“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.
10
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.