Into the Labyrinth

21

The garden maze was at the back of the city, on a gentle slope that dipped down from the city proper to the protective wall that surrounded it. None of her companions particularly liked the maze; it had a strange feel to it, Paithan complained. But Aleatha felt drawn to the maze and often walked near it during winetime. If she had to be by herself (and it was getting more and more difficult to find company these days), this was where she liked to be.

“The garden maze was built by the Sartan,” Paithan told her, having acquired the knowledge from one of the books he bragged about reading. “They made it for themselves because they were fond of being outdoors and it reminded them of wherever it was they came from. It was off-limits to us mensch.” His lip curled when he said the word. “I don’t know why they bothered. I can’t imagine any elf in his right mind who’d want to go in there. No offense, Thea, but what do you find so fascinating about that creepy place?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she’d answered with a shrug. “Perhaps because it is kind of frightening. Everything—and everyone—around here is so boring.” According to Paithan, the maze—a series of hedges, trees, and bushes—had once been carefully clipped and maintained. The paths led, by various circuitous routes, to an amphitheater in the center. Here (away from the eyes and ears of the mensch) the Sartan had held secret meetings.

“I wouldn’t go into it if I were you, Thea,” Paithan had warned her.

“According to the book, these Sartan laid some type of magic on the maze, meant to trap anyone who wasn’t supposed to be there.” Aleatha found the warning thrilling, just as she found the maze fascinating. Over the years, abandoned and left to itself, the garden maze had gone wild. Hedges that had once been neatly trimmed now soared high into the air, grew over the paths, forming green and tangled ceilings that shut out the light and kept the maze cool and dark even during the hot daylight hours. It was like venturing into a green tunnel of plant life, for something kept the paths themselves clear, perhaps the strange markings carved into the stone, marks that could be seen on the buildings in the city and on its walls. Marks that Paithan said were some type of magic.

A gate made of iron (a rarity on Pryan, where few people had ever seen the ground) led to an arch formed by a hedge over a stone pathway. Each stone on the path was marked with one of the magical symbols. Paithan had told her that the marks might hurt her, but Aleatha knew better. She’d paid no attention to them before finding out what they were. She’d walked on them many times. They hadn’t hurt her feet a bit.

From the gate, the path led straight into the maze. High walls of vegetation soared overhead; flowers filled the air with sweet fragrance. The path ran straight for a short distance, then forked, slanting off in two different directions, each leading deeper into the maze. The fork was the farthest Aleatha had ever ventured. Both paths took her out of sight of the gate, and Aleatha, though wild and reckless, was not without common sense. At the fork were a marble bench and a pool. Here Aleatha sat in the cool shadows and listened to hidden birds singing, admiring her reflection and wondering idly what it would be like to wander deeper into the maze. Probably boring and not worth the effort, she’d decided after having seen a drawing of the maze in Paithan’s book. She’d been dreadfully disappointed to learn that the paths led to nothing but a circle of stone surrounded by tiers of seats. Walking down the empty street (so very empty!) that led to the maze, Aleatha smiled. Roland was there, pacing moodily back and forth, casting dark and dubious glances into the bushes.

Aleatha permitted her skirts to rustle loudly, and at the sound Roland straightened, shoved his hands into his pockets, and began to saunter about quite casually, regarding the hedge with interest, as if he had just arrived. Aleatha smothered a laugh. She’d been thinking about him all day. Thinking how much she didn’t like him. Thinking that she detested him, in fact. Thinking that he was boorish, and arrogant and... well... human. Recalling how much she hated him, it was only natural for her to think about the night they’d once made love. There had been extenuating circumstances, of course. Neither had been responsible. Both had been recovering from the terrible fright of being nearly eaten by a dragon. Roland had been hurt and she’d only been trying to comfort him...

And why did she have to keep remembering that night and his strong arms and soft lips and the way he’d loved her, a way in which no other man had ever dared to love her...

It wasn’t until the next day she’d remembered he was human and had peremptorily ordered him never to touch her again. He apparently had been only too glad to obey—judging by what he’d said to her in response. But she took a grim delight in teasing him—it was the only pleasure she had. And he seemed to take equal delight in irritating her.

Aleatha stepped out into the pathway. Roland, lounging against the hedge, glanced at her and smiled what she considered a nasty smile.

“Ah, I see you came,” he said, implying that she had come because of him, robbing her of the line that had been on her lips—implying that he’d come because of her—and thereby making her instantly furious.

And when Aleatha was furious, she was simply sweeter and more charming than ever.

“Why, Roland,” she said, with a very natural start of surprise. “Is that you?”

“And who the hell would it be? Lord Dumdrun, perhaps?” Aleatha flushed. Lord Dumdrun had been her elven fiance, and while she hadn’t loved him and she’d been going to marry him only for his money, he was dead and this human had no right to make fun of him and... oh, never mind!

“I wasn’t certain,” she said, tossing her hair back over a bare shoulder (the sleeve of her dress didn’t quite fit properly anymore because she’d lost weight, and it kept slipping down her arm, revealing a white shoulder of surpassing loveliness). “Who knows what slimy thing might have crawled up from Below?”

Roland’s eyes were drawn to her shoulder. She permitted him to look and yearn (she trusted he was yearning), and then she slowly and caressingly covered her shoulder with a lacy shawl she’d found in an abandoned house.

“Well, if something slimy did crawl up out of nowhere, I’m certain you’d frighten it off.” He took a step nearer her, glanced again pointedly at her shoulder. “You’re turning all bony.”

Bony! Aleatha glared at him, so angry she forgot to be charming. She bounded at him, her hand raised to strike.

He caught her wrist, twisted it, bent down and kissed her. Aleatha struggled exactly the right length of time—not too long (which might discourage him), but long enough to force him to tighten his hold on her. Then she relaxed in his arms.

His lips brushed over her neck. “I know this is going to disappoint you,” he whispered, “but I only came to tell you I wasn’t coming. Sorry.” And with that, he let go of her.

Aleatha had been leaning her full weight on him. When he removed his hold, she tumbled onto her hands and knees. He grinned at her.

“Begging for me to stay? Won’t do any good, I’m afraid.” Turning, he sauntered off.

Enraged, Aleatha struggled to her feet, but her heavy skirts hampered her, and by the time she was upright and ready to claw his eyes out, Roland had rounded a corner of a building and was gone.

Aleatha paused, breathing heavily. To run after him now would look like just that—running after him. (If she had gone after him, she would have discovered him slumped against a wall, shivering and wiping sweat from his face.) Digging her nails into her palms, she stormed through the gate that led into the maze, flounced down the stones marked with Sartan runes, and threw herself on the marble bench.

Certain she was alone, hidden, where no one could see her if her eyes turned red and her nose swelled, she began to cry.

“Did he hurt you?” a gruff voice demanded.

Startled, Aleatha jerked her head up. “What—oh, Drugar.” She sighed, at first relieved, then not so. The dwarf was strange, dour. Who knew what he was thinking? And he had tried to kill them all once...

“No, of course not,” she replied scornfully, drying her eyes and sniffing.

“I’m not crying.” She gave a light little laugh. “I had something in my eye. How... long have you been standing here?” she asked, airy, nonchalant. The dwarf grunted. “Long enough.” And what he meant by that, Aleatha hadn’t a clue.

His name among the humans was Blackbeard, and he suited it. His beard was long and so thick and full that it was difficult to see his mouth. One rarely knew whether he was smiling or frowning. The glittering black eyes, shining out from beneath heavy, beetling brows, gave no hint of his thoughts or feelings. Then Aleatha noticed that he had come from the inner part of the maze, the part into which she’d never dared venture. She was intrigued. Obviously no wicked magic had stopped him. She was about to ask him eagerly what he’d seen, how far he’d gone, when he disconcerted her by asking her a question first.

“You love him. He loves you. Why do you play these hurtful games?”

“I? Love him?” Aleatha gave a lilting laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, Drugar. Such a thing is impossible. He’s a human, isn’t he? And I’m an elf. You might as well ask a cat to love a dog.”

“It is not impossible. I know,” he answered.

His dark eyes met hers and then their gaze shifted away. He stared into the hedge, gloomy, silent.

Blessed Mother! Aleatha thought, her breath taken away. Though Roland might not love her (and she was quite convinced, at this moment, that he did not and never would), here was someone who did.

Except it was not love which had stared at her hungrily from those eyes. It was more. Almost adoration.

Had it been any other man—elf or human—Aleatha would have been amused, accepting his infatuation as her due, taking his love and hanging it up for show with the rest of her trophies. But her feeling at the moment was not triumph over another conquest. Her feeling was pity—deep and profound. If Aleatha appeared heartless, it was only because her heart had been hurt so much that she had locked it up in a box and hidden the key. Everyone she had ever cared about had abandoned her—first her mother, then Callie, then her father. Even that fop Dumdrun—who had been a sap, but rather a dear sap—had managed to get himself killed by the tytans.

And if she ever had been attracted to Roland (Aleatha was careful to put that in the past tense), it was only because he’d never seemed the least bit interested in finding the key to the box containing her heart. Which made the game safe, fun. Most of the time.

But this wasn’t a game. Not with Drugar. He was lonely, as lonely as she was herself. Lonelier, for his people, everyone whom he had loved and cared for, were gone, destroyed by the tytans. He had nothing, nobody. Pity was swallowed by shame. For the first time in her life, Aleatha was at a loss for words. She didn’t have to tell him his love was hopeless—he knew that for himself. She didn’t worry that he would become a nuisance. He would never mention it again. This time had been an accident—he’d spoken out of sympathy for her. From this moment forward, he’d be on his guard. She couldn’t prevent him from being hurt.

The silence was becoming extremely uncomfortable. Aleatha lowered her head, her hair hanging around her face, hiding him from her sight, hiding her from his. She began to pick little holes in the lace shawl.

Drugar, she wanted to say. I’m a horrible person. I’m not worthy. You haven’t seen me. Not the real me. I’m ugly inside. Truly, truly ugly!

“Drugar,” she began, swallowing, “I’m a—”

“What’s that?” he growled suddenly, turning his head.

“What’s what?” she asked, leaping up from the bench. The blood rushed to her face. Her first thought was that Roland had sneaked back and had been spying on them. He would know... This would be intolerable...

“That sound,” said Drugar, brow wrinkling. “Like someone humming. Don’t you hear it?”

Aleatha did hear it. A humming noise, as the dwarf said. The humming wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, it was sweet, soothing. It reminded her of her mother, singing a lullaby. Aleatha breathed a sigh. Whoever was humming, it certainly wasn’t Roland. He had a voice like a cheese-grater.

“How curious,” Aleatha said, smoothing her dress, dabbing at her eyes to make certain all traces of tears were gone. “I suppose we had better go see what’s causing it.”

“Ya,” said Drugar, hooking his thumbs into his belt. He waited deferentially for her, to precede him down the path, not presuming to walk beside her. She was touched by his delicacy and, reaching the gate, she paused, turned to face him.

“Drugar,” she said with a smile that was not the least flirtatious, but was a smile from one lonely person to another, “have you gone far inside the maze?”

“I have,” he answered, lowering his eyes before hers.

“I’d love to go in there sometime myself. Would you take me? Just me. None of the others,” she added hurriedly, seeing the frown lines appear. He glanced up at her warily, perhaps thinking she was teasing. His face softened. “Ya, I’ll take you,” he said. An odd glint came into his eyes.

“There’s strange things to be seen in there.”

“Truly?” She forgot the eerie humming. “What?” But the dwarf only shook his head. “It will be the dark-time,” he said. “And you have no light. You will not be able to find your way back to the citadel. We must go now.”

He held the gate open for her. Aleatha swept past him. Drugar shut the gate. Turning to her, he made a clumsy bow, rumbled something deep in his chest, something that was probably in dwarven, for she couldn’t understand the words. But they sounded rather like a blessing. Then, turning on his heel, he stalked off.

Aleatha felt a tiny pulse of unaccustomed warmth in her heart, shut in its box.