Serpent Mage (13 page)

“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
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!

“Tour 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 comfoit 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.