“I will not go to war,” said the elven king.
“Come now, man!” Yngvar snorted. “No one wants to fight, but if these Sartan prove unreasonable—”
“I will not go to war,” Eliason repeated with maddening calm.
Yngvar began to argue. Dumaka attempted to reason.
“The sun will not leave us for many cycles,” said Eliason brokenly. He waved his hand. “I cannot think of such things now—”
“Can’t think about the welfare of your own people!”
Grundle, tearstreaks drying on her face, stalked across the pier and came to stand before the elven king, her head about level with his waist.
“Grundle, you should not speak so to your elders,” reprimanded her mother, but she didn’t say it very loudly and her daughter didn’t hear her.
“Sabia was my friend. Every cycle that passes from now to the end of my life, I’ll think of her and miss her. But she was willing to give her life to save her people. It would be a disgrace to her memory if you, her father, couldn’t do as much!”
Eliason stood staring at the dwarf as if he were in a dream and she some strange apparition sprung out of nowhere.
Yngvar, the dwarf king, sighed and tugged at his beard. “My daughter speaks true words, Eliason, even if she does hurl them with all the grace and charm of an ax-thrower. We share your grief, but we also share your responsibility. The lives of our people come first. This man, who has saved our children, is right. We must meet and plan what is to be done, and soon!”
“I agree with Yngvar,” Dumaka spoke up. “Let us hold the meeting on Phondra, fourteen cycles hence. Will that give you time enough to conclude the mourning period?”
“Fourteen cycles!”
Haplo was about to protest. He caught the dwarf’s keen-eyed glance warning him to keep silent, and shut his mouth. Later, he would discover that the elven mourning period—during which no elf related to the deceased by either blood or marriage may conduct any type of business—generally lasted for months, sometimes longer.
“Very well,” said Eliason with a deep sigh. “Fourteen cycles. I will meet you on Phondra.”
The Elmas departed. The Phondrans and Gargans returned to their submersibles, prepared to go back to their respective sea-spheres. Dumaka, prodded by Alake, came up to Haplo.
“You must forgive him, sir, forgive us all if we seem ungrateful to you for what you’ve done. The tears of great joy and terrible grief have drowned all gratitude. You would do honor to my lodge, if you would agree to be our guest.”
“I am the one who would be honored to share your dwelling, Chief,” Haplo answered solemnly, feeling strangely as if he were back in the Labyrinth, talking to the headman of one of the Squatter tribes.
Dumaka said the appropriate words of pleasure and motioned toward his submersible.
“Will Eliason come, do you think?” Haplo asked as they boarded the vessel, the Patryn taking considerable care to avoid stepping in any water.
“Yes, he will come,” Dumaka replied. “He’s very reliable, for an elf.”
“How long has it been since the elves went to war?”
“War?” Dumaka was amused, his teeth flashed white against his dusky skin. “The elves?” He shrugged. “Forever.”
Haplo expected to spend his time on Phondra chafing with impatience, fuming at the forced inaction. He was surprised, after his first day or two, to discover that he was actually, grudgingly, enjoying himself.
Compared to the other worlds in which he’d traveled, Phondra most closely resembled his own. And while Haplo had never supposed he would be homesick for the Labyrinth, life with Dumaka’s tribe brought back memories of some of the few pleasant and restful times in the Patryn’s harsh life—those spent in the camps of the Squatters.
Dumaka’s tribe was the largest on Phondra and the strongest, one reason he was chieftain over the entire human population. It had taken numerous wars to settle the question, apparently, but now he was undisputed ruler and, in general, most of the other tribes approved his leadership.
Dumaka did not hold power alone, however. The Coven wielded a strong influence in the community, whose people revered magic and all those who could use it.