Elven Star

37

Haplo explored the deserted city at his leisure, taking his time, studying it carefully to make a clear and accurate report back to his lord. Occasionally he wondered what was transpiring with the mensch outside the walls, but dismissed the matter from his mind for lack of interest. What he found—or failed to find—inside the city walls was of far more importance. Within the walis, the city was different from its sibling located in the Nexus. The differences explained much, but left some questions still unanswered.

Just inside the city gate stood a wide, paved, circular plaza. Haplo traced a blue, glowing series of runes in the air with his hand and stood back to watch. Images, memories of the past held fast within the stone, came to a semblance of life, populating the area with ghosts. The plaza was suddenly crowded with faint reflections of people, shopping, bartering, exchanging the news of the day. Elves, humans, and dwarves jostled between the rows of stalls. Walking among them, Haplo could distinguish the occasional white-robed, saintly figure of a Sartan.

It was market day in the plaza—market days would be a more proper term, for Haplo witnessed the passage of time, flowing like a swift stream before his eyes. All was not peaceful and serene within the white walls. Elves and humans clashed, blood was spilled in the bazaar. Dwarves rioted, tearing down the stalls, wrecking the wares. The Sartan were too few and helpless. with their magic, to find an antidote for the poison of racial .hatred and prejudice.

And then there came moving among the people gigantic creatures—taller than most buildings, eyeless, wordless, strong, and powerful. They restored order, guarded the streets. The mensch lived in peace, but it was enforced peace—tenuous, unhappy.

As time passed, the images became less clear to Haplo. He strained his eyes, but couldn’t see what was happening and he realized that it wasn’t his magic failing him, but the magic of the Sartan that had held the city together. It dwindled—fading and tunning, like colors in a rain-soaked painting. At length, Haplo could see nothing at all in the square. It was empty, the people gone.

“And so,” he said to the dog, waking it; the bored animal having dozed off during the picture show, “the Sartan destroyed our world, divided it up into its four elements. They brought the mensch to this world, traveling through Death’s Gate, as they brought the mensch to Arianus. But here, as in Arianus, they ran into problems. In Arianus—the Air World—the floating continents had everything needed for the mensch to survive except water. The Sartan constructed the great Kicksey-winsey, plan-llttng to align the islands and pump water up into them from the perpetual storm that rages below.

“But something happened. The Sartan, for some mysterious reason, abandoned their project and abandoned the mensch at the same time. On this world, on Pryan, the Sartan arrived and discovered that the world was practically—from their viewpoint—uninhabitable. Overgrown with jungle life, it had no stone readily available, no metal easily forged, a sun that shone constantly. They built these cities and kindly brought the mensch to .;five within their protective walls, even providing them artificial, magical time cycles of day and night, to remind them of home.”

The dog licked its paws, coated with the soft white dust that filled the city, letting its master ramble, sometimes cocking an ear to indicate it was paying attention.

“But the mensch didn’t react with the proper gratitude.” Haplo whistled to the dog. Leaving the ghostly square, he walked the city streets. “Look, signs in elven. Buildings done in the elvish style—minarets, arches, delicate filigree. And here, human dwellings—solid, massive, substantial. Built to lend a false feeling of permanence to their brief lives. And somewhere, probably below us, I would guess we would find the dwelling places of the dwarves. All meant to live together in perfect harmony.

“Unfortunately, the members of the trio weren’t given the same musical score. Each sang his own tune in opposition to the rest.”

Haplo paused, staring around intently. “This place is different from the city in the Nexus. The city the Sartan left us—for what reason they alone know—is not divided. The signs are in the language of the Sartan. Obviously they intended to come back and occupy the city in the Nexus. But why? And’why put another almost identical city on Pryan? Why did the Sartan leave? Where did they go? What caused the mensch to flee the cities? And what do the tytans have to do with anything?”

The city’s central spire of glittering, reflective glass towered above him, visible no matter where one walked. Welling out from it was the brilliant, white light—starlight. Its brilliance increased as the strange, magical twilight slowly began to creep over the city itself.

“The answers have to be there,” Haplo said to the dog. The animal’s ears pricked, it whimpered and gazed backward, toward the gate. The dog and its master could hear the faint sound of voices—mensch voices—and the roar of a dragon.

“C’mon,” said Haplo, his gaze never leaving the spire of light. The dog hesitated, tail wagging. The Patryn snapped his fingers. “I said come.” Ears down, head drooping, the dog did as it was commanded. The two continued on down the empty street, moving deeper into the heart of the city. Clutching the old man in its jaws, the dragon dove back down beneath the moss. The four waited above, paralyzed with shock and fright. From down below, came a terrible scream—as of a person being torn apart.

And then silence, horrible, ominous.

Paithan stirred, seemed to wake from a dream. “Run! It’ll be after us, next!”

“Which way?” Roland demanded.

“There! The way the old man showed us!”

“It could be a trick …”

“All right,” snarled the elf. “Wait here and ask the dragon for directions!” He grabbed hold of his sister.

“Father!” Aleatha cried, hanging back. She crouched near the corpse resting peacefully on the moss.

“Now’s the time to think of the living, not the dead,” Paithan returned.

“Look! Here’s a path! The old man was right.”

Grabbing Aleatha, practically dragging her, Paithan plunged into the jungle. Roland started to follow when Rega demanded, “What about the dwarf?”

- Roland glanced back at Drugar. The dwarf crouched defensively in the center of the glade. His eyes, shadowed by the overhanging brows, gave no hint of what he might be feeling or thinking.

“We bring him,” said Roland grimly. “I don’t want him sneaking around behind us and I don’t have time to kill him! Grab our weapons!” Roland caught hold of the dwarf’s thick arm, jerked him to his feet and propelled him toward the path. Rega gathered up the weapons, cast a final, fearful glance down the hole into which the dragon had disappeared, then ran after the others.

The path, though overhung with vines and plants, was wide and clear and easy to follow. They could still see, as they ran along it, the stumps of giant trees that had been leveled and gashes—now covered over by bark—where huge limbs had been hacked off to form a clear, broad trail. Each thought to himself of the immense force expended to fell such mighty trees, each thought of the powerful tytans. They didn’t speak their fear out loud, but all wondered if they might be running from the jaws of one dreadful death into the arms of another.

Their fear lent them unnatural strength. Whenever they grew tired, they felt the ground rumble beneath their feet and stumbled on. But soon the heat and the heavy, stagnant air sapped even adrenaline-pumped will. Aleatha tripped over a vine, fell, and did not get back up. Paithan started to try to lift her. Shaking his head, he sank down onto the ground himself. Roland stood above the two elves, staring down at them, unable to speak for his heavy breathing. He had dragged the dwarf the entire distance. Weighted down by his thick boots and heavy leather armor, Drugar toppled over onto the ground and lay like a dead thing. Rega tottered up behind her brother. Tossing the weapons to the trail, she slumped onto a tree stump and laid her head across her arms, almost sobbing for breath.

“We have to rest,” said Paithan in response to Roland’s mute, accusing glare that urged them to keep on running. “If the dragon catches us … it catches us.” He helped his sister to a sitting position. Aleatha leaned against him, eyes closed.

Roland flung himself down on the moss. “She all right?” Paithan nodded, too weary to reply. For long moments they sat where they had fallen, sucking in air, trying to calm the pounding of their hearts. They kept glancing fearfully behind them, expecting to see the gigantic scaled head and sharp teeth diving down at them. But the dragon didn’t appear and, eventually, they no longer felt the rumbling of the ground.

“I guess what it really wanted was the old man,” said Rega softly, the first words any of them had spoken in a long time.

“Yeah, but when it gets hungry, it’ll be looking for fresh meat,” said Roland.

“What did that old fool mean about a city, anyway? If there really is one, and it wasn’t another of his crazy jabberings, it would mean shelter.”

“This path has to lead somewhere,” Paithan pointed out. He licked dry lips.

“I’m thirsty! The air smells peculiar, tastes like blood.” He looked back at Roland, his gaze going from the human to the dwarf who lay at his feet. “How’s Blackbeard?”

Roland reached out a hand, prodded the dwarf’s arm. Drugar rolled over, sat up. Hunching back against a tree, he glared at them from beneath the shaggy, shadowing brows.

“He’s fine. What do we do with him?”

“Kill me now,” -said Drugar gruffly. “Go on. It is your right. I would have killed you.”

Paithan stared at the dwarf, but the elf wasn’t seeing Drugar. He was seeing humans, trapped between the river and the tytans. Elves shooting them down with arrows. His sister, locking herself in her room. His house, burning.

“I’m sick of killing! Hasn’t there been death enough without us meting it out?

Besides, I know how he feels. We all do. We all saw our people butchered.”

“It wasn’t our fault!” Rega reached out a tentative hand, touched the dwarf on the thick arm. Drugar glowered at her suspiciously, drew away from her touch. “Can’t you understand, it wasn’t our fault!”

“Maybe it was,” said Paithan, suddenly very, very weary. “The humans let the dwarves fight alone, then turned on each other. We elves turned our arrows on the humans. Maybe, if we had all joined together, we could have defeated the tytans. We didn’t, and so we were destroyed. It was our fault. And it’s starting to happen all over again.”

Roland flushed guiltily, and averted his eyes.

“I used to think love would be enough,” continued Paithan softly, “that it was some type of magical elixir we could sprinkle over the world and end all the hatred. I know now, it’s not hue. Love’s water is clear and pure and sweet, but it isn’t magic. It won’t change anything.” He rose to his feet. “We better get going.”

Roland came after him. One by one, the others followed, all except Drugar. He had understood the words of the conversation, but the meaning rattled around in the empty shell that had become his soul.

“You are not going to kill me?” he demanded, standing alone in the clearing. The others paused, glanced at each other.

“No,” said Paithan, shaking his head.

Drugar was baffled. How could you talk of loving someone who was not of your race? How could a dwarf love someone who was not a dwarf? He was a dwarf, they were elves and humans. And they had risked their lives to save his. That, first, was inexplicable. Next, they were not going to take his life after he had almost taken theirs. That was incomprehensible.

“Why not?” Drugar was angry, frustrated.

“I think,” said Paithan slowly, considering, “we’re just too tired.”

“What am I going to do?” Drugar demanded.

Aleatha smoothed back her straggling hair, dragging it out of her eyes. “Come with us. You don’t want to be … left alone.”

The dwarf hesitated. He had held onto his hate for so long, his hands would feel empty without it. Perhaps it would be better to find something other than death to fill them. Perhaps that was what Drakar was trying to prove to him. Drugar clumped along down the path after the others.

Silver, arched spans, graceful and strong, stood ranged round the bottom of the spire. Atop those arches were more arches, extending upward—silver layer upon silver layer—until they came together at a sparkling point. Between the arches, white marble walls and clear crystal windows were alternately placed to provide both support and interior lighting. A silver hexagonal door, marked with the same runes as the gate, allowed entrance. As before, though he knew the rune that was the key, Haplo forged his own way, moving swiftly and silently through the marble walls. The dog crept along behind. The Patryn entered a vast circular chamber—the base of the spire. The marble floor echoed his booted footsteps, shattering the silence that had lasted for who knew how many generations. The vast room contained nothing but a round table, surrounded by chairs.

In the center of the table hung, suspended—its magic continuing to support it—a small, round, crystal globe, lit from within by four tiny balls of fire. Haplo drew near. His hand traced a rune, disrupting the magical field. The globe crashed to the table and rolled toward the Patryn. Haplo caught it, lifted it in his hands. The globe was a three dimensional representation of the world, similar to the one he’d seen in the home of Lenthan Quindiniar, similar to the drawing in the Nexus. But now, holding it, having traveled it, Haplo understood.

His lord had been mistaken. The mensch didn’t live on the outside of the planet, as they’d lived on the old world. They lived on the inside. The globe was smooth on the outside—solid crystal, solid stone. It was hollow within. In the center, gleamed four suns. Within the center of the suns stood Death’s Gate.

No other planets, no other stars could be visible because one didn’t look up in the heavens at night. One looked up at the ground. Which meant that the other stars couldn’t be stars but … cities. Cities like this one. Cities meant to house refugees from a shattered world.

Unfortunately their new world was a world that would have been frightening to the mensch. It was a world that was, perhaps, no less frightening to the Sartan. Life-giving light produced too much life. Trees grew to enormous heights, oceans of vegetation covered the surface. The Sartan had never figured on this. They were appalled at what they had created. Troy lied to the mensch, lied to themselves. Instead of submitting, trying to adapt to the new world they had created, they fought it, tried to force it to submit to them.

Carefully, Haplo replaced the globe, hanging it above the table’s center. He removed his magical spell, allowing the globe’s ancient support to catch hold of it again. Once more, Pryan hung suspended over the table of its vanished creators.

It was an entertaining spectacle. The Lord of the Nexus would appreciate the irony.

Haplo glanced around, there was nothing else in the chamber. He looked up, over the table. A curved ceiling vaulted high above him, sealing the chamber shut, blotting out any sight of the crystal spire that soared directly above it. While holding the globe, he’d become aware of a strange sound. He put his hands upon the table.

He had been right. The wood thrummed and vibrated. He was reminded, oddly, of the great machine on Arianus—the Kicksey-winsey. But he had seen no signs of such a machine anywhere outside.

“Come to think of it,” he said to the dog, “I didn’t hear this sound outside either. It must be coming from in here. Maybe someone will tell us where.” Haplo raised his hands over the table, began tracing runes in the air. The dog sighed, laid down. Placing its head between its paws, the animal kept a solemn and unhappy watch.

Vaguely seen images floated to life around the table, dimly heard voices spoke. Of necessity, since he was eavesdropping on not one meeting, but on many, the conversation that Haplo could distinguish was confused, fragmented.

“This constant warring among the races is too much for us to handle. It’s sapping our strength, when we should be concentrating our magic on achieving our goal… .”

“We’ve degenerated into parents, forced to waste our time separating quarrelsome children. Our grand vision suffers for lack of attention… .”

“And we are not alone. Our brothers and sisters in the other citadels in Pryan face the same difficulties! I wonder, sometimes, if we did the right thing in bringing them here… .”

The sadness, the sense of helpless frustration was palpable. Haplo saw it etched in the dimly seen faces, saw it take shape in the gestures of hands seeking desperately to grab hold of events that were slipping through their fingers. The Patryn was put in mind of Alfred, the Sartan he had encountered on Arianus. He’d seen in Alfred the same sense of sadness, of regret, of helplessness. Haplo fed his hatred on the suffering he saw, and enjoyed the warming glow.

The images ebbed and flowed, time passed. The Sartan shrank, aged before his eyes. An odd phenomenon—for demigods.

“The council has devised a solution to our problems. As you said, we have become parents when we were meant to be mentors. We must turn the care of these ‘children’ over to others. It is essential that the citadels be put into operation! Arianus suffers from lack of water. They need our power to assist in the functioning of their machine. Abarrach exists in eternal darkness—something far worse than eternal light. The World of Stone needs our energy. The citadels must be made operational and soon, or we face tragic consequences!

“Therefore, the council has given us permission to take the tytans from the citadel core where they have been tending the starlight. The tytans will watch over the mensch and protect them from themselves. We endowed these giants with incredible strength, in order that they could assist us in our physical labors. We gave them the rune-magic for the same reason. They will be able to deal with the people.”

“Is that wise? I protest! We gave them the magic on the understanding that they would never leave the citadel!”

“Brethren, please calm yourselves. The council has given considerable thought to the matter. The tytans will be under our constant control and supervision. They are blind—a necessity so that they could work in the starlight. And, after all, what could possibly happen to us? …”

Time drifted on. The Sartan seated around the table disappeared, replaced by others, young, strong, but fewer in number.

“The citadels are working, their lights fill the heavens—”

“Not heavens, quit lying to yourself.”

“It was merely a figure of speech. Don’t be so touchy.”

“I hate waiting. Why don’t we hear from Arianus? Or Abarrach? What do you suppose has happened?”

“Perhaps the same thing that is happening to us. So much to do, too few to do it. A tiny crack opens in the roof and the rain seeps through. We put a bucket beneath it and start to go out to mend the crack but then another opens. We put a bucket beneath that one. Now we have two cracks to mend and we are about to do so when a third opens up. We have now run out of buckets. We find another bucket, but by this time, the leaks have grown larger. The buckets will not hold the water. We run after larger buckets to give us time to contain the water so that we can go up to the roof to fix the leak.

“But by now,” the speaker’s voice softened, “the roof is on the verge of collapse.”

Time swirled and eddied around the Sartan seated at the table, aging them rapidly, as it had aged their parents. Their numbers grew fewer still.

“The tytans! The tytans were the mistake!”

“It worked well in the beginning. How could anyone have foreseen?”

“It’s the dragons. We should have done something about them from the start.”

“The dragons did not bother us, until the tytans began to escape our control.”

“We could use the tytans still, if we were stronger—”

“If there were more of us, you mean. Perhaps. I’m not certain.”

“Of course, we could. Their magic is crude; no more than—we teach a child—”

“But we made the mistake of endowing the child with the strength of mountains.”

“I say that maybe it’s the work of our ancient enemies. How do any of us know that the Patryns are still imprisoned in the Labyrinth? We’ve lost all contact with their jailers.”

“We’ve lost contact with everyone! The citadels work, gathering energy, storing it, ready to transmit it through the Death’s Gate. But is there anyone left to receive it? Perhaps we are the last, perhaps the others dwindled as have we …”

The flame of hatred burning in Haplo was no longer warm and comforting, but a devouring fire. The casual mention of the prison into which he’d been born, the prison that had been the death of so many of his people, sent him into a fury that dimmed his sight, his hearing, his wits. It was all he could do to keep from hurling himself at the shadowy figures and throttling them with his bare hands.

The dog sat up, worried, and licked his master’s hand. Haplo grew calmer. He had missed much of the conversation, seemingly. Discipline. His lord would be angered. Haplo forced his attention back to the round table. A single form sat there, shoulders bowed beneath an unseen burden. The Sartan was looking, astonishingly, at Haplo.

“You of our brethren who may one day come into this chamber are undoubtedly lost in amazement at what you have found—or failed to find. You see a city, but no people living within its walls. You see the light”—the figure gestured to the ceiling, to the spire above them—“but its energy is wasted. Or perhaps you’ will not see the light. Who knows what will happen when we are no longer here to guard the citadels? Who knows but that the light will dim and fade, even as we ourselves have done.

“You have, through your magic, viewed our history. We have recorded it in the books, as well, so that you may study it at your leisure. We have added to it the histories kept by the wise ones among the mensch, written in their own languages. Unfortunately, since the citadel will be sealed, none of them will be able to return to discover their past.

“You now know the terrible mistakes we made. I will add only what has occurred in these last days. We were forced to send the mensch from the citadel. The fighting among the races had escalated to such a point that we feared they would destroy each other. We sent them into the jungle, where they will, we hope, be forced to expend their energy on survival.

“We had planned, those of the few of us who remain, to live in the citadels in peace. We hoped to find some means to regain control over the tytans, find some way to communicate with the other worlds. But that is not to be.

“We, ourselves, are being made to leave the citadels. The force that opposes us is ancient and powerful. It cannot be fought, cannot be placated. Tears do not move it, nor do all the weapons we have at our command. Too late, we have come to admit its existence. We bow before it, and take our leave.”

The image faded. Haplo tried, but the rune-magic would summon no one else. The Patryn stood for a long time in the chamber, staring in silence at the crystal globe and its feebly burning suns surrounding the Death’s Gate. Seated at his feet, the dog turned its head this way and that, searching for something it couldn’t identify, not quite heard, not quite seen, not quite felt.

But there.