“It’s a trap,” Alfred repeated aloud, without being truly conscious of what he was saying.
“Don’t go to the Seventh Gate. Don’t let the lazar talk you into it. Or anyone else, for that matter. Don’t go.”
“I won’t go.” Alfred had the confused impression of sounding very much like the lazar’s echo. He added to Marit, “I’m sorry . . .”
“Don’t apologize!” Haplo ordered irritably. “And don’t let Kleitus fool you. The lazar knows where the Seventh Gate is. He died in that room.”
“But he can’t get back inside!” Alfred said in sudden understanding. “The warding runes prevent him!”
“And he’s not worried about me,” Haplo added dryly. “He’s thinking of himself. Maybe hoping you’ll bring him back!”
“I won’t be the one to let you in,” Alfred said.
“A mistake, Sartan!” The lazar snarled.
“. . . mistake, Sartan . . .”
“I am on your side! We are brothers.” Kleitus advanced several shuffling steps into the cell. “If you bring me back, I will be strong, powerful. Far stronger than Xar! He knows this and he fears me. Come! Swiftly! This is your only chance to escape him!”
“I won’t!” Alfred shuddered.
The lazar moved toward him. Alfred fell back until he hit the wall and could go no farther. He pressed both hands against the stone, as if he would seep into it. “I won’t . . .”
“You’ve got to get out of here!” Haplo urged. “You and Marit! You’re in danger! If Xar finds you here . . .”
“What about you?” Alfred asked.
Marit was looking at him strangely, suspiciously. “What about me?”
“No, no!” Alfred was losing control. “I ... I was talking to Haplo.”
Her eyes widened. “Haplo?”
“Can’t you hear him?” Alfred asked and realized, in the instant of asking, that she could not. She and Haplo had been close, but they had not exchanged souls, as had Haplo and Alfred, that one time, crossing through Death’s Gate.
Alfred wavered.
“Never mind me! Just leave, damn it!” Haplo urged. “Use your magic!”
Alfred swallowed. Licking dry lips with a dry tongue, trying ineffectually to moisten a parched throat, he began to sing the runes in a cracked, almost inaudible voice.
Kleitus understood the forgotten rune-language enough to realize what Alfred was doing. Reaching out its wasted hand, the lazar caught hold of Marit.
She tried to break free, tried to stab the lazar with her sword. But the dead know no physical limitations. With inhuman strength, Kleitus wrested the sword from Marit’s grasp. The lazar wrapped its bloodstained hand around her throat.
The sigla on Marit’s skin flared, her magic acting to defend her. Another living being would have been paralyzed by the shock, but the corpse of the Dynast absorbed the punishment without apparent harm. The long blue nails of the skeletal hand dug into Marit’s flesh.
She flinched in pain, choked back a cry. Blood trickled down her skin.
“Sing one more rune,” Kleitus warned Alfred, “and I will turn her into the undead.”
Alfred’s tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth, froze there. Before he could cast the spell, Marit would be dead.
“Take me to the Seventh Gate!” Kleitus demanded. He stabbed his fingers deeper into Marit’s throat.
She cried out. Her hands tore frantically at the corpse’s.
The dog whined and whimpered.
Marit began to gulp, gasp for breath. Kleitus was slowly strangling her.
“Do something!” Haplo ordered furiously.
“What?” Alfred cried.
“This is what you do, Sartan.”
Lord Xar entered the cell. He lifted his hand, formed a sigil in the air, and sent it flashing toward Kleitus.
14
The sigil struck the lazar in the chest, exploded.
Kleitus cried out in rage; the corpse felt no pain. It fell to the floor, the dead limbs jerking and twitching spasmodically.
But Kleitus fought against the magic. The corpse seemed about to win, was struggling to regain its feet.
Xar spoke sharply. The single rune expanded. Its arms became tentacles, surrounding, subduing the writhing corpse.
At length, the lazar shuddered, then lay still.
Lord Xar regarded it suspiciously, thinking it was shamming. He had not killed it. He couldn’t kill something that was already dead. But he had rendered it harmless, for the moment. The sigil, burning feebly, flickered and died out. The spell ended. The lazar did not move.
Satisfied, Xar turned to Alfred.
“Well met, Serpent Mage,” said the Lord of the Nexus. “At last.”
The Sartan’s eyes were bulging out of his balding head. His jaw worked; no sound came out. Xar thought he had never seen such a pitiful, wretched-looking specimen. But he wasn’t fooled by outward appearances.
This Sartan was powerful, extraordinarily powerful. The weak and foolish act of his was just that—an act.
“Although I must say that I am disappointed in you, Alfred,” Xar continued. No harm in letting the Sartan think he was succeeding in his foolery. Xar prodded the unmoving lazar with his toe. “You could have done this yourself, or so I presume.”
The lord bent over Marit. “You are not hurt badly, are you, Daughter?”
Weak and shaken, Marit shrank back from him, but there was nowhere for her to go. She had come up against the stone bier.
Xar took hold of her. She cringed, but he was gentle. He helped her to her feet. She swayed, unsteady, and he supported her.
“The wounds burn where he touched you. Yes, I know, Daughter. I, too, have felt the lazar’s foul touch. Some type of poison, I would guess. But I can give you ease.”
He placed his hand on her forehead. Brushing aside her hair, his fingers lightly, delicately retraced the sigil mark that had been there, the mark he had slashed in the Labyrinth. At his touch, the rune closed, healed completely.
Marit did not notice. She was burning with fever, dizzy and disoriented. Xar alleviated her pain somewhat, but not entirely.
“Soon you will feel better. Sit here”—Xar guided Marit to the edge of Haplo’s stone bier—“and rest. I have certain matters to discuss with the Sartan.”
“My Lord!” Marit grasped hold of Xar’s hand, clung to him. “My Lord! The Labyrinth! Our people are fighting for their lives.”
Xar’s face hardened. “I am aware of this, Daughter. I plan to return. They will be able to hold out until—”
“Lord! You don’t understand! The dragon-snakes have set fire to the Nexus. The city is in flames! Our people . . . dying . . .”
Xar was aghast. He could not believe what he was hearing. It wasn’t possible. “The Nexus, burning?”
He thought at first she was lying. But they were now joined again and he saw the truth in her mind. He saw the Nexus, beautiful, white-spired city; his city. Never mind the fact that his enemy had built it. He had first set foot in it. He had first claimed it. He had won it with blood and unceasing toil. He had brought his people to it. His people had made that city their home.
Now, in Marit’s eyes, he saw the Nexus red with flame, black with smoke and death.
“All I worked for ... gone . . . ,” he murmured. His grip on her loosened.
“Lord, if you went back . . .” Marit held fast to his hand. “If you returned to them, the people would have hope. Go to them, Lord. They need you!”
Xar hesitated. Remembered. . . .
... He did not walk through the Final Gate. He crawled, dragged himself between its rune-covered stone supports on his belly. He left a trail of blood behind him, a trail that marked his path through the Labyrinth itself. Some of the blood was his; more of it belonged to his enemies.
Pulling himself across the border, he collapsed onto the soft grass. He rolled over onto his back, stared up into a twilight sky, a sky of blush reds and hazy purples, banded with gold and orange. He should heal himself, sleep. And he would, in time. But for a moment, he wanted to feel everything, including the pain. This was his moment of triumph, and when he remembered it, he wanted to remember the pain with it.