Margaret Weis - Elven Star

“The citadels are working, their lights fill the heavens—”

“Not heavens, quit lying to yourself.”

“It was merely a figure of speech. Don’t be so touchy.”

“I hate waiting. Why don’t we hear from Arianus? Or Abarrach? What do you suppose has happened?”

“Perhaps the same thing that is happening to us. So much to do, too few to do it. A tiny crack opens in the roof and the rain seeps through. We put a bucket beneath it and start to go out to mend the crack but then another opens. We put a bucket beneath that one. Now we have two cracks to mend and we are about to do so when a third opens up. We have now run out of buckets. We find another bucket, but by this time, the leaks have grown larger. The buckets will not hold the water. We run after larger buckets to give us time to contain the water so that we can go up to the roof to fix the leak.

“But by now,” the speaker’s voice softened, “the roof is on the verge of collapse.”

Time swirled and eddied around the Sartan seated at the table, aging them rapidly, as it had aged their parents. Their numbers grew fewer still.

“The tytans! The tytans were the mistake!”

“It worked well in the beginning. How could anyone have foreseen?”

“It’s the dragons. We should have done something about them from the start.”

“The dragons did not bother us, until the tytans began to escape our control.”

“We could use the tytans still, if we were stronger—”

“If there were more of us, you mean. Perhaps. I’m not certain.”

“Of course, we could. Their magic is crude; no more than—we teach a child—”

“But we made the mistake of endowing the child with the strength of mountains.”

“I say that maybe it’s the work of our ancient enemies. How do any of us know that the Patryns are still imprisoned in the Labyrinth? We’ve lost all contact with their jailers.”

“We’ve lost contact with everyone! The citadels work, gathering energy, storing it, ready to transmit it through the Death’s Gate. But is there anyone left to receive it? Perhaps we are the last, perhaps the others dwindled as have we …”

The flame of hatred burning in Haplo was no longer warm and comforting, but a devouring fire. The casual mention of the prison into which he’d been born, the prison that had been the death of so many of his people, sent him into a fury that dimmed his sight, his hearing, his wits. It was all he could do to keep from hurling himself at the shadowy figures and throttling them with his bare hands.

The dog sat up, worried, and licked his master’s hand. Haplo grew calmer. He had missed much of the conversation, seemingly. Discipline. His lord would be angered. Haplo forced his attention back to the round table. A single form sat there, shoulders bowed beneath an unseen burden. The Sartan was looking, astonishingly, at Haplo.

“You of our brethren who may one day come into this chamber are undoubtedly lost in amazement at what you have found—or failed to find. You see a city, but no people living within its walls. You see the light”—the figure gestured to the ceiling, to the spire above them—“but its energy is wasted. Or perhaps you’ will not see the light. Who knows what will happen when we are no longer here to guard the citadels? Who knows but that the light will dim and fade, even as we ourselves have done.

“You have, through your magic, viewed our history. We have recorded it in the books, as well, so that you may study it at your leisure. We have added to it the histories kept by the wise ones among the mensch, written in their own languages. Unfortunately, since the citadel will be sealed, none of them will be able to return to discover their past.

“You now know the terrible mistakes we made. I will add only what has occurred in these last days. We were forced to send the mensch from the citadel. The fighting among the races had escalated to such a point that we feared they would destroy each other. We sent them into the jungle, where they will, we hope, be forced to expend their energy on survival.

“We had planned, those of the few of us who remain, to live in the citadels in peace. We hoped to find some means to regain control over the tytans, find some way to communicate with the other worlds. But that is not to be.

“We, ourselves, are being made to leave the citadels. The force that opposes us is ancient and powerful. It cannot be fought, cannot be placated. Tears do not move it, nor do all the weapons we have at our command. Too late, we have come to admit its existence. We bow before it, and take our leave.”

The image faded. Haplo tried, but the rune-magic would summon no one else. The Patryn stood for a long time in the chamber, staring in silence at the crystal globe and its feebly burning suns surrounding the Death’s Gate. Seated at his feet, the dog turned its head this way and that, searching for something it couldn’t identify, not quite heard, not quite seen, not quite felt.

But there.

They stood at the edge of the jungle, along the path on which the old man had sent them, and stared up at the shining city on the mountain. The beauty, the immensity awed them, it seemed outlandish, other worldly. They could almost believed that they had actually traveled to a star.

A rumbling, a tremor of the moss beneath their feet recalled the dragon. Otherwise, they might never have left the jungle, never walked forward upon the mountainside, never dared approach the white-walled, crystal-spired sun. Frightened as they were by what lurked behind them, they were almost as frightened of the unknown that stood ahead. Their thoughts ran similar to Haplo’s. They imagined guards standing on the towering walls, surveying the craggy, rock-strewn paths. They wasted precious time—considering the dragon might be surging after them—arguing about whether they should advance with weapons drawn or sheathed. Should they approach meekly, as supplicants, or with pride, as equals?

They resolved at last to keep their weapons out and clearly visible. As Rega counseled, it made sense to do so, in case the dragon came upon them from behind. Cautiously, they stepped out of the shadows of the jungle, shadows that suddenly seemed friendly and sheltering, and walked out into the open. Heads swiveled, keeping nervous watch before and behind. The ground no longer trembled and they argued over whether this was because the dragon had ceased to pursue them or because they stood on solid rock. They continued on up the path, each tensed to hear a hail or answer a challenge or perhaps fend off an attack. Nothing. Haplo had heard the wind. The five didn’t even hear that for it had ceased to blow with the coming of the twilight. At length, they reached the top and stood before the hexagonal gate with its strange, carved inscription. They straggled to a stop. From a distance, the citadel had filled them with awe. Up close, it filled them with despair. Weapons dangled from hands gone listless.

“The gods must live here,” said Rega in a hushed voice.

“No,” came the dry, laconic answer. “Once, you did.” A portion of the wall began to shimmer blue. Haplo, followed by the dog, stepped out. The dog appeared glad to see them safe. It wagged its tail and it would have dashed over to greet them but for a sharp reprimand from its master.

“How did you get inside there?” Paithan demanded, his hand flexing over the handle of his blade wood sword.

Haplo did not bother to answer the question, and the elf must have realized interrogating the man with the bandaged hands was futile. Paithan did not repeat it.

Aleatha, however, approached Haplo boldly. “What do you mean, once we lived behind those walls? That’s ridiculous.”