Serpent Mage

4

Alake keeps insisting that we eat—to keep up our strength, she says. What she thinks we’re going to need our strength for is beyond me. Battle these dragon-snakes as I suppose we should call them now? Three of us? I said as much to her; curse the dwarves for our blunt tongues.

Alake was hurt, I could tell, though she was kind enough to say nothing to me in rebuke. Devon managed to cover our awkward moment, and he even made us laugh, though that put us close to tears. Then, of course, we all had to eat something, to please Alake. None of us ate very much, however, and all of us—even Alake—were glad, I think, when the meal ended. She left, going back to her magic. Devon went back to doing what he is always doing—dreaming of Sabia. And I will go on with my story.

Once the bodies of the dead had been recovered and were spread out along the shoreline, their families, having identified them, were led away by friends to be comforted. At least twenty-five people had been killed. I saw the mortician dashing about aimlessly, a distracted look on his face. Never before had he had this many bodies to prepare for their final rest in the burial vaults in the mountain.

My father spoke to him, finally calmed him down. A detail of soldiers was sent to assist, Hartmut among them. It was a heavy, sorrowful task and my heart went out to him.

I was doing what I could to help, which wasn’t much; I was too dazed by the sudden upheaval in my orderly life. Eventually I just sat on the platform and stared out to sea. The sun-chasers that had been left anywhere near intact floated belly-up in the water. There weren’t many. They looked sad and forlorn, like dead fish. I still held the blue ribbon and lock of hair in my hand. I tossed it in the water, watched it drift away on the oil-coated surface.

My father and mother found me there. My mother put her arm around me, hugged me close. We stood long moments without speaking.

My father heaved a sigh. “We must take news of this to our friends.”

“But how can we sink between the worlds?[14] What if those terrible creatures attack us?” my mother asked, frightened.

“They won’t,” my father said heavily, his gaze on the one ship the serpents had left unharmed. “Do you remember what they said? ‘Tell your allies.’” The next day, we sank down toward Elmas.

The elven royal city of Elmasia is a place of beauty and enchantment. Its palace, known as the Grotto, is built of pink and white filigree coral and stands on the banks of the seamoon’s many freshwater lakes. The coral is alive and still growing. The elves would as soon think of killing themselves as they would of killing the coral, and so the shape of the Grotto alters on a continuing basis.

Humans and dwarves would consider this a nuisance. The elves, however, find it highly diverting and entertaining. If one room in the Grotto is closed off by the rapidly growing coral, the elves simply pack up their things and move to another that is certain to have been created in the interim. Finding one’s way through the palace is an interesting experience. Corridors that lead one place one day will take a person somewhere completely different the next. Because every room in the Grotto is certain to be one of surpassing beauty—the white coral glistens with an opalescent radiance, pink coral shines warmly—it doesn’t really matter to most elves where they are. Some who come to the palace on business with the king may wander the Grotto for days before making the slightest attempt to find His Majesty.

No business is ever pressing in the elven community. The words hurry, haste, and urgent were not in the elven vocabulary before they began dealing with humans. We dwarves never dealt with either until only recently in our history. Such diversities in human and elven natures once led to serious clashes among the two races. The Elmas, though generally easygoing, can be pushed only so far before they push back. But, after several destructive wars, both races came to see that they could gain more by working together than apart. The human Phondrans are a charming, if energetic, people. They soon learned how to manage the elves, and now they wheedle and flatter them into doing what they, the humans, want. This noted human charm worked even on the dour dwarves. Eventually, we, too, were won over by them.

The three races have lived and worked together, each on their own separate seamoon, in peaceful harmony for many generations. I have no doubt that we would have continued to do so for many generations more, had not the seasun—the source of warmth, light, and life for the seamoons—begun to leave us.

It was human wizards, who love to probe and prod and try to find out the why and the wherefore, who discovered that the seasun was altering its course and starting to drift away. This discovery led the humans into a perfect flurry of activity, quite marvelous to behold. They took measurements and made calculations, they sent out dolphins to scout for them, and questioned the dolphins for cycles on end, trying to find out what they knew of the history of the seasun.[15]

According to Alake, this is the explanation the dolphins offered:

“Chelestra is a globe of water existing in the vastness of space. Its exterior, facing onto the frigid darkness of the Nothing, is made of ice, fathoms thick. Its interior, comprised of the Goodsea, is warmed by the seasun, a star whose flames are so extraordinarily hot that the water of the Goodsea cannot extinguish them. The seasun warms the water surrounding it, melts the ice, and brings life to the seamoons—small planets, designed by the Creators of Chelestra for habitation.”

We dwarves were able to provide the humans with information concerning the seamoons themselves, information gleaned from long Times tunneling and delving into the sphere’s interior. The spheres are a shell of rock with a hot interior comprised of various chemicals. The chemicals react with the rays of the seasun and produce breathable air that surrounds the seamoons in a bubble. The seasun is absolutely required to maintain life.

The Phondrans concluded that, in approximately four hundred cycles’ time, the seasun would leave the seamoons far behind. The longnight would arrive, the Goodsea would freeze, and so would anyone left on Phondra, Gargan, and Elmas.

“When the seasun drifts away,” reported the dolphins, who had witnessed this phenomenon firsthand, “the Goodsea turns to ice that slowly encases the seamoons. But such is the magical nature of these moons that most vegetable and some animal life on them remains alive, merely frozen. When the seasun returns, the moons thaw out and are once more habitable.” I remember hearing Dumaka of Phondra, chieftain of his people, relating the dolphins’ information concerning the seamoons to the first emergency meeting of the royal families of Elmas, Phondra, and Gargan, the meeting that took place when we first heard about the seasun drifting off and leaving us. That meeting was held on Phondra, in the big longhouse where the humans hold all their ceremonies. We three girls were hiding in the bushes outside, eavesdropping, as usual. (We were accustomed to spying on our parents shamelessly. We’d been doing it since we were little.)

“Bah! What does a fish know?"[16] my father demanded scornfully. He never took to the notion of talking to dolphins.

“I find the idea of being frozen extremely romantic,” stated Eliason, the elven king. “Imagine—sleeping away the centuries, then wakening to a new era.” His wife had just recently died. I suppose he found the thought of dreamless, painless sleep comforting.

My mother told me later she had a mental image of hundreds of dwarves, thawing out in a new era, their beards dripping all over the rugs. It didn’t sound romantic to her at all. It sounded messy.

Dumaka of Phondra pointed out to the elves that while the idea of being frozen and coming back to life several thousand cycles later might indeed sound romantic, the freezing process itself had definite and painful drawbacks. And how could any of us be certain we would actually return to life?

“After all, we have only the word of a fish on that,” my father stated, and his pronouncement brought general agreement.

The dolphins had brought news that a new seamoon, a much larger moon than any of ours, had just recently thawed out. The dolphins were only now beginning to inspect it, but they thought it would be a perfect place for us to live. It was Dumaka’s proposal that we would build a fleet of sun-chasers, set off in pursuit of the seasun, find this new seamoon as did the ancients. Eliason was somewhat taken aback by the terms build and pursue, which implied a considerable amount of activity, but he wasn’t opposed to the idea. Elves are rarely opposed to anything; opposition takes too much energy. In the same way, they are rarely in favor of anything, either. The Elmas are content to take life as it comes and adapt to it. Humans are the ones who are forever wanting to change and alter and tinker and fix and make better. As for us dwarves, as long as we get paid, nothing else matters.

The Phondrans and the Elmas agreed to finance the sun-chasers. We Gargan were to build them. The humans would supply the lumber. The elves would supply the magic that would be needed to operate the sun-chasers; the Elmas being clever with mechanical magics. (Anything to save themselves physical labor!) And, with typical dwarven efficiency, the sun-chasers had been built and built well.

“But now,” I heard my father say with a sigh, “it has all been for naught. The sun-chasers are destroyed.”

This was the second emergency meeting of the royal families, called by my father. This time, we were meeting, as I said, on Elmas.

We girls had been left in Sabia’s room to “visit” with each other. Instead, immediately on our parents’ departure, we hastened to find a vantage point from which we could, as usual, listen in on their discussions. Our parents were seated on a terrace facing out over the Goodsea. We discovered a small room (a new one) that had opened up above the terrace. Alake used her magic to enlarge an opening through which we could both see and hear clearly. We crowded as near this new window as possible, being careful to keep in the shadows to avoid being seen.

My father went on to describe the serpents’ attack on the submersibles.

“The sun-chasers were all destroyed?” whispered Sabia, as wide-eyed as an elf, with their almond-shaped eyes, can get.

Poor Sabia. Her father never told her anything. Elven daughters lead such sheltered lives. My father always discussed all his plans with both me and my mother.

“Hush!” Alake scolded, trying to hear.

“I’ll tell you later,” I promised, squeezing Sabia’s hand to keep her quiet.

“There’s no possible way to fix them, Yngvar?” Dumaka was asking.

“Not unless those wizards of yours can turn splinters into solid boards again,” my father growled.

He spoke sarcastically; dwarves have little tolerance for magic of any sort, considering most of it trickery, though they are hard-pressed to explain how it works. But I could tell that he was secretly hopeful the humans would come up with the solution.

The Phondran chief said nothing in response, however. A bad sign. Usually the humans are quick to claim their magic can solve any problem. Peeping from over the top of the window ledge, I saw that Dumaka’s face was troubled. My father heaved another sigh, and shifted his bulk uncomfortably in his chair. I sympathized with him. Elven chairs are made for slender elven buttocks.

“I’m sorry, my friend.” My father stroked his beard, a sure sign that he was upset. “I didn’t mean to bark at you. Those blasted beasts have got us by the side whiskers, though, and what we do now is beyond this dwarf to figure out.”

“I think you’re worried about nothing,” said Eliason, with a languid wave of his hand. “You sailed to Elmas in perfect safety. Perhaps these serpents got it into their snakey heads that the sun-chasers were some sort of threat to them, and, once they smashed them to bits, they felt better about the whole thing and departed, never to bother us again.”

“ ‘Masters of the Sea,’ they called themselves,” my father reminded them, his black eyes glistening. “And they meant it. We sailed here by their permission. I’m as certain of that as if I’d heard them give it me. And they were watching. I felt their green-red eyes upon me the whole way.”

“Yes, I think you’re right.”

Dumaka stood up abruptly, walked over to a low wall of coral, and stood gazing down into the shining depths of the calm and placid Goodsea. Was it my imagination, or did I see now upon its surface a trace of shimmering oil?

“I believe you should tell them our news, my dear,” said his wife, Delu. Dumaka did not immediately reply, but kept his back turned, staring gloomily out to sea. He is a tall man, considered handsome by the humans. His rapid-fire speech, swift walk, and abrupt gestures always make him appear, in the realm of the easygoing Elmas, as if he were doing and saying everything in double-quick time. Now, however, he was not pacing or roaming about in frantic activity, trying to outrun the swift mortality that must inevitably overtake him.

“What’s the matter with your father, Alake?” whispered Sabia. “Is he ill?”

“Wait and listen,” said Alake softly. Her face was sad. “Grundle’s parents aren’t the only ones who have a fearful tale to tell.” Eliason must have found this change in his friend as disturbing as I did. He rose to his feet, moving with the slow, fluid grace of the elves, and laid a comforting hand on Dumaka’s shoulder.

“Bad news, like fish, doesn’t smell sweeter for being kept longer,” Eliason said gently.

“Yes, you are right.” Dumaka kept his gaze out to sea. “I had intended to say nothing of this to either of you, because I wasn’t certain of the facts. The magi are investigating.” He cast a glance at his wife, a powerful wizardess. She inclined her head in response. “I wanted to wait for their report. But . . .” He drew a deep breath. “It seems all too clear to me now what happened.

“Two days ago, a small Phondran fishing village, located on the coast directly opposite Gargan, was attacked and completely destroyed. Boats were smashed, houses leveled. One hundred and twenty men, women, and children lived in the village.” Dumaka shook his head, his shoulders bowed. “All are now dead.”

“Ach,” said my father, tugging at his forelock in respectful sympathy.

“The One have mercy,” murmured Eliason. “Was it tribal war?” Dumaka looked around at those gathered on the terrace. The humans of Phondra are a dark-skinned race. Unlike the Elmas, whose emotions run skin-deep, so the saying goes, the Phondrans do not blush in shame or pale in fear or anger. The ebony of their skin often masks their inner feelings. It is their eyes that are most expressive, and the chief’s eyes smoldered in anger and bitter, helpless frustration.

“Not war. Murder.”

“Murder?” It took Eliason a moment to comprehend the word that had been spoken in human. The elves have no term for such a heinous crime in their vocabulary.

“One hundred and twenty people! But . . . who? What?”

“We weren’t certain at first. We found tracks that we could not explain. Could not, until now.” Dumaka’s hand moved in a quick S-shape. “Sinuous waves across the sand. And trails of slime.”

“The serpents?” said Eliason in disbelief. “But why? What did they want?”

“To murder! To kill!” The chieftain’s hand clenched. “It was butchery. Plain out-and-out butchery! The wolf carries off the lamb and we are not angry because we know that this is the nature of the wolf and that the lamb will fill the empty bellies of the wolf’s young. But these serpents or whatever they are did not kill for food. They killed for the pleasure of killing!

“Their victims, every one, even the children, had obviously died slowly, in hideous torment, their bodies left for us to find. I am told that the first few of our people who came upon the village nearly lost their reason at the terrible sights they witnessed.”

“I traveled there myself,” said Delu, her rich voice so low that we girls were forced to creep nearer the window to hear her. “I have suffered since from terrible dreams that haunt me in the night. We could not even give the bodies seemly burial in the Goodsea, for none of us could bear to look upon their tortured faces and see evidence of the agony they had suffered. We magi determined that the entire village, or what was left of it, be burned.”

“It was,” added Dumaka heavily, “as if the killers had left us a message: ‘See in this your own doom!’ ”

I thought back to the serpent’s words: This is a sample of our power. . . . Heed our warning!

We girls stared at each other in a horrified silence that was echoed on the terrace below. Dumaka turned once again and was staring out to sea. Eliason sank down in his chair.

My father struck in with his usual dwarven bluntness. Pushing himself with difficulty out of the small chair, he stamped his feet on the ground, probably in an attempt to restore their circulation. “I mean no disrespect to the dead, but these were fisher folk, unskilled in warfare, lacking weapons ...”

“It would have made no difference if they had been an army,” stated Dumaka grimly. “These people were armed; they have fought other tribes, as well as the jungle beasts. We found scores of arrows that had been fired, but they obviously did no harm. Spears had been cracked in two, as if they’d been chewed up and spit out by giant mouths.”

“And our people were skilled in magic, most of them,” Delu added quietly, “if only on the lowest levels. We found evidence that they had attempted to use their magic in their defense. Magic, too, failed them.”

“But surely the Council of Magi could do something?” suggested Eliason. “Or perhaps magical elven weapons, such as we used to manufacture in times gone by, might work where others failed—no disparagement to your wizards,” he added, politely.

Delu looked at her husband, apparently seeking his agreement in imparting further bad news. He nodded his head.

The wizardess was a tall woman, equaling her husband in height. Her graying hair, worn in a coif at the back of the neck, provided an attractive contrast to her dark complexion. Seven bands of color in her feathered cape marked her status as a wizardess of the Seventh House, the highest rank a human can attain in the use of magic. She stared down at her clasped hands, clasped fast to keep from trembling.

“One member of the Council, the village shamus, was in the village at the time of the attack. We found her body. Her death had been most cruel.” Delu shivered, drew a deep breath, steeling herself to go on. “Around her dismembered corpse lay the tools of her magic, spread about her as if in mockery.”

“One against many . . .” Eliason began.

“Argana was a powerful wizardess,” Delu cried, and her shout made me jump.

“Her magic could have heated the sea water to boiling! She could have raised a typhoon with a wave of her hand. The ground would have opened at a word from her and swallowed her enemies whole! All this, we had evidence that she had done! And still she died. Still they all died!”

Dumaka laid a soothing hand upon his wife’s shoulder. “Be calm, my dear. Eliason meant only that the entire Council, gathered together, might be able to work such powerful magic that these serpents could not withstand it.”

“Forgive me. I’m sorry I lost my temper.” Delu gave the elf a wan smile. “But, like Yngvar, I have seen with my own eyes the terrible destruction these creatures brought upon my people.”

She sighed. “Our magic is powerless in the presence of these creatures, even when they are not in sight. Perhaps the cause is due to the foul ooze they leave on anything they touch. We don’t know. All we know is that when we magi entered the village, we each of us felt our power began to drain away. We couldn’t even use our magic to start the fires to burn the bodies of the dead.”

Eliason looked around the grim, unhappy group. “And so what are we to do?” As an elf his natural inclination must have been to do nothing, wait, and see what time brought. But, according to my father, Eliason was an intelligent ruler, one of the more realistic and practical of his race. He knew, though he would have liked to ignore the fact, that his people’s days on their seamoon were numbered. A decision had to be made, therefore, but he was quite content to let others make it.

“We have one hundred cycles left until the full effects of the wandering of the seasun will begin to be felt,” stated Dumaka. “Time to build more sun-chasers.”

“If the serpents let us,” said my father ominously. “Which I much doubt. And what did they mean by payment? What could they possibly want?” All were silent, thinking.

“Let us look at this logically,” Eliason said finally. “Why do people fight? Why did our races fight each other, generations ago? Through fear, misunderstanding. When we came together and discussed our differences, we found ways to deal with them and we have lived in peace ever since. Perhaps these serpents, powerful as they seem, are, in reality, afraid of us. They see us as a threat. If we tried to talk to them, reassure them that we mean them no harm, that we want only to leave and travel to this new seamoon, then perhaps—” A clamor interrupted him.

The noise had come from the part of the terrace attached to the palace—a part hidden from my view—being short, it was difficult for me to see out the window.

“What’s going on?” I demanded impatiently.

“I don’t know . . .” Sabia was trying to see without being seen. Alake actually poked her head out the opening. Fortunately, our parents were paying no attention to us.

“A messenger of some sort,” she reported.

“Interrupting a royal conference?” Sabia was shocked. I dragged over a footstool and climbed up on it. I could now see the white-faced footman who had, against all rules of protocol, actually run onto the terrace. The footman, seeming nearly about to faint, leaned to whisper something in Eliason’s ear. The elven king listened, frowning.

“Bring him here,” he said at last.

The footman hastened off.

Eliason looked gravely at his friends. “One of the message riders was attacked oh the road and is, apparently, grievously wounded. He bears a message, he says, which is to be delivered to us, to all of us gathered here this day. I have ordered them to bring him here.”

“Who attacked him?” asked Dumaka.

Eliason was silent a moment, then said, “Serpents.”

“A message ‘to all of us gathered here,’” repeated my father dourly. “I was right. They are watching us.”

“Payment,” said my mother, the first word she’d spoken since the conference began.

“I don’t understand.” Eliason sounded frustrated. “What can they possibly want?”

“I’ll wager we are about to find out.”

They said nothing further, but sat waiting, unwilling to look at each other, finding no comfort in seeing the reflection of their own dazed bewilderment on the faces of their friends.

“We shouldn’t be here. We shouldn’t be doing this,” said Sabia suddenly. Her face was very pale; her lips trembled.

Alake and I looked at her, looked at each other, looked down at the floor in shame. Sabia was right. This spying on our parents had always been a game to us, something we could giggle over in the night after they’d sent us to our beds. Now it was a game no longer. I don’t know how the other two felt, but I found it frightening to see my parents, who had always seemed so strong and wise, in such confusion, such distress.

“We should leave, now,” Sabia urged, and I knew she was right, but I could no more have climbed down off that footstool than I could have flown out the window.

“Just a moment more,” said Alake.

The sound of slippered feet, moving slowly, shuffling as if bearing a burden, came to us. Our parents drew themselves upright, standing straight and tall, disquiet replaced by stern gravity. My father smoothed his beard. Dumaka folded his arms across his chest. Delu drew a stone from a pouch she wore at her side and rubbed it in her hand, her lips moving.

Six elven men entered, bearing a litter between them. They moved slowly, carefully, in order to prevent jostling the wounded elf. At a gesture from their king, they gently placed the litter on the ground before him. Accompanying them was an elven physician, skilled in the healing arts of his people. On entering, I saw him glance askance at Delu; perhaps fearing interference. Elven and human healing techniques are considerably different, the former relying on extensive study of anatomy combined with alchemy, the latter treating hurts by means of sympathetic magic, chants to drive out evil humors, certain stones laid on vital body parts. We dwarves rely on the One and our own common sense.

Seeing that Delu made no move toward his patient, the elven physician relaxed. Or it may have been that he suddenly realized it would make no difference if the human wizardess attempted to work her magic. It was obvious to us and to everyone present that nothing in this world would help the dying elf.

“Don’t look, Sabia,” Alake warned, drawing back and attempting to hide the gruesome sight from her friend.

But it was too late. I heard Sabia’s breath catch in her throat and I knew she’d seen.

The young elf’s clothes were torn and soaked in blood. Cracked and splintered ends of bones protruded through the purple flesh of his legs. His eyes were missing, they’d been gouged out. The blind head turned this way and that, the mouth opened and closed, repeating some words that I couldn’t hear in a fevered sort of chant.

“He was found this morning outside the city gates, Your Majesty,” one of the elves said. “We heard his screams.”

“Who brought him?” Eliason asked, voice stern to mask his horror.

“We saw no one, Your Majesty. But a trail of foul ooze led from the body back to the sea.”

“Thank you. You may go now. Wait outside.”

The elves who had brought the litter bowed and left.

Once they were gone, our parents could give way to their feelings. Eliason cast his mantle over his head and averted his face, an elven response to grief. Dumaka turned away, strong body trembling in rage and pity. His wife rose and came to stand by his side, her hand on his arm. My father gathered his beard in great handfuls and pulled on it, bringing tears to his eyes. My mother yanked on her side whiskers.

I did the same. Alake was comforting Sabia, who had nearly passed out.

“We should take her to her room,” I said.

“No. I won’t go.” Sabia lifted her chin. “Someday I will be queen, and I must know how to handle situations like this.”

I looked at her with surprise and new respect. Alake and I had always considered Sabia weak and delicate. I’d seen her turn pale at the sight of blood running from a piece of undercooked meat. But, faced with a crisis, she was coming through it like a dwarven soldier. I was proud of her. Breeding will tell, they say.

We peeped cautiously out the window.

The physician was speaking to the king.

“Your Majesty, this messenger has refused all easeful medicine in order that he may deliver his message. I beg you listen to him.”

Eliason removed his mantle at once and knelt beside the dying elf.

“You are in the presence of your king,” said Eliason, keeping his voice calm and level. He took hold of the man’s hand that was clutching feebly at the air. “Deliver your message, then go with all honor to the One and find rest.” The elf’s bloody eye sockets turned in the direction of the voice. His words came forth slowly, with many pauses to draw pain-filled breaths.

“The Masters of the Sea bid me say thus: ‘We will allow you to build the boats to carry your people to safety provided you give us in payment the eldest girl-child from each royal household. If you agree to our demand, place your daughters in a boat and cast them forth upon the Goodsea. If you do not, what we have done to this elf and to the human fisherman and to the dwarven shipbuilders is only a foretaste of the destruction we will bring upon your people. We give you two cycles to make your decision.’ ”

“But why? Why our daughters?” Eliason cried, grasping the wounded man by the shoulders and almost shaking him.

“I ... do not know,” the elf gasped, and died.

Alake drew away from the window. Sabia shrank back against the wall. I climbed down off the footstool before I fell.

“We shouldn’t have heard that,” Alake said in a hollow voice.

“No,” I agreed. I was cold and hot at the same time and I couldn’t stop shaking.

“Us? They want us?” Sabia whispered, as if she couldn’t believe it. We stared at each other, helpless, wondering what to do.

“The window,” I warned, and Alake closed it up with her magic.

“Our parents will never agree to such a thing,” she said briskly. “We mustn’t let them know we know. It would grieve them terribly. We’ll go back to Sabia’s room and act like nothing’s happened.”

I cast a dubious glance at Sabia, who was as white as curdled milk, and who seemed about to collapse on the spot.

“I can’t lie!” she protested. “I’ve never lied to my father.”

“You don’t have to lie,” Alake snapped, her fear making her sharp-edged and brittle. “You don’t have to say anything. Just keep quiet.” She yanked poor Sabia out of her corner and, together, she and I helped the elven maid down the shimmering coral corridors. After a few false turns, we made it to Sabia’s room. None of us spoke on the way.

All of us were thinking of the elf we’d seen, of the torture he’d endured. My insides clenched in fear; a horrid taste came into my mouth. I didn’t know why I was so frightened. As Alake had said, my parents would never permit the serpents to take me.

It was, I know now, the voice of the One speaking to me, but I was refusing to listen.

We entered Sabia’s room—thankfully, no servants were about—and shut the door behind us. Sabia sank down on the edge of her bed, twisting her hands together. Alake stood glaring angrily out a window, as if she’d like to go and hit someone.

In the silence, I could no longer avoid hearing the One. And I knew, looking at their faces, that the One was talking to Alake and Sabia, as well. It was left to me, to the dwarf, to speak the bitter words aloud.

“Alake’s right. Our parents won’t send us. They won’t even tell us about this. They’ll keep it a secret from our people. And our people will die, never knowing that there was a chance they might have been spared.” Sabia whispered, “I wish we’d never heard! If only we hadn’t gone up there!”

“We were meant to hear,” I said gruffly.

“You’re right, Grundle,” said Alake, turning to face us. “The One wanted us to hear. We have been given the chance to save our people. The One has left it up to us to make the decision, not our parents. We are the ones who must be strong now.”

As she talked, I could see she was getting caught up in it all: the romance of martyrdom, of sacrifice. Humans set great store in such things, something we dwarves can never understand. Almost all human heroes are those who die young, untimely, giving up their brief lives for some noble cause. Not so dwarves. Our heroes are the Elders, those who live a just life through ages of strife and work and hardship.

I couldn’t help but think of the broken elf with his eyes plucked out of his head.

What nobility is there in dying like that? I wanted to ask her. But, for once, I held my tongue. Let her find comfort where she could. I must find it in my duty. As for Sabia, she had truly meant what she said about being a queen.

“But I was to have been married,” she said.

The elven maid wasn’t arguing or whining. She knew what we had to do. It was her one protest against her terrible fate, and it was very gentle. Alake has just come in for the second time to tell me that I must sleep. We must “conserve our strength.”

Bah! But I’ll humor her. It’s best that I stop here anyhow. The rest that I must write—the story of Devon and Sabia—is both painful and sweet. The memory will comfort me as I lie awake, trying to keep fear as far away as possible, in the lonely darkness.