Here, Devon explained, was where the elven magic came in. Special magical crystals, engineered by the elven wizards, could increase or decrease their own mass on command. Called mass displacers, these crystals actually solved two problems for ships. First, by increasing the mass in the keel, the ships could sink into the sea as their density became greater than that of the water around them. Second, as the ship sank away from the influence of the outward-pressing gravity of the worlds, the mass displacers provided an artificial gravity for the occupants of the submersible.
Haplo only vaguely understood the concept, understood nothing of “outward-pressing gravity” and “mass displacers.” Understood nothing, except that they were magic.
“But,” said Haplo casually, appearing to be intensely interested in a rat’s tangle of ropes, pulleys, and gears, “I didn’t think magic worked in the seawater.”
Alake looked startled, at first, then she smiled. “Of course. You are testing me. I would give you the correct response, but not in front of the uninitiated.” She nodded at Grundle and Devon.
“Humpf!” grunted the dwarf, unimpressed. “This way to the pilot’s house.” She began to climb the ladder leading to the topmost deck. Devon and Alake went up after her.
Haplo followed, said nothing more. He hadn’t missed Alake’s surprised expression. Apparently, human and elven magic worked in the sea. And, since something was guiding the boat, dragon magic worked in the seawater, as well, Seawater that had, so to speak, washed away Haplo’s magic. Or had it? Maybe his debilitation had been caused by the passage through Death’s Gate. Perhaps . . .
A tingling sensation on Haplo’s skin interrupted his ruminations. It was slight, barely felt, as if silken threads of cobwebs were brushing across his flesh. He recognized it, wished he’d thought to wrap the blanket around him. A quick glance confirmed his fears. The sigla on his skin were beginning to glow, a sign of danger. The light was faint, faint as the runes themselves, but his magic was warning him as best it could in his weakened state. The mensch pulled themselves up over the top, but did not proceed farther. Devon’s lips tightened. Grundle gave a sudden, loud, nervous “hem!” that made everyone jump. Alake began to whisper to herself, probably some sort of charm. The tingling on Haplo’s arms became almost maddening, like the tiny feet of myriad spiders crawling over him. His body was instinctively preparing itself to face danger. Adrenaline pumped, his mouth dried, his stomach muscles tightened. He tensed, searched every shadow, cursed the faint light of the sigla, cursed the fact that he was weak.
The dwarf lifted a quivering hand, pointed ahead, at a darkened doorway located at the end of the corridor. “That’s . . . the steerage.” Fear flowed from out that doorway like a dark river, threatening to drown them in its suffocating tide. The mensch huddled together, staring with horrible fascination down the corridor. None of them had noticed his alteration yet. Alake shivered. Grundle was panting like a dog. Devon leaned weakly against the bulkheads. It was obvious the mensch could not go on. Haplo wasn’t certain he could.
Sweat trickled down his face. He was having difficulty breathing. And still no sign of anything! But he knew, now, where the danger was centered, and he was walking right toward it. He had never experienced fear like this, not in the darkest, most horrible cave in the Labyrinth. Every fiber of his being was urging him to run away as fast as he could. It took a concerted effort on his part to keep moving forward.
And, suddenly, he couldn’t. He came to a halt, near the mensch. Grundle looked around at him. Her eyes widened, she let out a crowing gasp. Alake and Devon shuddered, turned to stare.
Haplo saw himself reflected in three pair of astounded, frightened eyes, saw his body glowing a faint, iridescent blue, saw his face strained and drawn, glistening with sweat.
“What’s ahead of us?” he said, pointing. “What’s beyond that door?” It took him three breaths to squeeze the words past the tightness in his chest.
“What’s wrong with your skin?” Grundle cried shrilly. “You’re lit up—”
“What’s in there?” Haplo hissed through clenched teeth, glaring fiercely at the dwarf.
She gulped. “The ... the pilot’s house. You see?” she added, growing bolder.
“I was right. Like walking into death.”
“Yeah, you were right.” Haplo took a step forward. Alake clutched at him. “Wait! You can’t go! Don’t leave us!” Haplo turned. “Wherever it is they’re taking you—will it be any better?” The three stared at him, silently begging him to say he’d been wrong, to tell them everything was going to be all right. But he couldn’t. Truth, harsh and bitter, like a cold wind, blew out hope’s faint, flickering light.
“Then we’ll come with you,” said Devon, pale but resolute.
“No, you won’t. You’re going to stay right here, all three of you.” Haplo looked down the corridor, glanced again at his arms. The sigla’s glow was faint, the runes on his body barely visible. He cursed softly, beneath his breath. A child in the Labyrinth could defend itself better than he could, at this moment.
“Do any of you have a weapon? You, elf? A sword, a knife?”
“N-no,” Devon stammered.
“We were told not to bring any weapons,” Alake whispered fearfully.
“I have an ax,” Grundle said, tone defiant. “A battle-ax.” Alake stared at her, shocked.
“Bring it to me,” Haplo ordered, hoping it wasn’t some puny toy. The dwarf looked at him long and hard, then ran off. She returned, puffing, carrying what Haplo was relieved to see was a sturdy, well-made weapon.
“Grundle!” said Alake reprovingly. “You know what they told us!”
“As if I’d listen to a bunch of snakes!” Grundle scoffed. “Will this do?” She handed the ax to Haplo.
He grasped it, hefted it experimentally. Too bad he didn’t have time to inscribe runes on it, enhance it with magical power. Too bad he didn’t have the strength to do it, he reminded himself ruefully. Well, it was better than nothing.
Haplo started to creep forward. Hearing footsteps shuffling along behind him, he whirled around, glared at the mensch.
“You stay there! Understand?”
The three wavered, looked at each other, then at Haplo. Devon began to shake his head.
“Damn it!” Haplo swore. “What can three terrified kids do to help me? You’ll only get in my way. Now keep back!”
They did as he told them, huddling against the walls, watching him with wide, frightened eyes. He had the feeling, though, that the minute he turned his back, they’d be creeping up behind.
“Let them take care of themselves,” he muttered.
Ax in hand, he started down the corridor.
The sigla on his skin itched and burned. Despair closed in on him, the despair of the Labyrinth. You slept out of exhaustion, never to find easeful rest. You woke every day to fear and pain and death.
And anger.
Haplo concentrated on the anger. Anger had kept the Patryns alive in the Labyrinth. Anger carried him forward. He would not rush meekly to his fate like the mensch. He would fight. He ...
Haplo reached the door that led into the steerage, the door that threatened—guaranteed—death. Pausing, he looked, listened. He saw nothing but deep, impenetrable darkness, heard nothing but the beating of his own heart, his own short and shallow breathing. His grip on the ax was so tight his hand ached. He drew a breath, bounded inside.