“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.”
“If the 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 oh the 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.