Serpent Mage- The Death Gate CycleVolume 4

Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman

PROLOGUE

 I VISITED MY WRATH UPON HAPLO THIS DAY. [1] AN UNPLEASANT TASK

 Few would believe me, but it grieved me to do what had to be done. It would have been easier, perhaps, if I did not feel in some part responsible.

 When it became clear to me that we Patryns were nearing our time, when we were almost strong enough to be able to break out of this heinous prison into which the Sartan hurled us and move once again to take our rightful place as leaders in the universe, I chose one among us to go forth and learn about the new worlds.

 I chose Haplo. I chose him for his quickness of mind his independence of thought, his courage, his adaptability to new surroundings. And those, alas, are the very qualities that have led him to rebel against me. Therefore, I reiterate—in this way I am responsible for what has befallen.

 Independence of thought. Necessary, I deemed, when facing the unknown territories of worlds created by our ancient enemy, the Sartan, and populated with mensch. [2] It was vital that he be able to react to any situation with intelligence and skill, vital that he not reveal to anyone on any of these worlds that we Patryns have broken free of our bonds. He behaved quite splendidly on two of the three worlds he visited, with a few minor lapses. It was on the third that he failed not only me but himself.

 I caught him just before he would have left to visit the fourth world, the world of water, Chelestra. He was on board his dragonship, the one he took from Arianus, preparing to set sail for Death's Gate. He said nothing when he saw me. He did not appear surprised. It was as if he had been expecting me, perhaps even waiting for me, though it seemed, from the disorder on board the ship, that he had been preparing for a hasty departure. Certainly there is much turmoil within him.

 Those who know me would call me a hard man, hard and cruel, but I was bred in a place far harder, far crueler. I have in my long life seen too much pain, too much suffering, to be touched by it. But I am not a monster. I am not sadistic. What I did to Haplo, I did out of necessity. I took no pleasure in the doing.

 Spare the rod and spoil the child—an old mensch proverb.

 Haplo, believe me when I say I grieve for you this night. But it was for your own good, my son.

 Your own good.

 CHAPTER1

 THE NEXUS

 "DAMN IT! GET OUT OF THE WAY!" HAPLO KICKED AT THE DOG.

 The animal cringed, slunk away, and endeavored to lose itself in the shadows of the hold, hide until its master's bad mood passed.

 Haplo could see the sad eyes, however, watching him from the darkness. He felt guilty, remorseful, and that merely increased his irritation and anger. He glared at the animal, glared at the confusion in the hold. Chests and casks and boxes, coils of rope, and barrels had been tossed in hurriedly, to stand where they landed. It looked like a rat's nest, but Haplo dared not take time to rearrange them, stack them neatly, stow them away securely, as he had always done before.

 He was in haste, desperate to leave the Nexus before his lord caught him. Haplo stared at the mess, ill at ease, his hands itching to sort it out. Turning on his heel, he stalked off, heading back to the bridge. The dog rose silently, padded soft-footed after him.

 "Alfred!" He flung the word at the dog. "It's all Alfred's fault. That blasted Sartan! I should never have let him go. I should have brought him here, to my lord, let him deal with the miserable wretch. But who'd have guessed the coward would actually have nerve enough to jump ship! I don't suppose you have any idea how that happened?"

 Haplo stopped, glowered suspiciously at the dog. The animal sat back, tilted its head, regarded him with bland innocence, though its tail wagged cheerfully at the sound of Alfred's name. Grunting, Haplo continued on his way, casting cursory glances to the left and right. He saw — with relief — that his vessel had sustained no lasting damage. The magic of the runes covering the hull had done its job, kept the Dragon Wing safe from the fiery environment of Abarrach and the lethal spells cast by the lazar in their efforts to hijack it.

 He had only recently come through Death's Gate and knew that he should not be going back this quickly. He had lost consciousness on the journey from Abarrach. No, lost wasn't quite the correct term. He'd deliberately cast it aside. The resultant undreaming sleep had restored him completely to health, healed the arrow wound he'd taken in the thigh, removed the last vestiges of the poison given him by the ruler of Kairn Necros. When he awoke, Haplo was well in body, if not in mind. He was almost sorry to have awakened at all.

 His brain was like the hold. Thoughts and ideas and feelings were in a tangle. Some were thrust away in dark corners, where he could still see them watching him. Others were tossed in any which way. Precariously and carelessly stacked, they would come tumbling down at the slightest provocation. Haplo knew he could organize them, if he took the time, but he didn't have time, he didn't want time. He had to escape, get away.

 He'd sent his report on Abarrach to the lord via a messenger, giving as his excuse for not coming in person the need to hurry after the escaped Sartan.

 My Lord, You may remove Abarrach completely from your calculations. I found evidence to indicate that the Sartan and the mensch did once inhabit that hunk of worthless, molten rock. The climate undoubtedly proved too harsh for even their powerful magic to sustain them. They apparently tried to contact the other worlds, but their attempts ended in failure. Their cities have now become their tombs. Abarrach is a dead world,

 The report was true. Haplo had said nothing false about Abarrach. But its truth was polished veneer, covering rotten wood beneath. Haplo was almost certain his lord would know his servant had lied; the Lord of the Nexus had a way of knowing everything that went on in a man's head . . . and his heart.

 The Lord of the Nexus was the one person Haplo respected and admired. The one person Haplo feared. The lord's wrath was terrible, it could be deadly. His magic was incredibly powerful. When still a young man, he had been the first to survive and escape the Labyrinth. He was the only Patryn—including Haplo—who had the courage to return to that deadly prison, fight its awful magics, work to free his people.

 Haplo grew cold with fear whenever he thought about a possible encounter between his lord and himself. And he thought about it almost constantly. He wasn't afraid of physical pain or even death. It was the fear of seeing the disappointment in his lord's eyes, the fear of knowing that he had failed the man who had saved his life, the man who loved him like a son.

 "No," said Haplo to the dog, "better to go on to Chelestra, the next world. Better to go quickly, take my chances. Hopefully, with time, I can sort out this tangle inside me. Then, when I return, I can face my lord with a clear conscience."

 He arrived on the bridge, stood staring down at the steering stone. He'd made his decision. He had only to put his hands on the sigla-covered round stone and his ship would break the magical ties binding it to the ground and sail into the rose-hued twilight of the Nexus. Why did he hesitate?

 It was wrong, all wrong. He hadn't gone over the ship with his usual care. They'd made it safely out of Abarrach and through Death's Gate, but that didn't mean they could make another journey.

 He'd prepared the ship in a slapdash manner, jury-rigging what he could not take time to carefully repair. He should have strengthened rune structures that almost surely had been weakened by the journey, should have searched for cracks, either in the wood or the sigla, should have replaced frayed cables.

 He should have, as well, consulted with his lord about this new world. The Sartan had left written lore concerning the four worlds in the Nexus. It would be folly to rush blindly into the world of water, without even the most rudimentary knowledge of what he faced. Previously, he and his lord had met and studied . . .

 But not now. No, not now.

 Haplo's mouth was dry, had a foul taste in it. He swallowed, but it did no good. He reached out his hands to the steering stone and was startled to see his fingers tremble. Time was running out. The Lord of the Nexus would have received his report by now. He would know that Haplo had lied to him.

 "I should leave . . . now," Haplo said softly, willing himself to place his hands on the stone.

 But he was like a man who sees dreadful doom coming upon him, who knows he must run for his life, yet who finds himself paralyzed, his limbs refusing to obey his brain's command.

 The dog growled. Its hackles rose, its eyes shifted to a point behind and beyond Haplo.

 Haplo did not look around. He had no need. He knew who stood in the doorway.

 He knew it by countless signs: he'd heard no one approaching, the warning sigla tattooed on his skin had not activated, the dog had not reacted until the man was within arm's reach.

 The animal stood its ground, ears flattened, the low growl rumbling deep in its chest.

 Haplo closed his eyes, sighed. He felt, to his surprise, a vast sense of relief.

 "Dog, go," he said.

 The animal looked up at him, whimpered, begged him to reconsider.

 "Get," snarled Haplo. "Go on. Beat it." The dog, whining, came to him, put its paw on his leg. Haplo scratched behind the furry ears, rubbed his hand beneath the jowl.

 "Go. Wait outside."

 Head lowered, the dog trotted slowly and reluctantly from the bridge. Haplo heard it flop down just outside the doorway, heard it sigh, knew it was pressed as close against the door as was possible to do and still obey its master's command.

 Haplo did not look at the man who had materialized out of the twilight shadows inside his ship. Haplo kept his head lowered. Tense, nervous, he traced with his finger the runes carved upon the steering stone.

 He sensed, more than heard or saw, the man come near him. A hand closed over Haplo's arm. The hand was old and gnarled, its runes a mass of hills and valleys on the wrinkled skin. Yet the sigla were still dark and easily read, their power strong.

 "My son," said a gentle voice.

 If the Lord of the Nexus had come raging aboard the ship, denouncing Haplo as a traitor, hurling threats and accusations, Haplo would have defied him, fought him, undoubtedly to the death.

 Two simple words disarmed him completely.

 "My son."

 He heard forgiveness, understanding. A sob shook Haplo. He fell to his knees. Tears, as hot and bitter as the poison he'd swallowed on Abarrach, crept from beneath his eyelids.

 "Help me, Lord!" he pleaded, the words coming as a gasp from a chest that burned with pain.

 "Help me!"

 "I will, my son," answered Xar. His gnarled hand stroked Haplo's hair. "I will."

 The hand's grip tightened painfully. Xar jerked Haplo's head back, forced him to look up.

 "You have been deeply hurt, terribly wounded, my son. And your injury is not healing cleanly. It festers, doesn't it, Haplo? It grows gangrenous. Lance it. Purge yourself of its foul infection or its fever will consume you.

 "Look at yourself. Look what this infection has done to you already. Where is the Haplo who walked defiantly out of the Labyrinth, though each step might have been his last? Where is the Haplo who braved Death's Gate so many times? Where is Haplo now? Sobbing at my feet like a child!

 "Tell me the truth, my son. Tell me the truth about Abarrach."

 Haplo bowed his head and confessed. The words gushed forth, spewing out of him, purging him, easing the pain of the wound. He spoke with fevered rapidity, his tale broken and disjointed, his speech often incoherent, but Xar had no difficulty following him. The language of both the Patryns and their rivals, the Sartan, has the ability to create images in the mind, images that can be seen and understood if the words cannot.

 "And so," murmured the Lord of the Nexus, "the Sartan have been practicing the forbidden art of necromancy. This is what you feared to tell me. I can understand, Haplo. I share your revulsion, your disgust. Trust the Sartan to mishandle this marvelous power. Rotting corpses, shuffling about on menial errands. Armies of bones battering each other into dust." The gnarled hands were once again stroking, soothing.

 "My son, had you so little faith in me? Do you, after all this time, not know me yet? Do you not know my power? Can you truly believe that I would misuse this gift as the Sartan have misused it?"

 "Forgive me, My Lord," whispered Haplo, weak, weary, yet feeling vastly comforted. "I have been a fool. I did not think."

 "And you had a Sartan in your power. You could have brought him to me. And you let him go, Haplo. You let him escape. But I can understand. He twisted your mind, made you see things that were not, deceived you. I can understand. You were sick, dying. . . ."

 Shame burned. "Don't make excuses for me, My Lord," Haplo protested harshly, his throat raw from his sobs. "I make none for myself. The poison affected my body, not my mind. I am weak, flawed. I no longer deserve your trust."

 "No, no, my son. You are not weak. The wound to which I was referring was not the poison given to you by the dynast, but the poison fed to you by the Sartan, Alfred. A far more insidious poison, one that affects the mind, not the body. It inflicted the injury of which I spoke earlier. But that wound is drained now, is it not, my son?"

 Xar's fingers twined through Haplo's hair.

 The Patryn looked up at his master. The old man's face was lined and marked with his toils, his tireless battles against the powerful magic of the Labyrinth. The skin did not sag, however, the jaw was strong and firm, the nose jutted out from the face like the tearing beak of a fierce flesh-eating bird. The eyes were bright and wise and hungry.

 "Yes," said Haplo, "the wound is drained."

 "And now it must be cauterized, to prevent the infection from returning."

 A scraping sound came from outside the door. The dog, hearing a tone of dire threat in the lord's voice, jumped to its feet, prepared to come to its master's defense.

 "Dog, stay," Haplo ordered. He braced himself, bowed his head.

 The Lord of the Nexus reached down, took hold of Haplo's shirt, and, with one tear, rent the fabric in two, laying bare Haplo's back and shoulders. The runes tattooed on his flesh began to glow slightly, red and blue, his body's involuntary reaction to danger, to what he knew was coming.

 He clenched his jaw, remained on his knees. The glow of the sigla on his body slowly faded. He lifted his head, fixed his gaze, calm and steadfast, upon his lord.

 "I accept my punishment. May it do me good, My Lord."

 "May it do so indeed, my son. I take no joy in the giving."

 The Lord of the Nexus placed his hand on Haplo's breast, over his heart. He traced a rune with his finger; the nail was long, it drew blood from the flesh. But it did far worse to Haplo's magic. The heart-sigla were the first links in the circle of his being. At the lord's touch, they began to separate, the chain started to break.

 The Lord of the Nexus drove the wedge of his magic inside the sigla, forced them apart. A second link slipped from the first, cracked. The third slid off the second, then the fourth and fifth. Faster and faster, the runes that were the source of Haplo's power, his defense against the power of other forces, broke and splintered and shattered.

 The pain was excruciating. Slivers of metal pierced his skin, rivers of fire coursed through his blood. Haplo closed his mouth against the screams as long as he could. When they came, he didn't know them for his.

 The Lord of the Nexus was skilled at his work. When it seemed Haplo must faint from the agony, Xar ceased the torment, talked gently of their past lives together, until Haplo had recovered his senses. Then the lord began again.

 Night, or what the Nexus knows as night, drew its blanket of soft moonlight over the ship. The lord traced a sigil in the air; the torture ceased.

 Haplo fell back on the deck and lay like one dead. Sweat covered his naked body, he shook with chills, his teeth chattered. A residue of pain, a flash of flame, a stabbing of a blade, surged through his veins, wrenched from him another agonized cry. His body twitched and jerked spasmodically, out of his control.

 The Lord of the Nexus bent down and, once again, laid his hand on Haplo's heart. He could have killed him then. He could have broken the sigil, destroyed it past any hope of repair. Haplo felt the lord's touch, cool on his blazing skin. He shivered, choked back a moan, and lay rigid, perfectly still.

 "Execute me! I betrayed you! I don't deserve ... to live!"

 "My son," whispered the Lord of the Nexus in pitying tones. A tear dropped on Haplo's breast. "My poor son."

 The teardrop closed and sealed the rune.

 Haplo sighed, rolled over, began to weep. Xar gathered the young man close, cradled the bleeding head in his arms, rocked him, soothed him, and worked the magic until all Haplo's runes had been rejoined, the circle of his being reestablished.

 Haplo slept, a healing sleep.

 The Lord of the Nexus took off his own cape, a cloak of fine, white linen, and drew it over Haplo. The lord paused a moment to look at the young man. The remnants of the agony were fading, leaving Haplo's face strong and grim, calm and resolute—a sword whose metal has been strengthened by being passed through the fire, a granite wall whose cracks have been filled with molten steel.

 Xar laid his hands upon the ship's steering stone and, speaking the runes, started it upon its journey through Death's Gate. He was preparing to leave when a thought struck him. He made a quick tour of the vessel, keen eyes peering into every shadow.

 The dog was gone.

 "Excellent."

 The Lord of the Nexus left, well satisfied.

 CHAPTER 2

 SOMEWHERE BEYOND DEATH'S GATE

 ALFRED AWOKE, A FRIGHTFUL YELL RINGING IN HIS EARS. HE LAY perfectly still, terrified, listening with fast-beating heart and sweaty palms and squinched-shut eyelids for the yell to be repeated. After long moments of profound silence, Alfred came at last to the rather confused confusion that the yell must have been his own.

 "Death's Gate. I fell through Death's Gate! Or rather," he amended, shivering at the thought, "I was pushed through Death's Gate."

 If I were you, I wouldn't be around when I woke up, Haplo had warned him , . .

 . . . Haplo had fallen asleep, fallen into one of the healing sleeps vitally necessary to those of his race. Alfred sat in the lurching ship, alone except for the dog, who lay protectively near its master. Alfred, looking around, realized how alone he was. He was terrified, and he tried to combat his fear by creeping nearer Haplo, seeking company, even if it was unconscious.

 Alfred settled himself beside Haplo, occupied himself by studying the Patryn's stern face. He noticed that it did not relax in repose, but retained its grim, forbidding expression, as though nothing, not sleep, perhaps not even death, could bring perfect peace to the man.

 Moved by compassion, by pity, Alfred stretched out a hand to smooth back a lock of hair that fell forward over the implacable face.

 The dog raised its head, growled menacingly.

 Alfred snatched his hand back. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

 The dog, knowing Alfred, appeared to accept this as a plausible excuse. It settled back down.

 Alfred heaved a tremendous sigh, glanced nervously around the lurching ship. He caught a glimpse through the window of the fiery world of Abarrach falling away from them in a confused swirl of smoke and flame. Ahead, he saw the rapidly approaching black hole that was Death's Gate.

 "Oh, dear," Alfred murmured, shrinking. If he was going to leave, he had better get going.

 The dog had the same idea. It leapt to its feet, started to bark urgently.

 "I know. It's time," Alfred said. "You gave me my life, Haplo. And it's not that I'm ungrateful. But ... I'm too frightened. I don't think I have the courage."

 Do you have the courage to stay? the dog seemed to ask in exasperation. Do you have the courage to face the Lord of the Nexus?

 Haplo's lord—a powerful Patryn wizard. No fainting spell would save Alfred from this terrible man. The lord would prod and probe and drag forth every secret the Sartan had in his being. Torture, torment, lasting for as long as the Sartan remained alive . . . and the lord was certain to ensure his prey lived a long, long time.

 The threat must have been sufficient to drive Alfred to action. At least that's what he supposed. He remembered finding himself standing on the upper deck, without the slightest notion how he had come to be there.

 The winds of magic and time whistled around him, grabbed disrespectfully at the wisps of hair on his balding head, set his coattails to flapping. Alfred gripped the rail with both hands and stared out, horribly fascinated, into Death's Gate.

 And he knew, then, that he could no more hurl himself bodily into that abyss than he could consciously end his own miserable and lonely existence.

 "I'm a coward," he said to the dog. Bored, it had followed him up on deck. Alfred smiled wanly, looked down at his hands, clinging to the rail with a white-knuckled grip. "I don't think I could pry myself loose. I—"

 The dog suddenly went mad, or so it seemed. Snarling, teeth slashing, it leapt straight at him. Alfred wrenched his hands from the rail, flung them up in front of his face, an instinctive, involuntary act of protection. The dog struck him hard on the chest, knocked him over the side. . . .

 What had happened after that? Alfred couldn't remember, except that it was all very confused and all extremely horrible. He had a vivid impression of falling ... of falling through a hole that seemed far too small for a gnat to enter and yet was large enough to swallow the winged dragonship whole. He remembered falling into brightly lit darkness, of being deafened by a roaring silence, of tumbling head over heels while not moving.

 And then, reaching the top, he'd hit bottom.

 And that's where he was now, or so he supposed.

 He considered opening his eyes, decided against it. He had absolutely no desire to see his surroundings. Wherever he was, it was bound to be awful. He rather hoped that he would lose himself in sleep, and if he was lucky, he wouldn't find himself again.

 Unfortunately, as is generally the case, the more he tried to go back to sleep, the wider awake he woke. Bright light shone through his closed eyelids. He became aware of a hard, flat, cool surface beneath him; of various aches and pains in his body that indicated he'd been lying here for some time; of being cold and thirsty and hungry.

 No telling where he'd landed. Death's Gate led to each of the four worlds created magically by the Sartan following the Sundering. It led also to the Nexus, the beautiful twilight land meant to hold the "rehabilitated" Patryns after their release from the Labyrinth. Perhaps he was there. Perhaps he was back on Arianus. Perhaps he hadn't really gone anywhere! Perhaps he'd open his eyes and find the dog, grinning at him.

 Alfred clamped his eyes tightly shut; his facial muscles ached from the strain. But either curiosity or the stabbing pain shooting through his lower back got the better of him. Groaning, he opened his eyes, sat up, and looked nervously around.

 He could have wept for relief.

 He was in a large room, circular, lit by lovely, soft white light that emanated from the marble walls. The floor beneath him was marble, inlaid with runes—sigla he knew and recognized. The ceiling arched comfortingly overhead, a dome supported by delicate columns. Embedded in the walls of the room were row after row of crystal chambers, chambers meant to hold people in stasis, chambers that had, tragically, become coffins.

 Alfred knew where he was—the mausoleum on Arianus. He was home. And, he decided at once, he would never leave. He would stay in this underground world forever. Here he was safe. No one knew about this place, except for one mensch, a dwarf named Jarre, and she had no means of finding her way back. No one could ever find it now, protected as it was by powerful Sartan magic. The war between the elves and dwarves and humans could rage on Arianus and he would not be part of it. Iridal could search for her changeling son and he would not help. The dead could walk on Abarrach and he would turn his back on all except the familiar, the silent blessed dead that were his companions once more.

 After all, one man, alone, what can I do? he asked himself wistfully.

 Nothing.

 What can I be expected to do?

 Nothing.

 Who could possibly expect me to do it?

 No one.

 Alfred repeated that to himself. "No one." He recalled the wonderful, awful experience on Abarrach when he had seemed to know with certainty that some sort of higher power for good was present in the universe, to know that he wasn't alone, as he had supposed all these years.

 But the knowledge, his certainty, had faded, died with young Jonathan, who had been destroyed by the dead and the lazar of Abarrach.

 "I must have imagined it," said Alfred sadly. "Or perhaps Haplo was right. Perhaps I created that vision we all experienced and didn't know I created it. Like my fainting, or like casting that spell that took the magical life from the dead. And, if that's true, then what Haplo said was true as well. I led poor Jonathan to his death. Deceived by false visions, false promises, he sacrificed himself for nothing."

 Alfred bowed his head into his trembling hands, his thin shoulders slumped. "Everywhere I go, disaster follows. And therefore, I won't go anywhere. I won't do anything. I'll stay here. Safe, protected, surrounded by those I once loved."

 He couldn't, however, spend the remainder of his life on the floor. There were other rooms, other places to go. The Sartan had once lived down here. Shaking, stiff, and sore, he endeavored to stand up. His feet and legs appeared to have other ideas, resented being forced back to work. They crumbled beneath him. He fell, persisted in trying to stand, and, after a moment, managed to do so. Once he was finally upright, his feet seemed inclined to wander off one way when he actually had it in mind to go the opposite.

 Finally, all his body parts more or less in agreement as to the general direction he was headed, Alfred propelled himself toward the crystal coffins, to bid fond greeting to those he had left far too long. The bodies in the coffins would never return his greeting, never speak words of welcome to him. Their eyes would never open to gaze at him with friendly pleasure. But he was comforted by their presence, by their peace.

 Comforted and envious.

 Necromancy. The thought flitted across his mind, skittering like a bat. You could bring them back to life.

 But the dread shadow lay over him only momentarily. He wasn't tempted. He had seen the dire consequences of necromancy on Abarrach. And he had the terrible feeling that these friends of his had died because of the necromancy, their life-force stolen from them, given to those who, he now suspected, didn't want it.

 Alfred went straight to one coffin, one he knew well. In it lay the woman he loved. He needed, after the horrible sights of the restless dead on Abarrach, to see her calm and peaceful sleep. He placed his hands on the outside of the crystal window behind which she lay and, fondly, tears in his eyes, pressed his forehead against the glass.

 Something was wrong.

 Admittedly, his vision was blurred by his tears. He couldn't see well. Hastily, Alfred blinked, rubbed his hands over his eyes. He stared, fell back, startled, shocked.

 No, it couldn't be. He was overwrought, he'd made a mistake. Slowly he crept back, peered inside the coffin.

 Inside was the body of a Sartan female, but it wasn'tLya!

 Alfred shivered from head to toe.

 "Calm down!" he counseled. "You're standing in the wrong place. You've gotten turned around by that terrible trip through Death's Gate. You've made a mistake. You've looked into the wrong crystal chamber. Go back and start over."

 He turned around and tottered once more to the center of the room, barely able to stand, his knees as weak as wet flax. From this distance, he carefully counted the rows of crystal chambers, counted them up, then counted them across. Telling himself that he'd been a row too far over, he crept back, ignoring the voice that was telling him he'd been in exactly the right place all along.

 He kept his gaze averted, refusing to look until he was near, in case his eyes might play another trick on him. Once arrived, he shut his eyes and then opened them swiftly, as if hoping to catch something in the act.

 The strange woman was still there.

 Alfred gasped, shuddered, leaned heavily against the crystal chamber. What was happening? Was he going insane?

 "It's quite likely," he said. "After all I've been through. PerhapsLyawas never there at all. Perhaps I only willed her to be there and now, after all this time away, I can't call her to mind."

 He looked again, but if his mind was truly behaving irrationally, it was doing it in a most rational manner. The woman was older than Lya, close to Alfred's age, he guessed. Her hair was completely white; her face—a handsome face, he thought, gazing at it in sorrowful confusion—had lost the elasticity and smooth beauty of youth. But she had gained, in exchange, the becoming gravity and purpose of middle age.

 Her expression was solemn and grave, yet softened by lines around that mouth that seemed to indicate a warm and generous smile had graced her lips. A line down the center of her forehead, barely visible beneath the soft folds of her hair, indicated that her life had not been easy, that she had pondered much, thought long and hard about many things. And there was a sadness about her. The smile that touched the lips had not touched them often. Alfred felt a deep hunger and an aching unhappiness. Here was someone he could have talked to, someone who would have understood.

 But . . . what was she doing here?

 "Lie down. I must lie down."

 Blindly, his vision clouded by his confused thoughts, Alfred stumbled and groped his way along the wall that held many crystal chambers until he came to his own. He would return to it, lie down, sleep ... or maybe wake up. He might be dreaming. He—

 "Blessed Sartan!" Alfred fell back with a hoarse cry.

 Someone was in it! His chamber! A man of early middle years, with a strong, cold, handsome face; strong hands stretched out at his side.

 "I am mad!" Alfred clutched at his head. "This . . . this is impossible." He stumbled back to stare at the woman who was not Lya. "I'll shut my eyes and when I open them, all will be well again."

 But he didn't shut his eyes. Not trusting himself to believe what he thought he'd seen, he looked fixedly at the woman. Her hands were folded across her breast—

 The hands. The hands moved! They rose . . . fell! She had drawn a breath.

 He watched closely for long moments; the magical stasis in which they lay slowed breathing. The hands rose and fell again. And now that Alfred was over his initial shock, he could see the faint flush of blood in the woman's cheeks, a flush that he would never see in Lya's.

 "This woman's . . . alive!" Alfred whispered.

 He staggered across to the crystal chamber that had been his own, but was now another's, and stared inside it. The man's clothing—a plain, simple, white robe—stirred. Eyeballs beneath closed lids moved; a finger twitched.

 Feverishly, his mind overwhelmed, his heart almost bursting with joy, Alfred ran from one crystal chamber to another, staring inside each.

 There could be no doubt. Every one of these Sartan was alive!

 Exhausted, his mind reeling, Alfred returned to the center of the mausoleum and tried to unravel the tangled skein of his thoughts. It was impossible. He couldn't find the end of the thread, couldn't find the beginning.

 His friends in the mausoleum had been dead for many, many years. Time and again he'd left them, time and again he'd returned, and nothing had ever changed. When he'd first realized that he and he alone, out of all the Sartan on Arianus, had survived, he'd refused to believe it. He'd played a game with himself, told himself that this time, when he came back, he'd find them alive. But he never had, and soon the game became so exceedingly painful that he'd quit playing it.

 But now the game was back on and, what's more, he'd won!

 Admittedly these Sartan were strangers, every one of them. He had no idea how they came to be here, or why, or what had happened to those he'd left behind. But these people were Sartan and they were alive!

 Unless, of course, he was truly insane.

 There was one way to find out. Alfred hesitated, not certain he wanted to know.

 "Remember what you said about retreating from the world? About no longer getting involved in other people's lives? You could leave, walk out of this chamber without looking back."

 "But where would I go?" he asked himself helplessly. "This is my home, if anyplace to me is home."

 Curiosity, if nothing else, propelled him to act.

 Alfred began to chant the runes, singing them in a high-pitched nasal voice. As he chanted, his body swayed and he moved his hands in time to his rhythm. Then, lifting his hands, he traced the sigla in the air and, at the same time, formed their intricate patterns with his feet.

 The body that was so incredibly clumsy when left on its own filled with magic and Alfred became, for an instant, beautiful. Grace flowed through every limb, radiance touched his sad face, bliss lit his smile. He gave himself to the magic, danced with it, sang to it, embraced it. Round and round the mausoleum he solemnly whirled, coattails flying, frayed lace fluttering.

 One by one, crystal doors opened. One by one, those in the chamber drew their first breaths of air of an outside world. One by one, heads turned, eyes opened, gazing in wonder or confusion, loath to leave the sweet dreams that had entertained them.

 Alfred, lost in the magic, noticed nothing. He continued his dance, weaving gracefully back and forth across the marble floor, feet moving in prescribed patterns. When the magical spell was cast, the dance coming to its end, he moved slower and slower, continuing the same graceful gestures, but smaller in scope. At last, he ceased to dance and, lifting his head, gazed about him, far more bewildered than those who had just risen from their dreams.

 Several hundred men and women, all clad in soft white robes, had gathered in silence around Alfred, politely waiting for him to complete his magic before disturbing him. He came to a halt and they waited another respectful moment, to give him time to let go of the bliss and return to reality, tantamount to falling into an ice-cold lake.

 A man, the same Sartan who had been in Alfred's crystal chamber, stepped forward. He was obviously the acknowledged spokesman of the group, for the others gave way deferentially, regarded him with trust and respect.

 He was, as Alfred had seen already, a man in early midlife, and it was easy to see, from his appearance, how the mensch had once mistaken the Sartan for gods. His face was cast in strong lines; intelligence molded the features and lit the brown eyes. His hair was trimmed short and curled over his forehead in a fashion that was familiar to Alfred, yet he couldn't quite recall where he'd seen it.

 The strange Sartan moved with a casual grace the clumsy Alfred envied.

 "I am Samah," said the man in a voice that was rich and mellow. He bowed in respectful greeting, an old-fashioned, courtly gesture that had gone out of style long before Alfred's childhood, but had been occasionally practiced among the elder Sartan.

 Alfred made no response. He could do nothing except stare, transfixed. The man had given his Sartan name![1] This either meant that Samah trusted Alfred—a stranger, an unknown—as a brother or that he was so supremely secure in his own magical prowess he had no need to fear another gaining ascendancy over him. Alfred concluded the reason must be the latter. The man's power radiated from him, warming the wretched Alfred like the sun on a winter's day.

 In ages past, Alfred would have given this man his own Sartan name without a thought, knowing that any influence such a man as this must have over him could only be good. But that had been an Alfred of innocence, an Alfred who had not seen the bodies of his friends and family stretched out in their crystal coffins, an Alfred who had not seen Sartan practicing the forbidden black art of necromancy. He longed to trust them, he would have given his very life to trust them.

 "My name is ... Alfred," he said, with an awkward bob.

 "That is not a Sartan name," said Samah, frowning.

 "No," Alfred agreed meekly.

 "It is a mensch name. But you are a Sartan, are you not? You are not a mensch?"

 "Yes, I am. That is, no, I'm not," Alfred floundered, rattled.

 The Sartan language, as the Patryn language, being magic, has the ability to conjure up images of the worlds and environment of the speaker. Alfred had just witnessed, in Samah's words, a realm of extraordinary beauty, a realm made entirely of water, its sun shining in its center. A world of smaller worlds— landmasses encased in bubbles of air, landmasses that were themselves magically alive though now they slept, drifting in their dreams around the sun. He saw a Sartan city, his people working, fighting . . .

 Fighting. War. Battle. Savage monsters crawling from the deep, wreaking havoc, bringing death. The vastly conflicting images came together with a crash in Alfred's head, nearly depriving him of his senses.

 "I am head of the Council of Seven," began Samah.

 Alfred gaped; the breath left his body as completely as if he'd been knocked flat on the floor.

 Samah. Council of Seven. It couldn't be possible. . . .

 It occurred to Alfred, eventually, by the man's frown, that he was asking a question.

 "I—I beg your pardon?" Alfred stammered.

 The rest of the Sartan, who had been standing in respectful silence, murmured, exchanged glances. Samah looked around, quieted them without speaking a word.

 "I was saying, Alfred"—Samah's tone was kind, patient. It made Alfred want to burst into tears—"that, as head of the Council, I have the right and the duty to ask questions of you, not from mere idle curiosity, but, considering these times of crises, out of necessity. Where are the rest of our brethren?"

 He glanced about eagerly.

 "I ... I am alone," Alfred said, and the word alone conjured up images that made Samah and all the rest of the Sartan stare at him in sudden, aching silence.

 "Has something gone wrong?" Samah asked at last.

 Yes! Alfred wanted to cry. Something has gone dreadfully wrong! But he could only stare at the Sartan in dismayed confusion, the truth thundering around him like the fearsome storm that rages perpetually on Arianus.

 "I ... I'm not on Arianus, am I?" Alfred squeezed the words out of the tight feeling in his chest.

 "No. What put such an idea into your head? You are on the world of Chelestra, of course," said Samah sternly, his patience starting to wear thin.

 "Oh, dear," said Alfred faintly, and in a graceful, spiraling motion, he slid gently and unconsciously to the floor.

 CHAPTER3

 ADRIFT SOMEWHERE THE GOODSEA

 MY NAME IS GRUNDLE. [1]

 When I was a child, that is the first sentence I ever learned how to write. I'm not certain why I wrote it down here, or why I begin with it, except that I have stared at this blank page for a long time now and I knew that I had to write something or I would never write anything.

 I wonder who will find this and read it? Or if anyone will. I doubt that I will ever know. We have no hope of surviving our journey's end.

(Except, of course, the perverse hope that a miracle will happen, that something or someone will come to save us. Alake says that to hope for such a thing, especially to pray for it, is wicked, since if we were saved our people would suffer. I suppose she is right, she being the most intelligent among us. But I notice she continues to practice her exercises in summoning and conjuration and she would not do so if she was practicing what she counsels.)

 It was Alake who recommended that I write the account of our voyage. She says our people may find it, after we are gone, and take some comfort in it. Then, of course, it is also necessary to explain about Devon. All of which is true, but I suspect she gave me this task so that I would leave her alone and quit pestering her when she wanted to practice her magic.

 And I suppose she's right. It's better to do this than to sit and do nothing except wait for death. But I have my doubts that any of our people will ever see this. I think it will more likely be some stranger.

 It's odd for me to think a stranger may be reading this after I am dead. Odder still to find myself sharing my fears and doubts with a stranger, when I can't share them with those I love. Perhaps that person will be from another seamoon. If there are other seamoons, which I doubt. Still, Alake says it's sinful to think that the One might have made us and no one else. But we dwarves are great doubters, suspicious of anything that hasn't been around at least as long as we have.

 I doubt that our deaths will accomplish anything.

 I doubt that the Masters of the Sea will keep their word. Our sacrifice will be for nothing. Our people are doomed.

 There. I've put it down at last. I feel better for it, though I will have to make certain now that Alake never sees this journal.

 My name is Grundle.

 It came much easier that time. My father is Yngvar Heavy-beard, Vater of the Gargan. My mother is Hilda. In her youth, she was said to be the most beautiful woman in all the seamoon. Songs have been made of my beauty, but I've seen a portrait done on her wedding day; I'm plain, compared to her. Her side whiskers came almost to her waist and were the honey color, which is extremely rare and prized among dwarves.

 My father tells the story that when my mother stepped out onto the field of contest, the other contenders took one look at her and walked off, leaving her the unchallenged winner. My mother, I am told, was extremely put out at this, for she had practiced long at the ax-throw and could hit the target five times out of six. If I had stayed on Gargan, they would have been holding the marriage contests for me, since I'm near the end of the Time of Seeking.

 That blot is a tear. Now I'm certain I can't let Alake see this!

 Father or king. The queen is known as Muter—mother.

 I wasn't crying for myself, mind you. I was crying for Hartmut. He loves me very much. And I love him. But I can't let myself think about him or the tears will wash out the ink on the page.

 The person who finds this will probably be astonished to discover a dwarf writing this account. Our people have little use for such matters as reading and writing and ciphering. Writing makes the mind lazy, according to my people, who each keep the entire history of Gargan in their heads, plus the history of their individual families. Dwarves, in fact, have no written language of their own, which is why I am writing this in human.

 We keep excellent accounts in our heads, as well—a marvel to human and elven purveyors. I have yet to see the dwarf who couldn't tell to the grain how much money he or she has made in a lifetime. Some old graybeards will go on for cycles!

 I myself would never have learned to read and write, except that I am—or was—destined to be ruler of my people. And since I would be dealing so closely with our human and elven allies, my father and mother decided that I should be brought up among them and educated in their ways. And (I think they considered this more important!) they wanted me to educate the humans and elves in our ways.

 At an early age, I was sent to Elmas—the elven seamoon — along with Alake, the daughter of the chieftain of Phondra. Alake is near my age mentally, if not in terms of actual cycles. (Humans lead such pitifully short lives, they are forced to grow up rapidly.) With us was Sabia, the elven princess, who joined us in our studies.

 Beautiful, gentle Sabia. I will never see her again. But the One be thanked that she escaped this cruel fate.

 We three girls spent many years together, driving our teachers to distraction and learning to love each other like sisters. Indeed, we became closer than most sisters I've known, for there was never any rivalry or jealousy between us.

 Our only disagreements stemmed from learning to put up with the others' shortcomings. But our parents were wise in raising us together. For example, I had never much liked humans. They talk too loudly and too fast, are too aggressive, and keep bouncing from one subject to another, one place to another. They never seem to sit still or take time to think.

 Being around humans over a long period of time taught me to understand that their impatience and ambition and their constant need for hurry, hurry, hurry is just their way of attempting to outrace their own mortality.

 By contrast, I learned that the long-lived elves are not lazy dreamers, as most dwarves consider them, but people who simply take life at their leisure, without a worry or care for tomorrow, since they are certain to have almost innumerable tomorrows left to deal with it.

 And Alake and Sabia were good enough to put up with my blunt honesty, a trait of my people. (I would like to think it is a good one, but it can be carried to extremes!) A dwarf will always tell the truth, no matter how little anyone else is prepared to hear it. We can also be very stubborn, and once we dig in our heels we stay put and rarely budge. An unusually stubborn human is said to have "feet like a dwarf."

 In addition, I learned how to speak and write fluent human and elven (though our poor governess was always offended by the awkward way I held my pen). I studied the histories of their seamoons and their differing versions of the history of our world, Chelestra. But what I truly learned was affection for my dear sister-friends and, through them, their races.

 We used to plan what we would do to bring our people even closer together when we at last came to rule, each of us on our own seamoon.

 Never to be. We none of us will live that long.

 I suppose I had better tell what happened.

 It all began the day I was to bless the sun-chaser. My day. My wonderful day.

 I could not sleep for excitement. Hurriedly I dressed myself in my best clothes—a long-sleeved blouse of plain and serviceable fabric (we have no use for frills), an overdress laced behind, and stout, thick boots. Standing before the looking glass in my bedroom in my father's house, I began the day's most important task: brushing and curling my hair and side whiskers.

 The time seemed all too short before I heard my father calling for me. I made believe I hadn't heard him, stood looking at myself with a critical eye, wondering if I was fit to be seen in public. You mustn't think that such attention to my appearance was all for vanity's sake. As heir to the Gargan throne, I'm expected to both look and act the part.

 I had to admit—I was pretty.

 I cleared away the pots of oil, imported from the elves of Elmas, and replaced the curling tongs carefully in their stand by the grate. Sabia, who has servants falling all over her (and who has never once brushed her own long blonde hair), can't get over the fact that I not only dress myself, but clean up afterward. We Gargan are a proud and self-sufficient people and would never dream of waiting on each other in a menial capacity. Our Vater chops his own fire wood; our Muter does her own laundry and sweeps her own floor. I curl my own hair. The only mark of distinction the royal family receives above all other Gargan is that we are expected to work twice as hard as anyone else.

 Today, however, our family was to have one of the rewards for services rendered to the people. The fleet of sun-chasers had been completed. My father would ask the blessing of the One upon them, and I would have the honor of nailing a lock of my hair to the bow of the flagship.

 My father yelled again. Swiftly, I left my room, hurried out into the hall.

 "Where is the lass?" I heard my father demand of my mother. "The seasun will have passed us by. We'll be frozen solid by the time she's ready."

 "This is her big day," said my mother soothingly. "You want her to look well. All her suitors will be there."

 "Bah!" Father grumbled. "She's far too young to be thinking of such things."

 "Perhaps. But what catches the eye now catches the head later," said my mother, quoting a dwarven proverb.

 "Hunh!" My father snorted.

 But, when he caught sight of me, his stomach puffed out with pride, and he said nothing more about my being late.

 Father, I miss you so! Oh, how hard it is! How hard.

 We left our house that is more like a cave bored straight into the mountain. All our homes and businesses are built inside the mountain, unlike human and elven structures that are built on the mountain slopes. It took me a long time to get used to living in the Elmas coral castle that seemed, in my mind, to cling precariously to the rock. I had dreams about its tumbling down the mountainside, carrying me with it!

 The morning was beautiful. The rays of the seasun shimmered up through the waves. The sparse clouds that floated over the warren caught the sun's glow. My family joined the throngs of dwarves walking down the steeply sloping path to the shore of the Goodsea. Our neighbors called out to my father, more than a few coming up to slap him on his broad stomach— a typical dwarven form of greeting—and invite him to join them in the tavern after the ceremony.

 My father slapped stomachs in return, and we continued down the mountainside. When on land, the Gargan travel everywhere on their own two feet. Carts are meant to haul potatoes, not people. And although we dwarves have grown accustomed to the sight of elves riding around in carriages and humans using beasts to bear their burdens, most Gargans consider such laziness to be a symbol of the weakness inherent in the other two races.

 The only vehicle we dwarves use are our famous submersibles—ships designed to sail the Goodsea. Such ships—the dwarves' pride—were developed out of necessity since we have an unfortunate tendency to sink like stones in the water. The dwarf has not been born who can swim.

 We Gargans are such clever shipbuilders that the Phondrans and the Elmas, who once built ships of their own, ceased to do so and came to rely solely on our craft. Now, with the help of financing from the humans and elves, we had constructed our masterpiece—a fleet of sun-chasers, enough submersibles to carry the populations of three seamoons.

 "It's been generations since we have been called on to build the sun-chasers," stated my father. We had paused a moment to look proudly down from the steeply slanting roadway to the harbor at sea level, far below. "And never a fleet this big, designed to carry so many. This is a historic occasion, one that will be long remembered."

 "And such an honor for Grundle," said my mother, smiling at me.

 I returned my mother's smile, but said nothing. We dwarves are not noted for our sense of humor, but I am considered serious-minded and sober even for a dwarf and my thoughts today were concentrated on my duties. I have an extremely practical nature, not a shred of sentimentality or romance (as Sabia used to comment sadly).

 "I wish your friends were here to see you today," my mother added. "We invited them, but, of course, they are extremely busy among their own people, preparing for the Sun Chase."

 "Yes, Mother," I agreed. "It would have been nice if they could have come."

 I would not alter dwarven life-style for the trapping of the seasun, but I could not help envying the respect accorded Alake by the Phondrans or the love and reverence shown Sabia by the Elmas. Among my people I am, most of the time, just another dwarf maiden. I comforted myself with the knowledge that I would be able to tell my friends all about it and (I must be honest) with the knowledge that neither would have a lock of her hair on the bow of a sun-chaser!

 We reached the harbor, where the gigantic submersibles floated at anchor. Now that I was near them, I was overawed by the immensity of the ships, the amount of work that had gone into creating them.

 The sun-chasers had been built to resemble black whales, their prows smooth and made of the drywood of Phondra, so-called because it is covered with a type of natural resin that protects it from water damage. Windows studded the hull, shining like jewels in the seasun. And the size! I couldn't believe it! Each sun-chaser, and there were ten of them, was nearly eight stadion in length. I marveled at the size, but then, I reminded myself, they have to carry the populations of three realms.

 The sea breeze rose. I smoothed my whiskers, my mother patted my hair into place. The crowd of dwarves gathered at the wharf made way good-naturedly for us. The Gargans, though excited, were orderly and disciplined, none of the boisterous shoving and pushing that one would have seen in a similar gathering of humans.

 We walked among them, nodding to left and right. The dwarven men put their hands to their forelocks, a sign of formal respect, suitable to the solemnity of the occasion. The women curtsied and prodded their offspring, who were staring open-mouthed at the great submersibles and who could not be made to turn their attention from these wonders to such an everyday sight as their king.

 I walked beside my mother, the proper place for an unmarried young dwarf maid. I looked straight ahead, endeavoring to keep my eyes modestly lowered, my mind on what I was supposed to do. But I had difficulty preventing my glance from straying to the two long rows of leather-armored, clean-shaven young men standing at attention at the end of the wharf.

 All dwarven males, at the Time of Seeking, are expected to serve in the military. The best had been chosen to act as honor guard for the Vater and his family this day. It was one of the these young men who, more than likely, would win the privilege of being my husband. It wasn't really proper for me to have favorites, but I knew Hartmut would be able to easily defeat all comers.

 He caught me looking at him and gave me a smile that made me go all warm inside. He is so good-looking! His russet hair is long and thick, his side whiskers are auburn, and his beard, when he is allowed to grow it after his marriage, will most certainly match. He has already attained the rank of fourclan master, a high honor for an unmarried dwarf.

 The soldiers, at a word from their marshall, brought their arms—axes, the favored weapon—up in salute, whirled them around, and thudded the axheads on the ground.

 I noted that Hartmut handled his ax with far greater dexterity than any other dwarf in his clan. This boded well for the future since ax-throwing, chopping, and ducking determine the winner of the marriage contest.

 My mother caught hold of my sleeve, gave it a sharp tug.

 "Stop staring at that young man!" she whispered. "What will he think of you?"

 I obediently shifted my gaze to my father's broad back, but I was very much aware of passing close to Hartmut, who stood at the wharf's edge. And I heard him thump the head of the ax on the ground again, just for me.

 A small ceremonial platform had been erected for us at the bow of the flagship, lifting us above the crowd. We climbed up onto the platform. My father stepped forward. The audience, though it had never been making much noise, quieted immediately.

 "My family," [8] began my father, clasping his hands over his broad stomach, "many and many Times have passed since our people have been forced to make the Sun Chase. Not even the eldest among us"—a respectful nod to an elderly dwarf, whose beard was yellow with age and who stood in the place of honor at the very forefront of the crowd—"can remember back to the time our people chased the seasun and landed on Gargan."

 "My father could remember it," piped up the old dwarf. "He made the journey when he was a little boy."

 My father paused a moment, his thoughts scattered by the unexpected interruption. I looked over the heads of the crowd, back to the warren and its neat rows of bright-colored doors, and it occurred to me for the first time that I must actually leave this land of my birth and travel to another land, a strange land, a land that would have no doors leading into the safe, dark sanctuary of the mountain.

 My eyes filled with tears. I lowered my head, ashamed to have anyone (particularly Hartmut) see me cry.

 "A new realm awaits us, a seamoon large enough for all three races—humans, elves, dwarves—to live on, each in our own separate realm, but each trading, working together, sharing to build a prosperous world.

 "The trip will be long," my father continued, "and tiring. And when we arrive, we face backbreaking labor and toil to rebuild our homes and businesses. It will be difficult to leave Gargan. Much that we love and value must, of necessity, be left behind us. But that which we prize and cherish above all else, we take with us. And that is each other. We could leave behind everything, every coin, every stitch of clothing, every cooking pot and cradle and bed, and, because we have each other, the dwarven nation would arrive at its destination strong and prepared to go forth and establish our greatness on this new world!"

 My father, during his speech, had put his arm around my mother. My mother clasped hold of my hand. Our people cheered loudly. My tears dried.

 "As long as we have each other," I said to myself. "As long as we are together, this new land will be our home."

 I peeped shyly at Hartmut. His eyes were shining. He smiled at me, only for me. Everything was said between us in that look, that smile. The marriage contests can't be rigged, but most dwarves know the outcome in advance.

 My father spoke on, discussing how, for the first time in Chelestran history, humans and elves and dwarves would be making the Sun Chase together.

 In times past, we'd done the Sun Chase, of course, hastening after the seasun that drifts endlessly through the water that is our world. But then it had been the dwarves alone, fleeing the approaching longnight of ice that would slowly encase our seamoon.

 I shoved the unhappy thought of leaving my homeland from my mind, began to think about the fun times aboard ship with Alake and Sabia. I'd tell them about Hartmut, point him out. Not that any human female or elven maid could properly appreciate how handsome he is.

 My father coughed. I saw him staring at me. My mother nudged me in the ribs. I came back to the proceedings instantly, feeling my face burning. I held in my hand the lock of my hair, already cut and tied with a bright blue ribbon. My father handed me the hammer, my mother the nail. I took them both, turned to the broad wooden beam of the sun-chaser that towered high above me. The crowd was quiet, waiting for the chance to cheer wildly when the ceremony was completed.

 Feeling all eyes (two eyes in particular) on me, I twined the ribboned lock of hair firmly around the nail, put the nail to the wooden hull, and was just about to rap the nail smartly with the hammer, when I heard a low murmur sweep through the crowd. It reminded me of the rising of the sea during one of the rare Chelestran storms.

 My first thought, I remember, was one of extreme irritation that something or someone was ruining my big moment. Aware that the crowd's attention had been drawn from me, I lowered the hammer and glanced around indignantly to see what all the fuss was about.

 Every Gargan—man, woman, and child—was staring out to sea. Some were pointing. Those shorter than the rest were standing on tiptoe, craning their necks to get a look.

 "It figures," I grumbled, endeavoring to peer around the submersible and not having much luck. "Alake and Sabia have come after all, right in the middle of everything. Well, their timing was bad, but at least they'll be here to watch. I can always start over."

 But I could tell by the expressions on the faces of the dwarves standing below me, who had clear view out to sea, that whatever was coming wasn't one of the gaily decorated swan ships we build for the elves, or one of the sturdy fishing ships we build for the humans. These would have been welcomed with much beard-wagging and the occasional hand-wave, about as demonstrative as dwarves ever get. Now beards were being stroked — a sign of dwarven unease — and mothers were quickly rounding up children who had strayed.

 The marshall of the dwarven army ran to the platform.

 "Vater, you must see this!" he shouted.

 "Stay here," my father ordered us, and descending the platform, he hurried after the marshall.

 The ceremony was obviously ruined. I was angry about that, angry about the fact that I couldn't see a thing, angry at Father for dashing off. I stood clutching the hammer and the lock of hair and cursed the fate that made me a princess, left me standing on this stupid platform when every other person in Gargan had a clear view of what was going on.

 I didn't dare disobey my father — a dwarf maid who did that would have her side whiskers clipped in punishment, a humiliating experience — but surely it wouldn't hurt if I moved to the end of the platform. Perhaps I could see from there. I had taken a step and could hear my mother draw in her breath to order me back when Hartmut jumped up onto the platform and ran to us.

 "The Vater has commanded me to keep you and your daughter safe in his absence, Muter," he said, with a respectful bow to my mother.

 His eyes were on me, however.

 Perhaps fate knew what it was about, after all. I decided to stay where I was.

 "What's happening?" my mother was asking anxiously.

 "A disturbance in the sea, nothing more," said Hartmut casually. "An oil slick of some sort is spreading and a few people thought they saw heads sticking up out of it, but I think they're looking through the bottom of an ale mug. Most likely it's a school of fish. The boats are setting out to investigate."

 My mother seemed reassured. I wasn't. I saw Hartmut's eyes stray to his marshall, watching for orders. And though he was making a gallant attempt to smile, his face was grim.

 "I think, Muter," he continued, "that until we establish just what's causing this oil slick, it might be wise if you were to step down from this platform."

 "You're right, young man. Grundle, give me that hammer. You look silly standing there, hanging onto it. I'm going to go join your father. No, Grundle, you stay with the young guard." My mother bustled off the platform and sallied out into the crowd after my father. I sent my thanks and my blessing after her.

 "I don't think you look silly," Hartmut said to me. "I think you look splendid."

 I edged closer to the young dwarf, and now that my hand was free of the hammer, it could accidentally find its way into his hand. The boats were putting off from the beach, their rowers pulling on the oars, shooting out to sea. We left the platform and, along with the rest of the population of Gargan, hurried down to the water's edge.

 "What do you think it is?" I asked in a low voice.

 "I don't know," said Hartmut, allowing his trouble to show now that we were alone. "We've heard odd tales all week. The dolphins report strange creatures swimming the Goodsea. Serpents whose skin is covered with oil that fouls the water and poisons any fish unlucky enough to wander into it."

 "Where did they come from?" I drew nearer.

 "No one knows. According to the dolphins, when the seasun began altering its course, it thawed out several seamoons that have been frozen for the One knows how long. Perhaps these creatures came from one of those moons."

 "Look!" I gasped. "Something's happening." Most of the dwarves in their small boats had ceased to row. Some had shipped their oars and sat motionless in the water, staring out to sea. Others had nervously begun to pull back for shore. I could see nothing except the oil on the water—a greenish, brownish slime that smoothed out the waves and left a film on the sides of the boats it touched. I could smell it, too; a noxious odor that made me sick to my stomach.

 Hartmut gripped my hand hard. The water was starting to recede! I'd never seen anything like it—as if some gigantic mouth were sucking the water out from under us!

 Several boats were already beached, left stranded on the wet, oil-coated sand. Those boats standing farther out were being sucked along with the water! The sailors pulled on the oars, battling frantically to halt their forward motion. The submersibles sank lower and lower, then, rocking back and forth, they struck bottom with a tearing, grinding sound.

 And then, an enormous head soared upward out of the waves. Its skin was gray-green and covered with scales that glistened in the weak sunlight with an ugly iridescence. Its head was small, the same size as the neck. It seemed to be all neck, unless one counted the back part as tail. The serpent moved in a horrible, sinuous curve. Its eyes were green when it first looked at us, but then the eyes changed, began to glow a dreadful fiery red. The serpent drew itself up and up and, as it rose, it sucked the water up with it.

 It was huge, monstrous. It seemed half the height of the mountain, at least.

 I watched the seawater rush away from me and I had the sudden, frightening feeling that I was about to be carried out into it. Hartmut put his arm around me. His body, thick and stocky, was solid and reassuring.

 The serpent reached what seemed an impossible height, then down it dropped, smashed headfirst into the flagship, punching a huge hole in the ship's hull. The seawater surged back to shore in a great wave.

 "Run!" my father shouted, his voice booming over the shocked cries of the crowd. "Run for the mountain!"

 The Gargan turned and fled. Even in our fear, there was no confusion or disorder, no panic. Elder dwarves, who couldn't move fast enough, were whisked off their feet by their sons and daughters and carried bodily. Mothers grabbed infants, fathers lifted older children to their shoulders.

 "Run on ahead, Grundle!" Hartmut told me. "I must return to my command."

 He raced off, hefting his battle-ax, to rejoin the army that was grouping at the water's edge, prepared to cover the people's retreat.

 I knew I should run, but my feet seemed to have gone numb; my legs were too weak to do anything more than keep me standing upright. I stared at the serpent, who had risen, unharmed, out of the wreckage of the submersible. Toothless mouth gaping in what might have been a noiseless laugh, it hurled itself down on another ship. Wood splintered and broke apart. Other creatures that looked exactly like the first rose out of the sea and started to break apart the remainder of the submersibles and any other boat they could find. The waves created by the creatures thundered down on the shoreline, completing the destruction.

 Boats capsized, hurling their crews into the water. Some were simply swallowed up, the dwarves on board disappearing in the oil-covered foam. The army stood fast against the serpents. Hartmut was bravest of all of them, advancing into the water, his ax raised in challenge. The serpents ignored them, contented themselves with smashing all the boats in the harbor—except one, the royal ship, the one we used to sail back and forth to Phondra and Elmas.

 The serpent paused, looked at us and at the havoc its creatures had wrecked. Its eyes had changed from red to green, their gaze was flat and unblinking. It turned its head from side to side in a slow, sweeping gesture, and whenever its dread gaze touched any of us, we shrank beneath it. When it spoke, the other serpents behind it ceased their destruction to listen.

 The serpent spoke perfect dwarven.

 "This message is for you and your allies, the humans and the elves. We are the new masters of the sea. You will sail it only with our permission and our permission can be obtained only by paying a price. What that price is to be, you will be told later. What you have seen today is a sample of our power, of what will happen to you if you do not pay. Heed well our warning!"

 The serpent dove back down in the water and vanished. The others followed, swimming rapidly through the bits and pieces of wood floating on the slimy surface. We stood looking at the ruins of the sun-chasers. I remember the silence that fell over the people. No one even yet wept for the dead.

 When all were certain that the serpents were finally gone, we began the grim task of retrieving the bodies of those who had died—all of them, it turned out, appeared to have been poisoned. Once pure and safe to drink, the seawater was now coated with a foul oil slick that killed anything unlucky enough to swallow it.

 And that was how all this began. There is more, much more, to my story, but I hear Alake coming through the ship, looking for me, calling to me that it's time to eat. Humans! They think food is the cure-all for every problem. I like my dinner as well as the next dwarf, but, just now, I don't seem to have much appetite.

 I must end for the moment.

 CHAPTER4

 ADRIFT, SOMEWHERE THE GOODSEA

 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? [1] 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.

 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?" 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 ittome. 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."

 "Willthe 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 onthe 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.

 CHAPTER5

 DEATH'S GATE CHELESTRA

 CONSCIOUSNESS FORCED ITSELF ON HAPLO.

 He awoke to searing pain, yet, in the same instant, he knew himself to be whole once more, and pain-free. The circle of his being was joined again. The agony he'd felt was the tail end of that circle being seized by the mouth.

 But the circle wasn't strong. It was wobbly, tenuous. Lifting his hand was an effort almost beyond his strength, but he managed it and placed the fingers on his naked breast. Starring with the rune over his heart, slowly and haltingly, he began to trace, began to reconnect and strengthen, every sigil written upon his skin.

 He started with the name rune, the first sigil that is tattooed over the heart of the squirming, screaming babe almost the moment it is forced from the mother's womb. The babe's mother performs the rite, or another female tribe member if the mother dies. The name is chosen by the father, if he lives or is still among the tribe. [1] If not, by the tribal headman.

"Children are extremely valued in the Labyrinth and are raised by the Squatters. Runners, such as Haplo, would often father children but, due to the nature of their lives, could not stay with a tribe to raise it. Female Runners, becoming pregnant, would move into a Squatter tribe until the babe was born, then give it to one of the Squatter families to raise. Occasionally drawing on the magic of either mother or wet nurse. And yet the name rune is the most important sigil on the body, since every other sigil added later traces its origin back to it first—the beginning of the circle.

 Haplo moved his fingers over the name rune, redrawing its intricate design from memory.

 Memory took him back to the time of his childhood, to one of the rare, precious moments of peace and rest, to a boy reciting his name and learning how to shape the runes. . . .

 . . . "Haplo: 'single, alone.' That is your name and your destiny," said his father, his finger rough and hard on Haplo's chest. "Your mother and I have defeated the odds thrown for us already. Every Gate we pass from now on is a wink at fate. But the time will come when the Labyrinth will claim us, as it claims all except the lucky and the strong. And the lucky and the strong are generally the lonely. Repeat your name."

 Haplo did so, solemnly running his own grimy finger over his thin chest.

 His father nodded. "And now the runes of protection and healing."

 Haplo laboriously went over each of those, beginning with the ones touching the name rune, spreading out over the breast, the vital organs of his abdominal region, the sensitive groin area, and around the back to protect the spine. Haplo recited these, as he'd recited them countless times in his brief life. He'd done it so often, he could let his mind wander to the rabbit snares he'd laid out that day, wondered if he might be able to surprise his mother with dinner.

 "No! Wrong! Begin again!"

 A sharp blow, delivered impersonally by his father with what was known as the naming stick, across the unprotected, rune-free palm of the hand, focused Haplo's mind on his lesson. The blow brought tears to his eyes, but he was quick to blink them away, for his father was watching him closely. The ability to endure pain was as much a part of this rough schooling as the recitation and the drawing of the sigla.

 "You are careless today, Haplo," said his father, tapping the naming stick—a thin, pliable branch of a plant known as a creeping rose, adorned with flesh-pricking thorns—on the hard ground. "It is said that back in the days of our freedom, before we were thrown into this accursed jail by our enemies . . . Name the enemy, my son."

 "The Sartan," Haplo said, trying to ignore the stinging pain of the thorns left stuck in his skin.

 "It is said that in the days of our freedom, children such as you went to schools and learned the runes as a kind of exercise for the mind. But no longer. Now it is life or death. When your mother and I are dead, Haplo, you will be responsible for the sigla that will, if done correctly, grant you the strength needed to escape our prison and avenge our deaths on our enemy. Name the runes of strength and power."

 Haplo's hand left the trunk of his body and followed the progression of the tattooed sigla that twined down his arms and legs, onto the backs of his hands and the tops of his feet. He knew these better than he knew the runes of protection and healing. Those "baby" runes had been tattooed onto him when he was weaned from the breast. He had actually been allowed to tattoo some of these newer sigla—the mark of an adult—onto his skin himself. That had been a proud moment, his first rite of entry into what would undoubtedly be a cruel, harsh, and brief life.

 Haplo completed his lesson without making another mistake and earned his father's curt nod of satisfaction.

 "Now, heal those wounds," his father said, gesturing to the thorns protruding from the boy's palm.

 Haplo pulled out the thorns with his teeth, spat them on the ground, and, joining his hands, formed the healing circle, as he'd been taught. The red, swollen marks left behind by the thorns gradually disappeared. He exhibited smooth, if dirty, palms for his father. The man grunted, rose, and walked away.

 Two days later, he and Haplo's mother would both be dead. Haplo would be left alone.

 The lucky and the strong were generally lonely. . . .

 Haplo's mind drifted on a cloud of agony and weakness. He traced the sigla for his father and then his father was a bloody, mangled body and then his father was the Lord of the Nexus, whipping Haplo with the cane of the rosebush.

 Haplo grit his teeth and forced himself to blink back the tears and bite back the scream and concentrate on the runes. His hand traveled down his left arm, to the sigla he'd drawn there as a boy and those he'd redrawn as a man and those he'd added as a man, feeling his strength and power grow within him.

 He was forced to sit up, in order to reach the sigla on his legs. His first attempt nearly made him black out, but he struggled out of the whirling mists and peered through the blinking lights of his mind, choked back the nausea, and sat almost upright. His hand, trembling with weakness, followed the runes on thighs, hips, knees, shins, feet.

 He expected, every moment, to feel the sting of the thorny cane, the reprimand, "No! Wrong! Begin again!"

 And then he was finished and he'd done it correctly. He lay back down on the deck, feeling the wonderful warmth flow through his body, spreading from the name rune at his heart through his trunk and into his limbs.

 Haplo slept.

 When he awoke, his body was still weak, but it was a weakness from prolonged fasting and thirst—soon cured. He dragged himself to his feet and peered outside the large window on the bridge, wondering where he was. He had a vague memory of having passed through the horrors of Death's Gate again, but that memory was literally ablaze with pain and he swiftly banished it.

 He was not, at least, in imminent danger. The runes on his body glowed only very faintly, and that was in reaction to what he'd suffered and endured, not reacting to any threat. He could see nothing outside the ship except a vast expanse of aqua blue. He stared at it, wondered if it was sky, water, solid, gaseous, what. He couldn't tell, and he was too light-headed from hunger to try to reason it all out.

 Turning, he stumbled through the ship, making his weary way down into the hold, where he had stored his supplies. He ate sparingly of bread dipped in wine, mindful of the adage "Never break a fast with a feast."

 His strength restored somewhat, Haplo went back to the bridge, dressed himself in his leather breeches, white long-sleeved shirt, and leather vest and boots, covering every sign of the telltale runes that marked him as a Patryn to those who remembered their history lessons. He left only his hands free, for the moment, for he would need to steer the vessel, using the magical runes of the steering stone.

 At least, he assumed he'd need to steer the vessel. Haplo stared into the aqua-blue whatever-it-was that surrounded him and tried to make sense of it, but he might have been sailing into a dome of air that spanned all the vistas of his vision or about to fly smack into a wall covered with blue paint.

 "We'll walk onto the top deck and take a look around, eh, boy?" he said. Not hearing the usual excited bark that always greeted this statement, Haplo glanced about.

 The dog was gone.

 It occurred to Haplo, then, that he hadn't seen the animal since . . . since . . . well, it had been a long time.

 "Here, boy!" Haplo whistled. No response.

 Irritated, thinking the dog was indulging in a raid on the sausages, as happened from time to time, Haplo stomped back down to the hold, prepared to find the animal looking as innocent of wrongdoing as was possible with sausage grease smeared over its nose.

 The dog was not there. No sausages were missing.

 Haplo called, whistled. No response. He knew then, with a sudden pang of loneliness and unhappiness, that the dog was gone. But almost as soon as he experienced the aching pain, which was in some ways almost harder to bear than the burning pain of his torture, Haplo felt it ease, then disappear.

 It was as if his being were opened like a door. A cold, sharp wind blew in and coated with ice every troubling doubt and feeling he'd been experiencing.

 Haplo felt renewed, refreshed, empty. And the emptiness, he discovered, was far preferable to the raging turmoil and confusion that had previously churned inside him.

 The dog. A crutch, as his lord had always said. The lucky and the strong were generally lonely. The dog had served Haplo's purpose.

 "It's gone." He shrugged and forgot it.

 Alfred. That miserable Sartan.

 "I see it now. I was duped, tricked by his magic. Just as my people were duped and tricked before the Sundering. But not now. We will meet again, Sartan, and when we do, you won't escape me this time."

 Haplo, looking back, was appalled to see how weak he'd grown, appalled to think he'd actually doubted and attempted to deceive his lord.

 His lord. He owed this new freedom from doubt, this new feeling of ease, to his lord.

 "As my father punished me when I was small, so my lord has punished me now. I accept it. I am grateful for it. I have learned from it. I will not fail you, My Lord."

 He swore the oath, placing his hand upon the name rune over his heart. Then he walked out, alone, onto the upper deck of the elven ship called Dragon Wing.

 Haplo paced the deck, looked up beyond the tall masts with the dragon-scaled wings, leaned over the rail to stare far below the ship's keel, walked forward to study what lay beyond the snarling dragon's head that was the prow. He caught sight of something in the distance. Not much, nothing more than a dark splotch against the blue, but from the tingling of the sigla on his skin and the creeping feelings of dread shriveling his bowels, he came to the conclusion that he was looking at Death's Gate.

 Obviously, then, he'd passed through the Gate, since he certainly wasn't in the Nexus. His lord must have launched his ship on its way.

 "And, since I was preparing to travel to the fourth world, to Chelestra, the world of water, this must be it," Haplo said, talking to himself, comforted by hearing a voice break the silence that surrounded him like the endless aqua blue.

 His ship was moving; he knew that much, now that he could fix his sight on a point—Death's Gate—and see it dwindle and grow smaller behind him. And he could feel, standing out in the open on the deck, the wind created by their forward motion blow strong against his skin.

 The air was cool and moist, but Haplo assumed that there must be more to a world of water than high humidity, and he again paced the length of the deck, trying to figure out where he was and where he was headed.

 A world of water. He sought to envision it, although he was forced to admit that he'd failed in his attempts to envision the previous three worlds he'd visited. He imagined islands, floating on an endless sea. And once he'd imagined that, he couldn't very well picture anything else. Nothing else made sense.

 But, if so, where were the islands? Was he, perhaps, in the air above them? But, if that was true, where was the vast expanse of water, glistening in the sun?

 Haplo returned below decks to try to sort out the problem, see if perhaps the runes of the steering stone offered some clue.

 But, at that moment, he found out what Chelestra was like. His ship slammed into a wall of water.

 The force of the impact sent Haplo toppling over backward. The steering stone jolted from its mountings and went rolling about the deck. Haplo started to regain his feet, froze, listened in astounded horror to a crack and a booming sound, like thunder. The main mast had snapped, broken.

 Haplo ran to the window, stared out to see what was attacking his ship.

 Nothing. He couldn't see any enemy, only water.

 Something fell over the window, blocking his view. He recognized it as part of the dragon's-wing sail that helped guide the vessel. Now it flapped and fluttered helplessly in the water like a drowning bird.

 Other crashes, occurring amidships, and the sudden trickling of small streams of water onto the bridge brought an unwelcome revelation. He wasn't under attack.

 "The damn ship's breaking apart!" Haplo swore, stared about in disbelief.

 It was impossible. Every plank, every beam, every mast andsail, every splinter of this ship, was protected by rune-magic. Nothing could harm it.

 The Dragon Wing had sailed without injury through the suns of Pryan. It had survived the Maelstrom of Arianus, floated unscathed on the molten lava sea of Abarrach. A powerful Sartan necromancer had tried unsuccessfully to break its spell. The dread lazar had sought to unravel its magic. Dragon Wing and its pilot had survived them all. But water, ordinary water, was causing it to shatter like flawed pottery.

 The ship was wallowing sluggishly, timbers creaking and groaning, straining to survive, then giving way. Dragon Wing was breaking apart slowly; it hadn't been crushed, but it shouldn't be breaking apart at all.

 Haplo still couldn't believe it, refused to believe it. He stood up with difficulty, fighting to balance himself on the listing deck. Water sloshed over his ankles.

 He turned to look for the steering stone, wondering briefly as he searched why it should have been knocked loose. It, too, was covered with runes, protected by sigla that guided the ship. If he could retrieve the stone, replace it, he could steer his vessel out of the water and back to what he now concluded must have been some sort of air pocket.

 Haplo located the steering stone; it had rolled up against the bulkheads. Its rounded top was barely visible above the rising water. He waded toward it, reached down to pick it up. His hand paused. He stared at the stone.

 It was smooth, round, and completely blank. The sigla were gone.

 Another crash. The water level was rising rapidly.

 This must be a trick of his mind, a panicked reaction to what was happening. The sigla on the steering stone were inscribed deeply, magically, in the rock. They could not, by any possible means, be washed away. Haplo plunged his hands into the water in an effort to retrieve the stone. He drew it out, speaking the runes that should have caused its magic to activate.

 Nothing happened. He might have been holding a rock dug from his lord's garden. And then, glaring at the stone in baffled, angry frustration, Haplo's gaze shifted to his hands.

 Water dripped from his fingers, his wrists, his lower arms, ran from skin that was smooth and unblemished, as blank and bare as the rock.

 Haplo dropped the stone. Oblivious to the water that was at his knees now, to the shattering crashes that told him Dragon Wing was in its death throes, he stared hard at his hands, tried in vain to trace the comforting, reassuring lines of the runes.

 The sigla were gone.

 Fighting a surge of panic that rose in him even with the level of the water, Haplo lifted his right arm. A trickle of the liquid streamed from the back of his hand—now bare—down his rune-covered arm. In amazed horror, he watched the drop of water slide down his skin, meander among the sigla tattooed on his flesh. In its wake, it left a clean trail of slowly fading, diminishing runes.

 This, then, was what was happening to his ship. The water was dissolving the runes, wiping out any trace of magical power.

 Unable to think of any explanation why the water should destroy the magic, Haplo could find no way to remedy the situation. His mind was in turmoil and chaos. Accustomed to relying all his life on his magic, he was suddenly rendered helpless as a mensch.

 The water level on the bridge was high enough now to float Haplo off his feet. He felt a strange reluctance to leave the protection of his vessel, though he knew logically that it would very soon be able to offer no protection whatsoever. Its magic was diminishing, dying, even as his own magic was dying. The thought came to him that it would be better to die himself than to live like a mensch—or worse than a mensch, for some of them possessed magical skills, though on a very crude level.

 The temptation to shut his eyes and let the water cover his head and end his anguish was a fleeting one. Haplo was angry, furious at what was happening to him, furious at whatever or whoever was responsible. He determined to discover who it was and why it was and make them pay. And he couldn't do that if he was dead.

 Haplo gazed upward, hoping to see some sign of the surface. He became convinced that he saw light above him. Drawing in a last breath, he shoved aside the floating remnants of Dragon Wing and pushed and kicked his way through the water.

 Powerful  strokes  of his  arms  propelled  Haplo  upward, fended off the pieces of drifting plank and boards. There was definitely light; he could look down and see the contrasting darkness of the water beneath him. But, no sign of the surface.

 Haplo's lungs began to burn; bright spots danced in his eyes. He could not hold his breath much longer. Furiously, driven by a panicked fear of drowning, he swam upward.

 I'm not going to make it. I'm going to die. And no one will ever know . . . my lord will never know . . .

 The agony became too great. Haplo could bear it no longer. The surface, if surface existed, was too far above him. He lacked strength to keep fighting. His heart seemed likely to burst, his brain to explode, his chest flaming with excruciating pain.

 Muscles acted in reflex the brain fought against. Haplo's mouth opened. He sucked in water through nose and mouth and, feeling a strange warming sensation run through his body, assumed he was dying.

 He wasn't, and that astonished him.

 Haplo didn't know a lot about drowning. He'd obviously never drowned himself, nor had he met anyone who had and come back to describe the event. He'd seen drowned bodies, however, knew that when the lungs were filled with water, they ceased functioning, along with all the other organs of the body. He was considerably surprised to discover that, in his case, this was not occurring.

 If it had not seemed too improbable, Haplo could have sworn he was breathing in the water as easily as he had once breathed in the air.

 Haplo hung motionless in the water and paused to consider this unusual and perplexing phenomenon. The rational, thinking, reasoning part of him refused to accept it, and if he dwelt consciously on the fact that the next breath he took would be filled with water, he caught himself holding his breath again, terror rising in him. But if he relaxed and didn't think about it, the breath came. Inexplicably, but it came. And, to some part of him, it made sense. A part of him long, long forgotten.

 You have returned to what was. This was how and where you began life.

 Haplo considered this, decided he would puzzle it out later. Now all that mattered was that he was alive, irrationally, but he was alive. And living presented an entirely new set of problems.

 The water might be air to his lungs, but that was all it was. Haplo could tell by the empty, gnawing sensations in his belly that the water could not nourish him, nor quench his thirst. Nor could it bolster his rapidly flagging strength. Bereft of the magic that might have sustained him, he would survive drowning only to perish of thirst, hunger, fatigue.

 His head cleared. Relieved of the panicked fight to avoid death, Haplo studied his surroundings. He could see now that the light he'd hoped was sunlight appeared to be shining, not above him, but somewhere to one side. He doubted now it was the sun, but it was light, and, hopefully, where there was light, there was life.

 Catching hold of a scrap of lumber drifting from the wreakage of Dragon Wing, Haplo struggled out of his heavy boots and most of his clothes that added weight and drag. He gazed ruefully at his bare legs and arms. No trace of the runes remained.

 Haplo rested himself as comfortably as he could upon the board and lay there, floating in the water that was neither cold nor hot but so near his own body temperature that he had no sensation of it at all against his skin.

 He relaxed, consciously refusing to think, letting himself recover from shock and fright. The water supported him, buoyed him up. He could see, from the hair streaming past his face, that the water had a motion to it, a current, a tide that appeared to be running the direction he wanted to go. This strengthened his decision. It would be easier to travel with the tide than against it.

 Haplo rested until, slowly, he felt his energy return. Then, using the plank for support, he began to swim toward the light.

 CHAPTER6

 THE HALL OF SLEEP CHELESTRA

 THE FIRST WORDS ALFRED HEARD, WHEN HE MANAGED TO ROUSE himself from his fainting spell, were not propitious to his recovery. Samah was speaking to the assembled Sartan, who were— Alfred imagined since he was keeping his eyes shut—gathered around a fallen brethren, staring at him in amazement.

 "We lost many during the Sundering. Death took most of our brethren then, but I fear that here we have a casualty of a different nature. This poor man has obviously been driven out of his mind."

 Alfred kept quiet, pretending he was still unconscious, wishing desperately that were the case!

 He sensed people around him, he heard them breathing, heard robes rustling, though no one else spoke. Alfred was still lying on the cold floor of the mausoleum, though someone had been kind enough to place a pillow—probably from one of the crypts—beneath his bald head.

 "Look, Samah. I believe he is reviving," came a woman's voice.

 Samah—the great Samah! Alfred almost groaned, swallowed it in time.

 "The rest of you, back away. Don't frighten him," the male voice that must belong to Samah ordered.

 Alfred heard pity and compassion in the man's voice and nearly wept. He longed to rise up, fling his arms around this Sartan's knees, and acknowledge him Father, Ruler, Patriarch, Councillor.

 What holds me back? Alfred wondered, shivering on the chill floor. Why am I deceiving them, my own brothers and sisters, by lying here, pretending to be unconscious, spying on them? It's a dreadful thing I'm doing. He thought with a jolt, This is something Haplo would do!

 And at this terrible realization, Alfred groaned aloud.

 He knew he had betrayed himself, but he didn't feel up to facing these people yet. He remembered Samah's words, I have the right and the duty to ask questions of you, not from mere idle curiosity, but, considering these times of crises, out of necessity.

 And what, wondered Alfred miserably, will I answer?

 His head rolled from side to side, seemingly of its own volition, for he tried to stop moving and couldn't. His hands twitched. His eyes opened.

 The newly awakened Sartan stood around him, staring down at him, no one making any move to assist him. They were not being cruel or neglectful. They were simply bewildered. They had never seen or heard one of their own kind behave in such a bizarre manner and had no idea what to do to help him.

 "Either he's reviving or having a fit," said Samah. "Some of you"—he gestured to several young Sartan men—"keep near him. He may need to be physically restrained."

 "That will not be necessary!" protested the woman who knelt beside him.

 Alfred fixed his gaze on her, recognized her as the woman he'd seen lying in what he'd thought was Lya's crypt.

 She lifted his hand in hers and began to pat it soothingly. His hand responded, as usual, of its own accord. Certainly he wasn't the one who commanded his fingers to tighten over hers. But he was the one who was comforted by her. She clasped his hand strongly and warmly in return.

 "I thought the time of defiance was over, Orla," said Samah.

 The Councillor's tone was mild, but there was a hard edge to his voice that caused Alfred to blanch. He heard the Sartan around him stir restlessly, like children of an unhappy home, afraid their parents are going to fight again.

 The woman's hand on Alfred's tightened; her voice, when she spoke, was sad.

 "Yes, Samah. I suppose it is."

 "The Council made the decision. You are part of the Council. You cast your vote, as did the others."

 The woman said nothing aloud. But these words came suddenly into Alfred's head, shared with him by the shared touching of their hands.

 "A vote in your favor, as you knew I would. Am I part of the Council? Or am I merely Samah's wife?"

 Alfred realized, suddenly, that he wasn't meant to hear those words. Sartan could speak to each other silently sometimes, but generally only those who were very close, such as husband and wife.

 Samah hadn't heard. He had turned away, his thoughts obviously on other, more important matters than a weak brother lying stretched out on the floor.

 The woman continued to gaze at Alfred, but she wasn't seeing him. She was staring through him, at something that had happened long ago. Alfred didn't like to intrude upon such private, unhappy thoughts, but the floor was getting awfully hard. He moved just a tiny bit, to ease a cramp in his right leg. The woman came back to herself, and to him.

 "How are you feeling?"

 "Not . . . not very well," Alfred stammered.

 He tried to make himself sound as ill as possible, hoping Samah, hoping all these Sartan, would go away and leave him alone.

 Well, perhaps not all of them. His hand was, he discovered, still clinging tightly to the woman's. Orla was her name, apparently. Orla, a beautiful name, yet the images it brought to him were sad ones.

 "Is there anything we can do for you?" Orla sounded helpless.

 Alfred understood. She knew he wasn't ill. She knew he was shamming, and she was upset and confused. Sartan didn't deceive each other. They didn't lie to each other. They weren't afraid of each other. Perhaps Orla was beginning to share Samah's view—that they had an insane brother on their hands.

 Sighing, Alfred closed his eyes. "Bear with me," he said softly. "I know I'm behaving strangely. I know you don't understand. I can't expect you to understand. You will, when you have heard my story."

 He sat up then, weakly, with Orla's assistance. But he managed to regain his feet on his own, managed to stand up and face Samah with dignity.

 "You are the head of the Council of Seven. Are the other Council members present?" Alfred asked.

 "Yes." Samah's gaze flicked about the chamber, picking out five other Sartan. The stern eyes came to rest, finally, on the woman, Orla. "Yes, the Council members are all here."

 "Then," said Alfred humbly, "I beg the favor of a hearing before the Council."

 "Certainly, Brother," said Samah, with a gracious bow. "That is your right, whenever you are feeling up to it. Perhaps in a day or two—"

 "No, no," said Alfred hastily. "There isn't time to wait. Well, actually there is time. Time's the problem. I mean ... I think you should hear what I have to say immediately, before . . . before . . ." His voice trailed off lamely.

 Orla caught her breath with a gasp. Her gaze sought Samah's, and whatever tension had existed between them immediately eased and slackened.

 The Sartan language, comprising, as it does, Sartan magic, has the ability to summon up images and visions that enhance the speaker's words in the minds of his hearers. A powerful Sartan, such as Samah, would have the ability to control these images, making certain that his listeners saw, as well as heard, exactly what he wanted.

 Alfred, unfortunately, could no more control his mental processes than he could his physical. Orla and Samah and every other Sartan in the mausoleum had just witnessed astounding, frightening, and confusing sights. Sights that emanated directly from Alfred.

 "The Council will convene immediately," Samah said. "The rest of you . . ." He paused, looked with troubled eyes on the other Sartan standing in the mausoleum, patiently waiting his command. "I think perhaps you should remain here until we know for certain how matters stand on the surface. I note that some of our brethren have not awakened. Find out if anything is amiss with them."

 The Sartan bowed in silent, unquestioning acquiescence, and left to go about their duties.

 Samah turned on his heel and headed out of the mausoleum, heading for a door separated from the chamber by a dark and narrow hallway. The five other Sartan Council members came after him. Orla walked near Alfred. She said nothing to him, courteously refrained from looking at him, giving him time to calm himself.

 Alfred was grateful to her, but he didn't think it would help.

 Samah strode the hall with swift, confident steps, as if he had walked these floors only yesterday. Preoccupied as he was, he apparently didn't notice that his long, sweeping robes were leaving small trails in a thick layer of dust.

 Runes over the door lit with a blue radiance as Samah approached and began to chant. The door swung open, wafting a cloud of dust up from the floor.

 Alfred sneezed. Orla was looking about her in perplexed astonishment.

 They entered the Council room, which Alfred recognized by the round table adorned with sigla, standing in the center. Samah frowned at the sight of fine, soft dust that completely covered the table, obliterating the runes carved upon its surface. Coming to stand beside the table, he ran his finger through the dust, stared at it in pondering silence.

 None of the other Council members approached the table, but remained near the door, whose runelight, once the door had opened, was beginning to fade. Samah, with a brief word, caused a white globe that hung suspended above the table to shine with a radiant white light. He gazed ruefully at the dust.

 "If we attempt to clean this off, we'll none of us be able to breathe the air." He was silent a moment, then shifted his gaze to Alfred. "I foresee the path your words will likely travel, Brother, and I must admit that it fills me with a fear I had not thought myself capable of feeling. I think we should all sit down, but—this one time—there will be no need to take our accustomed places around the table."

 Pulling out a chair, he brushed it off and held it for Orla, who walked to it with steady, measured tread. The other Council members moved chairs for themselves, stirring up such a quantity of dust in the process that for a moment it seemed a fog had rolled in on them. Everyone coughed and uttered swift chants to help clear the air. Yet the entire time they talked, the dust drifted down and around them, covered their skin and clothing.

 Alfred remained standing, as was proper when appearing before the Council.

 "Please, begin, Brother," Samah said.

 "First, I must ask that you grant me leave to ask you questions," Alfred said, clasping his hands nervously before him. "I must have answers myself before I can proceed with any assurance that what I am about to tell you is right."

 "Your request is granted, Brother," said Samah gravely.

 "Thank you." Alfred gave an awkward bob, intended for a bow. "My first question is: Are you an ancestor of the Samah who was Head of the Council during the time of the Sundering?"

 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, 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 Grafted 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—"

 Samah'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."

 CHAPTER7

 ADRIFT, SOMEWHERE THE GOODSEA

 MORNING. ANOTHER MORNING OF DESPAIR, OF FEAR. THE MORN-ings 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 Yvngar. 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. [1] 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 [2] 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 Icouldtry 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.

 CHAPTER8

 THE HALL OF SLEEP CHELESTRA

 IN THE COUNCIL CHAMBER, IN THE CITY OF THE SARTAN ON CHELESTRA, Samah's pronouncement that the Patryns must be going to war brought expressions of grim consternation to the faces of the Council members.

 "Isn't this what they intend?" Samah demanded, rounding on Alfred.

 "I ... I suppose it might be," Alfred faltered, taken aback. "We never really discussed . . ." His voice peetered out.

 Samah regarded him thoughtfully, intently. "A most fortunate circumstance, Brother, that you have arrived here accidentally, wakened us at this precise moment."

 "I—I'm not certain what you mean, Councillor," answered Alfred hesitantly, not liking Samah's tone.

 "Perhaps your arrival wasn't quite by accident?"

 Alfred wondered suddenly if the Councillor could be referring to some higher power, if there could be One who would dare rely on such an unworthy, inept messenger as the bumbling Sartan.

 "I—I suppose it might have been . . ."

 "You suppose!" Samah leapt on the word. "You suppose this and you suppose that! What do you mean 'suppose'?"

 Alfred didn't know what he meant. He hadn't known what he was saying, because he'd been trying to figure out what Samah was saying. Alfred could only stutter and stare and look as guilty as if he'd come with the intent of murdering them all.

 "I think you are being too hard on our poor brother, Samah," Orla intervened. "We should be offering him our grateful thanks, instead of doubting him, accusing him of being in league with the enemy."

 Alfred stared, aghast. So that's what the Councillor had meant! He thinks the Patryns sent me! . . . But why? Why me?

 A shadow passed over Samah's handsome face, a cloud of anger covering the sun's politic light. It was gone almost immediately, except for a lingering darkness in the smooth voice.

 "I accuse you of nothing, Brother. I merely asked a question. Yet, if my wife believes I have wronged you, I ask you to forgive me. I am weary, undoubtedly a reaction from the stress of awakening and the shock of the news you have brought us."

 Alfred felt called upon to say something in response. "I do assure you, Councillor, members of the Council"—he glanced at them pathetically—"that if you knew me, you would have no difficulty in believing my story. I came here accidentally. My entire life, you see, has been a sort of accident."

 The other Council members appeared faintly embarrassed; this was no way for a Sartan, for a demigod, to talk or act.

 Samah watched Alfred from beneath narrowed eyelids, not seeing the man, but seeing the images formed by his words.

 "If there are no objections," the Councillor said abruptly, "I propose that we adjourn the Council until tomorrow, by which time, hopefully, we will have ascertained the true state of affairs. I suggest that teams be sent to the surface to reconnoiter. Are there any objections?"

 There were none.

 "Choose among the young men and women. Tell them to be wary and search for any traces of the enemy. Remind them to be particularly careful to avoid the seawater."

 Alfred could see images, too, and he saw, as the Council members rose to their feet in apparent outward harmony and agreement, walls of bricks and thorns separating some from another. And no wall was higher or thicker than that dividing husband from wife.

 There had been cracks in that wall, when they'd first heard the startling news of their long slumbering, and came to understand that the world had fallen apart around them. But the cracks were rapidly being filled in, Alfred saw, the walls fortified. He felt vastly unhappy and uncomfortable.

 "Orla," Samah added, half-turning on his way out the door. The head of the Council always walked in the lead. "Perhaps you will be good enough to see to the needs and wants of our brother . . . Alfred." The mensch name came with difficulty to Sartan lips.

 "I would be honored," said Orla, bowing in polite response. Brick by brick, the wall was growing, expanding.

 Alfred heard the woman sigh softly. Her gaze, which followed after her husband, was wistful and sad. She, too, saw the wall, knew it was there. Perhaps she wanted to tear it down, but had no idea how to begin. As for Samah, he seemed content to let it be.

 The Councillor walked out of the room, the others followed, three walking with him, two—after a glance at Orla, who only shook her head—removing themselves shortly afterward. Alfred remained where he was, ill at ease, not knowing what to do.

 Cold fingers closed over his wrist. The woman's touch startled him. He nearly leapt out of his shoes, his feet slid in opposite directions, stirred up a cloud of choking dust. Alfred tottered and blinked, sneezed, and wished himself anywhere else, including the Labyrinth. Did she think he was in league with the enemy? He cringed and waited fearfully for her to speak.

 "How nervous you are! Please, calm yourself." Orla regarded him thoughtfully. "I suppose, though, that this must have been as great a shock to you as to us. You must be hungry and thirsty. I know I am. Will you walk with me?"

 There was nothing terrifying—even for Alfred—in being invited to dine. He was hungry. He'd had little time and less inclination for food on Abarrach. The thought of dining once more in peace and quiet, with his brothers and sisters, was blessed. For these were truly his people, truly like those he knew before he had himself taken his long sleep. Perhaps that's why Samah's doubts disturbed him so. Perhaps that's why his own doubts disturbed him.

 "Yes, I'd like that. Thank you," Alfred said, glancing at Orla almost shyly.

 She smiled at him. Her smile was tremulous, hesitant, as if not often used. But it was a beautiful smile, and brought light to her eyes. Alfred stared at her in dumb admiration.

 His spirits rose, flying so high that the walls and all thought of walls fell far down below him, out of sight, out of mind. He walked beside her, leaving the dusty chamber. Neither spoke, but moved together companionably, emerging onto a scene of quiet, efficient bustle. Alfred was thinking, and not being very careful with his thoughts, apparently.

 "I am flattered at your regard for me, Brother," Orla said to him softly, a faint blush on her cheek. "But it would be more proper for you to keep such thoughts private."

 "I ... beg your pardon!" Alfred gasped, his face burning. "It's just . . . I'm not used to being around . . ."

 He made a fluttering gesture with his hand, encompassing the Sartan, who were busily employed in restoring life to what had been dead for centuries. Alfred darted a swift and guilty glance around, fearing to see Samah glowering at him. But the Councillor was deeply engrossed in discussion with a younger man in perhaps his midtwenties, who, by his resemblance, must be the son Samah had mentioned.

 "You fear he's jealous." Orla tried to laugh lightly, but her attempt failed, ended in a sigh. "Truly, Brother, you haven't been around many Sartan, if you are mindful of such a mensch weakness."

 "I'm doing everything wrong." Alfred shook his head. "I'm a clumsy fool. And I can't blame it on living among mensch. It's just me."

 "But matters would have been different had our people survived. You would not have been alone. And you have been very much alone, haven't you, Alfred?"

 Her voice was tender, pitying, compassionate.

 Alfred was very near to tears. He tried to respond cheerfully. "It hasn't been as bad as you suppose. I've had the mensch . . ."

 Orla's look of pity increased.

 Alfred, seeing it, protested. "No, it isn't the way you imagine. You underestimate the mensch. We all did, I believe.

 "I remember what it was like before I slept. We hardly ever walked among the mensch, and when we did, it was only to come to them as parents, visiting the nursery. But I have lived long among them. I've shared their joys and sorrows, I've known their fears and ambitions. I've come to understand how helpless and powerless they feel. And, though they've done much that was wrong, I can't help but admire them for what they have accomplished."

 "And yet," said Orla, frowning, "the mensch have, as I see in your mind, fallen to warring among themselves, slaughtering each other, elf battling human, human fighting dwarf."

 "And who was it," asked Alfred, "who inflicted the most terrifying catastrophe ever known upon them? Who was it who killed millions in the name of good, who sundered a universe, who brought the living to strange worlds, then left them to fend for themselves?"

 Two bright red spots blazed in Orla's cheeks. The dark line deepened in her forehead.

 "I'm sorry," Alfred hastened to apologize. "I have no right ... I wasn't there . . ."

 "You weren't there, on that world that seems so near to me in my heart, and yet which my head tells me is long lost. You don't know our fear of the growing might of the Patryns. They meant to wipe us out completely, genocide. And then what would have been left for your mensch? A life of slavery beneath the iron-heeled boot of totalitarian rule. You don't know the agony the Council underwent, trying to determine how best to fight this dire threat. The sleepless nights, the days of bitter arguing. You don't know our own, our personal agony. Samah himself—" She broke off abruptly, biting her lip.

 She was adept at concealing her thoughts, revealing only those she wanted. Alfred wondered what she would have said had she continued.

 They had walked a long distance, far from the Hall of Sleep. Blue sigla ran along the bottom of the walls, guiding their way through a dusty corridor. Dark rooms branched off it, rooms that would soon become temporary Sartan living quarters. For now, however, the two stood alone in the rune-lit darkness.

 "We should be turning back. I had not meant to come this far. We've passed the dining area." Orla started to retrace her steps.

 "No, wait." Alfred put a hand on her arm, startled at his own temerity in detaining her. "We may never have another chance to talk alone like this. And ... I must understand! You didn't agree, did you? You and some of the other Council members."

 "No. No, we didn't."

 "What did you want to do?"

 Orla drew a deep breath. She wasn't looking at him; she remained turned away. For a moment, Alfred thought she wasn't going to answer, and she apparently thought so, too, but then, with a shrug, she changed her mind.

 "You will find out soon enough. The decision to make the Sundering was talked of, debated. It caused bitter disputes, split families." She sighed, shook her head. "What action did I counsel? None. I counseled that we do nothing, except take a defensive stand against the Patryns, should we be attacked. It was never certain they would, mind you. It was only what we feared . . ."

 "And fear was victorious."

 "No!" Orla snapped angrily. "Fear wasn't the reason we made the decision, at last. It was the longing to have the chance to create a perfect world. Four perfect worlds! Where all would live in peace and harmony. No more evil, no more war . . . That was Samah's dream. That was why I agreed to cast my vote with his over all other objections. That was why I didn't protest when Samah made the decision to send ..."

 Again, she stopped herself.

 "Send?" Alfred prompted.

 Orla's expression grew chill. She changed the subject. "Samah's plan should have worked. Why didn't it? What caused it to fail?" She glared at him, almost accusingly.

 Not me! was Alfred's immediate protest. It wasn't my fault.

 But, then again, maybe it was, he reflected uncomfortably. Certainly I've done nothing to make things better.

 Orla walked back down the corridor, her steps brisk. "We've been away too long. The others will be worried about us."

 The runelight began to fade.

 "He is lying."

 "But, Father, that's not possible. He's a Sartan—"

 "A weak-minded Sartan, who has been traveling in the company of a Patryn, Ramu.He's obviously been corrupted, his mind taken over. We cannot blame him. He has had no Councillor to turn to, no one to help him in his time of trial."

 "Is he lying about everything?"

 "No, I don't believe so," Samah said, after a moment's profound thought. "The images of our people lying dead in their sleeping chambers on Arianus, the images of the Sartan practicing the forbidden art of necromancy on Abarrach, were too real, far too real. But those images were brief, fleeting. I'm not certain I understand. We must question him further to learn exactly what has happened. Mostly, though, I must know more about this Patryn."

 "I understand. And what is it you would have me do, Father?"

 "Be friendly to this Alfred, Son. Encourage him to talk, draw him out, agree with all he says, sympathize. The man is lonely, starved for those of his own kind. He hides in a shell he has built for his own defense. We will crack it with kindness and, once we have opened it, then we can set about his reclamation.

 "I have, in fact, already started." Samah glanced complacently down the darkened corridor.

 "Indeed?" His son's gaze followed.

 "Yes. I've turned the wretched man over to your mother. He will be more likely to share his true thoughts with her than with us."

 "But will she share her knowledge?" Ramu wondered. "It seems to me she has taken a liking to the man."

 "She always did befriend every stray who came begging at our door." Samah shrugged. "But there is nothing more to it than that. She will tell us. She is loyal to her people. Just prior to the Sundering, she sided with me, supported me, abandoned all her objections. And so the rest of the Council was forced to go along. Yes, she'll tell me what I need to know. Especially once she understands that our goal is to help the poor man."

 Ramu bowed to his father's wisdom, started to leave.

 "All the same, Ramu." Samah stopped his son. "Keep your eyes open. I do not trust this . . . Alfred."

 CHAPTER9

 ADRIFT, SOMEWHERE THE GOODSEA

 SOMETHING EXCEEDINGLY STRANGE HAS OCCURRED ANDIHAVE been (mercifully) so busy that I have had no time to write until now. But at last all is quiet, the excitement has subsided, and we are left only to wonder: What will happen to us now?

 Where shall I start? Thinking back, I see it all began with Alake's magical attempt to summon the dolphins and speak to them. We wanted to find out, if possible, where we were headed and what we faced, even if our fate was a terrible one. It is the "not knowing" that is so difficult to bear.

 I have said that we were adrift in the sea. That is not precisely accurate, as Devon pointed out to us during our midday meal. We are traveling in a specific direction, guided by the dragon-snakes. We have no control over the ship. We cannot even get near the steerage.

 A terrible feeling comes over us when we walk in that direction. It saps the strength from our legs, leaves them wobbly and unable to move. It fills the heart and mind with images of death and dying. The one time we tried, we turned and fled in a panic, to hide, cowering, in our rooms. I dream of it still.

 It was after that incident, when we'd recovered, that Alake decided to try to contact the dolphins.

 "We haven't seen one since we embarked," she stated. "And that's very strange. I want to know what's going on, where we are headed."

 Now that I thought of it, it was strange that we hadn't seen any fish. Dolphins are quite fond of company and are great gossips. They will generally flock around a ship, begging for news and passing along their own to anyone fool enough to listen.

 "How do we ... er ... summon them?" I asked.

 Alake seemed astonished that I didn't know. I don't understand why. No dwarf in his right mind would ever voluntarily summon fish! It was all we could do to get rid of the pesky things.

 "I'll use my magic, of course," she said. "And I want you and Devon to be there with me."

 I had to admit I was excited. I had lived among humans and elves, but had never seen any human magic, and I was surprised when Alake invited us. She said our "energies" would help her. I think, personally, she was lonely and afraid, but I kept my mouth shut.

 Perhaps I should explain (as best I can) the Phondran and Elmas concept of magic. And the Gargan point of view.

 Dwarves, elves, and humans all believe in the One, a powerful force that places us in this world, watches over us while we are here, and receives us when we leave. Each race takes a somewhat differing view of the One, however.

 The basic dwarven credo is that all dwarves are in the One and the One is in all dwarves. Thus harm that befalls one dwarf befalls all dwarves and befalls the One as well—this is why a dwarf will never intentionally kill, cheat, or deceive another dwarf. (Not counting barroom brawls, of course. A sock on the jaw, delivered in a regular knock-'em-down, turn-'em-over, is generally considered beneficial to the health.)

 In the old days, we dwarves believed the One to be interested mainly in ourselves. As for elves and humans, if they had been created by the One at all (and some held that they sprang up from the darkness, rather like fungi), it must have been an accident or else they were designed by a force opposing the One.

 Long times of coexistence taught us to accept each other, however. We know now that the One has in care all living beings (although some old grandfathers maintain that the One loves dwarves, merely tolerates humans and elves).

 Humans believe that the One rules all, but that—like any Phondran chieftain—the One is open to suggestion. Thus the humans are constantly badgering the One with supplications and demands. Phondrans also believe that the One has underlings, who perform certain menial tasks beneath the One's dignity. (That concept is so human!) These underlings are subject to human manipulation through magic, and the Phondrans are never happier than when altering the growing seasons, summoning winds, conjuring rain, and starring fires.

 The Elmas take a far more relaxed view of the One. In their perspective, the One started everything off with a bang and now sits back lazily to watch it all go forward—like the bright, glittering, spinning toys Sabia used to play with as a child. The Elmas view magic not as something reverent and spiritual, but as entertainment or a labor-saving device.

 Though only sixteen (no more than a babe to us, but humans mature rapidly), Alake was deemed quite skilled in magic already and I knew her mother's fondest wish was to hand her daughter the leadership of the Coven.

 Devon and I watched Alake take her place before her altar, which she had set up in the empty cargo hold on deck two. It was, I must admit, a pleasure to watch her.

 Alake is tall and well-made. (I have never, by the way, envied humans their height. An old dwarven proverb says, "The longer the stick, the easier to break." But I did admire Alake's graceful movements, like a frond bending in the water.) Her skin is a dark ebony. Her black hair is braided in countless tiny braids that hang down her back, each braid ending in beads of blue and orange (her tribal colors) and brass. If she lets her braids hang loose, the beads clash musically together when she walks, sounding like hundreds of tiny bells.

 She wore the accepted dress of Phondra, a single piece of blue and orange cloth wound around the body, held in place by the cunning of the folds (a knack known only to Phondrans). The free end of the cloth is draped over the right shoulder (to show she is unmarried—married women place the fold over the left shoulder).

 Silver ceremonial bracelets adorned her arms, silver bells hung from her ears.

 "I've never seen you wear those bracelets, Alake," I said, making conversation to break the silence that was so terribly silent. "Are they yours or your mother's? Were they a gift?"

 To my surprise, Alake, who is usually fond of showing off any new jewelry, made no reply and averted her face.

 I thought she hadn't heard me. "Alake, I asked if—"

 Devon jabbed me in the ribs with his sharp elbow. "Shush! Say nothing about her jewelry!"

 "Why not?" I whispered back irritably. To be honest, I was getting sick and tired of tiptoeing around, fearful of offending someone.

 "She wears her burial adornments," Devon returned.

 I was shocked. Of course, I'd heard of the custom. At birth, Phondran girl-children are presented with silver bracelets and ear-jangles which, it is hoped, they will wear at their wedding and pass along to their own daughters. But, if a girl dies untimely, before her marriage, her bracelets and other jewelry are placed on the body when it is sent out to join the One in the Good sea.

 I felt miserable, tried to think of something to say to make everything all right, realized that nothing I said would help. So I sat, scuffing my heels against the floor and trying to take an interest in what Alake was doing.

 Devon sat beside me. The furniture aboard the ship was built for dwarves. I felt sorry for the elf, who looked most uncomfortable, his long legs, encased in the silken folds of Sabia's skirt, spraddled out on either side of his short-legged stool.

 Alake was taking an interminable length of time to set up the objects on the altar, stopping to pray over each one.

 "If all humans pray like this over every little thing, my guess is that the One fell asleep long ago!" I spoke in what I thought was an undertone, but Alake must have heard me, because she looked shocked and frowned at me in reproof.

 I decided I'd better change the subject and, glancing over at Devon wearing Sabia's clothes, I came up with something I'd long wondered.

 "How did you manage to persuade Sabia to let you go in her place?" I asked the elf.

 Of course, that was wrong, too. Devon, who had been keeping up a cheerful front, immediately grew sad, and turned his face away.

 Alake darted over to me, pinched me, hard.

 "Don't remind him of her!"

 "Ouch! This does it!" I growled, losing patience. "I'm not to speak to Alake about her ear-jangles. I'm not to talk to Devon about Sabia, despite the fact that he's wearing her clothes and looks uncommonly silly in a dress. Well, in case you've both forgotten, it's my funeral, too, and Sabia was my friend. We've been trying to pretend we're on a holiday cruise. We're not. And it's not right to keep our words in our bellies, as we dwarves say. It poisons the food." I snorted. "No wonder we can't eat."

 Alake stared at me in startled silence. Devon had the ghost of a smile on his pale face.

 "You are right, Grundle," he admitted, casting his gaze down ruefully at the tight-bodiced, ribbon-bedecked, lace-covered, flower-ornamented gown. Elven males are nearly as slender as elven females, but they tend to be broader through the shoulders, and I noticed that here and there a seam had given way under the strain. "We should talk about Sabia. I've wanted to, but I was afraid of hurting you both by bringing up sad memories."

 Impulsively, Alake knelt at Devon's side, took his hand in hers. "I honor you, my friend, for your courage and your sacrifice. I know of no man I hold in higher esteem."

 Rare praise, from a human. Devon was pleased and touched. His cheeks flushed, he shook his head. "It was my own selfishness," he said softly. "How could I go on living, knowing she had died and . . . how she had died. My death will be so much easier, thinking of her safe and well."

 I wondered grumpily how he thought she'd feel any better, knowing he was dead in her place. But then, that's a man: elf, human, dwarf—all the same.

 "So how did you convince her to let you go?" I persisted. Knowing Sabia as I did, having seen her strong in her determination, I found it difficult to believe she had given in easily.

 "I didn't," Devon said, the color in his cheeks deepening. "If you must know, this convinced her." He raised a clenched fist, showed bruised knuckles.

 "You socked her!" I gasped.

 "You hit her!" Alake echoed.

 "I begged her to let me go in her place. She refused. There was no talking her around and I did the only thing I could do to prevent her from going. I knocked her out. What else could I do? I was desperate. Believe me, both of you, hurting Sabia was the hardest thing I ever had to do in my life!"

 I could believe that. An Elmas will suffer pangs of guilt for days over accidentally stepping on a spider.

 "As for my jewelry," Alake said, turning the silver bracelet on her arm with her hand, "these are mine, Grundle, given to me by my mother when I was born. I couldn't leave them any other message about where I was going or what I was doing. I tried, but it was too hard to put my feelings into words. When my mother finds that these are gone, she will know. She will understand."

 Alake went back to her altar. Devon tugged at the tight sleeve of his gown, which must have been cutting off his circulation. I could have sat down and cried. The words had come out, but they were hard to hear and I didn't see how I had helped matters.

 "So much for dwarven proverbs," I muttered into my side whiskers.

 "I am ready to begin now," said Alake, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

 Alake forbade me to write down the details of the ceremony, but I couldn't have done so, in any case, since I hadn't a clue as to what was going on. All I know is that it involved salted cod (a dolphin's favorite treat, if they can get it) and flute music and Alake chanting a lot of strange words and making fishlike noises. (Humans can speak the dolphin language. Dwarves could, I suppose, but why would we want to? Dolphins speak dwarven quite well.)

 I dozed off, at one point, during the flute music, and was startled out of my nap when Alake spoke in normal words and voice.

 "It is done. The dolphins should come to us now."

 They might, I thought, if we threw the salt cod into the sea-water. I couldn't see that it was doing much good where it was, lying in a silver dish on the altar. Perhaps she figured the stench would draw them.

 As you may have guessed, I don't set much store by human or elf magic, and you can imagine my surprise when we all heard and felt a bump on the hull of the ship.

 "They've come," said Alake complacently, and hastened off to the waterlock to greet them, her beads clashing, her bare feet (humans rarely wear shoes) padding swiftly over the deck.

 I glanced at Devon, who shrugged and raised his eyebrows. He'd been planning to call them with a magical dolphin whistle, which made no noise at all that I could hear. Devon assured me, however, that dolphins could hear it quite clearly and considered the sound very pleasant.

 We both hurried after Alake.

 Our ship consists of four decks, numbered from the bottom to the top. Not a large craft, compared to the sun-chasers, but it was only used by the royal family on their occasional sinkings into the other realms.

 Deck four is the topmost deck (if you don't count the outside). Here is the observation room and, beyond that, the pilot's house, which none of us had the courage to go near. A ladder extends down from the observation room, through a shaft that opens onto each other deck. At the aft end of the observation room, a huge set of windows provides a view of land or water, depending on where you are at the time. The seasun, shining through the water, fills this room with cheerful, blue-green light. Outside, you can see the open deck, surrounded by a railing. Only a human would be crazy enough to go out there when the ship is moving.

 The cargo hold is located on deck three. Behind that is the common room, for eating, drinking, ax-throwing practice, or just visiting. This room has numerous small windows set in the sides. Behind the common room are the cabins for the royal family and the ship's crew, a tool room, then the impeller room, with its magical elven crystals that propel the ship.

 Decks two and one were mostly more cargo space, plus the waterlock—an important feature. If you're not a dwarf, you're probably wondering what a waterlock is. As I've mentioned, no dwarf can (or wants to learn) to swim. A dwarf who falls into the sea would likely sink to the bottom of Chelestra unless he's caught and brought back to solid ground. Thus, all ships are built with a waterlock, which can be used to rescue any dwarf who happens to tumble into the sea.

 We found Alake standing near the bottom of the waterlock, her face pressed against one of the portholes, staring out into the water. Hearing us approach, she turned. Her eyes were wide.

 "It's not the dolphins. It's a human. At least, I think it's a human," she added dubiously.

 "It is or it isn't," I said. "Can't you tell?"

 "Look for yourself." Alake sounded shaken.

 Devon and I crowded to the porthole, the elf being forced to nearly bend double to get down to my level.

 Sure enough, the thing looked to be a human male. Or perhaps it would be better to say, he didn't look elven or dwarven. He was taller than a dwarf, his ears weren't pointed, and his eyes were round, not almond-shaped. But he was the wrong color for a human, his skin being a kind of bread-dough white. His lips were blue, his eyes circled with purple splotches, sunken in his head. He was half-naked, clad only in a pair of brown tight-fitting pants and the remnants of a white tattered shirt. He clung to a fragment of board and was, it seemed to me, about done for.

 The bump we had heard was, presumably, this man running into the hull of the ship. He could see us through the porthole and made, as we watched, a feeble attempt to beat against the ships's side. He was weak, apparently, for his arm sank down as if he lacked energy to lift it. He slumped over the board, legs dangling limply beneath him in the water.

 "Whatever he is, he's not going to be one for long," I said.

 "Poor man," murmured Alake, her dark eyes soft with pity. "We must help him," she said briskly, and headed for the ladder that led to deck two. "We'll bring him on board. Warm him, give him food." She glanced back, saw neither of us moving. "Come on! He'll be heavy. I can't manage by myself."

 Humans. Always racing to act, to do something. Never stopping to think. Fortunately, she had a dwarf along.

 "Wait, Alake. Stop a moment. Consider where we're bound. Think what's going to happen to us."

 Alake frowned at me, angered at having her way thwarted. "Well, what of it? The man is dying! We can't leave him."

 "It might be the kindest thing we could do for him," Devon told her gently.

 "If we rescue him now, we could be saving him only to doom him to a horrible fate later."

 I was sorry to have to be so blunt, but sometimes it's the only way to get through to humans. Alake, realizing finally what we were saying, seemed to shrivel up. I'll swear she grew smaller as we watched. Her body sagged against the ladder.

 Lowering her eyes, she ran her hand aimlessly up and down the smooth wooden rungs.

 The ship was speeding on. Soon we'd leave the man far behind. He'd seen this, apparently, and was making a feeble attempt with the remainder of his flagging strength to paddle after us. The sight was heartrending. I turned away. But I might have known Alake couldn't stand it.

 "The One sent him," she said, starting to climb the ladder. "The One sent him to us, in answer to my prayer. We have to save him!"

 "You prayed for a dolphin," I pointed out irritably.

 Alake said nothing, but gave me a reprimanding glance. "Don't be blasphemous, Grundle. Can you work this thing?"

 "Yes, but I'll need Devon's help," I grumbled, following.

 Actually, I could have done it by myself, being stronger than the elf prince, but I wanted to talk to Devon. I told Alake to keep an eye on the floating human, took Devon to deck two, the topmost part of the waterlock. I peered through a window into its sunlit interior, turned the crank on the hatch to make certain it was tightly closed and sealed. Devon started to assist me.

 "What if the One didn't send this man?" I whispered urgently in the elf's ear. "What if he was sent by the dragon-snakes to spy on us?"

 Devon looked considerably shocked. "Do you suppose that's a possibility?" he asked, doing his best to help and only getting in my way.

 I shoved him to one side. "Don't you?"

 "I guess. But why would they? They have us. We can't escape, even if we wanted to."

 "Why are they doing any of this? All I know is that I wouldn't be too quick to trust this human, if that's what he is. And I think you better go back to being Sabia."

 I turned to head down the ladder. Devon came after me, tripping over his skirts.

 "Yes, perhaps you're right. But what about Alake? She'll have to go along with us. You have to tell her."

 "Not me. She'll think I'm just making another excuse to get rid of him. You tell her. She'll listen to you. Go on. I'll manage this by myself."

 We were on deck one again. Devon went over to Alake and I was able, finally, to get on with the work undisturbed. I couldn't hear any of their conversation, but I could tell that at first Alake didn't agree with us, because I saw her shake her head, causing her ear-jangles to ring wildly.

 But Devon was patient with her, far more than I could have been, and gradually argued her around. I saw her glance at me, then out at the man, her face troubled and thoughtful. Finally, she nodded unhappily.

 Standing in front of the lower window that looks into the waterlock, I took hold of the levers and yanked down on them, hard. A panel located in the hull yawned open. Seawater, foaming and gurgling, poured into the waterlock, carrying with it numerous indignant fish (no dolphins) and the human.

 I waited for the water to reach the proper level and slammed the panel shut.

 "I've got him!" I cried.

 We raced back up to deck two, the top of the waterlock. I opened it, peered down. If he'd been a dwarf, he would have been lying on the bottom and we would have had to use the claws to drag him out. But, being human, he'd managed to swim to the top of the water and floated there, only about an arm's length away.

 "Alake and I can handle him, Devon," I said to him softly. "You go and put your scarf back on."

 Devon left us. Alake came to help me, and between us we managed to drag the human over to the side and hoist him out onto the deck. I shut and sealed the waterlock, opened the bottom panel, let the irate fish swim out, and started the pumps to work. Then I came back to look at our catch.

 I must admit that I nearly revised my opinion when we got the man on board and had a close look at him. If the dragon-snakes were going to send a spy, it seemed to me they would have chosen something better than this.

 He was truly a pitiable sight, lying on the deck, shivering from head to toe, coughing, convulsing, spitting up fluid, and gasping like a fish out of water. Alake'd obviously never seen anything like it. Fortunately, I had.

 "What's wrong with him?" she asked anxiously.

 "His body temperature's dropped too low and he's having trouble making the adjustment from breathing water back to breathing air."

 "How can you tell? What do we do for him?" Alake asked.

 "Dwarves fall in the water sometimes, so I know what I'd do if he were a dwarf. Warm him up, inside and out. Put lots of blankets on him and give him all the brandywine he can drink."

 "Are you certain?" Alake looked dubious. "I mean about the brandy?"

 Drunk as a dwarf, so the saying is among the Phondrans. But who do you suppose buys most of our brandywine?

 "You've got to fuddle his brain. That's what's causing him to gasp like that. His brain is telling his body it's supposed to be breathing water. Give his brain something else to think about and his body will go back to breathing air—as it was meant to," I added sternly.

 "I see. Grundle, fetch me a bottle of the brandywine and my herb pouches. And, if you run into Dev— Sabia, tell him, I mean her, to bring me all the blankets he— she can find."

 Well, we were certainly off to a great start. Fortunately, the human was so busy trying to stay alive that he didn't appear to have noticed Alake's confusion. I headed to the storeroom for the wine, blundered into Dev-Sabia on the way back. He was wound up in his scarf and veil, with a shawl over his shoulders to hide the ripped seams. I gave him Alake's instructions. He returned to his berth for the blankets.

 I continued on my way, thinking about what Alake had said. It was odd that this human seemed so unused to being in the water. The Phondrans spend as much time in the Goodsea as they do on land and consequently never suffer from this condition, which we dwarves know as "water-poisoning." The man was obviously not a Phondran. Then, who was he and where had he come from?

 It was more than one dwarf could figure out.

 Arriving in the storeroom, I snagged one of the brandywine bottles, uncorked it, and took a mouthful just to make certain it was good.

 It was. I blinked my eyes.

 I took another mouthful or two, then popped the cork back on, wiped off my side whiskers, and hurried back to our passenger. Alake and Devon had lifted him into the bosun's chair—a chair attached to a rope that can be lowered up and down the shaft, used to handle the injured or those whose bulk made climbing ladders difficult. We hauled the man up to the crew's quarters on deck two, and helped him to a small cabin.

 Fortunately, he was able to walk, though his legs were as wobbly as a newborn kitten's. Alake spread out a pile of blankets. He sank onto them weakly and we covered him with more. He was still gasping and looked to be in a considerable amount of pain.

 I offered the brandy bottle. He seemed to understand, for he motioned me near. I put it to his lips, he took a gulp. His gasping changed to coughing, and I was afraid for a moment our cure was going to be the end of him, but he hung on. He managed to get down several more mouthfuls before he sank back weakly on the blankets. Already, his breathing had eased. He looked from one to the other of us, his eyes taking everything in, giving nothing back.

 Suddenly, he tossed aside the blankets. Alake made a clucking sound, like a mother hen whose chick has wandered out from under her feathers.

 The human ignored her. He was staring at his arms. He stared at his arms for the longest time, rubbing the skin almost frantically. He gazed at the back of his hands. Closing his eyes in what was obviously bitter despair, he sank back down on the blankets.

 "What's the matter?" Alake asked, speaking human, coming over to kneel beside him. "Are you injured? What can we do to help?"

 She started to touch his arm, but he drew away from her and snarled, like a wounded animal.

 Alake persisted. "I'm not going to harm you. I only want to help."

 He kept staring at her, and I saw his brow furrow in anger and frustration.

 "Alake," I said quietly. "He can't understand you. He doesn't know what you're saying."

 "But I'm speaking the human language . . ."

 "Dev-Sabia, you try," I said, stuttering as badly as Alake. "Maybe he isn't human, after all."

 The elf pulled the scarf down from around his mouth. "Where do you come from? What is your name?" he asked, speaking the musical Elmas language slowly and distinctly.

 The stranger, frowning, shifted his eyes to Devon. The look of frustration changed to fury. Propping himself up on one arm, he shouted at us. We couldn't understand him, either, but we didn't need a translator.

 "Get out!" he was yelling as plain as anything. "Get out and leave me alone!"

 He collapsed back on the blankets, groaning. His eyes closed, he'd broken out in a sweat. But his lips continued to move, forming the words he no longer had the strength to utter.

 "Poor man," said Alake softly. "He's lost and sick and afraid."

 "That may be," I said, having my own opinion on the subject, "but I think we better do what he wants."

 "Will . . . will he be all right?" Alake couldn't take her eyes off him.

 "He'll be fine," I assured her, trying to edge her out the door. "If we stay, we'll only upset him."

 "Grundle's right," Devon added. "We should leave him alone to rest."

 "I think I should stay with him," Alake said.

 Devon and I exchanged alarmed glances. The stranger's savage yell and his dark expression had unnerved us both. As if we didn't have trouble enough, it looked to me like we now had an insane human on our hands.

 "Shh," I said, "you'll wake him. Let's talk out in the corridor."

 We herded the reluctant Alake out of the room.

 "One of us should keep an eye on him," Devon whispered in my ear.

 I nodded, taking his meaning. One of us shouldn't be Alake.

 "I'll bring my blanket out here . . ." She was already making plans to spend the night near him.

 "No, no, you go to bed. I'll sit up with him. I'm experienced in this sickness." I cut off her protest. "He'll likely sleep for hours now, anyway. You should be well-rested and ready to tend him in the morning, when he wakes up."

 She brightened at the prospect, but she still wavered, her gaze going to the door I had shut behind me. "I don't know ..."

 "I'll call you if there's any change," I promised. "You don't want him to see you in the morning all red-eyed and sleepy, do you?"

 That clinched it. Alake bid us good-night, took one last peep at her patient, smiled softly to herself, and went off down the corridor.

 "What do we do now?" Devon demanded, when she was gone.

 "How should I know?" I snapped irritably.

 "Well, you're a girl. You know about these things."

 "What things?" I asked, though I knew well enough what he was talking about.

 "It's obvious. She's attracted to him."

 "Pooh! I remember when she rescued a wounded wolf cub once. She took it home and treated it the same way."

 "That's no wolf cub," said Devon gravely. "He's young and strong and handsome and well-built, even for a human. It was all Alake and I could do to drag him down the corridor."

 Which brought up another problem. If this man went berserk and decided to tear the ship apart, we three would be hard-pressed to stop him. But what about the dragon-snakes? It was obvious they were still in control; the ship continued to rush through the water. Did they know this stranger was aboard? Did they care?

 I took a swig of the brandywine. "Go to bed," I told Devon crossly. "We're not going to figure anything out tonight. Maybe something'll happen by morning."

 Something did.

 I went back into the room with the man and settled myself in a dark corner near the door. If the human woke, I figured I could be up and out of there before he knew what was happening.

 His sleep was restless, disturbed. He thrashed about on the blankets, muttering in his own language, whose words all seemed to me to be dark and sharp-edged and filled with hatred and anger. Sometimes he'd cry out, and once he gave a fearful scream and sat bolt upright, staring straight at me. I was on my feet and nearly out the door before I realized he wasn't seeing me at all.

 He lay back down. I returned to my seat. He clutched at the blankets, kept saying one word over and over. It sounded like "dog." And sometimes he would groan and shake his head and cry, "Lord!"

 Finally, from sheer exhaustion, I think, he fell into a heavy slumber.

 I suppose I can admit that I'd been keeping the fire of courage burning in my heart by dousing it liberally with brandywine. I was no longer feeling afraid of him. (I wasn't feeling much of anything, to be honest.) Watching the man fall into this deep sleep, I decided to see what I could learn about him. Maybe go through his pockets, if he had any.

 After some little trouble, I got to my feet. (The ship seemed to be rolling more than I recalled.) I made my way over to him and crouched down. What I saw sobered me faster than my mother's blackroot powder.

 I don't remember what came after, except that I found myself running down the corridor, screaming like a banshee.

 Alake, clutching her sleeping gown around her, stood in her doorway, staring at me in panic. Devon shot out of his room like it was on fire. He was forced to sleep in his dress. Poor fellow. Sabia's dress was all the clothes he'd thought to bring along.

 "We heard you yell! What is it?" They both clutched at me. "What's the matter?"

 "The strange human!" I was gulping for breath. "He's . . . turned blue!"

 Alake gasped, "He's dying!" and raced back down the corridor, toward his room.

 We ran after her, Devon remembering just in time to grab his veil and wind it around his head.

 I suppose my shrieks must have wakened the man. (Devon told me later that he thought all the dragon-snakes in Chelestra were after me.) The human was sitting up in his bed, staring at his hands and arms, turning them over and over, as if he couldn't believe the limbs were his.

 I don't blame him. If such a thing had happened to me, I would have stared, too. How can I describe it? I know you won't believe me. But I swear before the One that the man's arms and backs of his hands, his bare chest, and neck, were covered with blue picture-writing.

 We had all run into the cabin before we realized the man was fully conscious. He raised his head, looked directly at us. We shrank back. Even Alake was somewhat daunted. The stranger's face was stern, grim.

 But, as though he sensed our fear, he made some attempt to smile at us reassuringly.

 His was a face, I remember thinking, that wasn't used to smiling.

 "Don't be frightened. My name's Haplo," he said to Alake. "What do they call you?"

 We couldn't answer. The man had spoken Phondran.

 Perfect, fluent Phondran.

 And next he ...

 But that will have to wait. Alake's calling me. Dinnertime.

 I'm actually feeling hungry.

 CHAPTER10

 SURUNAN CHELESTRA

 THE SARTAN, LED BY THE CAPABLE SAMAH, RETURNED TO LIFE WITH an energy that astounded and overwhelmed Alfred. The people went forth from the crypts out into a realm they had built for themselves long ago. Sartan magic soon brought life to their surroundings, which were so beautiful that Alfred often looked upon the landscape through a sheen of joyful tears.

 Surunan. The word itself was derived from the root rune meaning center—the heart, the center of their civilization. At least that's what they'd intended it to be. Unfortunately, the heart had ceased beating.

 But now it was alive once more.

 Alfred walked its streets and marveled at its beauty. The buildings were made of rose and pearl marble, which had been brought with them from the old world. Shaped by magic, their tall spires soared into an emerald and turquoise sky. Boulevards and avenues and magnificent gardens, which had been sleeping as soundly as their makers, sprang into magical life and all led to the heart of Surunan—the Council Chamber.

 Alfred had forgotten the pleasures of being with his own kind, of being able to share himself with others. He had hidden himself for so long, kept his true nature concealed, that it was a relief not to have to worry about revealing his own magical power. And yet even in this new and wonderful world, among his own people, he could not feel quite comfortable, or quite at ease.

 There were two cities—an inner, central city, and an outer city that was much larger, if not as fine. The two were separated by high walls. Alfred, exploring the outer city, saw immediately that this was where mensch had once lived. But what had happened to them when the Sartan slept? The answer, from what he saw, might be a grim one. There was evidence, though the Sartan were doing their best to swiftly remove it, that devastating battles had been fought in this part of the city. Buildings had toppled, walls caved in, windows shattered. Signs, written in human, elven, dwarven, had been torn down, lay broken in the streets.

 Alfred stared around sadly. Had the mensch done this to themselves? It seemed likely, from what he knew of their warlike natures. But why hadn't the Sartan stopped it? Then he remembered the images of horrible creatures he'd seen in Samah's thoughts. Who were they? Another question. Too many questions. Why had these Sartan gone back into hibernation? Why had they abandoned all responsibility to this world and to the others they had created?

 He stood in the terraced garden of Samah's house one evening, thinking that there must be some terrible flaw within himself that kept bringing up such thoughts, some flaw that prevented him from being happy. He had, at last, everything he'd ever dreamed of possessing. He had found his people and they were all he'd hoped: strong, resolute, powerful. They were prepared to set right everything that had gone wrong. The crushing burdens that had been piled on top of him had been lifted. He had others to help him carry the load.

 "What is wrong with me?" he asked himself sadly.

 "I heard once," came a voice in answer, "of a human who had been locked up in a prison cell for years and years. When at last they opened the cell doors and offered the man his freedom, he refused to go out. He was frightened by freedom, by light and fresh air. He wanted to stay in his dark cell, because he knew it. He was safe there, and secure."

 Alfred turned to see Orla. She was smiling at him; her words and tone were pleasant. But Alfred saw that she was truly concerned about his confused and unsettled state.

 He blushed, sighed, and lowered his eyes.

 "You have not left your cell, Alfred." Orla came to stand beside him, placed her hand on his arm. "You persist in wearing mensch clothes." This subject called to mind, perhaps, by the fact that Alfred was gazing intently at the shoes that housed his overlarge feet. "You will not tell us your Sartan name. You will not open your heart to us."

 "And have you opened your hearts to me?" Alfred asked quietly, looking up at her. "What terrible tragedy occurred here? What happened to the mensch that used to live here? Everywhere I look, I see images of destruction, blood on the stones. Yet no one speaks of it. No one refers to it."

 Orla paled, her lips tightened.

 "I'm sorry." Alfred sighed. "It's none of my business. You have all been wonderful to me. So patient and kind. The fault is mine. I'm working to overcome it. But, as you said, I've been shut in the darkness so long. The light . . . hurts my eyes. I don't suppose you can understand."

 "Tell me about it, Brother," Orla said gently. "Help me understand."

 Again she was avoiding the subject, turning the conversation away from her and her people, sending it straight back to him. Why the reluctance to talk about it? Except that every time he mentioned it, he sensed fear, shame.

 Our plea for help . . . Samah had said.

 Why? Unless this was a battle the Sartan had been losing. And how was that possible? The only enemy capable of fighting them on their level was locked away in the Labyrinth.

 Alfred was, without realizing what he was doing, pulling the leaves off of a flowering vinil. One by one, he tore them loose, stared at them, not seeing them, then dropped them to the ground.

 Orla's hand closed over his. "The plant cries out in pain."

 "I'm sorry!" Alfred dropped the flower, looked in horror at the ravages he'd committed. "I ... wasn't thinking. . . ."

 "But your pain is the greater," Orla continued. "Please, share it with me."

 Her gentle smile warmed him like spiced wine. Alfred, intoxicated, forgot his doubts and questions. He found himself pouring out thoughts and feelings he'd kept locked up so long, he wasn't fully aware of them himself.

 "When I awoke, and discovered that the others were dead, I refused to admit the truth to myself. I refused to admit I was alone. I don't know how long I lived in the mausoleum on Arianus . . . months, maybe years. I lived in the past, remembering what life had been like when I was among my brethren. And soon, the past became more real to me than the present.

 "Every night, I would go to sleep and tell myself that when I woke the next morning, I would find them all awake, too. I wouldn't be alone anymore. That morning, of course, never came."

 "Now it has!" said Orla, closing her hand over his once again.

 He looked at her, saw her eyes glimmer with tears, and came very near weeping himself. Clearing his throat, he swallowed hard.

 "If so, the morning has been long in coming," he said huskily. "And the night that preceded it was very dark. I shouldn't be troubling you—"

 "No, I'm sorry," she said hurriedly. "I shouldn't have interrupted you. Please, go on."

 She continued to hold his hand. Her touch was warm, firm, comforting. Unconsciously, he moved nearer to her.

 "One day, I found myself standing in front of the crypts of my friends. My own was empty and I remember thinking, 'I have only to climb back in, shut my eyes, and this pain will end,' Yes, suicide," Alfred said calmly, seeing Orla stare at him in horror and shock. "I had come to a turning point, as the mensch say. I finally admitted to myself that I was alone in the world. I could either go forth and be part of life, or abandon it. My struggle was bitter. In the end, I left behind all I had known and loved and went out into the world.

 "The experience was dreadful, terrifying. More than once, I thought of running back, hiding myself forever in the tombs. I lived in constant fear that the mensch would discover my true powers and try to use me. Where before I had lived in the past and found comfort in my memories, I saw now that those memories were a danger. I had to put all thoughts of my former life out of my head, or be constantly tempted to use it, to draw on it. I had to adapt to the mensch way of life. I had to become one of them."

 Alfred ceased talking, stared out into the night sky that was deep blue, streaked by lighter blue clouds.

 "You cannot believe the loneliness," he said at last, so softly that Orla was forced to move closer to him to hear. "The mensch are so very, very lonely. The only means they have of communicating are physical. They must rely on words or a look or a gesture to describe what they feel, and their languages are so limited. Most of the time, they are unable to express what they truly mean, and so they live their lives and die without ever knowing the truth, about themselves or others."

 "A terrible tragedy," murmured Orla.

 "So I thought, at first," Alfred answered. "But then I came to realize that many of the virtues which the mensch possess have grown out of this inability to see into each other's souls, the way we Sartan do. They have words in their languages like faith, trust, honor. One human says to another, 'I have faith in you. I trust you.' He doesn't know what's in his friend's heart. He can't see inside. But he has faith in him."

 "And they have other words we Sartan do not," said Orla, more sternly. She let go his hand, drew away from him. "Words such as deceit, lie, betray, treachery."

 "Yes," Alfred agreed meekly. "But, I found that it all balanced itself out, somehow."

 He heard a whine, felt a cold nose press itself against his leg. Reaching down his hand, Alfred absently fondled the dog's soft ears, patted it on the head to keep it quiet.

 "I'm afraid you're right. I don't understand," said Orla. "What do you mean by balance?"

 Alfred seemed to have a menschlike difficulty putting his thoughts into words. "It's just ... I'd see one mensch betray another and I'd be shocked and sickened. But, almost immediately after that, I'd come across an act of true selfless love, of faith, sacrifice. And I'd feel humbled and ashamed of myself for judging them.

 "Orla." He turned to face her. The dog pressed closer and he scratched the animal behind its ear. "What gives us the right to judge them? What gives us the right to say that our way of life is the right way of life and that theirs is wrong? What gives us the right to impose our will on them?"

 "The very fact that the mensch do have such words as murder and betrayal!" she replied. "We must, by guiding them with a firm hand, train them out of these debilitating weaknesses, lead them to rely solely on their strengths."

 "But might we not," Alfred argued, "inadvertently train them out of everything—strengths and weaknesses both? It seems to me that the world we wanted to create for the mensch was a world where the mensch were totally subservient to our will. I'm sure I'm wrong," he continued humbly, "but I don't understand the difference between that and what the Patryns intended."

 "Of course there's a difference!" Orla flared. "How can you even think of comparing the two?"

 "I'm sorry," said Alfred in remorse. "I've offended you. And after all your kindness to me. Don't pay any attention to me. I— What's the matter?"

 Orla was staring, not him, but at his feet. "Whose dog is that?"

 "Dog?" Alfred glanced down.

 The dog looked up, and wagged its plumy tail.

 Alfred staggered back against the rock wall.

 "Blessed Sartan!" he gasped. "Where did you come from?"

 The dog, pleased that it now had everyone's attention, pricked its ears, cocked its head expectantly, and barked once.

 Alfred went deathly pale. "Haplo!" he cried. "Where are you?" He searched around wildly.

 At the sound of the name, the dog began to whine eagerly, barked again loudly.

 But no one answered.

 The dog's ears drooped. The tail ceased to wave back and forth. The animal sank to the ground, put its nose between its paws, sighed, and looked up at Alfred dejectedly.

 Alfred, recovering his composure, stared at the animal.

 "Haplo's not here, is he?"

 The dog reacted to the name again, lifted its head, gazed about wistfully.

 "Dear, dear," Alfred murmured.

 "Haplo!" Orla spoke the name with reluctance, it might have been coated with poison. "Haplo! That is a Patryn word."

 "What? Oh, yes, I believe it is," Alfred said, preoccupied.

 "Means 'single.' The dog doesn't have a name. Haplo never gave it one. An interesting point, don't you think?" He knelt down beside the animal, stroked its head with a gentle, trembling hand. "But why are you here?" he asked. "Not sick, are we? No. I didn't think so. Not sick. Perhaps Haplo sent you to spy on me? That's it, isn't it?"

 The dog gave Alfred a reproachful glance. I expected better from you than this, it seemed to say.

 "The animal belongs to the Patryn," Orla said.

 Alfred looked up at her, hesitated. "You might say that. And then again . . ."

 "It could be spying on us for him, right now."

 "It could be," Alfred conceded the point. "But I don't think so. Not that we haven't used the animal for such purposes before—"

 "We!" Orla drew back, away from him.

 "I ... That is ... Haplo told it ... In Abarrach . . . The prince and Baltazar, a necromancer. I didn't really want to spy on them but I didn't have much choice ..."

 Alfred saw he wasn't helping matters. He began again. "Haplo and I were lost in Abarrach—"

 "Please!" Orla interrupted faintly. "Please quit saying that name. I—" She covered her eyes. "I see horrible things! Hideous monsters! Brutal death . . ."

 "You see the Labyrinth. You see where you . . . where the Patryns have been imprisoned all these centuries."

 "Where we imprisoned them, you were about to say. But, it's so real in your mind. As if you've been there . . ."

 "I have been there, Orla."

 To his vast astonishment, she turned pale, stared at him in fright.

 Alfred was quick to reassure her. "I didn't actually mean I'd been there—"

 "Of course," she said faintly. "It . . . it's impossible. Don't say such things, then, if you don't mean them."

 "I'm sorry. I hadn't intended to upset you." Although Alfred was completely at a loss to know why she was upset. And frightened. Why frightened? More questions.

 "I think perhaps you had better explain yourself," she said.

 "Yes, I'll try. I was in the Labyrinth, but it was in Haplo's body. I traded minds with him, one might say. It was when we were going through Death's Gate."

 "And did he trade places with you?"

 "I think so. He never said anything, you see, but, then, he wouldn't. It was even difficult for him to call me by name. He used to call me Sartan. Just like that. With a sneer. I can't blame him. He has little cause to love us . . ."

 Orla was frowning. "You fell into a Patryn's consciousness. I don't believe anything like that has ever happened to a Sartan."

 "Probably not," Alfred agreed sadly. "I seem to be always falling into something—"

 "You must tell Samah."

 Alfred flushed, lowered his eyes. "I'd really rather not . . ." He began petting the dog.

 "But this could be extremely important! Don't you see? You've been inside one. You can tell us how they think and why they react as they do. You can give us insight that may yet help us defeat them."

 "The war is over," he reminded her, gently.

 "But another one may come!" she said, fist clenching, driving into her palm.

 "That's what Samah believes. Is that your belief, as well?"

 "Samah and I have had our differences," Orla said briskly. "All know it. We have never hidden it. But he is wise, Alfred. I respect him. He is head of the Council. And he wants what we all want. To live in peace."

 "Is that what he wants, do you think?"

 "Well, of course!" Orla snapped. "What did you suppose?"

 "I don't know. I wasn't certain."

 Alfred recalled the expression on Samah's face when he said, It seems we have, after all, awakened at a propitious time, Brethren. Once again, our ancient enemy plans to go to war. His mind conjured up the image. Orla shared it with him. Her face softened.

 "Talk to Samah. Be honest with him. And"—she sighed— "he will be honest with you. He will answer your questions. He will tell you what happened to us in Chelestra. And why we, as you think, abandoned our responsibilities."

 Alfred's face burned. "I didn't mean—"

 "No. In a way, you are right. But you should know the truth before you judge us. Just as we should know the truth before we judge you."

 Alfred didn't know what to say. He could come up with no more arguments.

 "And now," said Orla, folding her hands together in front of her, "what about the dog?"

 "What about the dog?" Alfred looked uneasy.

 "If this dog belongs to the Patryn, why is it here? Why has it come to you?"

 "I'm not sure," Alfred began hesitantly, "but I think it's lost."

 "Lost?"

 "Yes. I think the dog has lost Haplo. The animal wants me to help it find its master."

 "But that's nonsense! You're talking like a child's storybook. This creature may be intelligent enough for its kind, but it is still nothing more than a dumb animal—"

 "Oh, no. This is a very extraordinary dog," Alfred said solemnly. "And if it is here in Chelestra, you may be certain that Haplo is here . . . somewhere."

 The dog, assuming that with all this talk they must be making progress, lifted its head and wagged its tail.

 Orla frowned. "You believe the Patryn is here, on Chelestra?"

 "It certainly makes sense. This is the fourth world, the last world he was to visit before—" He stopped.

 "—before the Patryns launch their attack."

 Alfred nodded silently.

 "I can understand why this knowledge that our enemy may be in this world disturbs you. Yet you seem more sad than upset." Orla stared down at the animal in perplexity. "Why are you so worried over a lost dog?"

 "Because," Alfred replied gravely, "if the dog has lost Haplo, then I fear Haplo may have lost himself."

 CHAPTER11

 ADRIFT SOMEWHERE THE GOODSEA

HAPLOLAY ON HIS PALLET ON BOARD THE STRANGE VESSEL, DOING nothing but resting and staring at his arms and his hands. The sigla were as yet only faintly visible—a blue as pale and weak as the eyes of that fool Sartan, Alfred. But the runes were there! They'd come back! And with them, his magic. Haplo closed his eyes, breathed deeply, a sigh of relief.

 He recalled those terrible moments when he'd regained consciousness on board this ship, discovered himself surrounded by mensch, and known himself to be helpless, defenseless. He couldn't even understand what they were saying!

 It hadn't mattered that they were females, barely old enough to be out of the nursery. It hadn't mattered that they had been gentle and kind, that they had regarded him with awe, sympathy, pity. What mattered was that they had been in control of the situation. Haplo, weak from exhaustion, hunger, bereft of his magic, had been at their mercy. For a moment, he had bitterly regretted seeking their help. Better he should have perished.

 But, now, the magic was returning. His power was coming back. Like the sigla, the magic was weak still. He couldn't do much beyond the most rudimentary rune structures; he'd regressed back to his childhood magical abilities. He could understand languages, speak them. He could probably provide himself with food, if necessary. He could heal any minor hurts. And that was about it.

 Thinking what he lacked, Haplo was suddenly angry, frustrated. He forced himself to calm down. To give way to his anger was to lose control again.

 "Patience," he said to himself, lying back on his bed. "You learned it the hard way in the Labyrinth. Be calm and be patient."

 He didn't appear to be in any danger. Though just exactly what the situation was wasn't clear. He'd tried to talk to the three mensch girls, but they'd been so astounded at his sudden use of their language—and the startling appearance of the runes on his skin—that they'd fled before he could question them further.

 Haplo had waited, tensely, for some older mensch to enter and demand to know what was going on. But no one came. Lying still, straining to listen, Haplo heard nothing except the creaking of the ship's timbers. He would have almost supposed, if it hadn't seemed too improbable, that he and these girls were the only ones on board.

 "I was too hard on them," Haplo counseled himself. "I'll have to take it easy, be careful not to startle them again. They could be of use to me." He looked around in satisfaction. "It seems likely that I've got myself another ship."

 He was feeling stronger every moment, and had just about decided he would risk leaving his cabin to go in search of someone, when he heard a soft tapping on his door. Quickly, Haplo lay back down, pulled the blanket up around him, and pretended to be asleep.

 The tapping repeated. He heard voices—three voices—debating what to do. The door creaked. It was being opened slowly. He could imagine eyes peering in at him.

 "Go on, Alake!" That was the dwarf, her voice low and gruff.

 "But he's asleep! I'm afraid I'll wake him."

 "Just set the food down and go." An elf maid. Her voice was light and high-pitched, but Haplo caught himself thinking there was something not quite right about it.

 Haplo heard the sound of bare feet padding into his room. He deemed it time to wake up now, slowly, careful not to frighten anyone. He drew a deep breath, stirred, and groaned. The footsteps came to an abrupt halt. He heard the girl suck in her breath.

 Opening his eyes, Haplo looked up at her and smiled.

 "Hullo," he said in her language. "Alake, isn't it?"

 The girl was human and one of the most attractive human females Haplo'd ever seen. She'll be a beauty, he thought, when she grows up. Her skin was soft, velvet black; her hair was so black as to be almost blue and shone as brightly as a raven's wing. Her eyes were large and melting brown. Despite a very understandable amount of alarm, she remained where she was, didn't run away.

 "That smells good," he continued, reaching out his hands for the food. "I don't know how long I drifted in the sea, without anything to eat. Days maybe. Alake, that's your name. Right?" he repeated.

 The girl placed the dish in his hands. Her eyes were lowered. "Yes," she said shyly. "My name is Alake. How did you know?"

 "A lovely name," he said. "Almost as lovely as the woman it graces."

 He was rewarded with a smile and a flutter of long lashes. Haplo began to eat, some sort of stew and a loaf of slightly stale bread.

 "Don't leave," he mumbled, his mouth full. He hadn't realized just how hungry he was. "Come in. Let's talk."

 "We're afraid we're disturbing your rest," began Alake, glancing at her two companions, who had remained standing by the door.

 Haplo shook his head, gestured with a hunk of bread. Alake sat down nearest him, but not close enough to be considered immodest. The elf maid crept inside the door and found a seat in a chair in the shadows. She moved awkwardly, lacking the grace Haplo normally associated with elves. But perhaps that was because she was wearing a dress that appeared to be too small for her. A shawl covered her arms. A long silken veil was wrapped around her head and face, leaving nothing showing except her almond-shaped eyes.

 The dwarf stumped in on short, thick legs, squatted down comfortably on the floor, folded her arms across her chest, and regarded Haplo with deep suspicion.

 "Where do you come from?" she demanded, speaking dwarven.

 "Grundle!" Alake reprimanded. "Let him eat his dinner."

 The dwarf ignored her. "Where do you come from? Who sent you? Was it the dragon-snakes?"

 Haplo took his time answering. He cleaned his bowl out with the bread, asked for something to drink. The dwarf wordlessly passed over a bottle of some strong-smelling liquor.

 "Would you rather have water?" Alake inquired anxiously.

 Haplo thought privately that he'd had water enough to last him a lifetime, but he didn't want to lose his faculties in the bottom of a brandy bottle, and so he nodded.

 "Grundle—" Alake began.

 "I'll go," murmured the elf maid, and left the small room.

 "My name is Haplo," he began.

 "You told us that last night," Grundle stated.

 "Don't interrupt!" Alake said, flashing her friend an angry glance.

 Grundle muttered something and leaned back against the wall, her small feet propped out in front of her.

 "The ship in which I sailed broke apart. I managed to escape, and drifted about in the water until you found me and were kind enough to take me on board." Haplo smiled again at Alake, who lowered her eyes and toyed with the brass beads in her hair. "As for where I'm from, you've probably never heard of the name, but it's a world much like your own."

 That was a safe enough answer. He might have known it wouldn't satisfy the dwarf.

 "A seamoon like ours?"

 "Something similar."

 "How do you know what our seamoon is like?"

 "All know that the . . . um . . . seamoons of Chelestra are the same," Haplo answered.

 Grundle jabbed a finger at him. "Why do you draw pictures on your skin?"

 "Why do dwarves wear beards?" Haplo countered.

 "That's enough, Grundle!" Alake snapped. "What he says makes perfect sense."

 "Oh, he can talk well enough," the dwarf returned. "Not that he said much of anything, if you'll notice. But I'd like to hear what he's got to say about the dragon-snakes."

 The elf maid had returned with the water. Handing the pitcher to Alake, the elf said, in a low voice, "Grundle is right. We need to know about the dragon-snakes."

 Alake gave Haplo an apologetic glance. "Sabia and Grundle fear that you have been sent by the dragon-snakes to spy on us. I have no idea why, since we are their captives and we go to meet our doom willingly—"

 "Wait! Slow down." Haplo raised a hand to halt the flood. He eyed the young women. "I'm not sure I understand what you're saying. But, before you explain, let me tell you that the person who sent me is my liege lord. He is a man, not a dragon. And from what I've seen of dragons in my world, I wouldn't do a damn thing for one except kill it."

 Haplo spoke quietly, his tone and manner convincing. And, in this, he spoke the truth. Dragons in the Labyrinth are highly intelligent, fearsome beings. He'd seen other dragons during his travels. Some were evil, others purportedly good, but he'd found nothing in any of the creatures he trusted.

 "Now," continued Haplo, seeing the dwarf opening her mouth, "suppose you tell me what you three are doing on board this ship all alone."

 "Who says we're alone?" Grundle struck in, but her protest was faint and halfhearted.

 It wasn't so much that the three girls believed him, Haplo realized, but that they wanted to believe him. After Haplo'd heard their story, he understood why.

 He listened with outward composure to Alake tell their tale. Inwardly, he was fuming. If he had believed in a Higher Power controlling his destiny, which he most assuredly did not, despite Alfred's tricks to convince him otherwise, then he would have thought the Higher Power was laughing heartily. Weakened in his own magic, weaker than he'd ever been in his life, Haplo'd managed to get himself rescued by three sacrificial lambs trotting meekly to their deaths! "You can't be serious!"

 "We are," said Alake. "It is for the sake of our people."

 "You chose to do this? You haven't tried to escape? To get away?"

 "No, and we won't, either," said Grundle resolutely. "This was our decision. Our parents didn't even know we were leaving. They would have tried to stop us."

 "And they would have been right!" Haplo glared at the three. Trotting along to their deaths . . . and taking him with them!

 Alake's voice sank to a whisper. "You think we're fools, don't you?"

 "Yes," Haplo answered bluntly. "These dragon-snakes, from what you've told me, have tortured and murdered people. And you think they're going to keep their word, accept three sacrifices, then meekly slither away?"

 Grundle cleared her throat loudly, drummed her heels on the deck. "Then why make the bargain at all? What do the dragon-snakes get out of it? Why not just murder us and be done with it?"

 "What do the dragon-snakes get out of it? I'll tell you what they get. Fear. Anguish. Chaos. In my land, we have creatures that live off fear, thrive off it. Think about it. These dragon-snakes, if they're as powerful as you say, could have come in the night and attacked your seamoons. But, no. What do they do? They come by day. They wreak havoc on small numbers of your people. They give messages, demand sacrifices. And look at the results!

 "Your people are far more terrified now than they would have been if they'd had to beat off a sudden attack. And the three of you running off like this has only made things worse for your people, not better."

 Alake wilted beneath Haplo's glowering gaze. Even the stubborn Grundle appeared to lose her defiant attitude, and began to tug uneasily at her side whiskers. Only Sabia, the elf maid, remained cool and calm. She sat on her stool, straight-backed, upright, looking distant and aloof, as if she alone were content with her decision. Nothing he said had made a difference to her.

 Odd. But then the elf maid was odd. Haplo couldn't figure out why. There was something about her . . .

 Her.

 Haplo noticed, suddenly, the way Sabia was sitting. When she'd first sat down, she kept her knees close together, ankles demurely crossed beneath the long skirt. But during Alake's long retelling of their woeful tale, the elf maid had relaxed, forgotten herself. Now she was sitting spraddle-legged on the short stool, her knees akimbo, her hands resting on her knees, her feet tucked behind.

 If I'm right, Haplo thought, this is certain to clinch it. They'll have no choice but to go along with me.

 "What do you think's happening right now in your family?" Haplo demanded of Alake. "Instead of preparing for war, as he should be doing, your father is now afraid to do anything! He doesn't dare attack the dragon-snakes while they have you captive. He's gnawed by remorse, grows weaker with despair every day."

 Alake was weeping silently. Sabia reached out, took hold of her hand. Haplo rose to his feet, began to pace the small cabin.

 "And you." He rounded on the dwarf. "Your people? What are they doing? Arming themselves, or mourning the loss of their princess? All of them, waiting. Waiting in hope and in dread. And the longer they wait, the larger their fear grows."

 "They'll fight!" Grundle insisted, but her voicequivered.

 Haplo ignored her, continued to pace, ten steps each direction, every turn bringing him nearer Sabia, who was busy trying to comfort Alake.

 Grundle sprang up suddenly from her stool, stood facing Haplo defiantly, small hands on her hips.

 "We knew that our sacrifice might be for nothing. But it seemed to us that if there was the tiniest chance that the dragon-snakes would keep their part of the bargain, then it was worth it to save our people. And I still say so. What about you Alake? Sabia?"

 Alake's brown eyes shimmered with tears, but she managed to nod emphatically.

 "I agree," said Sabia, her voice muffled by the scarf. "We must go through with it. For the sake of our people."

 "The dragon-snakes keep their part of the bargain, eh?" Haplo eyed them in grim amusement. "And how about you? What about you keeping your part of the bargain? If these beasts are, by some remote chance, fair and honorable, how do you think they'll react when they find out they've been cheated?"

 Reaching out his hand, Haplo caught hold of Sabia's veil and yanked it off.

 Sabia snatched furilely at the scarf. When that failed, she averted her face, lowered her head. "Really, sir, what are you doing?" Too late, she brought her knees together, crossed her ankles.

 "Three royal daughters." Haplo raised an eyebrow. "What were you planning to tell the dragon-snakes? That elf maids all look like they've got an apple stuck in their throats? That all elf maids have strong jawlines and well-developed, muscular shoulders? That this is why their chests are flat? Not to mention other accoutrements not generally found on maidens." Haplo shifted his gaze meaningfully to the elf's groin.

 Sabia blushed as deeply as if he had been a she. He stole a glance at Alake, who was staring at him, stricken, then at Grundle, who sighed and shook her head.

 The young elf stood up, faced Haplo defiantly.

 "You are right, sir. I thought only to save the girl I loved and was to have married. It never occurred to me that this deception would give the dragon-snakes the chance to claim that we'd broken faith with them."

 "We never thought about that!" Alake clasped her hands together, fingers twisting nervously. "The dragon-snakes will be furious ..."

 "Maybe it won't matter."

 That was the dwarf, Grundle, causing trouble again. Haplo could have cheerfully strangled her.

 "Devon's not a princess, but he's a prince. As long as the dragon-snakes have three people from royal households, what do they care if we're male or female?"

 "They did say three daughters," Alake murmured, looking pathetically hopeful. "But perhaps Grundle's right ..."

 Haplo decided that it was time to end this once and for all. "Did it ever occur to you that the dragons may not intend to kill you? They may have other plans for you, plans that require females. Breeding, for example?"

 Alake moaned, covered her mouth with her hands. The elf put his arm around her comfortingly, said something to her in a low voice. Grundle was as pale as the dwarf's nut-brown skin would allow. She collapsed back onto a stool, stared unhappily at the deck beneath her feet.

 I meant to frighten them. I succeeded, and that's all that matters, Haplo told himself coldly. Now they'll go along with me. No more arguments. I'll take over this ship, ditch these three mensch somewhere, and get on about my business.

 "What do you want us to do, sir?" asked the elf.

 "First, what's your real name?" Haplo growled.

 "Devon of the House of—"

 "Devon will do. What or who's steering this ship? Not you, I take it. Who else is on board?"

 "We . . . don't know, sir." Devon said helplessly. "We assume it's the dragon-snakes. Their magic . . ."

 "You haven't tried to change course? Stop the ship?"

 "We can't even get close to the steerage. There's something horrible in there."

 "What is it? Can you see it?"

 "No," Devon admitted, ashamed. "We . . . couldn't get close enough to see anything."

 "It's a terrible feeling, I tell you!" stated Grundle sullenly, defiantly. "Like walking into death."

 "Which is exactly what you're doing now," Haplo snapped.

 The three glanced at each other, lowered their heads. Children, lost and alone, facing a dreadful fate. Haplo regretted his harsh comment.

 You don't want to frighten them too much, he cautioned. You're going to need their help.

 "I'm sorry I upset you," he apologized gruffly. "But we have a saying in my world: The dragon is always smaller in the eye than in the mind."

 "Meaning it's better to know the truth," said Alake, wiping away her tears. "You're right. I'm not nearly as frightened as I was. Though, if what you say is true, I have more reason to be."

 "It's like having a tooth pulled," said Grundle. "You always suffer more thinking about it than having it done." She cocked a bright eye at Haplo. "You're pretty smart ... for a human. Where did you say you came from?"

 Haplo looked sharply at the dwarf. A shrewd thinker, that one. He would have to keep an eye on her. Right now, though, he didn't have time to waste fending off her needling jabs.

 "You shouldn't be as concerned about where I've been as where you're going unless we can get this ship turned around. Which way's the steerage from here?"

 "But how will you do that?" Alake asked him, drawing near. Her eyes, when she looked at him, were warm and soft. "It's obviously being controlled by powerful magic."

 "I have some knowledge of magic, myself," said Haplo. Ordinarily, he preferred to keep such knowledge to himself, but in this case, the mensch would see him using his magic. Better to prepare them in advance.

 "Do you?" Alake drew a deep breath. "So do I. I've been admitted to the Third House. What House are you?"

 Haplo recalled what little he knew of the human's crude talent for the arcane, remembered that they loved nothing more than to shroud even the most rudimentary magical spells in mystery.

 "If you are that high in the ranking, you must know that I am not permitted to speak of it," he said.

 His mild rebuke did him no harm with the human girl. By her shining eyes, her admiration for him increased.

 "Forgive me," she said immediately. "It was wrong of me to ask. We'll show you the way."

 The dwarf cast him another shrewd glance, tugged at her side whiskers.

 Alake guided him through the small, narrow corridors of the ship. Grundle and Devon came along, the dwarf pointing out to him the various mechanical devices that powered the vessel, which she called a "submersible." Haplo, glancing out the portholes, could seeing nothing but water, lit by a soft, blue-green light, above, below, and all around.

 He was beginning to think that this so-called world of water was, in truth, a world made of nothing but water. There must be land somewhere. Obviously, people who built boats to sail the seas didn't live in those seas like fish. He was intensely curious to know about the seamoons the dwarf had mentioned, must try to think of a way to find out that wouldn't start the wheels turning in the heads of these mensch. He also needed to know more about the seawater itself, whether his growing misgivings about it were true.

 Grundle and Devon were, between them, explaining how the submersible operated. Built by dwarves, it was powered by a combination of dwarven mechanical ingenuity and elven mechanical magic.

 It seemed, from what Haplo could piece together out of the somewhat confused explanation given him by the dwarf, that the main difficulty in sinking (sailing) a vessel was to get it away from the influence of the seamoons. Due to the gravitational push (not pull) of the moons, the submersibles, which were filled with air, were naturally less dense than the water around them and tended to float toward the worlds as though being drawn by a rope. In order to cause the submersible to sink, it was necessary to increase the density of the ship without flooding it full of water.

 Here, Devon explained, was where the elven magic came in. Special magical crystals, engineered by the elven wizards, could increase or decrease their own mass on command. Called mass displacers, these crystals actually solved two problems for ships. First, by increasing the mass in the keel, the ships could sink into the sea as their density became greater than that of the water around them. Second, as the ship sank away from the influence of the outward-pressing gravity of the worlds, the mass displacers provided an artificial gravity for the occupants of the submersible.

 Haplo only vaguely understood the concept, understood nothing of "outward-pressing gravity" and "mass displacers." Understood nothing, except that they were magic.

 "But," said Haplo casually, appearing to be intensely interested in a rat's tangle of ropes, pulleys, and gears, "I didn't think magic worked in the seawater."

 Alake looked startled, at first, then she smiled. "Of course. You are testing me. I would give you the correct response, but not in front of the uninitiated." She nodded at Grundle and Devon.

 "Humpf!" grunted the dwarf, unimpressed. "This way to the pilot's house." She began to climb the ladder leading to the topmost deck. Devon and Alake went up after her.

 Haplo followed, said nothing more. He hadn't missed Alake's surprised expression. Apparently, human and elven magic worked in the sea. And, since something was guiding the boat, dragon magic worked in the seawater, as well, Seawater that had, so to speak, washed away Haplo's magic. Or had it? Maybe his debilitation had been caused by the passage through Death's Gate. Perhaps . . .

 A tingling sensation on Haplo's skin interrupted his ruminations. It was slight, barely felt, as if silken threads of cobwebs were brushing across his flesh. He recognized it, wished he'd thought to wrap the blanket around him. A quick glance confirmed his fears. The sigla on his skin were beginning to glow, a sign of danger. The light was faint, faint as the runes themselves, but his magic was warning him as best it could in his weakened state.

 The mensch pulled themselves up over the top, but did not proceed farther. Devon's lips tightened. Grundle gave a sudden, loud, nervous "hem!" that made everyone jump. Alake began to whisper to herself, probably some sort of charm.

 The tingling on Haplo's arms became almost maddening, like the tiny feet of myriad spiders crawling over him. His body was instinctively preparing itself to face danger. Adrenaline pumped, his mouth dried, his stomach muscles tightened. He tensed, searched every shadow, cursed the faint light of the sigla, cursed the fact that he was weak.

 The dwarf lifted a quivering hand, pointed ahead, at a darkened doorway located at the end of the corridor. "That's . . . the steerage."

 Fear flowed from out that doorway like a dark river, threatening to drown them in its suffocating tide. The mensch huddled together, staring with horrible fascination down the corridor. None of them had noticed his alteration yet.

 Alake shivered. Grundle was panting like a dog. Devon leaned weakly against the bulkheads. It was obvious the mensch could not go on. Haplo wasn't certain he could.

 Sweat trickled down his face. He was having difficulty breathing. And still no sign of anything! But he knew, now, where the danger was centered, and he was walking right toward it. He had never experienced fear like this, not in the darkest, most horrible cave in the Labyrinth. Every fiber of his being was urging him to run away as fast as he could. It took a concerted effort on his part to keep moving forward.

 And, suddenly, he couldn't. He came to a halt, near the mensch. Grundle looked around at him. Her eyes widened, she let out a crowing gasp. Alake and Devon shuddered, turned to stare.

 Haplo saw himself reflected in three pair of astounded, frightened eyes, saw his body glowing a faint, iridescent blue, saw his face strained and drawn, glistening with sweat.

 "What's ahead of us?" he said, pointing. "What's beyond that door?" It took him three breaths to squeeze the words past the tightness in his chest.

 "What's wrong with your skin?" Grundle cried shrilly. "You're lit up—"

 "What's in there?" Haplo hissed through clenched teeth, glaring fiercely at the dwarf.

 She gulped. "The ... the pilot's house. You see?" she added, growing bolder. "I was right. Like walking into death."

 "Yeah, you were right." Haplo took a step forward.

 Alake clutched at him. "Wait! You can't go! Don't leave us!"

 Haplo turned. "Wherever it is they're taking you—will it be any better?"

 The three stared at him, silently begging him to say he'd been wrong, to tell them everything was going to be all right. But he couldn't. Truth, harsh and bitter, like a cold wind, blew out hope's faint, flickering light.

 "Then we'll come with you," said Devon, pale but resolute.

 "No, you won't. You're going to stay right here, all three of you."

 Haplo looked down the corridor, glanced again at his arms. The sigla's glow was faint, the runes on his body barely visible. He cursed softly, beneath his breath. A child in the Labyrinth could defend itself better than he could, at this moment.

 "Do any of you have a weapon? You, elf? A sword, a knife?"

 "N-no," Devon stammered.

 "We were told not to bring any weapons," Alake whispered fearfully.

 "I have an ax," Grundle said, tone defiant. "A battle-ax."

 Alake stared at her, shocked.

 "Bring it to me," Haplo ordered, hoping it wasn't some puny toy.

 The dwarf looked at him long and hard, then ran off. She returned, puffing, carrying what Haplo was relieved to see was a sturdy, well-made weapon.

 "Grundle!" said Alake reprovingly. "You know what they told us!"

 "As if I'd listen to a bunch of snakes!" Grundle scoffed. "Will this do?"

 She handed the ax to Haplo.

 He grasped it, hefted it experimentally. Too bad he didn't have time to inscribe runes on it, enhance it with magical power. Too bad he didn't have the strength to do it, he reminded himself ruefully. Well, it was better than nothing.

 Haplo started to creep forward. Hearing footsteps shuffling along behind him, he whirled around, glared at the mensch.

 "You stay there! Understand?"

 The three wavered, looked at each other, then at Haplo. Devon began to shake his head.

 "Damn it!" Haplo swore. "What can three terrified kids do to help me? You'll only get in my way. Now keep back!"

 They did as he told them, huddling against the walls, watching him with wide, frightened eyes. He had the feeling, though, that the minute he turned his back, they'd be creeping up behind.

 "Let them take care of themselves," he muttered.

 Ax in hand, he started down the corridor.

 The sigla on his skin itched and burned. Despair closed in on him, the despair of the Labyrinth. You slept out of exhaustion, never to find easeful rest. You woke every day to fear and pain and death.

 And anger.

 Haplo concentrated on the anger. Anger had kept the Patryns alive in the Labyrinth. Anger carried him forward. He would not rush meekly to his fate like the mensch. He would fight. He ...

 Haplo reached the door that led into the steerage, the door that threatened—guaranteed—death. Pausing, he looked, listened. He saw nothing but deep, impenetrable darkness, heard nothing but the beating of his own heart, his own short and shallow breathing. His grip on the ax was so tight his hand ached. He drew a breath, bounded inside.

 Darkness closed over him, fell down on him like the nets the gibbering monkkers of the Labyrinth use to snare the unwary. The faint glow of his sigla disappeared. He knew himself to be completely helpless, completely at the mercy of whatever was in here. He stumbled about in a blind panic, fighting to free himself. The ax slid from his sweat-damp hand.

 Two eyes, slits of red-green flame, slowly opened. The darkness took shape and form around the eyes, and Haplo was aware of a gigantic serpentine head. He was aware, too, of a ripple in the darkness, a shimmer of doubt, astonishment.

 "A Patryn?" The voice was soft, sibilant.

 "Yes," Haplo answered, tense, wary. "I am a Patryn. What are you?"

 The eyes closed. The darkness returned, strong, intense, guarding. Haplo stretched out a groping hand, hoping to find the steering mechanism. His fingers brushed against cold, scaly flesh. A viscous liquid clung to his skin, chilled his blood, began to burn his skin. His stomach wrenched in revulsion. Shuddering, he tried to wipe the slime off on his trousers.

 The eyes opened again, their light eerie. The eyes were huge. It seemed he could have walked into the black, slit pupils without ducking.

 "The Royal One bids me give you welcome and say to you, 'The time is at hand. Your enemy is awake.' "

 "I don't know what you mean, what you're talking about," Haplo said warily. "What enemy?"

 "The Royal One will explain everything if you will honor him with your presence. However, I am permitted to speak one word that may quicken your interest. I am to say, 'Samah.' "

 "Samah!" Haplo breathed. "Samah!"

 He couldn't believe what he'd heard. It didn't make sense. He wanted to question the creature, but, suddenly, his heart began to pound. The blood rushed to his head, fire filled his brain. He took a step, staggered, and pitched forward onto his face to lie still and unmoving.

 The green-red eyes glittered, slowly shut.

 CHAPTER12

 ADRIFT SOMEWHERE THE GOODSEA

 SONOW WE'VE GOT THIS HUMAN, THIS HAPLO. I WANT VERY MUCH to trust him, and yet I don't. Is it just the prejudice of a dwarf against any of another race? That might have been so, back in the old days. But I would trust Alake with my life, the same with Devon. Unfortunately, my life appears to be not in their care, but in Haplo's.

 It will be a relief to write down how I really feel about him. I can't say a word against him to Alake, who has fallen for this man deeper than a dwarf in his ale mug. As for Devon ... he was suspicious of him at the beginning, but after what happened with the dragon-snakes . . . well, you might have thought an elven warrior of ancient days had come to call him to arms.

 Alake says that I am only chewing sour grapes because Haplo made me see that we acted like fools, running off to give ourselves to be sacrificed. But we dwarves are naturally skeptical and suspicious of strangers. We tend not to trust anyone until we get to know them several hundred cycles.

 This Haplo has yet to say anything about where he comes from and who he is, and, beyond that, he's made one or two extremely curious statements and has behaved most peculiarly in regard to the dragon-snakes.

 I admit I was wrong about one thing—Haplo is obviously not a spy sent by the dragons. It is difficult to see inside the man. A shadow covers him and his words. He walks in a darkness of his own creation, using it, I would guess, for protection and defense. Yet, sometimes, despite himself, the clouds are rent by a flash of lightning, both frightening and illuminating. Such a flash came from Haplo when we told him about the dragon-snakes.

 In fact, thinking back on his reaction, I begin to see that he went out of his way to convince us we should try to seize control of the ship and flee to safety. Which makes what happened later all the more strange.

 And I must give credit where it is due. Haplo is the bravest man I've ever met. I know of no dwarf, not even Hartmut, who could have walked down the dread corridor and into the steerage.

 We kept behind, waiting for him, as he ordered.

 "We should go with him," Devon said.

 "Yes," agreed Alake faintly, but I noticed that neither of them moved a muscle. "I wish we had some no-fear weed. Then we wouldn't be afraid."

 "Well, we don't. Whatever it is," I whispered. "As for wishes, I wish I was back home!"

 Devon was that faint color of blue-green elves turn when they're sick or afraid. Sweat glistened on Alake's black skin, and she shivered like a leaf. I'm not ashamed to say that my shoes were as good as nailed to the deck. Otherwise I would have done the sensible thing and run for dear life.

 We watched Haplo enter the steerage. Blackness covered him, swallowed him up whole. Alake gave a little cry and hid her face in her hands. Then we heard voices . . . Haplo's voice talking and another answering.

 "At least nothing's killed him yet," I muttered.

 Alake perked up, lifted her head. We all strained to hear what was being said.

 The words were gibberish. We looked at each other questioningly. None of us understood.

 "It's that same language he talked when he was out of his head," I whispered. "And whatever's in there understands it!"

 Which was something I didn't like one bit, as I was just about to say, when Haplo suddenly gave a great cry that stopped my breathing. And then Alake gave a cry as if someone had torn out her heart. She darted down the passage, heading straight for the steerage!

 Devon ran after Alake, leaving me to reflect on the brainless natures of elves and humans (and dwarves). I had no choice, of course, but to run after them.

 I arrived in the steerage to find Alake bent over Haplo, who was lying unconscious on the deck. Devon, with more presence of mind than I would have given an elf, had picked up the battle ax and was standing over the two protectively.

 I looked quickly about the steerage. It was darker than the inside of our mountain and smelled awful. The stench made me gag. It was horribly cold, but the strange, paralyzing feeling of terror that had kept us out of here before was gone.

 "Is he dead?" I asked.

 "No!" Alake was stroking back his hair. "He's fainted. He drove it away! Don't you see, Grundle?"

 I saw the love and admiration in her eyes and my heart sank.

 "He fought it and drove it away! He's saved us."

 "He did. He truly did!" Devon said, gazing down at Haplo in awe.

 "Give me that!" I said grumpily, and snatched the ax away from the elf, "before you cut off something valuable and really turn yourself into a girl! And what do you mean, he drove it away? That scream of his didn't sound like any battle cry to me."

 But, of course, neither Alake nor Devon was paying the slightest attention to me. Their concern was for their hero. And, I had to admit, whatever had been in the steerage seemed to be gone now. But had Haplo driven it away? Or had the two of them reached a friendly agreement?

 "We can't stay here," I pointed out, propping the ax up in a corner, as far from the elf (and Haplo) as possible.

 "No, you're right," Alake agreed, looking around with a shudder.

 "We could make a litter out of blankets," Devon suggested.

 Haplo opened his eyes, found Alake hanging over him, her hand on his head. I never saw anyone move so swiftly. His actions were a blur. He struck out at Alake, flung her away from him, and was on his feet, crouched, ready to spring.

 Alake lay on the deck, staring at him in shock. None of us moved or said a word. I was almost as frightened as I'd been before.

 Haplo glanced around, saw only us, and seemed to come to his senses. But he was furious.

 "Don't touch me!" he snarled in a voice colder and darker than the darkness in the steerage. "Don't ever touch me!"

 Alake's eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "I didn't mean any harm. I feared you were hurt . . ."

 Haplo bit off whatever else he'd been going to say, stared at poor Alake grimly. Then, with a sigh, he straightened, shook his head. His anger died. For an instant, the darkness over him seemed to lift.

 "Here, don't cry anymore. I'm the one who's sorry," he said tiredly. "I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. I was . . . somewhere else. In a dream. A terrible place."

 He frowned, and the darkness returned to cover him. "I react like that out of instinct. I can't help myself, and I might accidentally hurt one of you. So just . . . don't ever come near me when I'm asleep. All right?"

 Alake gulped and nodded and even managed to smile. She would have forgiven him if he'd jumped up and down on her. I saw that plain enough and I think Haplo was beginning to see how it was with her. He looked kind of startled and confused and, for an instant, almost helpless. It was enough to make melaugh, except I felt like crying.

 I thought he was going to say something and he thought so, too, but then he must have seen that it would only make things worse. He kept quiet, turned to examine the steerage.

 Devon helped Alake to her feet. She smoothed her gown.

 "You all right?" Haplo said gruffly, not looking at her.

 "Yes," she answered shakily.

 He nodded.

 "So," I said, "did you drive the dragon-snake or whatever it was off? Can you take control of the ship?"

 He looked at me. His eyes are like no one's eyes I've seen before. They run through you like needles.

 "No. I didn't drive the dragon-snake off. And, no, we can't take over the ship."

 "But the beast's not here!" I pointed out. "I can feel the difference. We all can. I'm going to try. I know something about steering a boat. . . ."

 I didn't, but I wanted to see what would happen. I put my hands on the wheel. Sure enough, he was there beside me. His hand closed over my arm and his grip was like iron.

 "Don't try it, Grundle." He wasn't threatening. He was very quiet, very calm. I felt my stomach twist into a knot. "I don't think it would be wise. The dragon-snake isn't gone. It was never really here. But that doesn't mean they're not watching, listening to us right now. Their magic is powerful. I wouldn't want you to get hurt."

 He was implying that he wouldn't want the dragon-snakes to hurt me. But, looking into those eyes, I wasn't so sure that was what he truly meant. His grip on my arm tightened. Slowly, I let go of the wheel, and he let go of me.

 "And now, I think we should all return to our cabins," Haplo said.

 We didn't move. Alake and Devon looked stricken, their last hope gone. I could still feel his hand on my arm, see the marks of his fingers.

 "You talked to them!" I blurted out. "I heard you! In your language! Or is it their language? I think you're in league with them!"

 "Grundle!" Alake cried. "How could you!"

 "It's all right." Haplo shrugged, smiled out of one corner of his mouth. "Grundle doesn't trust me, do you?"

 "No," I said bluntly.

 Alake frowned, clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Devon shook his head at me.

 Haplo continued to regard me with that strange half-smile. "If it's any comfort to you, Grundle, I don't trust you, either. Elves, dwarves, humans. You're all friends, you tell me. Your races live together in peace. You expect me to believe that, after what I've seen? Or is this all some elaborate hoax, laid by my enemies?"

 We were all silent. Alake looked unhappy, Devon uncomfortable. They had wanted so much to believe . . .

 I pointed at Haplo's skin, at the blue markings I'd seen glow with an eerie, radiant light.

 "You're a warlock," I said, using the human term. "Your magic is powerful. I felt it. We all felt it. Could you turn this ship around, take us back home?"

 He was quiet a moment, eyeing me with a cold and narrow gaze. Then he said, "No."

 "Can't or won't?" I demanded.

 He didn't answer.

 I cast Alake and Devon a glance of bitter triumph. "Come on. We better decide what we can do to help ourselves. Maybe we could swim for it—"

 "Grundle, you can't swim," Alake said, sighing. She was on the verge of tears. Her shoulders sagged.

 "There's no land near anyway," argued Devon. "We'd end up exhausted, half-starved. Or worse."

 "Wouldn't that be better than the dragon-snakes?"

 They finally realized what I was saying. They looked at each other, wavering, hesitating.

 "Come on," I repeated.

 I was near the door. Alake, drooping, started to come after. Devon had his arm around her. With what sounded like a curse, Haplo shoved roughly past us. Reaching the door, he blocked it with an outstretched arm.

 "No one's going anywhere, except back to his or her room."

 Alake stood tall, faced him with dignity. "Let us pass." She was trying hard to keep her voice from trembling.

 "Stand aside, sir," said Devon in low tones.

 I took a step forward.

 "Damn it!" Haplo glared at us. "These dragon-snakes won't let you go. Try some fool stunt like jumping ship and you'll only end up getting hurt. Listen to me. Grundle was right. I can talk to these dragon-snakes. We . . . understand each other. And I promise you this. As far as it's in my power to prevent it, I won't let harm come to you." He looked at Alake and Devon and at me. "I swear it."

 "By what?" I asked.

 "What would you have me swear by?"

 "The One, of course," Alake said.

 Haplo appeared perplexed. "What One? Is it a human god?"

 "The One is the One," Devon answered, at a loss to explain. Everyone knew about the One.

 "The highest power," Alake replied. "Creator, Mover, Shaper, Finisher."

 "Highest power, huh?" Haplo repeated, and I could see he didn't much like that idea. "You all believe in this One? Elves, humans, dwarves?"

 "It's not a matter of believing," Devon said. "The One is."

 Haplo eyed us narrowly. "Will you go to your rooms and stay there? No more talk of throwing yourselves into the sea?"