The three hurried back to the elven guesthouse. They took a circuitous route, kept to the fringes of the crowds, avoided the assembly gathered around the longhouse.
Haplo could see Dumaka, greeting the dwarven dignitaries. He was glancing about, perhaps in search of the Patryn. At that moment, Eliason stepped forward, prepared to present his party. Haplo was thankful to note that there were numerous elves present; he hoped they all had long names. Alake led him to the back of the guesthouse, pointed to the moist ground. The tracks were footprints—too long and narrow for dwarves—and undoubtedly made by booted feet. Phondrans, without exception, all went barefoot. Haplo swore silently beneath his breath.
“Have the other elves in the guesthouse missed him yet?”
“I don’t think so,” Alake replied. “They’re all outside, watching the ceremony.”
“I’ll go look for him. You two stay here, in case he comes back.”
“We’re going with you,” said Grundle.
“Yes. He’s our friend.” Alake joined her.
Haplo glared at them, but the dwarf’s jaw was set firm, her small arms crossed defiantly over her chest. Alake regarded him calmly, steadfastly. There would be an argument, and he didn’t have time.
“Come on, then.”
The two girls started down the path, stopped when they realized Haplo wasn’t following.
“What is it? What are you doing?” Alake asked. “Shouldn’t we hurry?” Haplo had squatted down, was quickly tracing sigla in the mud over the elf’s footprints. He breathed soft words; the sigla flashed green, and suddenly began to grow and sprout. Plants and weeds sprang up, covering the path, obliterating any sign of the elf’s footprints.
“This is no time,” snapped Grundle, “to start a garden.”
“They’ll be looking for him soon.” Rising to his feet, Haplo watched the plants completely overrun the path. “I’m making certain no one comes after us. We’ll do what needs to be done, tell whatever story we need to tell. Agreed?”
“Oh!” murmured Alake, biting her lip.
“Agreed?” Haplo stared at the two grimly.
“Agreed,” Grundle said, subdued.
“Agreed,” Alake repeated unhappily.
They left the campsite behind, followed the elf’s footprints into the jungle. At first, Haplo thought that perhaps Grundle might have inadvertently guessed the truth. It appeared that the despondent young elf was simply intent on trying to walk off his misery. The tracks kept to the open path. Devon hadn’t bothered to conceal his whereabouts, he wasn’t attempting to hide from anyone, and he must have known that Alake, at least, would come after him. And then, abruptly, the tracks ended.
The path continued on, smooth, unmarked. The plant life on each side was dense, too dense to penetrate without leaving some sort of trace, and not a leaf was disturbed, not a flower crushed, a stalk bent.
“What’d he do? Grow wings?” the dwarf grumbled, peering into the shadows.
“So to speak,” said Haplo, looking up into the trailing vines. The elf must have taken to the trees. A swift glance farther into the jungle’s dark shadows showed him something else.
His first thought was, Damn! Another elven mourning period!
“You girls go back now,” he said firmly, but suddenly Alake gave a shriek, and before he could stop her, she had plunged into the undergrowth. Haplo jumped after her, dragged her back, shoved her hard into Grundle. The two fell over each other. Haplo ran on, glancing back over his shoulder to make certain he’d delayed the two from following.
The dwarf, in her thick boots, had become entangled in the vines. Alake seemed prepared to leave her friend to fend for herself, started after Haplo. Grundle set up a howl of rage that could be heard for miles.
“Shut her up!” Haplo ordered, crashing through the thick jungle foliage. Alake, anguish twisting her face, turned back to help Grundle. Haplo reached Devon.
The elf had formed a noose out of vines, wrapped it around his neck, and jumped from a tree limb to what he had hoped would be his death. Looking at the limp body, swinging grotesquely in a spiral on its vine, Haplo thought at first the young man had succeeded. Then he saw two of the elf’s fingers twitch. It might be a death spasm, it might not.
Haplo shouted the runes. Blue and red sigla flashed through the air, burst on the vine, severed it. The body plunged down into the undergrowth. Reaching the young man, Haplo grabbed hold of the vine around the neck, wrenched it loose. Devon wasn’t breathing. He was unconscious, his face discolored, lips blue. The vine had cut into the flesh of his slender neck, left it bruised and bleeding. But, Haplo saw after a swift, cursory examination, the elf’s neck wasn’t broken, the windpipe wasn’t crushed. The vine had slipped, apparently, sliding up the neck instead of snapping it, as Devon had undoubtedly intended. He was still alive.
But he wouldn’t be alive long. Haplo felt for a pulse, life fluttered faintly beneath his fingers. The Patryn sat back on his heels, considering. He had no idea if what he intended would work or not. As far as he knew, it had never been tried on a mensch. But he seemed to remember Alfred saying something about using his magic to heal the child, Bane.
If Sartan magic worked on a mensch, Patryn magic should work as well ... or better.
Haplo took hold of the elf’s flaccid hands, Devon’s left hand in Haplo’s right, the Patryn’s left hand holding the elf’s right hand fast. The circle was joined.
Haplo shut his eyes, concentrated. He was dimly aware, behind him, of Alake and Grundle. He heard them come to a halt, heard Alake whimper, Grundle’s breath whistle through her teeth. Haplo paid no attention to them. He was giving his own life strength to Devon. Runes on his arms glowed blue. The magic flowed from him to the elf, carried Haplo’s life with it, carried Devon’s pain and suffering back to Haplo.
The Patryn experienced, vicariously, the terrible grief, the burning guilt, the bitter, gnawing regret that had tormented Devon, sleeping and waking, and had finally driven him to seek solace in oblivion. Haplo felt the shriveling fear right before the jump—the brain’s instinct for self-preservation making a last desperate attempt to fight back.
Then the decision. Pain, the horrible feeling of suffocation, the knowledge, peaceful and serene, that death was near and the torment would soon all be over . . .
Haplo heard a groan, heard the rustle of the plants. He gasped for breath, opened his eyes.
Devon stared up at him, face anguished, twisted, bitter. “You had no right,” he whispered hoarsely, his throat sore and bruised from the vine’s grip. “I want to die! Let me die, damn you! Let me die!”
Alake cried out. “No, Devon! You don’t know what you’re saying!”
“He knows,” said Haplo grimly. He sat back on his heels, wiped his hand across his sweaty forehead. “You and Grundle go on back to the path. Let me talk to him.”
“But—”
“Go!” Haplo yelled angrily.
Grundle tugged on Alake’s hand. The two made their way back slowly through the trampled leaves and slashed plants to the path beyond.
“You want to die,” Haplo said to the elf, who averted his head, shut his eyes.
“Go ahead, then. Hang yourself. I can’t stop you. But I’d appreciate it if you’d wait until after we get all this business about the sun-chasers settled, because I assume there’ll be another long period of grieving over you, and the delay could endanger your people.”
The elf refused to look at him. “They’ll be all right. They have something to live for. I don’t.” His words were a hoarse croak. He grimaced at the pain.
“Yeah? Well, what do you think your parents will have to live for after they cut your body down from that tree limb? You have any idea what their last memory of you will be? Your face bloated, skin discolored, black as rotting fungus; your eyes bugged out of your head, your tongue sticking out of your mouth?”