The chaodyn in the rear watched the advancing holocaust, wavered, turned, and fled. Under cover of the flames, Xar had rescued several of his people, Patryns, more dead than alive. The chaodyn had been holding them hostage, using them as bait to lure the Lord of the Nexus to do battle. The Patryns were being cared for now by other Patryns, who also owed their lives to Xar. A grim and stern people, unforgiving, unbending, unyielding, the Patryns were not effusive in their gratitude to the lord who constantly risked his life to save theirs. They did not speak of their loyalty, their devotion—they showed it. They worked hard and uncomplaining at any task he set them. They obeyed every command without question. And each time he went into the Labyrinth, a crowd of Patryns gathered outside the Final Gate, to keep silent vigil until his return.
And there were always some, particularly among the young, who would attempt to enter with him; Patryns who had been living in the Nexus long enough for the horror of their lives spent in the Labyrinth to fade from their minds.
“I will go back,” they would say. “I will dare it with you, my Lord.” He always let them. And he never said a word of blame when they faltered at the Gate, when faces blanched and the blood chilled, legs trembled and bodies sank to the ground.
Haplo. One of the strongest of the young men. He’d made it farther than most. He’d fallen before the Final Gate, fear wringing him dry. And then he’d crawled on hands and knees, until, shuddering, he shrank back into the shadows.
“Forgive me, Lord!” he’d cried in despair. So they all cried.
“There is nothing to forgive, my child,” said Xar, always. He meant it. He, better than anyone, understood the fear. He faced it every time he entered and every time it grew worse. Rarely was there a moment, outside the Final Gate, that his step did not hesitate, his heart did not shiver. Each time he went in, he knew with certainty that he would not return. Each time he came back out, safely, he vowed within himself that he would never go back.
Yet he kept going back. Time and again.
“The faces,” he said. “The faces of my people. The faces of those who wait for me, who enclose me in the circle of their being. These faces give me courage. My children. Every one of them. I tore them out of the horrible womb that gave them birth. I brought them to air and to light.
“What an army they will make,” he continued, musing aloud. “Weak in numbers, but strong in magic, loyalty, love. What an army,” he said again, louder than before, and he chuckled.
Xar often talked to himself. He was often alone, for the Patryns tend to be loners.[8] And so he talked to himself, but he never chuckled, never laughed.
The chuckle was a sham, a crafty bit of play-acting. The Lord of the Nexus continued to talk, as might any old man, keeping company with himself in the lonely watches of the twilight. He cast a surreptitious glance at his hand. The skin showed his age, an age he could not calculate with any exactness, having no very clear idea when his life began. He knew only that he was old, far older than any other who had come out of the Labyrinth.
The skin on the back of his hand was wrinkled and taut, stretched tight, revealing clearly beneath it the shape of every tendon, every bone. The blue sigla tattooed on the back of the hand were twisted and knotted, but their color was dark, not faded by the passage of time. And their magic, if anything, was stronger.
These tattooed sigla had begun to glow blue.
Xar would have expected the warning inside the Labyrinth, his magic acting instinctively to ward off attack, alert him to danger. But he walked the streets of the Nexus, streets that he had always known to be safe, streets that were a haven, a sanctuary. The Lord of the Nexus saw the blue glow that shone with an eerie brightness in the soft twilight, he felt the sigla burn on his skin, the magic burn in his blood.
He kept walking as if nothing were amiss, continued to ramble and mutter beneath his breath. The sigla’s warning grew stronger, the runes shone more brightly still. He clenched his fist, hidden beneath the flowing sleeves of a long black robe. His eyes probed every shadow, every object. He left the streets of the Nexus, stepped onto a path that ran through a forest surrounding his dwelling place. He lived apart from his people, preferring, requiring quiet and peace. The trees’ darker shadows brought a semblance of night to the land. He glanced at his hand; the rune’s light welled out from beneath the black robes. He had not left the danger behind, he was walking straight toward its source.
Xar was more perplexed than nervous, more angry than afraid. Had the evil in the Labyrinth somehow seeped through that Final Gate? He couldn’t believe it was possible. Sartan magic had built this place, built the Gate and the Wall that surrounded the prison world of the Labyrinth. The Patryns, not particularly trusting an enemy who had cast them inside that prison, had strengthened the Wall and the Gate with their own magic. No. It was not possible that anything could escape.
The Nexus was protected from the other worlds—the worlds of Sartan and mensch—by Death’s Gate. So long as Death’s Gate remained closed, no one could leave or enter who had not mastered the powerful magic required to travel it. Xar had mastered the secret, but only after eons of long and difficult study of Sartan writings. He had mastered it and passed his wisdom on to Haplo, who had ventured forth into the universe.
“But suppose,” Xar said to himself beneath his breath, his eyes darting side to side, attempting to pierce the darkness that had always before been restful, was now ominous, “suppose Death’s Gate were opened! I sensed a change when I came out of the Labyrinth—as if a breath of air stirred suddenly within a house long closed up and sealed shut. I wonder...”
“No need to wonder, Xar, Lord of Patryns,” came a voice from out of the darkness. “Your mind is quick, your logic infallible. You are correct in your assumption. Death’s Gate has been opened. And by your enemies.” Xar halted. He could not see the speaker, hidden in shadows, but he could see eyes, flickering with a strange red light, as if they reflected a distant fire. His body warned him that the speaker was powerful and might prove dangerous, but Xar heard no note of threat or menace in the sibilant voice. The speaker’s words were respectful, even admiring, and so was his tone. Yet Xar remained on his guard. He had not grown old in the Labyrinth by falling victim to seductive voices. And this speaker had already committed a grave error. He had somehow penetrated into the lord’s head, descried his thoughts. Xar had been talking beneath his breath. No one, standing at that distance from him, could have overheard. “You have the advantage of me, sir,” said Xar calmly.
“Come closer, that these aged eyes of mine, which are easily confused in the shadows, can see you.”
His eyesight was sharp, sharper than it had been in his youth, for now he knew what to look for. His hearing was excellent. The speaker didn’t need to know that, however. Let him think he faced a frail old man.
The speaker was not fooled. “Your aged eyes see clearer than most, I’ll wager, Lord. But even they can be blinded by affection, misplaced trust.” The speaker walked out of the forest, onto the path. He came to stand directly in front of the Lord of the Nexus, spread his hands to indicate he earned no weapon. Torchlight flared, a burning brand materialized in the speaker’s hands. He stood in its light, smiling with quiet confidence. Xar stared at the man, blinked. Doubt crept into his mind, increased his anger. “You look like a Patryn. One of my people,” he said, studying the man.
“Yet I don’t know you. What trick is this?” His voice hardened. “You had best speak quickly. The breath won’t be in your body long.”
8
Those whom the Patryns accept into the circle of their being are few. They are fiercely loyal to these they term “family” either by blood or by vow. These circles of loyalty (Patryns would scorn to call it affection) are generally kept to the death. Once broken, however, the circle can never be mended.