Serpent Mage

7

Morning. Another morning of despair, of fear. The mornings are the worst time for me. I wake from terrible dreams and for a minute I pretend I’m back in my bed in my home and I tell myself that the dreams are nothing more than that. But I can’t ignore the fact that the horror-filled dreams might, at any time, become reality. We have not seen any sign of the dragon-snakes, but we know Someone is watching us. We are none of us seaman, we have no idea how to steer this ship, yet Something is steering it. Something guides it. And we have no idea what.

Dread keeps us from even venturing on the upper deck. We have fled to the lower part of the ship, where the Something seems content to leave us alone. Each morning, Alake, Devon, and I meet and try to swallow the food for which we have no appetite. And we look at each other and we ask ourselves silently if today will be the day, the last day.

The waiting is the most awful part. Our terror grows in us daily. Our nerves are ragged, taut. Devon—good-natured Devon—quarreled with Alake over some little offhand remark she made about elves that he took completely the wrong way. I can hear them now, still raving at each other. It’s not anger that harries them, but fear. I think the fear will drive us mad. In remembering, I can, for a while, forget. I will tell about our leave-taking.

It was bitter and grievous. As it turned out, making that initial decision to give ourselves up to the dragon-snakes was the easy part. We composed ourselves, dried our tears, and talked over what we were going to say to our parents. We chose Alake as our speaker and went out to the terrace. Our parents were not prepared for the sight of us. Eliason, having so recently lost his beloved wife to some elven malady, could not bear to look at Sabia, his only daughter and the very image of her lovely mother. He turned away, his eyes filled with tears.

At this, Sabia lost her courage. Going to him, she put her arms around him and her tears mingled with his. Of course, this said everything.

“You overheard!” Dumaka accused us, scowling. “You were listening again!” I had never seen him so furious. Alake’s carefully planned speech died on her trembling lips.

“Father, we mean to go. You cannot stop us . . .”

“No!” he roared in a fury, and began pounding on the coral with his clenched fist, beating it, smashing it until I saw the pink turn red with his blood.

“No! I will die before I submit to this—”

“Yes, you will die!” Alake cried. “And our people will die! Is that what you want, Father?”

“Fight!” Dumaka’s black eyes flashed fire, foam frothed on his lips. “We will fight them! The beasts are mortal, just as we are. They have a heart that can be slashed open, a head that can be cut off—”

“Yes,” said my father stoutly. “We will do battle.” His beard was torn. I saw great clumps of it lying on the floor at his feet. That was the first time I fully understood what our decision meant. I don’t think we had made it lightly, but we had made it considering only ourselves, thinking only of what we would suffer. Now I came to realize that though we might die and die horribly, we could only die once and it would be over and we would be safe with the One. Our parents (and those others who loved us) must suffer and die our deaths in their minds time and time again. I was so ashamed, I couldn’t face him.

He and Dumaka were ranting on about battle-axes and weapons they would manufacture and how the elves would enchant them. Eliason actually recovered enough to offer a few broken suggestions. I couldn’t say a word. I began to think that maybe our people did have a chance, that we could fight the serpents and that our lives would be spared. And then I noticed Alake. She was strangely quiet, strangely calm.

“Mother,” she said suddenly, coldly, “you have to tell them the truth.” Delu flinched. She cast her daughter a swift, smoldering glance that commanded silence, but it was too late. Her look made it worse, for we all saw plainly that she had something to hide.

“What truth?” demanded my mother sharply.

“I am not permitted to speak of it,” Delu said thickly, keeping her eyes averted from us all. “As my daughter well knows,” she added bitterly.

“You must, Mother,” Alake persisted. “Or will you let them go blindly out to fight an enemy that cannot be defeated?”

“What does she mean, Delu?”

It was my mother again. She was the shortest person there. She is shorter even than I am. I can see her now, side whiskers quivering, chin jutted out, arms akimbo, feet planted firmly on the ground. Delu was tall and willowy; my mother came only to her waist. But, in my memory, it is my mother who stands tall to me that day, tall in her strength and courage.

Delu crumbled, a tree falling to my mother’s blade. The human sorceress sank down onto a low bench, her hands clasping and unclasping in her lap, her head bowed.

“I can’t go into detail,” she said in a low voice, “I shouldn’t be telling you this much, but. . . but . . .” She swallowed, drew a quivering breath. “I’ll try to explain. When a murder has been committed . . .” (I pause here to note that humans do actually kill their own kind. I know you might find it difficult to believe, but it is the truth. One would think that considering their short life span they would hold life sacred. But no. They kill for the most paltry of reasons, greed, vengeance, and lust being chief among them.)

“When a murder has been committed and the murderer cannot be found,” Delu was saying, “the members of the Coven can—by use of a spell whose very existence I should not now be revealing—gather information about the person who has perpetrated the deed.”

“They can even conjure up an image of the person,” Alake added, “if they find a lock of hair or traces of the murderer’s blood or skin.”

“Hush, child. What are you saying?” her mother reprimanded, but her protest was weak, her spirit crushed.

Alake continued. “A single thread can tell the Coven what the murderer wore. If the crime is recent, the shock of the outrage lingers in the very air and we can draw from it—”

“No, Daughter!” Delu looked up. “That is enough. Suffice it to say that we can conjure an image not only of the murderer but also, for lack of a better term, the murderer’s soul.”

“And the Coven performed this spell in the village?”

“Yes, Husband. It was magic. I was forbidden to tell you.” Dumaka did not look pleased, but he said nothing. Humans revere magic, hold it in awe and fear. Elves take a more practical view of it, but that may be because elven magic deals with more practical things. We dwarves never saw much point in either. Oh, certainly it saves time and labor, but one has to give up freedom to pay for it. After all, who ever really trusts a wizard?

Apparently, not even a spouse.

“And so, Delu, you cast this spell on the beast’s droppings or whatever they left behind.” My mother single-mindedly dragged us all back to the subject at hand. “And just what did you find out about their souls?”

“That they have none,” said Delu.

My mother flung her hands in the air in exasperation, glanced at my father as much as to say they’d wasted their time for nothing. But I knew, from Alake’s expression, that more was coming.

“They have no souls,” Delu continued, fixing her stern gaze on my mother.

“Can’t you understand? All mortal beings have souls. Just as all mortal beings have bodies.”

“And it’s the bodies we’re worried about,” snapped my mother.

“What Delu is trying to say,” Alake explained, “is that these serpents have no souls and are, therefore, not mortal.”

“Which means they are immortal?” Eliason stared at the girl in shock. “They can’t be killed?”

“We are not certain,” Delu said wearily, rising to her feet. “That is why I thought it best not to bring it up. The Coven has never encountered any creatures like this. We simply do not know.”

“But that is what you surmise?” Dumaka asked.

Delu would have preferred not to answer, it seemed, but after a moment, she concluded she had no choice.

“If what we have discovered is true, then they are not serpents. They are a creature of the genus known anciently as ‘dragon’. The ancients held the dragon to be immortal, but that was probably only because the dragon was nearly impossible to kill. Not that it couldn’t be killed.” She was briefly defiant, but her defiance quickly faded. “The dragon is extremely powerful. Especially in magic.”

“We cannot fight the beasts,” said my father, “and have any hope of winning. Is that what you are saying? Because what I am saying is that it makes no difference to me! We will not voluntarily give up one dwarf—any dwarf—to them. And so will say my people.”

I knew he was right. I knew we dwarves would see ourselves destroyed as a race before we would sacrifice one of our kind. I knew I was safe. I was filled with relief . . . and my shame deepened.

Dumaka looked around, his dark eyes fierce. “I agree with Yngvar. We must fight them.”

“But, Father,” Alake argued. “How can you doom all our people to death for my sake—”

“I do not do this for your sake, Daughter,” Dumaka countered sternly. “I do this for the sake of our people. We give up one daughter to them and who knows but that next time these ‘dragons’ will demand all our daughters. And the time after that our sons. No!” He slammed his already bleeding hand on the coral. “We will fight. And so will say all our people!”

“I will not give up my precious child,” Eliason whispered in a tear-choked voice.

He was holding onto Sabia as tightly as if he saw the coils winding around her already. Sabia clung to him, weeping for his grief more than for her own.

“Nor will my people ever agree to pay such a terrible price for their own well-being, even if, as Dumaka says, we could trust these snakes or dragons or whatever they be called.

“We will fight,” Eliason continued, more resolutely. Then he sighed, and glanced around at us somewhat helplessly. “Though it has been many long, long epoches since elves went to battle. Still, I suppose the knowledge needed to make weapons is in our archives ...”

My father snorted. “And you think these beasts will wait around for you elves to read the books and then dig the ore and build the smithies before you can set blade to hilt. Bah! We must make do with what we have. I will send battle-axes—”

“And I will provide you with spears and swords,” Dumaka struck in, hard-edged, battle lust burning.

Delu and Eliason began to discuss and debate various military enchantments and mantras and cantrips. Unfortunately, elven magic and human were so dissimilar that neither could offer the other much assistance, but they both seemed to find comfort in at least the appearance of doing something constructive.

“Why don’t you girls go back to Sabia’s room,” suggested my mother. “You’ve had a shock.” Coming over, she hugged me to her breast. “But I will always honor and remember my brave daughter, offering her life for her people.” My mother left to join my father in a spirited argument with Dumaka over battle-axes versus pole-axes, and we girls were forgotten.

And so that was that. They’d made their decision. I felt that I should be rejoicing, but my heart—which had been strangely light after we’d chosen to sacrifice ourselves—felt as heavy as lead in my breast. It was all I could do to carry the burden; my feet dragged through the glistening, coral hallways. Alake was grim and thoughtful. Sabia was still occasionally shaken by sobs, and so we said nothing to each other until we reached the elf maid’s room. Even then, we did not speak, at least aloud. But our thoughts were like streams of water, all traveling the same direction, at last converging. I knew this because I looked suddenly at Alake and found her looking at me. We both turned, at the identical moment, to look at Sabia, whose eyes widened. She sank weakly down upon her bed, and shook her head.

“No, you can’t be thinking that! You heard what my father said ...”

“Sabia, listen to me.” Alake’s tone reminded me of times when we’d try to get the elf maid to agree to play a trick on our governess. “Are you going to be able to stand here in this room and watch your people being slaughtered before your eyes and say to yourself: ‘I might have prevented this’?” Sabia hung her head.

I went over to her, put my arm around her shoulders. Elves are so thin, I thought. Their bones are so fragile you might break them with a touch.

“Our parents will never permit us to go,” I said. “And so we must take matters into our own hands. If there is a chance, even a tiny chance, that we could be the saviors of our people, then we must take it.”

“My father!” mourned Sabia, beginning to cry again. “It will break my father’s heart.”

I thought of my father, of the clumps of beard lying on the floor at his feet, of my mother hugging me, and my courage almost failed me. Then I thought of the dwarves caught in the dragon-snake’s hideous, toothless mouths. I thought of Hartmut, his battle-ax shining, but looking small and powerless compared to the gigantic beasts.

I think of him now, as I write, and of my father and my mother and my people, and I know that we did the right thing. As Alake said, I could not have stood and watched my people die and say to myself, I might have prevented this!

“Your father will have the elven people to think about, Sabia. He will be strong, for your sake, you may be sure of that. Grundle”—Alake’s black eyes shifted to me, her manner was brisk, commanding—“what about the boat?”

“It’s moored in the harbor,” I said. “The captain and most of the crew will be ashore during the rest hours, leaving only a land-watch on board. We can handle them. I have a plan.”

“Very well.” Alake left that to me. “We’ll sneak away in the time of the deep sleep. Gather together whatever you think you might need. I assume that there is food and water on board the vessel?”

“And weapons,” I added.

That was a mistake. Sabia looked as if she might faint, and even Alake appeared dubious. I said no more. I didn’t tell them that I, for one, meant to die fighting.

“I will take what I need for my magic,” said Alake. Sabia gazed at us helplessly. “I could take my lute,” she offered. Poor girl. I think she had some vague idea of charming the dragon-snakes with her song. I almost laughed, caught Alake’s eye, and sighed instead. Actually, once I thought about it, her lute and my ax would probably accomplish about the same thing.

“Very well. We part now, to put together what we need. Be circumspect. Be quiet. Be secret! We’ll send a message to our parents telling them that we’re too upset to come down to dinner. The fewer people we see the better. Do you understand? You tell no one.” Alake fixed her stern gaze on Sabia.

“No one . . . except Devon,” the elf maid replied.

“Devon! Absolutely not! He’d talk you out of it.” Alake has a low opinion of men.

Sabia bristled. “He is my chosen husband-to-be. He has a right to know. We keep nothing from each other. It is a matter of honor between us. He won’t say anything to anyone if I ask him not to.”

Her small, pointed chin quivered in defiance, her slender shoulders squared. Trust an elf to develop a backbone at the worst possible time. Alake didn’t like it, but she could see as well as I that Sabia wouldn’t be argued out of this.

“You’ll resist all his pleadings and tears and arguments?” Alake said crossly.

“Yes,” said Sabia, a pretty flush coming to her pale cheeks. “I know how important this is, Alake. I won’t fail you. And Devon will understand. You’ll see. He is a prince, remember. He knows what it means to have a responsibility to our people.”

I poked Alake in the ribs. “I have things to do,” I said gruffly. “And there’s not much time.”

The seasun was drifting beyond the far shore into the night. Already, the sea was dimming into deep purple; the servants were flitting about the palace, lighting the lamps.

Sabia rose from her bed and started to pack her lute in its case. Obviously, our conversation was at an end.

“We’ll meet back here,” I said.

Sabia nodded cool agreement. I managed to get Alake, who still seemed inclined to want to stay and argue, out of the bedroom and into the hall. Through the closed door, I could hear Sabia begin to sing an elven song called “Lady Dark,” a song sad enough to break the heart.

“Devon will never let her go! He’ll tell our parents!” Alake hissed at me.

“We’ll come back early,” I whispered, “and keep an eye on them. If he starts to leave, we’ll stop him. You can do it with your magic, can’t you?”

“Yes, of course.” Alake’s dark eyes flashed. “Excellent idea, Grundle. I should have thought of it myself. What time should we return?”

“Dinner’s in a signe.[20] He’s staying here in the palace. He’ll be worried when she doesn’t appear, and he’ll come to see what’s wrong. That gives us time.”

“But what if she sends him a message to come earlier?”

“He can’t risk insulting her father by missing a meal.” I knew quite a bit about elven etiquette, having been forced to endure it during my stay here. Alake had lived here, too, but—typical of humans—she’d always done exactly as she pleased. To give Alake her due, she probably would have starved to death before getting through one of the elven dinners, which could sometimes stretch into cycles, with several hours between courses. I figured that Eliason would have small appetite for his meal this day, however. Alake and I separated, each returning to our own quarters. I bustled about, making up a small bundle of clothing, whisker brush, and other necessities, just as if I were packing to go visit Phondra on a holiday. The excitement and daring of our scheme kept me from thinking through to what must be its dreadful conclusion. It was only when it came time to write a farewell letter to my parents that my heart began to fail me.

Of course, my parents wouldn’t be able to read what I had written, but I planned to enclose a note to the elven king, asking him to read it to them. I tore up many sheets before I was able to say what I wanted, and then left it so covered with tears I’m not sure anyone could decipher it. I hope and pray it brought some comfort to my parents.

When I was finished, I stuffed the letter in my father’s beard-trimming kit, where he would find it in the morning and not before. I lingered, then, in my parent’s guest quarters, looking lovingly at each little thing belonging to them and wishing with all my heart that I could see them one last time. But I knew quite well that I could never deceive my mother and so I left hastily, while they were still at dinner, and returned to the part of the palace where Sabia lived.

Finding a quiet niche, needing to be alone, I settled myself in it and asked the One for strength and guidance and help. I was greatly comforted and a peaceful feeling came over me, giving me to know that I was doing the right thing.

The One meant us to overhear that conversation. The One will not forsake us. These dragon-snakes may be evil, but the One is good. The One will guard us and keep us. No matter how powerful these creatures are, they are not more powerful than the One who, so we believe, made this world and all in it. I was feeling much better, and was just beginning to wonder what had happened to Alake when I saw Devon dash past me, heading for Sabia’s rooms. I crept out of my niche, hoping to see which antechamber he entered (for, of course, he wouldn’t be allowed into Sabia’s bedroom), and I bumped into Alake.

“What took you so long?” I asked irritably in a low tone. “Devon’s already here!”

“Magic rites,” she told me loftily. “I cannot explain.” I might have known. I heard Devon’s worried voice and the voice of Sabia’s duenna[21] answering him, telling him that Sabia was unwell, but would see him in the sitting room, if he wanted to wait.

He headed in that direction. Doors shut.

Alake darted into the hall, I trotted after her and we scuttled into the music room that adjoined the sitting room only a split instant ahead of Sabia and her duenna.

“Are you quite up to this, my dear?” The duenna was hovering over Sabia like a hen with one chick. “You don’t look at all well.”

“I do have a frightful headache,” we heard Sabia say in a weak voice. “Could you fetch me some lavender water to bathe my temples?” Alake placed her hand upon the coral wall, muttered several words, and it dissolved beneath her fingers, creating an opening big enough for her to peek through. She created another hole at my level. Fortunately, elves fill their rooms with furniture and vases and flowers and birdcages, so we were well-concealed, although I had to peer through the leaves of a palm and Alake was eye-to-eye with a singing phurah bird.

Sabia was standing near Devon, as close as was considered proper between betrothed couples. The duenna returned with woeful news.

“Poor Sabia. We are out of lavender water. I can’t imagine how. I know the bottle was filled only yesterday.”

“Could you please be a dear, Marabella, and fill it again? My head does throb most awfully.” Sabia put her hand to her forehead. “There is some in my mother’s old room, I believe.”

“I’m afraid she is very ill,” said Devon anxiously.

“But your mother’s room is on the other side of the Grotto,” said the duenna.

“I shouldn’t leave you two alone . . .”

“I only intend to stay a moment,” said Devon.

“Please, Marabella?” pleaded Sabia.

The elven princess had never been refused anything in her life. The duenna fluttered her hands in indecision. Sabia gave a faint moan. The duenna left. Knowing that many new rooms had been opened and several old hallways overgrown between here and Sabia’s mother’s room, I didn’t expect the duenna to find her way back much before morning.

Sabia, in her gentle voice, began to explain everything to Devon. I can’t describe the painful scene that followed between the two of them. They had grown up together and loved each other dearly since childhood. Devon listened in horrified shock that gave way to outrage, and he argued and protested vehemently. I was proud of Sabia, who remained calm and composed, though what I knew she was suffering over his agony brought tears to my eyes.

“Honor-bound, I have told you our secret, Beloved,” she said, clasping her hands over his, looking straight into his eyes. “You have the power to stop us, to betray us. But you will not, I know, because you are a prince and you understand I make this sacrifice for the good of our people. And I know, my dearest, that your sacrifice will be far harder than mine, but I know you will be strong for my sake, as I am strong for yours.”

Devon sank to his knees, overcome by grief. Sabia knelt beside him, put her arms around him. I drew away from my spyhole, bitterly ashamed of myself. Alake moved away from hers, covered both over with her hand and a word of magic. She generally scoffed at love. I noticed now that she had nothing to say on the subject and that she was blinking her eyes quite rapidly. We sat in the music room in the dark, not daring to light a lamp. I whispered to her my plan to steal the boat, which she approved. When I mentioned, however, that I had very little idea how to operate it, her face grew grave.

“I don’t believe that will be a problem,” she said, and I guessed what she meant.

The dragon-snakes would be watching for us.

She spoke to me something of the magic spells she was studying at her level (she had recently moved up to Third House, whatever that means). I knew she wasn’t really supposed to be talking much about her magic, and I must admit I wasn’t all that interested and I understood nothing of what she was saying. But she was trying to distract us, keep us from thinking about our fear, and so I listened with pretended interest.

Then we heard a door shut. Devon must have left. Poor fellow, I thought, and wondered very much what he would do. Elves had been known to sicken and die of grief, and I had little doubt that Devon would not long outlive Sabia.

“We’ll give her a few moments to compose herself,” said Alake, with unusual consideration.

“Not too long,” I cautioned. “The household must have been in bed this past signe. We have to get out of this maze and through the streets and down to the wharf yet.”

Alake agreed and, after a few tense moments, we both decided that we could take no more waiting and headed for the door.

The hallway was dark and deserted. We had thought up a plausible story, in case we ran into Marabella, but there was no sign of her or her lavender water. Creeping over to Sabia’s bedchamber, we tapped lightly on the door and softly pushed it open.

Sabia was moving around her bedroom in the darkness, gathering up her things. Hearing the door open, she jumped and swiftly flung a filmy scarf around her head, then turned to face us.

“Who is it?” she whispered in fear. “Marabella?”

“It’s only us,” I said. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, yes. Just a moment.”

She was in a flutter, obviously, for she stumbled about the room in the darkness as if she’d never been inside it before. Her voice, too, had changed, I noticed, but concluded that she must be hoarse from sobbing. At length, falling over a chair, she made her way to us, clutching a silken bag out of which spilled lace and ribbons.

“I’m ready,” she said in a muffled voice, keeping the scarf over her face, probably to hide her tear-swollen eyes and nose. Elves are so vain.

“What about the lute?” I asked.

“The what?”

“The lute. You were going to take your lute.”

“Oh, uh. I ... I decided . . . not to,” she said lamely, coughed, and cleared her throat.

Alake had been keeping watch in the hall. She beckoned to us impatiently.

“Come on before Marabella catches us!”

Sabia hastened after her. I was about to follow, when I heard what I thought was a sigh coming from the darkness, and a rustle in Sabia’s bed. I looked back, saw an odd shadow, and was about to say something when Alake pounced on me.

“Come on, Grundle!” she insisted, digging her nails into my arm and dragging me out.

I thought no more of it.

We three made our way out of the Grotto safely. Sabia led us, and we only got lost once. Thank the One elves never feel the need, as do humans, to post guards over everything. The streets of the elven city were deserted, as would be any dwarven road at this time. It is only in human villages that you find people wandering about at all hours of the night.

We reached the boat. Alake cast her magical sleep over the dwarves on watch and they toppled to the decks snoring blissfully. Then we faced what would be our most difficult challenge during that entire night—hauling the slumbering dwarves out of the boat and back to shore, where we planned to hide them among some barrels.

The sleeping dwarves were so much deadweight, and I was certain I’d torn my arms out of their sockets after wrestling with the first. I asked Alake if she didn’t know a flying spell we could cast on them, but she said she hadn’t gone that far in her studies yet. Oddly, weak, fragile Sabia proved unusually strong and adept at dwarf-hauling. Again, I thought this strange. Was I truly blind? Or had the One commanded me to shut my eyes?

We manhandled the last dwarf off and slipped onto the boat, which was really just a much smaller version of the submersible I’ve already described. Our first task was to search the berths and the hold, gathering the various axes and pole arms the crew had left about. We carried these up to the open deck, located behind the observation room.

Alake and Sabia began to throw them overboard. I cringed at the splashing sounds the arms made, certain that it must be heard by everyone in the city.

“Wait!” I grabbed hold of Alake. “We don’t have to get rid of all of them, do we? Couldn’t we keep one or two?”

“No, we must convince the creatures that we are defenseless,” said Alake firmly, and tossed the last few over the rail.

“There are eyes watching us, Grundle,” Sabia whispered in awe. “Can’t you feel them?”

I could, and that didn’t make me any happier about handing over our weapons to the dolphins. I was glad that I’d had the foresight to slip an ax beneath my bed. What Alake doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

We trailed back to the observation room, none of us saying anything, each wondering what would happen next. Once there, we stood staring at each other.

“I suppose I could try to run this thing,” I offered. But that wasn’t necessary.

As Alake had foretold, the boat’s hatches suddenly slammed shut, sealing us inside. The vessel, steered by no one that we could see, glided away from the pier and headed out into open sea.

The fevered excitement and thrill of our stealthy escape began to seep out of us, leaving us chilled; the full realization of what was likely to be our terrible fate was stark before us. Water swept over the deck and engulfed the windows. Our ship sank into the Goodsea.

Frightened and alone, we each reached out our hands to the others. And then, of course, we knew that Sabia wasn’t Sabia.

It was Devon.