Serpent Mage

23

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 uncomfortable 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,” Orla 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.

“What will happen to him, do you think?” she asked, affecting nonchalance.

“That is up to the Council. I will make my recommendation.” He started to turn away.

Orla stepped forward, touched him on the arm. She felt him flinch, draw back from her. But, when he faced her, his expression was pleasant, patient. Perhaps she had just imagined the flinch.

“Yes, Wife?”

“He won’t be ... like the others?” she faltered.

Samah’s eyes narrowed. “That is for the Council to decide.”

“It wasn’t right, Husband, what we did long ago,” Orla said determinedly. “It wasn’t right.”

“Are you suggesting that you would defy me? Defy the decision of the Council? Or, perhaps, you already have?”

“What do you mean?” Orla asked, staring at him blankly.

“Not all who were sent arrived at their destination. The only way they could have escaped their fate was to have foreknowledge of it. And the only people who had that knowledge were the members of the Council . . .” Orla stiffened. “How dare you suggest—”

Samah cut her short. “I have no time for this now. The Council will convene in one hour. I suggest you return that beast to its keeper and tell Alfred to prepare his defense. He will, of course, be given a chance to speak.” The Councillor walked out of the garden, heading for the Council building. Orla, perplexed, troubled, watched him, saw Ramu join him, saw them put their heads together in serious and earnest conversation.

“Come,” she said, sighing, and led the dog back to Alfred. Orla entered the Council chamber strong with resolve, her attitude defiant. She was prepared to fight now as she should have fought once before. She had nothing to lose. Samah had practically accused her of complicity. What stopped me then? she asked herself. But she knew the answer, though it was one she was ashamed to admit.

Samah’s love. A last, desperate attempt to hold onto something I never truly had. I betrayed my trust, betrayed my people, to try to cling with both hands to a love I only truly held with the tips of my fingers.

Now I will fight. Now I will defy him.

She was fairly certain she could persuade the others to defy Samah, as well. She had the impression several of them were feeling not quite right about what they’d done in the past. If only she could overcome their fear of the future . . .

The Council members took their places at the long marble table. When all were present, Samah entered, sat in his chair at the center.

Prepared for a stern and judgmental Councillor, Orla was astonished and surprised to see Samah relaxed, cheerful, pleasant. He gave her what might be taken for an apologetic smile, shrugged his shoulders.

Leaning over to her, he whispered, “I’m sorry for what I said, Wife. I’m not myself. I spoke hastily. Bear with me.”

He seemed to wait with some anxiety for her reply.

She smiled at him tentatively. “I accept your apology, Husband.” His smile broadened. He patted her hand, as if to say, Don’t worry, my dear. Your little friend will be all right.

Astonished, puzzled, Orla could only sit back in her chair and wonder. Alfred entered, the dog trotting along faithfully at his heels. The Sartan took his place—again—before the Council. Orla could not help thinking how shabby Alfred looked—gaunt, stooped-shouldered, poorly made. She regretted she hadn’t spent more time with him before the meeting, hadn’t urged him to change out of the mensch clothes that were obviously having an irritating effect on the other Council members.

She’d left him hurriedly after returning the dog, though he’d tried to detain her. Being with him made her uncomfortable. His eyes, clear and penetrating, had a way of breaking down her guard and sneaking inside her in search of the truth, much as he’d sneaked inside the library. And she wasn’t ready for him to see the truth inside her. She wasn’t prepared to see it herself.

“Alfred Montbank”—Samah grimaced over the mensch name, but he had apparently given up his attempts to urge Alfred to reveal his Sartan name—“you are brought before this Council to answer two serious charges.

“The first: You willfully and knowingly entered the library, despite the fact that runes of prohibition had been placed on the door. This offense you committed two times. On the first occasion,” Samah continued, though it seemed Alfred wanted to speak, “you claimed you entered by accident. You stated that you were curious about the building and, on approaching the door, you . . . um . . . slipped and fell through it. Once inside, the door shut and you couldn’t get out, and you entered the library proper searching for the exit. Is this testimony that I’ve repeated subtanrially true?”

“Substantially,” Alfred answered.

His hands were clasped before him. He did not look directly at the Council, but darted swift glances at them from beneath lowered eyes. He was, Orla thought unhappily, the very picture of guilt.

“And on this occasion, we accepted this explanation. We explained to you why it was that the library was prohibited to our people, and then we left, trusting that we would have no need to say anything further on the subject.

“Yet, in less than a week, you were again discovered in the library. Which brings us to the second, and more serious, charge facing you: This time, you are accused of entering the library deliberately and in a manner which indicates you feared apprehension. Is this true?”

“Yes,” said Alfred sadly, “I’m afraid it is. And I’m sorry. Truly very sorry to have caused all this trouble, when you have other, greater worries.” Samah leaned back in his chair, sighed, and then rubbed his eyes with his hand. Orla sat regarding him in silent astonishment. He was not the stern, awful judge. He was the weary father, forced to administer punishment to a well-loved, albeit irresponsible, child.

“Will you tell the Council, Brother, why you defied our prohibition?”

“Would you mind if I told you something about myself?” Alfred asked. “It would help you understand . . .”

“No, please, Brother, go ahead. It is your right to say whatever you like before the Council.”

“Thank you.” Alfred smiled, faintly. “I was born on Arianus, one of the last Sartan children born on Arianus. That was many hundred years after the Sundering, after you went to your Sleep. Things weren’t going well for us on Arianus. Our population was decreasing. Children weren’t being born, adults were dying untimely, for no apparent reason. We didn’t know why then, though, perhaps,”[40] he said softly, almost to himself, “I do now. That, however, is not why we’re here.

“Life for the Sartan on Arianus was extremely difficult. There was so much needed to be done, but not enough people to do it. The mensch populations were increasing rapidly. They had gained in magical talent and in mechanical skills. There were far too many of them for us to control. And that, I think, was our mistake. We weren’t content to advise or counsel, offer our wisdom. We wanted to control. And since we couldn’t, we left them, retreated below ground. We were afraid.

“Our Council decided that since there were so few of us remaining, we should place some of our young people in stasis, to be brought back to life some time in the future when, hopefully, the situation had improved. We were confident, you see, that by then we would establish contact with the other three worlds.

“There were many of us who volunteered to enter the crystal chambers. I was one of them. It was a world,” Alfred said quietly, “I was glad to leave.

“Unfortunately, I was the only one to come back.” Samah, who had seemed to be only half-listening, a patient, indulgent expression on his face, sat up straight at this and frowned. The other members of the Council murmured among themselves. Orla saw the anguish, the bitter loneliness of that time, reflected on Alfred’s face, felt her heart wrung with compassion, pity.

“When I woke, I discovered that all the others, all my brothers and sisters, were dead. I was alone in a world of mensch. I was afraid, terribly afraid. I feared the mensch might find out who and what I was, discover my talent for magic, try to make me use that talent to aid them in their ambitions.

“At first, I hid from them. I lived ... I don’t know how many years of my life in the underground world to which the Sartan had retreated long ago. But, during those rare times I visited the mensch in the worlds above, I couldn’t help but see what dreadful things were happening. I found myself wanting to help them. I knew I could help them, and it occurred to me that helping them was what we Sartan were supposed to be doing. I began to think that it was selfish of me to hide myself away, when I might, in some small way, try to make things right. But, instead, as usual, I only seemed to have made things all wrong.”[41]

Samah stirred, somewhat restlessly. “Truly your story is tragic, Brother, and we are grieved to have lost so many of our people on Arianus, but much of this we knew already and I fail to see—”

“Please, bear with me, Samah,” Alfred said, with a quiet dignity that was, Orla thought, most becoming to him. “All that time I spent with the mensch, I thought of my people, missed them. And I knew, to my regret, that I’d taken them for granted. I had paid some attention to their stories of the past, but not enough. I had never asked questions, I wasn’t interested. I knew, I realized, very little about being a Sartan, very little about the Sundering. I grew hungry for that knowledge. I’m still hungry for it.” Alfred gazed at the members in wistful pleading. “Can’t you understand? I want to know who I am. Why I’m here. What I’m expected to do.”

“These are mensch questions,” said Samah, rebuking. “Not worthy of a Sartan. A Sartan knows why he is here. He knows his purpose and he acts upon his knowledge.”

“Undoubtedly, if I had not been so much on my own, I would have never been forced to ask such questions,” Alfred answered. “But I didn’t have anyone to turn to.” He stood tall, no longer crushed with awe, no longer meek, apologetic. He was strong with the lightness of his cause. “And it seems, from what I read in the library, that others asked the same questions before me. And that they found answers.”

Several Council members glanced uneasily at each other, then all eyes turned to Samah.

He looked grave and sad, not angry. “I understand you better now, Brother. I wish you had trusted us enough to tell us this before.” Alfred flushed, but did not lower his gaze to his shoes, as he was wont. He regarded Samah steadily, intently, with that clear-eyed gaze that had often disturbed Orla.

“Let me describe our world to you, Brother,” said the Councillor, leaning forward, fingertips together on the top of the table. “Earth, it was called. Once, many thousands of years ago, it was ruled exclusively by humans. Consistent with their warring, destructive nature, they unleashed a dreadful war upon themselves. The war did not destroy the world, as so many had feared and predicted. But it changed the world irretrievably. New races, they say, were born out of the cataclysmic smoke and flame. I doubt the truth of that. I believe these races were always present, but had remained hidden in the shadows, until the light of a new day should dawn.

“Magic came into the world then, supposedly, though all know that this ancient force has been in existence since the beginning of time. It, too, was waiting for the dawn.

“There had been many religions in the world over the centuries; the mensch being glad to toss all their problems and frustrations into the lap of some nebulous Supreme Being. Such Beings were numerous and varied. They were never seen, capricious, demanded to be taken on faith and faith alone. No wonder, when we Sartan came to power, the mensch were thankful to switch their allegiance to us, to flesh and blood beings, who laid down strict laws that were fair and just.

“All would have been well, had it not been that our opposite number, the Patryns, rose to power at the same time.[42] The mensch were confused, many began to follow the Patryns, who rewarded their slaves with power and wealth seized at the expense of others.

“We fought our enemy, but battle proved difficult. The Patryns are subtle, tricky. A Patryn would never be crowned king of a realm, for example. They left that to the mensch. But you would be sure to find one of their number acting in the role of ‘adviser’ or ‘councillor.’ ”

“And yet,” Alfred inserted mildly, “from what I have read, the Sartan were often to be found in such roles themselves.”

Samah frowned at the implication. “We were true advisers; we offered counsel and wisdom and guidance. We did not use the role to usurp thrones, to reduce the mensch to little more than puppets. We sought to teach, to elevate, to correct.”

“And if the mensch didn’t follow your advice,” Alfred asked in a low voice, clear eyes unwavering, “you punished them, didn’t you?”

“It is the responsibility of the parent to chastise the child who has behaved heedlessly, foolishly. Certainly we made the mensch see the error of their ways. How would they learn otherwise?”

“But what about freedom of will?” Alfred took several steps toward Samah, passion carrying him forward. “Freedom to learn on their own? To make their own choices? Who gave us the right to determine the fate of others?” He was earnest, articulate, confident. He moved with grace, with ease. Orla thrilled to hear him. He was speaking aloud the questions she had asked often in her own heart.

The Councillor sat silent during the onslaught, cold, unassailable. He let Alfred’s words hang in the quiet, tense atmosphere for a moment, then caught and returned them with studied calm.

“Can a child raise itself, Brother? No, it cannot. It needs parents to feed it, teach it, guide it.”

“The mensch are not our children,” Alfred returned angrily. “We did not create them! We did not bring them into this world. We have no right to try to rule their lives!”

“We did not try to rule them!” Samah rose to his feet. His hand flattened on the table, as if he might have struck it, but he controlled himself. “We permitted them to act. Often, we watched their actions with deep sadness and regret. It was the Patryns who sought to rule the mensch. And they would have succeeded, but for us!

“At the time of the Sundering, the power of our enemy was growing exceedingly strong. More and more governments had fallen under their sway. The world was embroiled in wars, race against race, nation against nation, those who had nothing slitting the throats of those who had everything. No darker time had ever been and it seemed worse must come.

“And then it was that the Patryns managed to discover our weakness. Through vile trickery and magic, they convinced some of our people that this nebulous Supreme Being, whom even the mensch had now ceased to worship, actually did exist!”

Alfred started to speak.

Samah raised his hand. “Please, let me continue.” He paused a moment, put his fingers to his forehead, as if it ached. His face was drawn, fatigued. With a sigh, he resumed his seat, looked back at Alfred. “I do not fault those who fell victim to this subterfuge, Brother. All of us, at one time or another, long to rest our head upon the breast of One stronger, wiser than ourselves; to surrender all responsibility to an All-Knowing, Ail-Powerful Being. Such dreams are pleasant, but then we must wake to reality.”

“And this was your reality. Tell me if I’m wrong.” Alfred regarded them with pity, his voice soft with sorrow. “The Patryns were growing stronger. The Sartan were splintering into factions. Some of them began denying their godhood. They were prepared to follow this new vision. And they threatened to take the mensch with them. You were on the verge of losing everything.”

“You are not wrong,” Orla murmured. Samah cast her an angry glance that she felt but did not see. She was looking at Alfred.

“I make allowances for you, Brother,” the Councillor said. “You were not there. You cannot possibly understand.”

“I understand,” said Alfred clearly, firmly. He stood straight and tall. He was, Orla thought, almost handsome. “At last, after all these years, I finally understand. Who did you truly fear?”

His gaze swept over the Council. “Was it the Patryns? Or did you fear the truth: the knowledge that you aren’t the moving force in the universe, that you are, in fact, no better than the mensch you’ve always despised? Isn’t that what you truly feared? Isn’t that why you destroyed the world, hoping to destroy truth as well?”

Alfred’s words echoed throughout the silent hall.

Orla caught her breath. Ramu, face dark with suppressed fury, cast a questioning glance at his father, as if seeking permission to do or say something. The dog, who had flopped down at the Sartan’s feet to doze through the boring parts, sat up suddenly and glared around, feeling threatened. Samah made a slight, negating gesture with his hand, and his son reluctantly settled back in his chair. The other Council members looked from Samah to Alfred and back to their Councillor again, more than a few shaking their heads.

Samah stared at Alfred, said nothing.

The tension in the room grew.

Alfred blinked, seemed suddenly to realize what he’d been saying. He began to droop, his newfound strength seeping from him.

“I’m sorry, Samah. I never meant—” Alfred shrank backward, stumbled over the dog.

The Councillor rose abruptly to his feet, left his chair, walked around the table and came to stand beside Alfred. The dog growled, ears flattened, teeth barred, tail swishing slowly side to side.

“Shush!” said Alfred unhappily.

The Councillor reached out his hand. Alfred cringed, expecting a blow. Samah put his arm around Alfred’s shoulders.

“There, Brother,” he said kindly, “don’t you feel better now? Finally, you have opened up to us. Finally, you trust us. Think how much better it would have been for you if you had come to me or to Ramu or Orla or any of the Council members with these doubts and problems! Now, at last, we can help you.”

“You can?” Alfred stared at him.

“Yes, Brother. You are, after all, Sartan. You are one of us.”

“I’m s-sorry I broke into the library,” Alfred stammered. “That was wrong. I know. I came here to apologize. I don’t . . . don’t know what got into me to say all those other things—”

“The poison has been festering inside you long. Now it is purged, your wound will heal.”

“I hope so,” Alfred said, though he seemed dubious. “I hope so.” He sighed, looked down at his shoes. “What will you do to me?”

“Do to you?” Samah appeared puzzled. “Ah, you mean punish you? My dear Alfred, you have punished yourself far more than such an infraction of the rules warrants. The Council accepts your apology. And any time you would like to use the library, you have only to ask either myself or Ramu for the key. I think you would find it extremely beneficial to study the history of our people.” Alfred gaped at the man, all power of speech lost in unparalleled astonishment.

“The Council has some additional, minor business,” Samah said briskly, removing his hand from Alfred’s shoulders. “If you will seat yourself, we will attend to our work swiftly and then we can depart.”

At a gesture from his father, Ramu silently brought Alfred a chair. He collapsed into it, sat huddled, drained, dazed.

Samah returned to his place, began to discuss some trivial matter that could well have waited. The other Council members, obviously uncomfortable and eager to leave, weren’t listening.

Samah continued to talk, patiently, quietly. Orla watched her husband, watched his deft, facile handling of the Council, watched the play of intelligence on his strong, handsome face. He had successfully won over poor Alfred. Now, slowly, surely, he was winning back the loyalty and confidence of his followers. The Council members began to relax under the influence of their leader’s soothing voice; they could even laugh at a small joke. They will leave, Orla thought, and the voice they hear will be Samah’s. They will have forgotten Alfred’s. Odd, I never noticed before how Samah manipulates us.

Except now it is them, not us. Not me. Not anymore.

Not anymore.

The meeting came to an end at last.

Alfred didn’t listen, he was lost in troubled reveries, was roused only when people began to move.

Samah stood up. The other Council members were at ease, feeling better. They bowed to him, to each other (not to Alfred, they ignored Alfred), and took their leave.

Alfred wavered unsteadily to his feet.

“I thought I had the answer,” he said to himself. “Where did it go? How could I lose it so suddenly? Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps the vision was, as Samah said, a trick of Haplo’s.”

“I have noticed that our guest seems extremely fatigued,” Samah was saying.

“Why don’t you, Wife, take Alfred back to our house and see to it that he relaxes and eats something.”

The Council members had all filed out by now. Only Ramu lingered behind. Orla took Alfred’s arm. “Are you all right?”

He still felt dazed, his body shook, feet stumbled over themselves. “Yes, yes,” he answered vaguely. “I think I would like to rest, however. If I could just go back to my room and ... lie down.”

“Certainly,” said Orla, concerned. She glanced around. “Are you coming with us, Husband?”

“No, not just yet, my dear. I need to arrange with Ramu to attend to that small matter on which the Council just voted. You go ahead. I will be home in time for dinner.”

Alfred let Orla guide him toward the door. He was almost out of the Council Chamber when it occurred to him that the dog wasn’t following. He glanced around for the animal, could not, at first, find it. Then he saw the tip of a tail, sticking out from under the Council table.

An unwelcome thought came to him. Haplo had trained the dog to act as a spy. He often ordered it to tag along with unsuspecting people, whose words were then carried through the dog’s ears to the Patryn’s. Alfred knew, in that moment, that the dog was offering this very same service to him. It would stay with Ramu and Samah, listen in on what they said.

“Alfred?” said Orla.

The Sartan jumped, guilt assailing him. He whirled around, didn’t watch where he was going, and smashed nose first into the doorframe.

“Alfred . . . Oh, dear! What have you done? Your nose is bleeding!”

“I seem to have run into the door . . .”

“Tilt your head back. I’ll sing you a rune of healing.” I should call the dog! Alfred trembled. I should never permit this. I am worse than Haplo. He spied on strangers. I’m spying on my own kind. I have only to say the word, call it, and the dog will come to me.

Alfred looked back. “Dog—” he began.

Samah was watching him with disdainful amusement, Ramu with disgust. But both were watching him.

“What were you saying about the dog?” Orla asked, looking anxious. Alfred sighed, closed his eyes. “Only that I ... I sent it home.”

“Where you should be right now,” Orla told him.

“Yes,” said Alfred. “I’m ready to leave.” He had reached the outer door of the Council hall, when he heard, through the dog’s ears, father and son start to talk.

“That man is dangerous.” Ramu’s voice.

“Yes, my son. You are right. Very dangerous. Therefore we must never relax our vigilance over him again.”

“You think that? Then why did you let him go? We should do to him what we did to the others.”

“We cannot now. The other Council members, especially your mother, would never agree. This is all part of his clever plan, of course. Let him think he has fooled us. Let him relax, think himself unwatched, unsuspected.”

“A trap?”

“Yes,” Samah answered complacently, “a trap to catch him in the act of betraying us to his Patryn friend. Then we will have enough evidence to convince even your mother that this Sartan with the mensch name means to encompass our downfall.”

Alfred sank onto a bench, just outside the Hall of the Council of Sartan.

“You look terrible,” said Orla. “I think your nose must be broken. Are you faint? If you don’t feel able to walk, I can—”

“Orla.” Alfred looked up at her. “I know this is going to sound ungrateful, but could you please leave me?”

“No, I couldn’t possibly—”

“Please. I need to be alone,” he said gently.

Orla studied him. Turning, she looked back toward the hall, stared into the shadowy interior intently, as if she could see within. Perhaps she could. Perhaps, though her ears did not hear the voices inside the hall, her heart did. Her face grew grave and sad.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and left him.

Alfred groaned and rested his head in his shaking hands.