Alfred stared into the cavern, his face a pale glimmer in the reflected firelight, his eyes sad and troubled.
“Go ahead, Sartan!” Haplo demanded in a savage whisper. “Why don’t you get it over with? Call to them! They’re your brothers!”
“Not mine!” Alfred said in hollow tones. “Not mine!”
“What do you mean? That’s Sartan they’re speaking.”
“No, Haplo. The Sartan language is the language of life. Theirs”—Alfred lifted a hand, ghostly in its grace, and pointed—”is the language of death.”
CHAPTER * 13
SALFAG CAVERNS, ABARRACH
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, LANGUAGE OF DEATH? COME DOWN HERE!” Haplo reached up, caught hold of Alfred, and pulled him nearer. “Now talk!” he ordered in a soft undertone.
“I understand it little more than you do,” the Sartan said, looking helpless. “And I’m not sure what I mean. It’s just that. . . well, listen for yourself. Can’t you tell the difference?”
Haplo did as he was advised, pushing aside the turbulent emotions warring in him to pay close attention. Now that he concentrated, he had to admit Alfred had a point. The Sartan language sounded discordant to Patryn ears. Accustomed to hard, swift, harsh, and uncompromising words that expressed what one had to say in the quickest, simplest, shortest way possible, the Patryns considered the Sartan language elaborate, airy-fairy, cluttered with flights of fancy and unnecessary verbiage and an inexplicable need to explain that which required no explanation.
But to hear these cave-people talk was tantamount to hearing the Sartan language turned inside out. Their words did not fly, they crawled. Their language evoked no images of rainbows and sunshine in Haplo’s mind. He saw a pale and sickly light, a light given off by something rotting and corrupt. He heard a sorrow deeper than the dark depths of this world. Haplo prided himself on never feeling “soft” emotion, but this sorrow touched him to the core of his being.
Slowly, he released Alfred from his rough grip. “Do you understand what’s going on?”
“No, I don’t. Not clearly. But I think I could become accustomed to the language in time.”
“Yeah, me, too. Just like I could become accustomed to being hanged. What’re you going to do?” Haplo eyed Alfred narrowly.
“Me?” Alfred was astounded. “Do? What do you mean?”
“Are you going to turn me over to them? Tell them I’m the ancient enemy? You probably won’t even have to tell them. They’ll remember.”
Alfred did not answer immediately. His lips parted several times as if he intended to speak, but shut when he changed his mind. Haplo had the impression that the man was not trying to decide what to do, but how to explain his decision.
“This may sound strange to you, Haplo. I have no desire to betray you. Oh, I’ve heard your threats against me and, believe me, I don’t take them lightly. I know what will happen to me in the Nexus. But now we are strangers in a strange world—a world that appears to grow exceedingly more strange the deeper we probe it.”
Alfred appeared confused, almost shy. “I can’t explain myself, but I feel a … a kinship to you, Haplo. Perhaps because of what happened to us going through Death’s Gate. I’ve been where you were. And I think, if I’m right, that you’ve been where I was. I’m not explaining this very well, am I?”
“Kinship! The hell with all that. Keep in mind one thing—I’m your way out of here. Your only way out of here.”
“True,” said Alfred gravely. “You are right. It appears, then, that while we are on this world we must depend on each other for survival. Would you like me to pledge it?”
Haplo shook his head, fearing he might be called on to pledge something in return. “I’ll trust you to save your own skin and because that includes saving mine, I guess that’ll be good enough.”
Alfred glanced about nervously. “Now that that’s settled, shouldn’t we be going back to the ship?”
‘Are these people Sartan?”
“Ye—es . ..”
“Don’t you want to find out more about them? What they’re doing on this world?”
“I suppose so . ..” Alfred hesitated.
Haplo ignored his reluctance. “We’ll move closer, see if we can figure out what’s going on.”