“Well? What is it? Can’t you see I’m busy?” he said in an Important Voice, which is how he generally got rid of people these days.
Lof didn’t notice. He was in a pitiable state, his beard sticking out wildly in all directions, his hair standing on end, his clothes every which way. He was wringing his hands, and when a dwarf wrings his hands, matters are desperate. For long moments, he couldn’t talk, but could only shake his head, wring his hands, and whimper.
Limbeck’s spectacles were hanging from one ear. He took them off, stuffed them in a vest pocket, and patted Lof kindly on the shoulder. “Steady, old man. What’s happened?”
Encouraged, Lof gulped and drew a shuddering breath. “Jarre,” he managed.
“It’s Jarre. She’s dead. The elves killed her. I... I s-s-saw her, Limbeck!” Dropping his head to his hands, Lof gave a harsh sob and began to weep. It was quiet. The quiet came from Limbeck, bounced off the walls, returned to him. He couldn’t even hear Lof crying anymore. He couldn’t hear anything. The Kicksey-winsey had long been silent. Now Jarre was silent, forever. It was all so very, very quiet.
“Where is she?” he asked, and he knew he asked the question, though he couldn’t hear the sound of his own voice.
“In... in the Factree,” Lof burbled. “Haplo’s with her, he says she’s not dead... but I know I saw...”
Limbeck saw Lof’s mourn moving, forming words. Limbeck understood one—“Factree.”
Taking out his spectacles, placing them firmly on his nose and over his ears, Limbeck grabbed hold of Lof. Dragging him along, Limbeck headed for the secret tunnels that led to the Factree.
As he went, he rallied every dwarf he found. “Come with me,” he told them.
“We’re going to kill elves.”
Haplo’s magic transported him to the Factree, the only place on Drevlin—other than his ship—that he could picture clearly in his mind. He had considered his ship. Once there, he could save Jarre’s life, return her to her people, then he could return to his people. He would sail to Abarrach and try, once again, to persuade his lord that the serpents were using him, using them all.
The idea of his ship was in his mind only briefly, before he abandoned it. Sang-drax and the serpents were plotting something—something major, something dire. Their plans for Arianus were going awry. They hadn’t expected Haplo or Iridal to escape, they hadn’t taken the Kenkari into consideration. They would have to make a move to counter whatever good effect Iridal might be able to achieve in the Mid Realm. Haplo had a good idea what the serpents next move was going to be.
He materialized inside the Factree, near the statue of the Manger. Haplo laid Jarre down gently on the base of the statue and took a swift look around. His skin glowed a faint blue, a residue of the magic expended to bring himself and the dwarf here, but also a warning. The serpents were near. Down below, he guessed, down in their secret caverns.
As for more immediate danger, he was prepared to face the elven soldiers, who were bivouacked in the Factree, prepared to deal instantly with any who might be standing guard duty around the statue. They would be astounded to see him materializing out of nowhere. In that moment of shock, he would subdue them. But there was no one there. The statue’s base had been shut again, covering the tunnel beneath. Elves still moved about the Factree, but they were all gathered at the front of the huge building, as far from the statue as they could get.
The glimmerglamps were dark, this part of the Factree was left to darkness. Haplo looked up at the benign face of the statue, reflected in the blue light radiating from the Patryn’s skin. He saw, in the face, Alfred. “This fear of your people would grieve you, wouldn’t it, my bumbling friend?” the Patryn asked. Then the shadows moved, and Haplo saw Samah’s stern face beneath the statue’s hood. “But you’d think their fear a fitting tribute.” Jarre moaned and stirred. Haplo knelt by her side. The statue shielded them from the sight of the elves. Should any happen to look this direction—a possibility he didn’t consider likely—they would see only a blue glow, soft and faint, so soft and faint that they would probably think their eyes were deceiving them and discount it.
But other eyes were watching, eyes Haplo hadn’t counted on.
“J-Jarre!” gasped a horrified voice.
“Damn!” Haplo swore, and turned.
Two figures crept out of the darkness, emerging from the hole in the floor that led to the dwarves’ secret tunnels.
Of course, Haplo realized, Limbeck would have posted spies to keep an eye on the elves. The dwarves could sneak up the ladder, sit in the darkness, watch the elves’ movements without running serious risk. The only drawback would be the feeling of fear that flowed from beneath the statue, from the serpents below.
Haplo noted that the dwarves appeared hesitant to approach the statue, were drawn to it by their shock and their worry over Jarre.
“She’s all right,” Haplo told them, trying to sound reassuring, hoping to prevent panic. One bellow and it was all over. He’d have the entire elven army to cope with. “She looks bad now, but I’m going to—”
“She’s dead!” gasped the dwarf, staring. “The elves killed her.”
“Limbeck!” said his companion. “Must tell... Limbeck.” Before Haplo could say another word, the two had turned and dashed off, trundling across the Factree floor toward the tunnel entrance. He heard their heavy boots clumping down the ladder; they’d forgotten to shut the metal cover.
Fine. Just fine. If he knew Limbeck, Haplo would soon have half the dwarves in Drevlin up here. Well, he’d deal with mat when it happened.
Leaning over Jarre, he took both her hands in his, extended the circle of his being, made her a part of it. The sigla’s glow brightened, traveled from Haplo’s right hand to Jarre’s left. His health and strength flowed into her, her pain and torment flowed into him.
He’d known the pain was coming, was braced to receive it. He’d experienced the same thing, healing the elf lad, Devon, in Chelestra. But this was more terrible, the pain was far worse, and—as if the serpents knew it would reach him eventually—the torment took him back to the Labyrinth.
Again the cruel birds with their razor talons and tearing beaks gorged on his flesh, tore at his vitals, beat at him with their leathery wings. Haplo grit his teeth, closed his eyes, told himself over and over it was not real, and held fast to Jarre.
And some of her strength—the strength and courage that had kept her alive—flowed to him.
Haplo gasped and shuddered, wanted desperately to die, the pain and fear were so bad. But firm, strong hands held his and a voice was saying, “It’s all right. They’re gone. I’m here.”
The voice was a woman’s, a Patryn’s. He knew it. It was her voice! She’d come back to him. Here, in the Labyrinth, she’d found him at last. She’d driven away the serpents. He was safe, with her, for the time being. But the serpents would come back, and there was the child to protect... their child.
“Our child?” he asked her. “Where is our child?”
“Haplo?” said the voice, now sounding puzzled. “Haplo, don’t you see me? It’s me, Jarre...”
Haplo sat up, caught his breath. Level with his face was the frightened and anxious face—and quivering side whiskers—of a female dwarf. His disappointment was almost as terrible to bear as the pain. He closed his eyes, shoulders slumped. It was all hopeless. How could he go on? Why should he? He’d failed, failed her, their child, failed his people, failed Jarre’s people...
“Haplo!” Jarre’s voice was stern. “Don’t be a druz. Snap out of it.” He opened his eyes, looked up at her, standing near him. Her hands twitched; he had the impression that if he’d had a beard, she’d be yanking it—her usual remedy for restoring Limbeck to sense.
Haplo smiled his quiet smile, rose to his feet. “Sorry,” he said.