Into the Labyrinth (16 page)

And so she was extremely startled to find a man sitting comfortably inside.

At first Marit didn’t see him. Her eyes were dazzled by the setting sun slanting off the water. The cave’s interior was dark and the man sat very quietly. But she knew he was there by his scent and, in the next moment, his voice.

“Just hold right there, in the light,” he said, and his voice was quiet and calm.

Of course he was calm. He’d watched her coming. He’d had time to prepare. She cursed herself, but she cursed him more.

“The hell with the light!” She bounded inside, heading for the sound of his voice, blinking rapidly to try to see him. “Get out! Get out of my cave!”

She was inviting death at his hands and she knew it. Perhaps she wanted it. He had warned her to stay in the light for a reason. The Labyrinth occasionally sent its own deadly copies of Patryns against them—boggleboes, as they were known. They were exactly like Patryns in all respects, except that the sigla on their skin were all backward, as if one were looking at one’s reflection in a lake.

He was on his feet in an instant. She could see him now and was impressed, in spite of herself, with the ease and quickness of his movement. He could have killed her
—she was armed and had sprung right at him—but he didn’t.

“Get out!” She stamped her foot and gestured with her knife.

“No,” he said and sat back down.

She had apparently interrupted him in a project of some sort, for he took hold of something in his hands—she couldn’t see what because of the shadows and the sudden tears stinging her eyes—and began working at it.

“But I want to die,” she told him, “and you’re in the way.”

He glanced up, coolly nodded. “What you need is food. You probably haven’t eaten all day, have you? Take what you want. There’s fresh fish, berries.”

She shook her head. She was still standing, the knife in her hand.

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged. “You’ve been trying to scale the ridge?” He must have seen the cuts on her hand. “Me, too,” he continued on his own. She gave him no encouragement. “For a week. I was just sitting here thinking, when I heard you coming, that two people might be able to do it together. If they had a rope.”

He held up the thing in his hands. That was what he was doing, braiding a rope.

Marit flung herself down on the floor. Reaching for the fish, she grabbed a hunk and began to eat hungrily.

“How many gates?” he asked, deftly twisting the vines together.

“Eighteen,” she said, watching his hands.

He glanced up, frowning.

“Why are you looking at me like that? It’s true,” she said defensively.

“I’m just surprised you’ve lived that long,” he said. “Considering how careless you are. I heard you coming all the way up the stream.”

“I was tired,” she said crossly. “And I didn’t really care. You can’t be much older. So don’t talk like a headman.”
⁴

“That’s dangerous,” he said quietly. Everything he did was quiet. His voice was quiet; his movements were quiet.

“What is?”

“Not caring.”

He looked up at her. Her blood tingled.

“Caring’s more dangerous,” she said. “It makes you do stupid things. Like not killing me. You couldn’t have known I wasn’t a boggleboe, not with just that single quick glimpse.”

“You ever fought a boggleboe?” he asked.

“No,” she admitted.

He smiled, a quiet smile. “A boggleboe doesn’t usually commence an attack by bounding in and demanding that I get out of its cave.”

She couldn’t help herself. She laughed. She was beginning to feel better. It must have been the food.

“You’re a Runner,” he said.

“Yes. I left my camp when I was twelve. So I really do have more sense than I showed just now,” she said, flushing. “I wasn’t thinking right.” Her voice softened. “You know how it gets sometimes.”

He nodded, kept working. His hands were strong and deft. She edged nearer. “Two people could make it across that ridge. I am called Marit.” She drew back her leather vest, revealed the heart-rune tattooed on her breast—a sign of trust.

He set down the rope. Drawing back his own leather vest, he showed his heart-rune. “I’m Haplo.”

“Let me help,” she offered.

Lifting a huge tangle of vines, she began sorting them out so that he could twine them into rope. As they worked, they talked. Their hands touched often. And soon, of course, it was necessary that she sit very close beside him so that he could teach her how to braid the rope correctly. And soon after that, they shoved the rope to the back end of the cave, to get it out of their way …

Marit forced herself to relive the night, was pleased to feel no unwelcome emotions, no warmed-over, leftover attraction. The only touch that could send fire through her now was her lord’s touch. She wasn’t surprised that this should be so. After all, there had been other caves, other nights, other men. None quite like Haplo, perhaps, but
then even Xar had acknowledged that Haplo was different from other men.

It would be interesting to see Haplo again. Interesting to see how he had changed.

Marit deemed herself ready to proceed. She had learned how to maneuver in the long skirts, though she didn’t like them and wondered how a woman, even a mensch, could permit herself to be permanently encumbered in such a manner.

Another storm broke over Drevlin. Marit paid little attention to the slashing rain, the tumbling thunder. She would not have to venture out in it. Magic would take her to her destination. Magic would take her to Haplo. She had only to be careful that the magic didn’t take her too near.
⁵

Marit pulled on a long cloak, covered her head with the hood. She cast one final glance at herself. She was satisfied. Haplo certainly wouldn’t recognize her. As for the mensch … Marit shrugged.

Having never before met a human—or any other mensch—she had, as do most Patryns, little respect for them. She looked like one of them, she planned on blending in with them, and figured that they would never notice the difference.

It did not occur to her to think that dwarves might question the sudden appearance of a human female in their midst. To her the mensch were all alike. What was one more rat in the pack?

Marit began to trace the sigla in the air, spoke them, watched them catch fire and burn. When the circle was complete, she walked through it and disappeared.

WOMBE, DREVLIN
ARIANUS

A
T ANY OTHER TIME IN THE LONG AND, SOME MIGHT SAY, inglorious
history of Drevlin, the sight of a human female walking the glimmerglamp-lit halls of the Factree would have occasioned considerable astonishment, not to mention wonder. No human female since the beginning of the world had set foot on the Factree floor. Those few human males who had done so had done so only recently, being part of a ship’s crew who had assisted the dwarves in the historic Battle of the Kicksey-winsey.

If discovered, Marit wouldn’t have been in any danger, except perhaps being “why’d” and “how’d” and “what’d” to death—the dwarves’ deaths, not her own, for Marit was not a Patryn who had learned the lesson of patience in the Labyrinth. What she wanted she took. If anything got in her way, she removed it. Permanently.

Fortunately, Marit happened to arrive in the Factree at one of those moments in history that are both precisely the right moment and precisely the wrong moment. She arrived at precisely the right moment for herself, precisely the wrong moment for Haplo.

At this very moment, when Marit was materializing inside the Factree, stepping out of the circle of her magic, which had altered the possibility that she was here and not somewhere else, a contingent of elves and humans were gathering with the dwarves to form a historic alliance. As usual on such occasions, the high and the mighty could not
conduct this business without being observed by the lower and humbler. Thus, a vast number of representatives of all the mensch races were wandering around the Factree floor for the first time ever in the history of Arianus. These included a group of human females from the Mid Realms, ladies-in-waiting to Queen Anne.

Marit kept to the shadows, observed and listened. At first, noting the number of mensch about, she feared she might have stumbled on a mensch battle, for Xar had told her that mensch invariably fought among themselves. But she soon realized that this was not a meeting to fight but what appeared to be a party—of sorts. The three groups were obviously uncomfortable together, but under the watchful eyes of their rulers, they were making every effort to get along.

Humans were talking with elves; dwarves were stroking their beards and endeavoring to make conversation with the humans. Whenever several members of any race broke off and began to group together, someone would come by and disperse them. In the confusion and strained atmosphere, no one was likely to notice Marit.

She added to this possibility a spell that would further protect her—enhancing the likelihood that anyone not looking for her would not see her. Thus she was able to walk from group to group, keeping apart but listening to their conversations. Through her magic, she understood all mensch languages, so she was soon able to figure out what was going on.

Her attention was drawn to a gigantic statue of a robed and hooded man—she recognized it with distaste as a Sartan—not far from her. Three men stood near the statue; a fourth sat on its base. From what she overheard, the three men were the mensch rulers. The fourth was the universally acclaimed hero who had made peace in Arianus possible.

The fourth man was Haplo.

Keeping to the shadows, Marit drew near the statue. She had to be careful, for if Haplo saw her, he might recognize her. As it was, he lifted his head and glanced swiftly and keenly around the Factree, as if he had heard a faint voice speak his name.

Marit swiftly ended the spell she had cast over herself to protect herself from the mensch’s view, and shrank back
even farther into the darkness. She felt what Haplo must be feeling: a tingle in the blood, a brushing of invisible fingers across the back of the neck. It was an eerie but not unpleasant sensation—like calling to like. Marit had not realized such a thing would happen, could not believe that the feelings they shared were this strong. She wondered if this phenomenon would occur between any two Patryns who happened to be alone together on a world … or if this was something between Haplo and her.

Analyzing the situation, Marit soon came to the conclusion that two Patryns meeting anywhere in a world of mensch would be attracted to each other, as iron to the lodestone. As for her being attracted to Haplo, that was not likely. She barely recognized him.

He looked older, much older than she remembered. Not unusual, for the Labyrinth aged its victims rapidly. But his was not the grim, hard look of one who has fought daily for his life. Haplo’s look was haggard and hollow-cheeked, sunken-eyed—the look of one who has fought for his soul. Marit didn’t understand, didn’t recognize the marks of internal struggle, but she vaguely sensed it and strongly disapproved of it. He looked sick to her, sick and defeated.