Ramu was expert at keeping his own counsel. He gave away nothing, and the other Council members at length departed. Ramu remained seated at the table, glad to be alone with his thoughts, when he suddenly realized he wasn’t alone.
A strange Sartan had entered the room.
The man looked familiar, but was not immediately recognizable. Ramu regarded him intently, trying to place him. Several hundred Sartan lived on the Chalice. A good politician, Ramu knew them all by sight and could generally put a name to a face. It disturbed him that he couldn’t remember this one. Yet he was positive he’d seen this man before.
Ramu rose politely to his feet. “Good day, sir. If you have come to present a petition to the Council, you are too late. We have adjourned.”
The Sartan smiled and shook his head. He was a man of middle age, handsome, with a receding hairline, strong jaw and nose, sad and thoughtful eyes.
“I come in time, then,” the Sartan said, “for I have come to talk to you, Councillor. If you are Ramu, son of Samah and Orlah?”
Ramu frowned, annoyed by this reference to his mother. She had been exiled for crimes against the people; her name was never to be spoken. He was about to make some comment on this when it occurred to him that perhaps the strange Sartan (what was his name!) did not know of Orlah’s exile to the Labyrinth, in the company of the heretic Alfred. Gossip had undoubtedly spread the word, but, Ramu was forced to admit, this dignified stranger did not look the type to indulge in whispers over the back fence.
Ramu bit back his irritation, made no comment. He answered the question with a slight emphasis that should have given the stranger a clue. “I am Ramu, son of Samah.”
At that point, Ramu was faced with a problem. Asking the man’s name was not a politic move, would reveal that Ramu did not remember him. There were diplomatic ways around this, but—being generally a blunt and forthright man—Ramu could think of none at the moment.
The strange Sartan, however, settled the matter. “You don’t remember me, do you, Ramu?”
Ramu flushed, was about to make some polite reply, but the Sartan went on.
“Not surprising. We met long, long, long ago. Before the Sundering. I was a member of the original Council. A good friend of your father’s.”
Ramu’s mouth sagged open. He did remember now ... in a way. He remembered something disquieting in regard to this man. But what was of more immediate interest was the fact that this Sartan was obviously not a citizen of Chelestra. Which meant he had come from another world.
“Arianus,” said the Sartan with a smile. “World of air. Stasis sleep. Much like you and your people, I believe.”
“I am pleased to know you again, sir,” Ramu said, trying to clear his confusion, recall what he knew about this man, and, at the same time, revel in the newfound hope the stranger brought. There were Sartan alive on Arianus!
“I trust you will not be insulted, but it has been, as you say, a long time. Your name . . .”
“You may call me James,” said the Sartan.
Ramu eyed him distrustfully. “James is not a Sartan name.”
“No, you’re right. But as a compatriot of mine must have told you, we on Arianus are not accustomed to using our true Sartan names. I believe you have met Alfred?”
“The heretic? Yes, I’ve met him.” Ramu was grim. “I think it only fair to warn you that he was exiled . . .”
Something stirred in Ramu, a distant memory, not of Alfred. Further back, much further back in time.
He had almost grasped it, but before he could lay hands on the memory, the strange Sartan unraveled it.
James was nodding gravely. “Always a troublemaker, was Alfred. I’m not surprised to hear of his downfall. But I didn’t come to speak of him. I came on a far sadder mission. I am the bearer of unhappy news and evil tidings.”
“My father,” Ramu said, forgetting everything else. “You come with news of my father.”
“I am sorry to have to tell you this.” James drew near to Ramu, placed a firm hand on the younger man’s arm. “Your father is dead.”
Ramu bowed his head. He didn’t for a moment doubt the stranger’s words. He’d known, deep inside, for some time.
“How did he die?”
The Sartan grew more grave, troubled. “He died in the dungeons of Abarrach, at the hands of one who calls himself Xar, Lord of the Patryns.”
Ramu went rigid. He could not speak for long moments; then he asked, in a low voice, “How do you know this?”
“I was with him,” James said softly, now intently regarding the young man. “I was myself captured by Lord Xar.”
“And you escaped? But not my father?” Ramu glowered.
“I am sorry, Councillor. A friend assisted me to escape. Help came too late for your father. By the time we reached him . . .” James sighed.
Ramu was overcome by darkness. But anger soon burned away his grief—anger and hatred and the desire for revenge.
“A friend helped you. Then there are Sartan living on Abarrach?”
“Oh, yes,” James replied, with a cunning look. “Many Sartan on Abarrach. Their leader is called Balthazar. I know that is not a Sartan name,” he added quickly, “but you must remember that these Sartan are twelfth-generation. They have lost or forgotten many of the old ways.”
“Yes, of course,” Ramu muttered, not giving the matter further thought. “And you say that this Lord Xar is also living on Abarrach. This can only mean one thing.”
James nodded gravely. “The Patryns are attempting to break out of the Labyrinth—such are the evil tidings I bear. They have launched an assault on the Final Gate.”
Ramu was appalled. “But there must be thousands of them . . .”
“At least,” James replied complacently. “It will take all your people, plus the Sartan of Abarrach—”
“—to stop this evil!” Ramu concluded, fist clenched.
“To stop this evil,” James repeated, adding solemnly, “You must go at once to the Labyrinth. It’s what your father would have wanted, I think.”
“Certainly.” Ramu’s mind was racing ahead. He forgot all about where he might have met this man, under what circumstances. “And this time, we will not be merciful to our enemy. That was my father’s mistake.”
“Samah has paid for his mistakes,” James said quietly, “and he has been forgiven.”
Ramu paid no attention. “This time, we will not shut the Patryns up in a prison. This time, we will destroy them—utterly.”
He turned on his heel, was about to leave, when he remembered his manners. He faced the elder Sartan. “I thank you, sir, for bringing this news. You may rest assured my father’s death will be avenged. I must go now, to discuss this with the other members of the Council, but I will send one of the servitors to you. You will be a guest in my house. Is there anything else I can do to make you comfortable—”
“Not necessary,” said James, with a wave of his hand. “Go along to the Labyrinth. I’ll manage on my own.”
Ramu felt again that same sense of unease and disquiet. He did not doubt the information the strange Sartan had brought to him. One Sartan cannot lie to another. But there was something not quite right . . . What was it about this man?
James stood unmoving, smiling beneath Ramu’s scrutiny.
Ramu gave up trying to remember. It was probably nothing, after all. Nothing important. Besides, it had all happened long ago. Now he had more urgent, more immediate problems. Bowing, he left the Council Chamber.
The strange Sartan remained standing in the room, staring after the departed man. “Yes, you remember me, Ramu. You were among the guards who came to arrest me that day, the day of the Sundering. You came to drag me to the Seventh Gate. I told Samah I was going to stop him, you see. He was afraid of me. Not surprising. He was afraid of everything by then.”