We introduced them to Haplo. (The dolphins had, of course, already told our parents how he had saved us.) Our parents were grateful, but it was obvious that all of them were a little overawed by the man and his blue-marked skin and his air of quiet self-assurance. They managed to get out only a few, broken words of gratitude, which he accepted with a smile and a shrug, saying that we’d rescued him from the sea and that he’d been happy to return the favor. He said nothing more, and our parents were glad to turn back to us. For a while, it was all embraces and words of affection. Devon’s parents were there, waiting for their son. They were as glad to have him back as any of the other parents, but I saw, when I was in shape to see anything, that they still seemed sad, when they should have been overjoyed. The elven king was there, too, to welcome Devon, but Sabia wasn’t.
Then I noticed, for the first time, that her father was dressed in white—the elven color of mourning. I saw all the elves around us—and there were many, waiting to welcome us—were clad in white, something that happened only when one of the royal family has died.
A chill constricted my heart. I looked at my father with what must have been a wild and terror-stricken expression, because he only shook his head and put his finger to my lips, to silence my questions.
Alake had been asking for Sabia. Her eyes met mine, and they were wide with fear. We both looked at Devon. Blind with joy, his vision clouded by rainbows, he hadn’t seen a thing. He broke free of his parents’ embrace (was it my imagination or were they trying to hold him back?) and went to the elven king.
“Where is Sabia, Sire?” Devon asked. “Is she mad at me for striking her? I’ll make it up to her, I promise! Tell her to come out ...” The One lifted the clouds from his eyes. He saw the white clothing, saw the elven king’s face scarred and ravaged by grief, saw the petals of white flowers that had been scattered over the Goodsea.
“Sabia!” Devon shouted, and he started to run toward the coral castle that stood shimmering behind us.
Eliason caught hold of him.
Devon struggled violently, then he collapsed in the man’s arms. “No!” he cried, sobbing. “No! I never meant ... I wanted to save her ...”
“I know, my son, I know,” Eliason said, stroking Devon’s hair, soothing him as he might have soothed a child of his own. “It wasn’t your fault. Your intentions were the best, the noblest. Sabia”—he could not speak her name without a catch in his throat, but he mastered himself—“Sabia is with the One. She is at peace. We must take comfort in that. And now, I think it is time for the families to be alone together.”
Eliason took charge of Haplo with the gracious dignity and politeness that is characteristic of the elves, no matter what personal sorrows afflict them. Unhappy king. How he must have longed to be alone with his child!
Once we were inside, in a new part of the castle that had grown during our absence, my mother explained to me what had happened.
“The moment she woke up, Sabia knew what Devon had done. She knew he had sacrificed his own life for her and that his death would be a terrible one. From then on,” my mother said, wiping her eyes on the hem of her sleeve, “the poor girl lost all interest in living. She refused to eat, refused to leave her bed. She drank water only when her father sat beside her and held the glass to her lips. She wouldn’t talk to anyone, but lay for hours, staring out her window. When she slept at all, her sleep was broken by horrible dreams. They said her cries could be heard throughout the castle.
“And then one day, she seemed to be better. She got up out of bed, dressed herself in the dress she’d been wearing when you three were last together, and went about the castle singing. Her songs were sad and strange and no one liked to hear them, but they hoped this meant she was well again. Alas, it meant quite the opposite.
“That night, she asked her duenna to fetch her something to eat. The woman, thrilled that Sabia was hungry, hurried off, unsuspecting. When she returned, Sabia was gone. Frightened, the duenna woke the king. They searched.” My mother shook her head, unable to continue for her tears. Finally, she had recourse to the sleeve again, and went on.
“They found her body on the terrace where we met that day, the terrace where you overheard us talking. She’d thrown herself out a window. She was lying on almost the very same place where the elf messenger died.” I’m going to have to end this for now. I can’t go on without crying. The One guards your sleep now, Sabia. Your terrible dreams are at an end.
18
The library of the Sartan haunted Alfred, pursued him like the specter in some old wives’ tale. It reached out its cold hand to touch him and wake him in the night, crooking a beckoning finger, tried to draw him to his doom.
“Nonsense!” he would say to himself and, turning over, would attempt to banish the ghost by burying it in slumber.
This worked for the night, but the shade did not disappear with morning’s light. Alfred sat at breakfast, pretending to eat, when in reality all he could think about was Ramu examining that one compartment. What was in it that was so closely guarded?
“Curiosity. Nothing more than curiosity.” Alfred scolded himself. “Samah is right. I’ve lived around the mensch far too long. I’m like that girl in the ghost stories Bane’s nurse used to tell him. ‘You may go into any room in the castle except the locked room at the top of the stairs.’ And is the fool girl satisfied with all the other one hundred and twenty-four rooms in the castle? No, she can’t eat or sleep or have any peace at all until she’s broken into the room at the top of the stairs.
“That’s all I’m doing to myself. The room at the top of the stairs. I’ll stay away from it. I won’t think about it. I’ll be satisfied with the other rooms, rooms that are filled with so much wealth. And I will be happy. I will be happy.”
But he wasn’t. He grew more unhappy with each day that passed. He attempted to keep his restlessness hidden from his host and hostess and succeeded, or so Alfred fondly imagined. Samah watched him with the attentiveness of a Geg watching a leaky steam valve on the Kicksey-winsey, wondering when it’s going to erupt. Intimidated by Samah’s awe-inspiring and daunting presence, humbled by the fact that he knew he’d been in the wrong, Alfred was cringing and subdued in the Councillor’s presence, barely able to lift his eyes to Samah’s stern and implacable face.
When Samah was gone from home, however—and he was gone a great deal of the time on Council business—Alfred relaxed. Orla was generally on hand to keep him company, and the haunting spirit was not nearly as bothersome when he was with Orla as it was during the infrequent times when he was on his own. It never occurred to Alfred to wonder that he was rarely left alone anymore or to think it odd that Orla herself wasn’t involved in Council business. He knew only that she was sweet to devote so much time to him—a thought that made him feel all the more wretched on the occasions when the ghost of the library reappeared.
Alfred and Orla were seated on her terrace, Orla busying herself by softly singing protective runes on the fabric of one of Samah’s robes. Chanting the words, she traced the patterns with her deft fingers on the cloth, putting her love and concern for her husband into each sigil that sprang up at her command.
Alfred watched sadly. Never in his life had a woman sung the protective runes for him. One never would now. Or, at least, not the one he wanted. He was suddenly wildly and insanely jealous of Samah. Alfred didn’t like the way the Councillor treated his wife—so cold and unresponsive. He knew Orla was hurt by it, he’d witnessed her silent suffering. No, Samah wasn’t good enough for her. And I am? he asked dolefully.