Serpent Mage

by Margaret Weis

  “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.”

  SOMETHING EXCEEDINGLY STRANGE HAS OCCURRED AND I have 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.

  “Til 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 starting 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 Goodsea.

  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 Vd 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.”