He opens the statue, intending to enter and vanish, but something else frightens him and he ends up fainting and falls inside… either that or he was hit on the head. The statue stays open, and Jarre stumbles across it.
Yes, that’s probably what occurred, reasoned Haplo, for all the good it does us. Except for the fact that Alfred was groggy and not thinking clearly when he opened the statue. A good sign. The device must not be too difficult to open. If it is guarded by Sartan magic, the rune-structure must not be too complex. The tricky part will be finding it… and evading the elves long enough to open it.
Haplo gradually became aware that everyone had stopped talking, was staring at him expectantly. He wondered what he’d missed.
“What?” he asked.
“What happens once we get down into the tunnels?” asked Jarre practically.
“We look for the controls for the Kicksey-winsey,” answered Haplo.
Jarre shook her head. “I don’t remember seeing anything that looked like it belonged to the Kicksey-winsey.” Her voice softened. “I just remember all the beautiful people… dead.”
“Yeah, well, the controls have to be down there somewhere,” said Haplo firmly, wondering just who he was trying to convince. “His Highness will find them. And once we’re down there, we’ll be safe enough. You said yourself the statue closed behind you. What we need is some sort of diversion, to get the elves out of the Factree long enough for us to get in. Can your people supply it?”
“One of the elven dragonships is anchored at the Liftalofts,” Limbeck suggested. “Perhaps we could attack it…”
“No attacking!”
Jarre and Limbeck launched into a discussion that almost instantly turned into an argument. Haplo sat back, let them thrash it out, glad to have changed the subject. He didn’t care what the dwarves did, as long as they did it. The dog, lying on its side, was either dreaming of chasing or of being chased. Its feet twitched, its flanks heaved.
Bane, watching the sleeping dog, stifled a yawn, tried to look as though he wasn’t in the least bit sleepy himself. He dozed off and nearly fell over on his nose, Haplo shook him.
“Go to bed, Your Highness. We won’t do anything until morning.”
Bane nodded, too tired to argue. Staggering to his feet, bleary-eyed, he stumbled over to Limbeck’s bed, fell on it, and was almost instantly asleep.
Haplo, watching him idly, felt a sharp, strange pain in his heart. Asleep, his eyelids closed over the glitter of adult cunning and guile, Bane looked like any other ten-year-old child. His sleep was deep and untroubled. It was for others, older and wiser, to look after his well-being.
“So might a child of mine be sleeping, right this moment,” said Haplo to himself, the pain almost more than he could bear. “Sleeping where? In some Squatters’ hut, left behind in safety—as safe as one can be in the Labyrinth—by his mother before she moved on. Or is he with his mother, provided she’s still alive. Provided the child’s still alive.
“He’s alive. I know he is. Just as I knew he’d been born. I’ve always known. I knew when she left me. And I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do a damn thing, except try to get myself killed so I wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.
“But I’ll go back. I’ll come for you, kid. The old man’s right, maybe. It isn’t time yet. And I can’t do it alone.” He reached out, stroked back one of Bane’s wet curls. “Just hold on a little longer. Just a little longer…”
Bane huddled up in a ball on the bed. It was cold down in the tunnels, without the heat from the Kicksey-winsey. Haplo rose to his feet. Picking up Limbeck’s blanket, the Patryn placed it over the boy’s thin shoulders, tucked it around him.
Returning to his chair, listening to Limbeck and Jarre arguing, Haplo drew his sword from its scabbard and began to retrace the sigla inscribed on the hilt. He needed something else to think about.
And something occurred to him as he laid the sword carefully on the table before him.