“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.[20] 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.
20
Time on the seamoons is regulated by the passage of the seasun from under one shore to its rising on the opposite side. Human wizards determined this to be a 150-degree arc and split the day into two sextans of 75 degrees. Each sextan is divided into 5 signe; a signe is made up of 60 minutes.