Here, Devon explained, was where the elven magic came in. Special magical crystals, engineered by the elven wizards, could increase or decrease their own mass on command. Called mass displacers, these crystals actually solved two problems for ships. First, by increasing the mass in the keel, the ships could sink into the sea as their density became greater than that of the water around them. Second, as the ship sank away from the influence of the outward-pressing gravity of the worlds, the mass displacers provided an artificial gravity for the occupants of the submersible.
Haplo only vaguely understood the concept, understood nothing of “outward-pressing gravity” and “mass displacers.” Understood nothing, except that they were magic.
“But,” said Haplo casually, appearing to be intensely interested in a rat’s tangle of ropes, pulleys, and gears, “I didn’t think magic worked in the seawater.”
Alake looked startled, at first, then she smiled. “Of course. You are testing me. I would give you the correct response, but not in front of the uninitiated.” She nodded at Grundle and Devon.
“Humpf!” grunted the dwarf, unimpressed. “This way to the pilot’s house.” She began to climb the ladder leading to the topmost deck. Devon and Alake went up after her.
Haplo followed, said nothing more. He hadn’t missed Alake’s surprised expression. Apparently, human and elven magic worked in the sea. And, since something was guiding the boat, dragon magic worked in the seawater, as well, Seawater that had, so to speak, washed away Haplo’s magic. Or had it? Maybe his debilitation had been caused by the passage through Death’s Gate. Perhaps . . .
A tingling sensation on Haplo’s skin interrupted his ruminations. It was slight, barely felt, as if silken threads of cobwebs were brushing across his flesh. He recognized it, wished he’d thought to wrap the blanket around him. A quick glance confirmed his fears. The sigla on his skin were beginning to glow, a sign of danger. The light was faint, faint as the runes themselves, but his magic was warning him as best it could in his weakened state.
The mensch pulled themselves up over the top, but did not proceed farther. Devon’s lips tightened. Grundle gave a sudden, loud, nervous “hem!” that made everyone jump. Alake began to whisper to herself, probably some sort of charm.
The tingling on Haplo’s arms became almost maddening, like the tiny feet of myriad spiders crawling over him. His body was instinctively preparing itself to face danger. Adrenaline pumped, his mouth dried, his stomach muscles tightened. He tensed, searched every shadow, cursed the faint light of the sigla, cursed the fact that he was weak.
The dwarf lifted a quivering hand, pointed ahead, at a darkened doorway located at the end of the corridor. “That’s . . . the steerage.”
Fear flowed from out that doorway like a dark river, threatening to drown them in its suffocating tide. The mensch huddled together, staring with horrible fascination down the corridor. None of them had noticed his alteration yet.
Alake shivered. Grundle was panting like a dog. Devon leaned weakly against the bulkheads. It was obvious the mensch could not go on. Haplo wasn’t certain he could.
Sweat trickled down his face. He was having difficulty breathing. And still no sign of anything! But he knew, now, where the danger was centered, and he was walking right toward it. He had never experienced fear like this, not in the darkest, most horrible cave in the Labyrinth. Every fiber of his being was urging him to run away as fast as he could. It took a concerted effort on his part to keep moving forward.
And, suddenly, he couldn’t. He came to a halt, near the mensch. Grundle looked around at him. Her eyes widened, she let out a crowing gasp. Alake and Devon shuddered, turned to stare.
Haplo saw himself reflected in three pair of astounded, frightened eyes, saw his body glowing a faint, iridescent blue, saw his face strained and drawn, glistening with sweat.
“What’s ahead of us?” he said, pointing. “What’s beyond that door?” It took him three breaths to squeeze the words past the tightness in his chest.
“What’s wrong with your skin?” Grundle cried shrilly. “You’re lit up—”