Xar was confounded, completely, totally confounded. He had never before come up against such an insurmountable obstacle. He had no idea what to do, where to turn, how to act. At first he’d been raging, furious. Anger gave way to frustration. Now he was . . . bemused.
The dog might be anywhere. A legion of tytans could hide in that rat’s nest of a tunnel system and no one stumble across them, let alone one insignificant animal.
And suppose I do find the dog? Xar wondered, tapping the rune-bone, sliding it through his fingers. What do I do then? Kill it? Would that force Haplo’s soul back to his body? Or would I kill the soul? Cause Haplo to die as Samah died—of no use to me.
And how to find the Seventh Gate without him? I must find the Seventh Gate! Swiftly. My people are fighting, dying in the Labyrinth. I promised them ... I promised them I would return . . .
Tap, slide. Tap, slide. Tap, slide.
Xar closed his eyes. A man of action, who had fought and overcome every enemy he had ever faced, he was now relegated to sitting at a desk, doing nothing. Because there was absolutely nothing he could do. He slid the problem through his mind, as he slid the rune-bone through his fingers. Examined it from every angle.
Nothing. Tap, slide. Nothing. Tap, slide. Nothing.
How, from where he began, had he arrived here?
Failure ... he would fail . . .
“My Lord!”
Xar jerked to full consciousness. The rune-bone flew from his fingers, clattered onto the desk.
“Yes, what is it?” he said harshly. Hastily, he flipped open the book, pretended to be reading.
A Patryn entered the library, stood in respectful silence, waiting for Xar to complete the task at hand.
The lord permitted himself another moment to completely restore his wandering mental faculties; then he glanced up.
“What news? Have you found the dog?”
“No, Lord. I have been sent to report to you that Death’s Gate in Abarrach has been opened.”
“Someone’s entered,” Xar said, his interest caught. A premonition of what he was about to hear surged through him. He was fully awake, fully functional now. “Marit!”
“Yes, Lord!” The Patryn regarded him with admiration.
“Did she come alone? Who is with her?”
“She arrived by ship—one of yours, My Lord. From the Nexus. I recognized the runes. Two men are with her. One of them is a mensch.”
Xar was not interested in mensch.
The Patryn continued, “The other is a Sartan.”
“Ah!” Xar had a good idea who. “A tall, balding, clumsy-looking Sartan?”
“Yes, Lord.”
Xar rubbed his hands together. He could see the plan now, see it leap out of the darkness with extraordinary clarity, as an object is suddenly and brilliantly illuminated during a lightning storm.
“What did you do?” Xar regarded the Patryn with narrowed eyes. “Did you accost them?”
“No, Lord. I left immediately to report to you. The others are keeping watch on the three. When I left, they were still on the ship, conferring together. What are your orders, Lord? Do we bring them to you?”
Xar considered his plan a moment longer. He picked up the rune-bone, slid it through his fingers swiftly.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. All angles covered. Perfect.
“This is what you will do . . .”
11
The Patryn ship, designed and built by Lord Xar for his journeys through Death’s Gate, hovered over the Fire Sea—a river of molten lava that winds through Abarrach. The ship’s runes protected it from the searing heat, which would have set an ordinary wooden ship ablaze. Alfred had brought the ship down near a dock running out into the Fire Sea, a dock belonging to an abandoned town known as Safe Harbor.
He stood near the porthole, gazing out on the churning river of flame, and recalled with vivid and terrifying clarity the last time he’d been in this dread world.
He could see it all so clearly. He and Haplo had barely reached their ship alive, fleeing the murderous lazar, led by the former Dynast, Kleitus. The lazar had only one goal—to destroy all the living and, when they were dead, grant them a terrible form of tormented, eternal life. Safely on board ship, Alfred watched in shock as the young Sartan nobleman, Jonathon, gave himself—a willing victim—into the bloodstained hands of his own murdered wife.
What had Jonathon seen, in the so-called Chamber of the Damned, that led him to commit that tragic act?
Or had he truly seen anything? Alfred wondered sadly. Perhaps Jonathon had gone mad, driven insane by his grief, the horror.
Alfred knew, he understood . . .
. . . The ship moves beneath my feet, nearly throwing me off balance. I look back at Haplo. The Patryn has his hands on the steering stone. The sigla glow a bright, intense blue. Sails shiver, ropes tighten. The dragon ship spreads its wings, prepares to fly. On the pier, the dead begin to clamor and clash their weapons together. The lazar lift their horrible visages, move as a group toward the ship.
Apart from them, at the far end of the dock, Jonathon rises to his feet. He is a lazar; he has become one of the dead who is not dead, one of the living who is not living. He begins walking toward the ship.
“Stay! Stop!” I cry to Haplo. I press my face against the glass, trying to see more clearly. “Can’t we wait a minute longer?”
Haplo shrugs. “You can go back if you want to, Sartan. You’ve served your purpose. I don’t need you any longer. Go on, get out!”
The ship begins to move. Haplo’s magical energies flow through it ...
I should go. Jonathon had faith enough. He was willing to die for what he believed. I should be able to do the same.
I start toward the ladder. Outside the ship, I can hear the chill voices of the dead, shouting in fury, enraged to see their prey escaping. I can hear Kleitus and the other lazar raise their voices in a chant. They are attempting to break down our ship’s fragile protective rune-structure.
The ship lurches, begins to sink.
A spell comes, unbidden, to my mind. I can enhance Haplo’s failing energy.
The lazar that was Jonathon stands apart from the other lazar. The eyes of his soul—not quite torn from the body—gaze up at the ship, gaze through the runes, through the wood, through the glass, through flesh and bone into my heart . . .
“Sartan! Alfred!”
Alfred turned fearfully, fell back against the bulkheads. “I’m not! I can’t! . . .” He blinked. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Of course it’s me. Why did you bring us to this forsaken place?” Marit demanded. “Necropolis is over there, on the other side. How are we going to get across the Fire Sea?”
Alfred looked helpless. “You said that Xar would have Death’s Gate watched—”
“Yes, but if you’d done what I told you to do and flown the ship straight to Necropolis, we could be safely hidden in the tunnels by now.”
“It’s just that I—Well, that I ...” Alfred lifted his head, glanced around. “It sounds foolish, I know, but . . . but ... I was hoping to meet someone here.”
“Meet someone!” Marit repeated grimly. “The only people we’re likely to meet are my lord’s guards.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Alfred looked out at the empty dock and sighed. “What should we do now?” he asked meekly. “Fly the ship to Necropolis?”
“No, it’s too late for that. We’ve been seen. They’re probably already coming for us. We’ll have to bluff our way out of this.”
“Marit,” Alfred said hesitantly, “if you are so certain of your lord, why are you afraid to meet him?”
“I wouldn’t be, if I were by myself. But I’m not. I’m traveling with a mensch and a Sartan. Come on,” she said abruptly, turning away. “We better disembark. I need to strengthen the runes protecting the ship.”