There were two cities—an inner, central city, and an outer city that was much larger, if not as fine. The two were separated by high walls. Alfred, exploring the outer city, saw immediately that this was where mensch had once lived. But what had happened to them when the Sartan slept? The answer, from what he saw, might be a grim one. There was evidence, though the Sartan were doing their best to swiftly remove it, that devastating battles had been fought in this part of the city. Buildings had toppled, walls caved in, windows shattered. Signs, written in human, elven, dwarven, had been torn down, lay broken in the streets.
Alfred stared around sadly. Had the mensch done this to themselves? It seemed likely, from what he knew of their warlike natures. But why hadn’t the Sartan stopped it? Then he remembered the images of horrible creatures he’d seen in Samah’s thoughts. Who were they? Another question. Too many questions. Why had these Sartan gone back into hibernation? Why had they abandoned all responsibility to this world and to the others they had created?
He stood in the terraced garden of Samah’s house one evening, thinking that there must be some terrible flaw within himself that kept bringing up such thoughts, some flaw that prevented him from being happy. He had, at last, everything he’d ever dreamed of possessing. He had found his people and they were all he’d hoped: strong, resolute, powerful. They were prepared to set right everything that had gone wrong. The crushing burdens that had been piled on top of him had been lifted. He had others to help him carry the load.
“What is wrong with me?” he asked himself sadly.
“I heard once,” came a voice in answer, “of a human who had been locked up in a prison cell for years and years. When at last they opened the cell doors and offered the man his freedom, he refused to go out. He was frightened by freedom, by light and fresh air. He wanted to stay in his dark cell, because he knew it. He was safe there, and secure.”
Alfred turned to see Orla. She was smiling at him; her words and tone were pleasant. But Alfred saw that she was truly concerned about his confused and unsettled state.
He blushed, sighed, and lowered his eyes.
“You have not left your cell, Alfred.” Orla came to stand beside him, placed her hand on his arm. “You persist in wearing mensch clothes.” This subject called to mind, perhaps, by the fact that Alfred was gazing intently at the shoes that housed his overlarge feet. “You will not tell us your Sartan name. You will not open your heart to us.”
“And have you opened your hearts to me?” Alfred asked quietly, looking up at her. “What terrible tragedy occurred here? What happened to the mensch that used to live here? Everywhere I look, I see images of destruction, blood on the stones. Yet no one speaks of it. No one refers to it.”
Orla paled, her lips tightened.
“I’m sorry.” Alfred sighed. “It’s none of my business. You have all been wonderful to me. So patient and kind. The fault is mine. I’m working to overcome it. But, as you said, I’ve been shut in the darkness so long. The light . . . hurts my eyes. I don’t suppose you can understand.”
“Tell me about it, Brother,” Orla said gently. “Help me understand.”
Again she was avoiding the subject, turning the conversation away from her and her people, sending it straight back to him. Why the reluctance to talk about it? Except that every time he mentioned it, he sensed fear, shame.
Our plea for help . . . Samah had said.
Why? Unless this was a battle the Sartan had been losing. And how was that possible? The only enemy capable of fighting them on their level was locked away in the Labyrinth.
Alfred was, without realizing what he was doing, pulling the leaves off of a flowering vinil. One by one, he tore them loose, stared at them, not seeing them, then dropped them to the ground.
Orla’s hand closed over his. “The plant cries out in pain.”