Serpent Mage (12 page)

Orla's eyes flicked quickly to Samah. The woman's face was exceedingly pale. The other Council members shifted in their chairs, some looking at Samah, others looking at the dust all around them.

“No,” said Samah. “I am not a descendant of that man.” He paused, perhaps considering the implications of his answer. “I am that man,” he said at last.

Alfred nodded, breathed a gentle sigh. “Yes, I thought so. And this is the Council of Seven who made the decision to sunder the World, establish four separate and distinct worlds in its place. This is the Council who directed the fight against the Patryns, the Council who brought about
our enemy's defeat and effected their capture. This is the Council who built the Labyrinth and imprisoned our enemies within it. This is the Council by whose direction some of the mensch were rescued from the destruction and transported to each of the four worlds, there to begin what you planned to be a new order, there to live together in peace and prosperity.”

“Yes,” said Samah, “this is the Council of which you speak.”

“Yes,” repeated Orla, softly, sadly, “this is that Council.”

Samah shot her a displeased glance. Of the other Council members—four men and one more woman—two of the men and the woman frowned in agreement with Samah, the remaining two men nodded, apparently siding with Orla.

The rift in the Council gaped, chasm-like, at Alfred's feet, causing him to lose hold of his thoughts, that had never been grasped all that securely. He could only stare at his brethren, open-mouthed.

“We have answered your questions,” Samah said, voice grating. “Have you any others?”

Alfred did, but he was having difficulty putting his questions in words proper to ask the head of the Council of Seven. At last he managed to say, lamely, “Why did you go to sleep?”

The question was simple. To his horror, Alfred heard echoing around it all the other questions that should have remained locked in his heart. They reverberated through the room in unspoken, anguished cries.

Why did you leave us? Why did you abandon those who needed you? Why did you shut your eyes to the chaos and destruction and misery?

Samah appeared grave and troubled. Alfred, appalled at what he'd done, could only stammer and flap his hands ineffectually in a vague effort to silence the voice of his own being.

“Questions begat questions, it seems,” Samah said at last. “I see that I cannot easily answer yours unless you answer some of mine. You are not from Chelestra, are you?”

“No, Samah,
¹
I am not. I am from Arianus, the world of air.”

“And you came to this world through Death's Gate, I presume?”

Alfred hesitated. “It might be more correct to say I came by accident… or perhaps by dog,” he added with a slight smile.

His words were creating pictures in the minds of those he addressed, pictures that they were obviously, from the bewilderment on their faces, having difficulty understanding.

Alfred could imagine their confusion. He could see in his mind Arianus, its various mensch races warring, its wonderful, marvelous machine doing absolutely nothing, its Sartan gone and forgotten. He could see in his mind his journey through Death's Gate, see Haplo's ship, see Haplo.

Alfred steeled himself for what he assumed must be Samah's next question, but apparently the images were coming so fast and furious that the Sartan had evidently shut them out completely in an attempt to concentrate on his own thoughts.

“You came accidentally, you say. You were not sent to wake us?”

“No,” said Alfred, sighing. “There was, to be honest, no one to send me.”

“Our people on Arianus did not receive our message? Our plea for help?”

“I don't know.” Alfred shook his head, stared down at his shoes. “If they did, it was a long time ago. A long, long time ago.”

Samah was silent. Alfred knew what he was thinking.

The Councillor was wondering how best to ask a question he was deeply reluctant to ask.

At length, the Councillor glanced at Orla.

“We have a son. He is in the other room. He is twenty-five years of age, as counted at the time of the Sundering. If he had continued on in his life and had not chosen the Sleep, how old would he be?”

“He would not be alive,” said Alfred.

Samah's lips trembled. He controlled himself, with an effort. “We Sartan live long. Are you certain? If he grew to be an old, old man?”

“He would not be alive, nor would his children be alive, nor the children of his children.”

Alfred did not add the worst, that it was very likely the young man would have had no descendants at all. Alfred attempted to hide this fact, but he saw that the Councillor was beginning to understand. He'd seen in Alfred's mind the rows of crypts on Arianus, the dead Sartan walking the lava flows on Abarrach.

“How long have we slept?” Samah asked.

Alfred ran a hand over his balding head. “I can't say for certain, or give you numbers. The history, the time, differs from world to world.”

“Centuries?”

“Yes. I believe so.”

Orla's mouth moved, as if she would speak, but she said nothing. The Sartan appeared dazed, stunned. It must be a terrible thing, Alfred thought, to wake and realize that eons have passed while you slept. Wake to the knowledge that the carefully crafted universe you imagined pillowed your slumbering head has fallen into ruin and chaos.

“It's all so … confused. The only ones who might have any accurate record at all, the only ones who truly remember what happened, are the—” Alfred stopped, the dread words on his lips. He hadn't meant to bring that up, not yet at least.

“The Patryns.” Samah finished his sentence. “Yes, I saw the man, our ancient enemy, in your mind, Brother. He was free of the Labyrinth. You traveled with him.”

Orla's forlorn expression brightened. She sat forward eagerly. “Can we find comfort in this? I disapproved of this plan”—a glance at her husband—“but I would like nothing better than to have been proven wrong. Are we to understand that our hopes for reform worked? That the Patryns, when they emerged from the prison, had learned their lesson, hard as it was, and that they have forsaken their evil dreams of conquest and despotic rule?”

Alfred did not immediately respond.

“No, Orla, you can find no comfort anywhere,” Samah said coldly. “Of course, we should have known. Look at the image of the Patryn in this brother's mind! It is the Patryns who have brought this terrible destruction upon the worlds!” He slammed his hand down upon the arm of the chair, sent up a cloud of dust.

“No, Samah, you are wrong!” Alfred protested, startled at his own courage in defying the Councillor. “Most of the Patryns are still locked in that prison of yours. They have suffered cruelly. Countless numbers have fallen victim to hideous monsters that could only have been created by warped and evil minds!

“Those who have escaped are filled with hatred for us, hatred that has been bred into them for countless generations. A hatred that is in every way justifiable, as far as I'm concerned. I… I was there, you see, for a brief time … in another body.”

His newfound courage was rapidly evaporating beneath the blazing glare of Samah's eyes. Alfred shriveled up, shrank back into himself. His hands plucked at the frayed lace on the sleeves of his shirt hanging limply beneath the worn velvet of his top coat.

“What are you talking about, Brother?” Samah demanded. “This is impossible! The Labyrinth was meant to teach, to instruct. It was a game—a hard game, a difficult game—but nothing more than that.”

“It turned into a deadly game, I'm afraid,” said Alfred, but he spoke to his shoes. “Still, there might be hope. You see, this Patryn I know is a most complex man. He has a dog-”

Samar's eyes narrowed. “You seem very sympathetic to the enemy, Brother.”

“No, no!” Alfred babbled. “I really don't know the enemy. I only know Haplo. And he's—”

But Samah was not interested. He brushed aside Alfred's words as so much dust. “This Patryn I saw in your mind was free, traveling through Death's Gate. What is his purpose?”

“Ex-exploration—” Alfred stammered.

“No, not exploration!” Samah rose to his feet, stared hard at Alfred, who fell back before the penetrating gaze. “Not exploration. Reconnaissance!”

Samah glowered, glanced in grim triumph at the other Council members. “It seems we have, after all, awakened at a propitious time, Brethren. Once again, our ancient enemy intends to go to war.”

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 Fm 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 lighdy, 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.