … I must admit, I’m rather vague on the precise legal—”

“You’ve got the old man.” The Patryn nodded. “Get him to do it.”

“I’m not a cleric,” protested Zifnab, indignant. “They wanted me to be a cleric, but I refused. Party needed a healer, they said. Hah! Fighters with all the brains of a doorknob attack something twenty times their size, with a bizillion hit points, and they expect me to pull their heads out of their rib cages! I’m a wizard. I’ve the most marvelous spell. If I could just remember how it went. Eight ball! No, that’s not it. Fire something. Fire … extinguisher! Smoke alarm. No. But I really think I’m getting close.”

“Get him off the bridge.” Haplo turned back to his work. Paithan and Rega edged in front of the old man, the elf put his hand gingerly on the Patryn’s tattooed arm. “Will you do it? Will you marry us?”

“I don’t know anything about elven marriage ceremonies.”

“It wouldn’t have to be elven. Or human, either. In fact it would be better if it weren’t. That way no one would get mad.”

“Surely your people have some kind of ceremony,” suggested Rega. “We could use yours… .”

… Haplo didn’t miss the woman.

Runners in the Labyrinth are a solitary lot, relying on their speed and strength, their wits and ingenuity to survive, to reach their goal. Squatters rely on numbers. Coming together to form nomadic tribes, the squatters move through the Labyrinth at a slower pace, often following the routes explored by the runners. Each respects the other, both share what they have: the runners, knowledge; the squatters, a brief moment of security, stability.

Haplo entered the squatter camp in the evening, three weeks after the woman had left him. The headman was there to greet him on his arrival; the scouts would have sent word of his coming. The headman was old, with grizzled hair and beard, the tattoos on his gnarled hands were practically indecipherable. He stood tall, though, without stooping. His stomach was taut, the muscles in the arms and legs dean cut and well defined. The headman clasped his hands together, tattooed backs facing outward, and touched his thumbs to his forehead. The circle was joined.

“Welcome, runner.”

Haplo made the same gesture, forced himself to keep his gaze fixed on the squatter’s leader. To do anything else would be taken for insult, perhaps would even be dangerous. It might appear that he was counting the squatter’s numbers.

The Labyrinth was tricky, intelligent. It had been known to send in imposters. Only by adhering strictly to the forms would Haplo be allowed to enter the camp. But he couldn’t help darting a furtive glance around the people gathered to inspect him. Particularly, he looked at the women. Not catching, right off, a glimpse of chestnut hair, Haplo wrenched his attention back to his host.

“May the gates stand open for you, headman.” Hands to his forehead, Haplo bowed.

“And for you, runner.” The headman bowed.

“And your people, headman.” Haplo bowed again. The ceremony was over. Haplo was now considered a member of the tribe. The people continued on about their business as if he were one of themselves, though sometimes a woman paused to stare, give him a smile, and nod toward her hut. At another time in his life, this invitation would have sent fire through his veins. A smile back and he would have been taken into the hut, fed and accorded all the privileges of a husband. But Haplo’s blood seemed to run cold these days. Not seeing the smile he wanted to see, he kept his expression carefully guarded, and the woman wandered away in disappointment.

The headman had waited politely to see if Haplo accepted any of these invitations. Noting that he did not, the headman graciously offered his own dwelling place for the evening. Haplo accepted gratefully and, seeing the surprise and somewhat suspicious glint in the headman’s eyes, added, “I am in a purification cycle.”

The headman nodded, understanding, ail suspicion gone. Many Patryns believed, rightly or wrongly, that sexual encounters weakened their magic. A runner planning on entering unknown territory often entered a purification cycle, abstaining from the company of the opposite sex several days before venturing out. A squatter going out on a hunting expedition or facing a battle would do the same thing.

Haplo, personally, didn’t happen to believe in such nonsense. His magic had never failed him, no matter what pleasures he had enjoyed the night before. But it made a good excuse.

The headman led Haplo to a hut that was snug and warm and dry. A fire burned brightly in the center, smoke trailing up from the hole in the top. The headman settled himself near it. “A concession to my old bones. I can run with the youngest of them and keep pace. I can wrestle a karkan to the ground with my bare hands. But I find I like a fire at night. Be seated, runner.” Haplo chose a place near the hut entryway. The night was warm, the hut was stifling.

“You come upon us at a good time, runner,” said the headman. “We celebrate a binding this night.”

Haplo made the polite remark without thinking much about it. His mind was on other matters. He could have asked the question at any time now; all the proper forms had been observed. But it stuck in his throat. The headman asked about the trails, and they fell into talk about Haplo’s journeying, the runner providing wh;>t information he could about the land through which he’d traveled.

When darkness fell, an unusual stir outside the hut reminded Haplo of the ceremony about to take place. A bonfire turned night to day. The tribe must feel secure, Haplo thought, following the headman out of the hut. Otherwise they would never have dared. A blind dragon could see this blaze. He joined the throng around the fire.

The tribe was large, he saw. No wonder they felt secure. The scouts on the perimeters would warn them in case of attack. Their numbers were such that they could fend off most anything, perhaps even a dragon. Children ran about, getting in everyone’s way, watched over by the group.

The Patryns of the Labyrinth share everything—food, lovers, children. Binding vows are vows of friendship, closer akin to a warrior’s vows than marriage vows. A binding may take place between a man and a woman, between two men, or between two women. The ceremony was more common among squatters than runners, but occasionally runners bound themselves to a partner. Haplo’s parents had been bound. He himself had considered binding. If he found her … The headman raised his arms in the air, the signal for silence. The crowd, including the youngest baby, hushed immediately. Seeing all was in readiness, the headman stretched his hands out and took hold of the hands of those standing on either side of him. The Patryns all did the same, forming a gigantic circle around the fire. Haplo joined them, clasping hands with a well-formed man about his age on his left and a young woman barely into her teens (who blushed deeply when Haplo took her hand) on his right.

“The circle is complete,” said the headman, looking around at his people, an expression of pride on the lined and weathered face. “Tonight we come together to witness the vows between two who would form their own circle. Step forward.”

A man and a woman left the circle, that instantly closed behind them, and came to stand in front of the headman. Leaving the circle himself, the old man extended his hands. The two clasped them, one on either side, then the man and the woman took hold of each other’s hands.

“Again, the circle is complete,” said the old man. His gaze on the two was fond, but stern and serious. The people gathered around, watching in solemn silence.

Haplo found that he was enjoying himself. Most of the time, particularly the last few weeks, he’d felt hollow, empty, alone. Now he was warm, with a sense of being filled. The cold wind didn’t howl through him so dismally anymore. He found himself smiling, smiling at everything, everyone.

“I pledge to protect and defend you.” The couple was repeating the vows, one immediately after the other in an echoing circle. “My life for your life. My death for your life. My life for your death. My death for your death.” The vows spoken, the couple fell silent. The headman nodded, satisfied with the sincerity of the commitment. Taking the hands he held in his, he placed the two hands together.

“The circle is complete,” he said, and stepped back into the circle, leaving the couple to form their own circle inside the larger community. The two smiled at each other. The outer circle gave a cheer and broke apart, separating to prepare for the feast.

Haplo decided he could ask the question now. He sought out the headman, standing near the roaring blaze.

“I’m looking for someone, a woman,” said Haplo, and described her. “Stands so tall, chestnut hair. She’s a runner. Has she been here.” The headman thought back. “Yes, she was here. Not more than a week ago.” Haplo grinned. He had not meant to follow her, not intentionally. But it seemed that they were keeping to the same trail. “How is she? Did she look well?”

The headman gave Haplo a keen, searching gaze. “Yes, she looked well. But I didn’t see that much of her. You might ask Antius, over there. He spent the night with her.”

The warmth vanished. The air was chill, the wind cut through him. Haplo turned, saw the well-formed young man with whom he had held hands walking across the compound.

“She left in the morning. I can show you the direction she traveled.”

“That won’t be necessary. Thank you, though,” Haplo added, to ease the coldness of his reply. He looked around, saw the young girl. She was staring at Haplo, and blushed up to the roots of her hair when her gaze was returned. Haplo returned to the headman’s hut, began gathering up his meager belongings; runners traveled light. The headman followed, stared at him in astonishment.

“Your hospitality has saved my life,” the Patryn gave the ritual farewell.

“Before I leave, I will tell you what I know. Reports say to take the west trail to the fifty-first Gate. Rumor has it that the powerful One, who first solved the secret of the Labyrinth, has returned with his magic to clear certain parts and make them safe … at least temporarily. I can’t say if this is true or not, since I have come from the south.”

“You’re leaving? But it is perilous to travel the Labyrinth after dark!”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Haplo. He put his hands together, pressed them against his forehead, made the ritual gesture of farewell. The headman returned it, and Haplo left the hut. He paused a moment in the doorway. The bonfire’s glow lit all around it, but it made the darkness beyond that much darker by contrast. Haplo took a step toward that darkness when he felt a hand upon his arm.

“The Labyrinth kills what it can—if not our bodies, then our spirit,” said the headman. “Grieve for your loss, my son, and never forget who is responsible. The ones who imprisoned us, the ones who are undoubtedly watching our struggle with pleasure.”

It’s the Sartan… . They put us in this hell. They’re the ones responsible for this evil.

The woman looked at him, her brown eyes flecked with gold. I wonder. Maybe it’s the evil inside us.

Haplo walked away from the squatter’s camp, continued his solitary run. No, he didn’t miss the woman. Didn’t miss her at all… .

In the Labyrinth, a certain type of tree, known as the waranth, bears a particularly luscious and nourishing fruit. Those who pick the fruit, however, run the risk of being stabbed by the poisoned thorns surrounding it. Attacking the flesh left necessarily unprotected by the runes, the thorns burrow deep, seeking blood. If allowed to get into the blood stream, the poison can kill. Therefore, although the thorns are barbed and rip flesh coming out, they must be extracted immediately—at the cost of considerable pain. Haplo had thought he’d extracted the thorn. He was surprised to find it still hurt him, its poison was still in his system.

“I don’t think you’d want my people’s ceremony.” His voice grated, the furrowed brows shadowed his eyes. “Would you like to hear our vows? ‘My life for your life. My death for your life. My life for your death. My death for your death.’ Do you really want to take those?”

Rega paled. “What—what does it mean? I don’t understand.”

“ ‘My life for your life.’ That means that while we live, we share the joy of living with each other. ‘My death for your life.’ I would be willing to lay down my life to save yours. ‘My life for your death.’ I will spend my life avenging your death, if I can’t prevent it. ‘My death for your death.’ A part of me will die, when you do.”

“It’s not … very romantic,” Paithan admitted.

“Neither’s the place I come from.”

“I guess I’d like to think about it,” said Rega, not looking at the elf.

“Yes, I suppose we better,” Paithan added, more soberly. The two left the bridge, this time they weren’t holding hands. Zifnab, looking after them fondly, dabbed at his eyes with the end of his beard.

“Love makes the world go round!” he said happily.

“Not this world,” replied Haplo with a quiet smile. “Does it, old man?”