“Never forget.”
The Patryns do not forget. They do not forget those of their race still trapped within the Labyrinth. They do not forget friends and family who died by the violence of magic gone paranoid. They do not forget the wounds they themselves suffered. They, too, laugh silently when they walk the streets of the Nexus. And when they meet their lord, they bow before him in reverence. He is the only one of them who dares go back into the Labyrinth. And even for him, the return is not easy.
No one knows the lord’s background. He never speaks of it, and he is a man not easily approached or questioned. No one knows his age, although it is speculated, from certain things he has said, to be well beyond ninety gates.[16]
The lord is a man of keen, cold, sharp intelligence His skills in magic are held in awe by his people, whose own skills would rank them as demigods in the worlds beyond. He has been back to the Labyrinth many, many times since his escape, reentering that hell to carve out safe havens for his people with his magic. And each time, before he enters, this cold and calculating man feels a tremor shake his body. It takes an effort of will for him to go back through that Last Gate. There is always the fear, deep in his mind, that this time the Labyrinth will win. This time it will destroy him. This time, he will never find his way back out.
That day, the lord stood near the Last Gate. Surrounding him were his people, Patryns who had already escaped. Their bodies covered with the tattooed runes that were shield, armor, and weapon, a few had decided that this time they would reenter the Labyrinth in company with their lord.
He said nothing to them, but accepted their presence. Walking to the Gate that was carved of jet, he placed his hands upon a sigil he himself had inscribed. The rune glowed blue at his touch, the sigla tattooed upon the backs of his hands glowed blue in answer and the Gate, that was never meant to open inward but only outward, fell back at the lord’s command.
Ahead lay the weird and warped, ever-changing, deadly vistas of the Labyrinth. The lord glanced around at those who stood near him. All eyes were fixed on the Labyrinth. The lord saw faces lose the color of life, he saw hands clench to fists, sweat trickle down rune-covered skin.
“Who will enter with me?” he asked.
He looked at each one. Each person tried to meet the lord’s eyes, each person failed and eventually lowered his gaze. Some sought valiantly to step forward, but muscle and sinew cannot act without the mind’s will, and the minds of those men and women were overcome with remembered terror. Shaking their heads, many of them weeping openly, they turned away.
Their lord walked up to them and laid his hands soothingly upon them. “Do not be ashamed of your fear. Use it, for it is strength. Long ago, we sought to conquer the world, to rule over those weak races not capable of ruling themselves. Our strength and our numbers were great and we had nearly succeeded in our goal. The only way the Sartan could defeat us was to sunder the world itself, sundering it into four separate parts. Divided by the chaos, we fell to the Sartan’s might, and they locked us away in a prison of their own creation—the Labyrinth. Their ‘hope’ was that we would come out of it ‘rehabilitated.’
“We have come out, but the terrible hardships we endured did not soften and weaken us as our enemies planned. The fire through which we passed forged us into sharp, cold steel. We are a blade to cut through our enemies, we are a blade that will win a crown.
“Go back. Go back to your duties. Keep always before you the thought of what will come when we return to the worlds. Keep always behind you the memory of what was.”
The Patryns, comforted, were no longer ashamed. They watched their lord enter the Labyrinth, watched him enter the Gate with firm, unfaltering step, and they honored and worshipped him as a god.
The Gate started to swing shut on him. The lord halted it with a sharp command. He had found, lying near the Gate, stretched prone on the ground, a young man. The muscular, sigil-tattooed body bore the marks of terrible wounds—wounds that the young man had healed by his own magic, apparently, but which had almost drained him of his life. The lord, examining the young Patryn anxiously, could not see any sign that he was breathing.
Stooping, reaching out his hand to the young man’s neck to feel for a pulse, the lord was brought up short by a low growling sound. A shaggy head rose up from near the young man’s shoulder.
A dog, the lord saw in astonishment.
The animal itself had suffered serious injury. Though its growl was menacing and it was attempting valiantly to protect the young man, it could not hold up its head. The muzzle sank down feebly onto bloodied paws, But the growl continued.
“If you harm him,” it seemed to say, “somehow, someway, I’ll find the strength to tear you apart.”
The lord, smiling slightly—a rare thing for him—reached out gently and stroked the dog’s soft fur.
“Be at ease, small brother. I mean your master no harm.” The dog allowed itself to be persuaded and, crawling on its belly, managed to lift its head and nuzzle the young man’s neck. The touch of the cold nose roused the Patryn. He glanced up, saw the strange man bending over him and, with the instinct and will that had kept him alive, struggled to stand.
“You need no weapon against me, my son,” said the lord. “You stand at the Last Gate. Beyond is a new world, one of peace, one of safety. I am its lord. I welcome you.”
The young man had made it to his hands and knees. Swaying weakly, he lifted his head and stared through the Gate. His eyes were glazed, he could see little of the wonders of the world. But a slow smile spread across his face.
“I’ve made it!” he whispered hoarsely, through blood-caked lips. “I’ve beaten them!”
“Such were my words when I stood before this Gate. What are you called?” The young man swallowed, coughed before he could reply. “Haplo.”
“A fitting name.” The lord put his arms around the young man’s shoulders.
“Here, let me help you.”
To the lord’s amazement, Haplo thrust him away. “No. I want to walk … through … on my own.”
The lord said nothing, his smile broadened. He rose to his feet and stood aside. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Haplo struggled to stand upright. He paused a moment, swaying with dizziness. The ford, fearing he would fall, took a step forward, but Haplo warded him off with outstretched hand.
“Dog,” he said in a cracked voice. “To me.” The animal rose weakly and limped over to its master. Haplo placed his hand upon the animal’s head, steadying himself. The dog stood patiently, its eyes fixed upon Haplo.
“Let’s go,” said the young man.
Together, step by faltering step, they walked toward the Gate. The Lord of the Nexus, marveling, came behind. The Patryns on the other side, seeing the young man emerge, did not applaud or cheer, but awarded him respectful silence. None offered to help him, though each saw that every movement caused the young man obvious pain. They all knew what it meant to walk through that last gate by oneself, or aided only by a trusted friend.
Haplo stood in the Nexus, blinking under the dazzling sun. Sighing, he keeled over. The dog, whimpering, licked his master’s face.
Hastening to the young man’s side, the lord knelt down. Haplo was still conscious. The lord took hold of the pale, cold hand.
16
Anciently, in the Labyrinth, a person’s age was calculated by how many Cites he or she had passed in the attempt to escape. This system was later standardized by the Lord of the Nexus to enable him to keep accurate records regarding the Patryn’s population. A person emerging from the Nexus is questioned extensively and, from what details he or she provides, an age is determined and assigned to them by their lord.