“My name is … Alfred,” he said, with an awkward bob.
“That is not a Sartan name,” said Samah, frowning.
“No,” Alfred agreed meekly.
“It is a mensch name. But you are a Sartan, are you not? You are not a mensch?”
“Yes, I am. That is, no, I’m not,” Alfred floundered, rattled.
The Sartan language, as the Patryn language, being magic, has the ability to conjure up images of the worlds and environment of the speaker. Alfred had just witnessed, in Samah’s words, a realm of extraordinary beauty, a realm made entirely of water, its sun shining in its center. A world of smaller worlds— landmasses encased in bubbles of air, landmasses that were themselves magically alive though now they slept, drifting in their dreams around the sun. He saw a Sartan city, his people working, fighting . . .
Fighting. War. Battle. Savage monsters crawling from the deep, wreaking havoc, bringing death. The vastly conflicting images came together with a crash in Alfred’s head, nearly depriving him of his senses.
“I am head of the Council of Seven,” began Samah.
Alfred gaped; the breath left his body as completely as if he’d been knocked flat on the floor.
Samah. Council of Seven. It couldn’t be possible. . . .
It occurred to Alfred, eventually, by the man’s frown, that he was asking a question.
“I—I beg your pardon?” Alfred stammered.
The rest of the Sartan, who had been standing in respectful silence, murmured, exchanged glances. Samah looked around, quieted them without speaking a word.
“I was saying, Alfred”—Samah’s tone was kind, patient. It made Alfred want to burst into tears—”that, as head of the Council, I have the right and the duty to ask questions of you, not from mere idle curiosity, but, considering these times of crises, out of necessity. Where are the rest of our brethren?”
He glanced about eagerly.
“I … I am alone,” Alfred said, and the word alone conjured up images that made Samah and all the rest of the Sartan stare at him in sudden, aching silence.
“Has something gone wrong?” Samah asked at last.
Yes! Alfred wanted to cry. Something has gone dreadfully wrong! But he could only stare at the Sartan in dismayed confusion, the truth thundering around him like the fearsome storm that rages perpetually on Arianus.
“I … I’m not on Arianus, am I?” Alfred squeezed the words out of the tight feeling in his chest.
“No. What put such an idea into your head? You are on the world of Chelestra, of course,” said Samah sternly, his patience starting to wear thin.
“Oh, dear,” said Alfred faintly, and in a graceful, spiraling motion, he slid gently and unconsciously to the floor.
CHAPTER * 3
ADRIFT SOMEWHERE THE GOODSEA
MY NAME IS GRUNDLE. [1]
When I was a child, that is the first sentence I ever learned how to write. I’m not certain why I wrote it down here, or why I begin with it, except that I have stared at this blank page for a long time now and I knew that I had to write something or I would never write anything.
I wonder who will find this and read it? Or if anyone will. I doubt that I will ever know. We have no hope of surviving our journey’s end.
{Except, of course, the perverse hope that a miracle will happen, that something or someone will come to save us. Alake says that to hope for such a thing, especially to pray for it, is wicked, since if we were saved our people would suffer. I suppose she is right, she being the most intelligent among us. But I notice she continues to practice her exercises in summoning and conjuration and she would not do so if she was practicing what she counsels.)
It was Alake who recommended that I write the account of our voyage. She says our people may find it, after we are gone, and take some comfort in it. Then, of course, it is also necessary to explain about Devon. All of which is true, but I suspect she gave me this task so that I would leave her alone and quit pestering her when she wanted to practice her magic.