"All but three," she said. "We saw one hauled into a boat from your ship even before the Creation withdrew into its lair. Two were lost, one torn apart and the other drowned before we could carry him to the air. We have wrapped their bodies and will guide you and your men to them, if you wish it."
"I do." Torvik also wished to spend the rest of the day, and perhaps all night and the next day, simply staring at the Dimernesti woman, talking with her if she wished it but content to look if she wished silence. As for touching her-he did not think it prudent to even let that thought pass through his mind.
"Now, let me see how many of your host of questions I can answer," the woman said. "I am called Mirraleen among humans and elves, the Red Walker by the sea otters of Suivinari Island, and probably vile names by Wilthur…"
As she went on, Torvik wished he had listened more to his mother speaking of Wilthur the Brown, although she knew only what Sir Pirvan had written after the siege at Belkuthas. Still, he realized that he was learning much that neither Sir Pirvan nor anyone else had ever known, would give his eyeteeth to know, and would pry loose his teeth if he forgot.
When the image of Wilthur enslaving most living things on Suivinari and creating more to do his bidding was fixed in his mind, Torvik found himself growing curious. The question as it first took shape in his mind was doubtless rude; just as certainly he needed an answer.
"Your pardon, Mirraleen," he said. "But if you think that Zeboim herself does not favor Wilthur, how is it that you sea-elves have not long since cast down the mage? We shall do the work ourselves if needs be, but why is it yet undone?"
Mirraleen sighed. "Remember, the mage's work would also discommode Habbakuk, Zeboim's rival for domain in the sea. I doubt that she would openly attack one who is an enemy of her enemy.
"Besides, the Dimernesti, though not as much a legend among the sea-elves as we are among the dryfeet, have never been as numerous as the Dargonesti. On Ansalon, we lost more and more safe shores as the dryfoot folk grew in number. Some centuries ago, most of the Dimernesti swam north to shores even beyond the lands of the minotaur, and do well enough.
"I lost my family when I was young, and quarreled with those who reared me. So it was no great matter for me to swim south, find a home among the sea otters of this island, and watch dryfoot ships come and go."
"It sounds horribly lonely," Torvik said. "Like being a castaway."
"Ah, but I cast myself away-Torvik. Is that how you pronounce the name I heard your men calling you?"
"Yes."
"They called it in a way that shows they honor you, for all that they are of two-tribes-and you are young."
Torvik did not know whether to glow at the praise or flush at the frankness. Mirraleen smiled and laid a finger over his lips. "But hold your peace a little while longer," she said, "for I must finish my tale."
Mirraleen had not seen one of her own folk for more years than Torvik cared to think about, even though he knew that elves could live the best part of a thousand years. She did well enough, leading the sea otters of Suivinari, speaking to the rare Dargonesti sea-brother among the passing dolphins, healing sickness in others and in herself as needed, and altogether living the life of a contented hermit.
Then Wilthur the Brown took refuge on Suivinari Island, brought every living thing more than a few hundred paces from the water under his sway, and began creating monsters. The Creation that lurked in the shallows, with aspects of octopus, lobster, and poisonous reef cod, was only the latest. It would not be the last.
"We survive in the shoals because some power-call it Zeboim-will not let Wilthur intrude too far offshore. Had she done otherwise, I would be dead and my friends likewise, or even worse, slaves to Wilthur.
"Go back to your people," she finished, "and warn them not to simply debark and march inland. That is putting themselves into Wilthur's hands, and out of whatever protection the sea gods may offer."
"Such as it is," Torvik muttered. Among human sailors, Zeboim was the Great Turtle, mother of all that was evil about the sea, and protector of no one. Habbakuk was more friendly, but not always free to enter into human affairs.
Mirraleen stood up, and the sun on her made her so splendid that Torvik's arms and lips tingled with wanting her touch. If Mirraleen sensed any of this, she ignored it, only standing with her head cocked to one side as if listening.
"I hear a human boat approaching, Torvik. If you will hurry to the foot of the cliff to the left of the cove entrance, you will find ancient stairs there. Climb them, and wave to the boat," she said.
"Like this?" Torvik asked, looking down at the few tattered remnants of his clothes.
Mirraleen laughed, as sweet a sound as he had imagined it, "I have nothing you can borrow, I fear, and your own garb is at the bottom of the sea if not in the belly of Wilthur's pet."
She ran toward the water, more graceful than Torvik had believed any mortal creature could be. She sprang up atop a rock, then dived. In midair her arms became flippers, her legs a tail, and her body a sleek furry shape. A woman had leaped from the rock, but a sea otter entered the water.
Torvik wasted no more time. Even before Mirraleen vanished toward open water, he heard the horns and drums of the boat. He had best climb up to where he would be easily seen, as he had no way to make a fire, no mirror to flash signals, nor even a stitch of clothing to wave!
Mirraleen did not approach the boat closely until she was sure that it held humans, not minotaurs. The Destined Race might fling harpoons first and satisfy their curiosity, if any, afterward. Even after she saw humans, Mirraleen approached cautiously. She was alone, and while a dozen sea otters might raise no suspicions, after last night's events, a single one might still seem a portent, a sign, or something else to make tongues wag.
If there had been any way to help the humans overthrow Wilthur's enslavement of her island without revealing her own existence, Mirraleen would have chosen it. As it was, she would prefer to remain a secret until Torvik could tell his tale.
But at last it seemed likely that the boat would pass by, without seeing the small figure perched on the cliff or hearing his frantic halloos. Mirraleen swam up to the very prow of the boat, leaped half out of the water, barked three times, then dived back and away, in the direction she wanted to lead the boat.
At least last night's events had fixed every sailor's mind on the matter of sea otters. She heard shouts and urgent words from the boat.
"Hey! Sea otters!"
"Just one, though. Maybe it's lost."
"Maybe it's trying to help us!"
"Oh, you and your stories."
"No story. Remember what happened to Ligvur last night? When the boat went over, the otters came up under him and helped him to a rock. He'd have drowned otherwise."
"Yeah, and Jomo said he saw them going down and hitting that thing like sharks all over a dead whale. Wonder if somebody put them up to it?"
"Might have. Maybe not, though. Sea otters are pretty smart."
In her sea otter form, Mirraleen could not giggle. Underwater, she could not giggle even as an elf. She popped to the surface again, feeling safe and happy, and barked three times more.
It was while she was barking that she heard someone shout, "Hoy! Lookit up there! Somebody else from the boat. Get a rope so he can climb down."
Mirraleen thought kindly of the man who made that last suggestion. If Torvik had to retrace his steps inland, some of Wilthur's animal slaves might be across his path by now. Going down the cliff, facing the sea, he would likely be safe from everything except falling-and she trusted one of Torvik's years, strength, and experience to avoid that.