Serpent Mage (31 page)

“Devon's very nice,” Alake was going on, “and he's been very kind and helpful. And I will always think of him with the highest regard, but I could never fall in love with him. After all, he's little more than a boy.”

A boy who's about one hundred Times older than you, I could have said, but I kept my mouth shut. Humans tend to be touchy about their age.

“No,” Alake continued softly, her eyes glowing like candlelight at dusk, “I'm in love with a man. Grundle …” She gulped, swallowed, then said, in a rush, “It's Haplo!”

Of course, she expected me to fly backward around the room in shock and was considerably put out when I didn't.

“Humpf,” was all I said.

“You're not surprised?”

“Surprised! Try painting I love you' in white paint across your forehead next time,” I suggested.

“Oh, dear. Has it been that obvious? Do you … do you think
he
knows? It would be dreadful if he did.”

Alake glanced at me sidelong, pretending to be afraid, but I could tell that deep down she was hoping I'd say, “Yes, of course, he knows.”

Which I could have said truthfully, because the man would have to be blind, deaf, and dumb and a fool on top of it not to have known. I could have said this and it would
have made Alake happy, but, of course, I didn't. It was all wrong and I knew it and i knew Alake would get hurt and the whole thing made me cross.

“He's old enough to be your father,” I pointed out.

“He is not! And what if he is?” Alake argued, with the sort of logic one comes to expect from humans. “I've never met another man as noble and brave and strong and handsome. He stood there alone, Grundle. In front of those horrible creatures, naked, no weapons, not even his magic.

“You see, I know about the water and how it affects his magic, so don't say anything to me about that!” she added defiantly. “We humans can't do rune-magic ourselves, but our legends tell about people who could once, long ago. Haplo obviously wants to hide his power, and so I've said nothing.

“He was prepared to die for us, Grundle.”

(No use my saying a word. She wouldn't have heard me.)

“How could I
not
love him? And then, to see those dreadful dragon-snakes bow down to him! He was magnificent! And now they're sending us home, giving us gifts, promising us a new homeland! And all because of Haplo.”

“That may be,” I said, feeling crosser than ever because I was forced to admit that what she said was true, “but what is he getting out of this? Have you asked yourself that? What does he mean, coming around asking me how many men my father has in his army and asking Devon if he thinks the elves would fight if they had to and whether or not they still remembered how to make magical weapons and wanting to know if your Coven could persuade the dolphins and whales to be on our side if it came to war?”

It occurs to me that I have forgotten to mention that Haplo had been asking those very questions of us
that
day.

“Grundle, you are mean-spirited and ungrateful!” Alake cried, and burst into tears.

I hadn't meant to make her cry.
I felt about
as low as a dragon-snake's belly. Going over
to her, I patted her hand.

“I'm
sorry,”
I
said awkwardly.

“I asked him
why
he wanted
to know such things,” Alake
continued, between sobs, “and he said that we should always be prepared for the worst and though this new homeland might look like a perfect place, it might be dangerous …” She stopped to wipe her nose.

I said I understood, which I did. What Haplo said made sense. What he said always made sense. And that made this nagging, rotten feeling of distrust and suspicion inside me all the harder to bear. I apologized again, and teased Alake until she cheered up and dried her eyes.

But dwarves are always truthful, and I couldn't help but tell her, “The only reason I said those things is that… well… it's just that… Haplo doesn't love you, Alake.”

I cringed, waiting for another storm. To my surprise, however, Alake was quite calm. She even smiled, sadly, but it was a smile.

“Oh, I know that, Grundle. How could I expect him to love me? He must have thousands of women longing for him.”

I thought I should encourage this line of thinking.

“Yes, and maybe he's got a wife somewhere—”

“He doesn't,” Alake said quickly, too quickly. She looked down at her hands. “I asked him. He said he'd never found the right one, yet. I'd love to be the right one for him, Grundle. But I know I'm not worthy now. Perhaps someday I will be, if I keep trying.”

She looked up at me, her eyes shining with her tears, and she was so lovely and seemed older and more mature than I'd ever known her and she glowed with a kind of inner light.

I said, then and there, that if love could do that for her then it must not be bad, no matter what happened. Besides, maybe when we reach home, Haplo will leave, go back to wherever it is he came from. After all, what could he possibly want with us? But I kept this thought to myself.

We hugged each other and had a good cry and I didn't say anything else awful about Haplo. Devon heard us and came in and Alake broke down and told him and he said he thought love was the most wonderful, beautiful thing in the whole world and we talked about Sabia and then they both made me confess that I wasn't a stranger to love myself and I
broke down and told them about Hartmut and we all laughed and all cried and couldn't wait to get home.

Which made what happened when we got there all the more terrible.

I've been putting off writing this. I wasn't certain I could do it, for one thing. It makes me so terribly sad. But I've told everything and I can't very well go on with this story and leave out the most important part.

Being saved from the dragons and returning safely to our homelands would constitute a happy ending in most tavern tales I've heard. But the ending wasn't happy. And I have a feeling it isn't the end, yet, either.

The moment our submersible left the dragon-snakes' lair, we were besieged by—what else—a bunch of pesky dolphins. They wanted to know everything, all about what had happened, how we'd escaped. We'd barely told them before they swam off, eager to be the first to spread the news. There never was a more gossip-loving fish.

At least our parents would hear the good news and have time to recover from their initial shock at learning we were still alive and well. We started arguing among ourselves, trying to decide which of us got to go home first, but that was soon settled. The dolphins returned with a message saying that we were to meet our parents together on Elmas, the elven seamoon.

This suited us fine. To be honest, we were a bit nervous, now, as to our parents' reaction. We knew they'd be happy to have us back again, but after the kisses and tears we figured we could expect a severe scolding, if not worse. We had, after all, disobeyed their orders and run off without thinking of the suffering and misery we'd cause.

We even went so far as to mention this to Haplo, hinting that he would do us another great service if he would stay with us and smooth things over with our mothers and fathers.

He only grinned and said he'd protected us from the dragon-snakes, but when it came to parental wrath, we were on our own.

But we weren't thinking about stern lectures and punishment when the submersible landed and the hatch opened and we saw our parents standing there, waiting for us. My father took me in his arms and held me close and I saw, for the first time in my life, tears in his eyes. I would have listened to the sternest lecture, then and there, and loved every word.

We introduced them to Haplo. (The dolphins had, of course, already told our parents how he had saved us.) Our parents were grateful, but it was obvious that all of them were a little overawed by the man and his blue-marked skin and his air of quiet self-assurance. They managed to get out only a few, broken words of gratitude, which he accepted with a smile and a shrug, saying that we'd rescued him from the sea and that he'd been happy to return the favor. He said nothing more, and our parents were glad to turn back to us.

For a while, it was all embraces and words of affection. Devon's parents were there, waiting for their son. They were as glad to have him back as any of the other parents, but I saw, when I was in shape to see anything, that they still seemed sad, when they should have been overjoyed. The elven king was there, too, to welcome Devon, but Sabia wasn't.

Then I noticed, for the first time, that her father was dressed in white—the elven color of mourning. I saw ail the elves around us—and there were many, waiting to welcome us—were clad in white, something that happened only when one of the royal family has died.

A chill constricted my heart. I looked at my father with what must have been a wild and terror-stricken expression, because he only shook his head and put his finger to my lips, to silence my questions.

Alake had been asking for Sabia. Her eyes met mine, and they were wide with fear. We both looked at Devon. Blind with joy, his vision clouded by rainbows, he hadn't seen a thing. He broke free of his parents' embrace (was it my imagination or were they trying to hold him back?) and went to the elven king.

“Where is Sabia, Sire?” Devon asked. “Is she mad at me
for striking her? I'll make it up to her, I promise! Tell her to come out…”

The One lifted the clouds from his eyes. He saw the white clothing, saw the elven king's face scarred and ravaged by grief, saw the petals of white flowers that had been scattered over the Goodsea.

“Sabia!” Devon shouted, and he started to run toward the coral castle that stood shimmering behind us.

Eliason caught hold of him.

Devon struggled violently, then he collapsed in the man's arms. “No!” he cried, sobbing. “No! I never meant… I wanted to save her …”

“I know, my son, I know,” Eliason said, stroking Devon's hair, soothing him as he might have soothed a child of his own. “It wasn't your fault. Your intentions were the best, the noblest. Sabia”—he could not speak her name without a catch in his throat, but he mastered himself—“Sabia is with the One. She is at peace. We must take comfort in that. And now, I think it is time for the families to be alone together.”

Eliason took charge of Haplo with the gracious dignity and politeness that is characteristic of the elves, no matter what personal sorrows afflict them. Unhappy king. How he must have longed to be alone with his child!

Once we were inside, in a new part of the castle that had grown during our absence, my mother explained to me what had happened.

“The moment she woke up, Sabia knew what Devon had done. She knew he had sacrificed his own life for her and that his death would be a terrible one. From then on,” my mother said, wiping her eyes on the hem of her sleeve, “the poor girl lost all interest in living. She refused to eat, refused to leave her bed. She drank water only when her father sat beside her and held the glass to her lips. She wouldn't talk to anyone, but lay for hours, staring out her window. When she slept at all, her sleep was broken by horrible dreams. They said her cries could be heard throughout the castle.

“And then one day, she seemed to be better. She got up out of bed, dressed herself in the dress she'd been wearing
when you three were last together, and went about the castle singing. Her songs were sad and strange and no one liked to hear them, but they hoped this meant she was well again. Alas, it meant quite the opposite.

“That night, she asked her duenna to fetch her something to eat. The woman, thrilled that Sabia was hungry, hurried off, unsuspecting. When she returned, Sabia was gone. Frightened, the duenna woke the king. They searched.”

My mother shook her head, unable to continue for her tears. Finally, she had recourse to the sleeve again, and went on.

“They found her body on the terrace where we met that day, the terrace where you overheard us talking. She'd thrown herself out a window. She was lying on almost the very same place where the elf messenger died.”

Fm going to have to end this for now. I can't go on without crying.

The One guards your sleep now, Sabia. Your terrible dreams are at an end.

THE LIBRARY OF THE SARTAN HAUNTED ALFRED, PURSUED
him like the specter in some old wives' tale. It reached out its cold hand to touch him and wake him in the night, crooking a beckoning finger, tried to draw him to his doom.

“Nonsense!” he would say to himself and, turning over, would attempt to banish the ghost by burying it in slumber.