Serpent Mage

32

Haplo came back to consciousness slowly, reluctantly, knowing he must wake to pain within and without, knowing he must wake to the knowledge that his carefully ordered life had been consumed in flames, scattered like ashes on the seawater.

He lay for long moments without opening his eyes, not from wariness or caution, as he might have done under similar circumstances, but from sheer weariness. Living, from now on, was going to be a constant struggle for him. When he’d started this journey, long ago, on Arianus, he’d had all the answers. Now, at the finish, he was left with nothing but questions. He was no longer confident, no longer sure. He doubted. And the doubt frightened him. He heard a whine; a shaggy tail brushed against the floor. A wet tongue licked his hand. Haplo, eyes still closed, rubbed the dog’s head, ruffled the ears. His lord would not be pleased to see the animal return. But then, there was a lot his lord wasn’t going to be pleased to see.

Haplo sighed and, when it became apparent he couldn’t go back to sleep, groaned and opened his eyes. And, of course, the first face he would see on awakening belonged to Alfred.

The Sartan hovered over him, peered down at him anxiously.

“Are you in pain? Where does it hurt?”

Haplo was strongly tempted to shut his eyes again. Instead, he sat up, looked around. He was in a room in what must be a private house, a Sartan house—he knew it by instinct. But now it was no longer a house, it was a Sartan prison. The windows sparkled with warding runes. Powerful sigla, burning with a vivid red light, enhanced the closed and barred door. Haplo glanced down ruefully at his arms and body. His clothes were wet, his skin bare.

“They’ve been bathing you in seawater—Samah’s orders,” said Alfred. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?” Haplo grunted, glowering at the Sartan in irritation. “It’s not your fault. Why do you insist on apologizing for things that aren’t your fault?”

Alfred flushed. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve always felt that they were my fault, in a way. Because of who and what I am.”

“Well, it isn’t, so quit sniveling about it,” Haplo snapped. He had to lash out at something and Alfred was the closest thing available. “You didn’t send my people to the Labyrinth. You didn’t cause the Sundering.”

“No,” said Alfred sadly, “but I didn’t do much to set right what I found wrong. I always . . . fainted.”

“Always?” Haplo glanced at the Sartan sharply, reminded suddenly of Grundle’s wild tale. “How about back there on Draknor. Did you faint then?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Alfred, hanging his head in fortification. “I’m not sure, of course. I don’t seem to be able to remember much of anything that went on. Oh, by the way.” He cast Haplo an uneasy, sidelong glance. “I’m afraid I ... er ... did what I could for your injuries. I hope you won’t be too angry, but you were in terrible pain—”

Haplo looked down again at his bare skin. No, he wouldn’t have been able to heal himself. He tried to be angry, it would have felt good to be angry, but he couldn’t muster the energy to feel much of anything now.

“You’re apologizing again,” he said, and lay back down.

“I know. I’m sorry,” said Alfred.

Haplo glared at him.

Alfred turned around and headed back across the small room to another bed.

“Thank you,” Haplo said quietly.

Alfred, astonished, looked to see if he’d heard correctly. “Did you say something?”

Haplo damn well wasn’t going to repeat himself. “Where are we?” he asked, though he already knew. “What happened after we left Draknor? How long have I been out?”

“A day and night and half another day. You were badly hurt. I tried to convince Samah to allow your magic to return, to let you use it to heal yourself, but he refused. He’s frightened. Very frightened. I know how he feels. I understand such fear.”

Alfred fell silent, stared long at nothing. Haplo shifted restlessly. “I asked you—”

The Sartan blinked and came out of his reverie.

“I’m sorry. Oh! There I go, apologizing again. No, no. I won’t do it anymore. I promise. Where was I? The seawater. They have been bathing you in it twice a day.” Alfred glanced at the dog and smiled. “Your friend there put up quite a fight whenever anyone came near you. He nearly bit Samah. The dog will listen to me now. I think the animal’s beginning to trust me.” Haplo snorted, didn’t see the need to pursue that subject further. “What about the mensch? They get home safely?”

“As a matter of fact, no. That is, they’re safe enough,” Alfred amended hastily, seeing Haplo frown, “but they didn’t go home. Samah offered to take them. He’s been quite good to them, in fact, in his own way. It’s just that he doesn’t understand them. But the mensch—the dwarf maid and the elven lad—refused to leave you. The dwarf was extremely stubborn about it. She gave Samah a piece of her mind.”

Haplo could picture Grundle, chin outthrust, shaking her side whiskers at the Sartan Councillor. The Patryn smiled. He wished he could have seen it.

“The mensch are here, staying in this house. They’ve been to see you as often as the Sartan would allow. In fact, I’m surprised they haven’t come to visit before now. But, then, of course, this is the morning of the—” Alfred stopped in some confusion.

“The what?” Haplo demanded, suddenly suspicious.

“I really hadn’t intended to mention it. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Worry me?” Haplo gazed at the Sartan in amazement, then burst out laughing. He laughed until he felt tears burn in his eyes, drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m in a Sartan prison, stripped of my magic, taken captive by the most powerful Sartan wizard who ever lived, and you don’t want to worry me.”

“I’m sor—” Alfred caught Haplo’s baleful gaze, gulped, and kept quiet.

“Let me guess,” said Haplo grimly. “Today is the day the Council meets to decide what to do with us. That’s it, isn’t it?”

Alfred nodded. Returning to his bed, he sat down, long, ungainly arms dangling dejectedly between his legs.

“Well, what can they do to you? Slap you on the wrist? Make you promise to be a good boy and stay away from the nasty Patryn?”

It was supposed to have been a joke. Alfred didn’t laugh.

“I don’t know,” he said in low, fearful tones. “You see, I overheard Samah talking once and he said—”

“Hush!” Haplo warned, sat up.

A voice, a female voice, had begun to chant outside the door. The glowing runes of warding faded, began to disappear.

“Ah,” said Alfred, brightening, “that’s Orla!” The Sartan was transformed. Stooped shoulders straightened, he stood up tall, looked almost dignified. The door opened and a woman, ushering two mensch before her, stepped inside.

“Haplo!” Grundle cried, and, before the Patryn knew what was happening, she dashed forward and flung herself into his arms.

“Alake’s dead!” she wailed. “I didn’t mean for her to die. It’s all my fault!”

“There now,” he said, patting her awkwardly on the broad, solid back. She clung to him, blubbering.

Haplo gave her a little shake. “Listen to me, Grundle.” The dwarf gulped, sniffed, gradually quieted.

“What you three did was dangerous, foolhardy,” Haplo said sternly. “You were wrong. You shouldn’t have gone there by yourselves. But you did, and nothing can change that. Alake was a princess. Her life was dedicated to her people. She died for her people, Grundle. For her people”—the Patryn looked at Sartan—“and maybe for a lot of other people, as well.” The Sartan woman who had come in with them put her hand to her eyes and turned her face away. Alfred, going to her, hung about her timidly, his arm starting of its accord to steal around the woman’s shoulders, to offer her comfort. The arm hesitated, drew back.

Blast the man! thought Haplo. He can’t even make love to a woman properly. Grundle snuffled a little, hiccuped.

“Hey, come on, now,” Haplo told her gruffly. “Cut it out. Look, you’re upsetting my dog.”

The dog, who appeared to have taken this personally, had been adding his howls to hers. Grundle wiped away her tears, and managed a wan smile.

“How are you, sir?” Devon asked, sitting on the end of the bed.

“I’ve been better,” Haplo said. “But so have you, I’ll wager.”

“Yes, sir,” Devon answered.

He was pale and unhappy. His terrible ordeal had left its mark on him. But he seemed more assured, more confident. He had come to know himself. He wasn’t the only one.

“We have to talk to you!” Grundle said, pulling on Haplo’s wet sleeve.

“Yes, it’s very important,” Devon added.

The two exchanged glances, looked over at the Sartan: Alfred and the woman he called Orla.

“You want to be alone. That’s all right. We’ll leave.” Alfred started to shuffle off.

The woman, smiling, laid her hand on his arm. “I don’t think that would be possible.” She cast a significant glance at the door. The warding runes were not alight, but footsteps could be heard pacing outside—a guard. Alfred seemed to shrivel up. “You’re right,” he said in a low voice. “I wasn’t thinking. We’ll sit here and we won’t listen. We promise.” He sat down on the bed, patted a place beside him. “Please, sit down.” The woman looked at the bed, then at Alfred. She flushed deeply. Haplo thought back to Alake, looking the same, reacting the same.

Alfred turned a truly remarkable shade of red, jumped to his feet.

“I never meant—Of course, I wouldn’t—What must you think? No chairs. I only intended—”

“Yes, thank you,” said Orla faintly, and sat down at the end of the bed. Alfred resumed his seat at the opposite end of the bed, gaze fixed on his shoes.

Grundle, who had been watching with considerable impatience, took hold of Haplo’s hand, dragged him off into a corner, as far from the Sartan as possible. Devon followed. The two, serious and solemn, began to tell their tale in loud whispers.

It might have seemed impossible, being in the same room with three people having an intense discussion and not listening, but the two Sartan managed it admirably. Neither of them heard a word spoken, both being far too intent on voices within to pay much attention to those without.

Orla sighed. Her hands twisted together nervously and she glanced at Alfred every few seconds, as if trying to make up her mind whether or not to speak. Alfred, sensing her tension, wondered at the cause. A thought occurred to him.

“The Council. It’s meeting now, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Orla answered, but without a voice.

“You’re . . . you’re not there?”

She started to reply, but ended up only shaking her head. “No,” she said, after a moment’s pause. Lifting her chin, she spoke more firmly. “No, I’m not there. I quit the Council.”

Alfred gaped. To his knowledge, no Sartan had ever done such a thing. None had ever even contemplated it, so far as he knew.

“Because ... of me?” Alfred asked timidly.

“Yes. Because of you. Because of him.” She looked at the Patryn. “Because of them.” Her gaze went to the mensch.

“What did—How did Samah—?”

“He was furious. In fact,” Orla added complacently, with a smile, “I’m on trial myself now, along with you and the Patryn.”

“No!” Alfred was appalled. “He can’t! I won’t allow you to—”

“Hush!” Orla rested her hand on his lips. “It’s all right.” She took hold of Alfred’s hand, the hand that was clumsy, rawboned, too large. “You’ve taught me so much. I’m not afraid anymore. Whatever they do to us, I’m not afraid.”

“What will Samah do?” Alfred’s fingers closed over hers. “What happened to others, my dear? What happened to those of our people, who, long ago, discovered the truth?”

Orla turned to face him. Her eyes met his steadily, her voice was calm.

“Samah cast them into the Labyrinth.”