She couldn’t breathe. A yellow-tinged blackness blinded her. Gentle arms caught hold of her, steadied her. She gave in to their support, so long as the darkness lasted. When it began to recede, she pushed Alfred away from her.
“Leave me alone. I’m all right now,” she muttered, ashamed of her weakness. “And if you’re going to Abarrach, so am I.”
She turned to the gentleman. “How do we travel there? We don’t have a ship.”
“You will find a vessel near Lord Xar’s dwelling place,” said the gentleman. “Or rather—his former dwelling place. The serpents burned it.”
“But they left a ship intact?” Marit was suspicious. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Perhaps it does—to them,” the gentleman replied. “If you are resolved, you must leave quickly, before the serpents return. If they discover the Serpent Mage, and catch him out in the open, they will not hesitate to attack him.”
“Where are the dragon-snakes?” Alfred asked nervously.
“They are leading the Patryn’s enemies: wolfen, snogs, chaodyn, dragons. The armies of the Labyrinth are massing for a final assault.”
“There aren’t that many of us left to fight them.” Marit wavered in her decision to leave, looking at her people, thinking of the vast numbers of the enemy.
“Reinforcements are already on the way,” the gentleman said, with a reassuring smile. “And our serpent cousins won’t be expecting to find us here. We will come as a nasty surprise to them. Between us, we can hold them off for a long time. As long as it takes,” he added with a peculiar look at Alfred.
“What does that mean?” Alfred asked.
The gentleman rested his hand on Alfred’s wrist, gazed at him intently. The dragon’s eyes were blue-green as Pryan sky, as Chelestra’s magic-ending water. “Remember, Coren, hope’s light now shines into the Labyrinth. And it will continue to shine, though the Gate is shut.”
“You’re trying to tell me something, aren’t you? Riddles, prophecies! I’m not good at this!” Alfred was sweating. “Why don’t you just come out and say it? Tell me what I’m supposed to do!”
“So few people follow instructions these days,” the gentleman said, shaking his head gloomily. “Even simple ones.”
He patted Alfred’s hand. “Still, we do what we can with what we have. Trust to your instincts.”
“My instinct is usually to faint!” Alfred protested. “You expect me to do something grand and heroic. But I’m not the type. I’m only going to Abarrach to help a friend.”
“Of course you are,” said the gentleman softly, and he sighed and turned away.
Marit heard the sigh echo inside her, reminding her of the echo of the trapped souls of Abarrach’s living dead.
8
Abarrach—world of fire, world of stone. world of the dead. And of the dying.
In the dungeons of Necropolis, dead city of a dead world, Haplo lay dying.
He lay on a stone bed, his head pillowed on stone. It was not comfortable, but Haplo was past the need for comfort. He had been in terrible pain, but the worst of the pain was gone now. He could feel nothing except the burning pull of every ragged breath, each breath more difficult to draw in than the previous. He was a little afraid of that last breath, the final spasmodic gasp that would not sustain his life; the choke, the rattle. He imagined it, feared it would be similar to the time on Chelestra when he had thought he was drowning.
Then he had drawn water into his lungs and the water had been life-giving. Now he would draw in nothing. He would struggle to keep away the darkness, a struggle terrifying, but mercifully brief.
And his lord was here beside him. Haplo was not alone.
“This is not easy for me, my son,” Xar said.
He was not being sarcastic, or ironic. He was truly grieving. He sat beside Haplo’s hard bed and the lord’s shoulders were stooped, his head bowed. He looked far older than his many, many years. His eyes, watching Haplo die, shimmered with unshed tears.
Xar could have killed Haplo, but he didn’t.
Xar could have saved Haplo’s life, but he wasn’t doing that either.
“You must die, my son,” Xar said. “I dare not let you live. I cannot trust you. You are more valuable to me dead than you are alive. And so I must let you die. But I cannot kill you. I gave you life. Yes, I suppose that this makes it my right to take that life away. But I cannot. You were one of the best. And I loved you. I still love you. I would save you if only ... if only . . .”
Xar did not finish.
Haplo said nothing, made no argument, no plea for his life. He knew the pain this must cause his lord and he knew that if there were any way, Xar would spare him. But there wasn’t. Xar was right. The Lord of the Nexus could no longer trust his “son.” Haplo would fight him and continue to fight until, as now, he had no more strength left.
Xar would be a fool to give Haplo back that strength. Once Haplo was dead, his corpse—poor mindless, soulless shell—would be at Xar’s command. Haplo—the living, breathing, thinking Haplo—would not.
“There is no other way,” Xar said, his thoughts running parallel with Haplo’s, as they often did. “I must let you die. You understand, my son. I know you do. You will serve me in death, as you did in life. Only better. Only better.”
The Lord of the Nexus sighed. “But this is still not easy for me. You understand that, too, don’t you, my son?”
“Yes,” Haplo whispered. “I understand.”
And so the two remained together in the darkness of the dungeon. It was quiet; very, very quiet. Xar had ordered all the other Patryns to leave them alone. The only sounds were Haplo’s shuddering breaths; Xar’s occasional question; Haplo’s whispered answers.
“Do you mind talking?” Xar asked. “If it pains you, I will not press you.”
“No, Lord. I don’t feel any pain. Not anymore.”
“A sip of water, to ease the dryness.”
“Yes, Lord. Thank you.”
Xar’s touch was cool. His hand smoothed back Haplo’s sweat-damp hair from his feverish forehead. He lifted Haplo’s head, held a cup of water to the dying man’s lips. Gently, the lord laid Haplo back down on the stone.
“That city in which I found you, the city of Abri. A city in the Labyrinth. And I never knew it was there. Not surprising, of course, since it was in the very heart of the Labyrinth. Abri has been there a long, long time, I assume, judging by its size.”
Haplo nodded. He was very tired, but it was comforting to hear his lord’s voice. Haplo had a dim recollection of being a boy riding on his father’s back. The boy’s small arms wrapped around muscular shoulders, small head drooping. He could hear his father’s voice and feel it at the same time, feel it resonate in his chest. He could hear his lord’s voice and feel it at the same time—an odd sensation, as if it were coming to him through the cold hard stone.
“Our people are not city-builders,” Xar commented.
“The Sartan,” Haplo whispered.
“Yes, so I judged. The Sartan who, long ago, defied Samah and the Council of Seven. They were punished for their defiance, sent to the Labyrinth with their enemies. And we did not turn on them and kill them. I find that strange.”
“Not so strange,” said Haplo, thinking of Alfred.
Not when two people have to fight to survive in a terrible land that is intent on destroying them both. He and Alfred had survived only by helping each other. Now Alfred was in the Labyrinth, in Abri, perhaps helping Haplo’s people to survive.
“This Vasu, the leader of Abri, a Sartan, isn’t he?” Xar continued. “Part Sartan, at least. Yes, I thought so. I did not meet him, but I saw him on the fringes of my mind. Very powerful, very capable. A good leader. But ambitious, certainly. Especially now that he knows the world is not bounded by Abri’s walls. He will want his share, I am afraid. Perhaps the whole of it. That is the Sartan in him. I can’t permit it. He must be eradicated. And there may be more like him. All those of our people whose blood has been tainted by the Sartan. I am afraid they will seek to overthrow my rule.”