What made it worse was that he knew Haplo was speaking to him, too—to Alfred as well as Marit. Alfred, too, must find the strength to leave someone he had come to love.
“But in the meantime, what do I do about Balthazar?” Alfred asked.
Before Haplo could answer, the light began to fade, the warmth receded. The wave ebbed, leaving Alfred stranded and alone in darkness. He sighed deeply, shud-deringly, not wanting to let go, not wanting to return. And, as he did so, he heard his name.
“Alfred.” Marit was half sitting up, propped on her elbow. The fever had left her eyes, although the lids were now heavy with the longing for sleep. “Alfred,” she repeated urgently, struggling to remain awake.
“Yes, my dear, I am here,” he replied, close to tears. “You should be lying down.”
She sank back onto the blankets, permitted him to fuss over her, because she was too distracted to stop him. When he started to leave, she caught hold of his hand.
“Ask the Sartan . . . about the Seventh Gate,” she whispered. “What he knows about it.”
“Do you really think that’s wise?” Alfred demurred.
Now that he had seen Balthazar again, he was reminded of the power of the necromancer. And though weakened from anxiety and lack of food, Balthazar would regain his strength quickly enough if he thought he’d found a way out for him and his people.
“I’m not certain I want Balthazar to find the Seventh Gate, any more than Lord Xar. Perhaps I shouldn’t bring it up.”
“Just ask what he knows,” Marit pleaded. “What harm can there be in that?”
Alfred was reluctant. “I doubt if Balthazar knows anything . . .”
Marit held fast to his hand, squeezed it painfully. “Ask him. Please!”
“Ask me what?”
Balthazar had been standing at a distance, watching the healing process with intense interest. Now, hearing his name, he glided forward. “What is it you want to know?”
“Go ahead,” said Haplo’s voice suddenly, startling Alfred. “Ask him. See what he says.”
Alfred sighed, gulped. “We were wondering, Balthazar, have you ever heard of ... of something called the Seventh Gate?”
“Certainly,” Balthazar answered calmly, but with a stabbing glance of his black eyes that slid through Alfred like a sharp blade. “All on Abarrach have heard of the Seventh Gate. Every child learns the litany.”
“What . . . what litany would that be?” Alfred asked faintly.
“ ‘The Earth was destroyed,’ ” Balthazar began, repeating the words in a high, thin voice. “ ‘Four worlds were created out of the ruin. Worlds for ourselves and the mensch: Air, Fire, Stone, Water. Four Gates connect each world to the other: Arianus to Pryan to Abarrach to Chelestra. A house of correction was built for our enemies: the Labyrinth. The Labyrinth is connected to the other worlds through the Fifth Gate: the Nexus. The Sixth Gate is the center, permits entry: the Vortex. And all was accomplished through the Seventh Gate. The end was the beginning.’ ”
“So that was how you knew about Death’s Gate, about the other worlds,” Alfred said, recalling the first time he’d met Balthazar, how the necromancer had seen through the lies Haplo had used to conceal his true identity. “And you say this is taught to children?”
“It was,” Balthazar said, with rueful emphasis on the word. “When we had leisure to teach our children other things besides how to die.”
“How did your people come to be in this condition?” Marit asked, fighting drowsiness, fighting sleep. “What happened to this world?”
“Greed is what happened,” Balthazar replied. “Greed and desperation. When the magic that kept this world alive started to fail, our people began to die. We turned to necromancy, to hold on to those dear to us, at first. Then, eventually, we used that black art to increase our numbers, to add soldiers to our armies, servants to our houses. But things grew worse instead of better for us.”
“Abarrach was always intended to be dependent on the other three worlds for its survival,” Alfred explained. “Conduits, known on this world as colossi, were meant to channel energy flowing from the citadels of Pryan into Abarrach. The energy would provide light and heat, enable the people to live near the surface, where the air is breathable. The plan did not work out. When the Kicksey-winsey failed, the light of Pryan’s citadels failed as well, and Abarrach was left in the darkness.”
He stopped. His didactic lecture had worked. Marit’s eyes were closed, her breathing deep and even. Alfred smiled slightly, carefully tucked the blankets around her to keep her warm. Then he stole silently away. Balthazar, after a glance at Marit, followed Alfred.
“Why do you ask about the Seventh Gate?”
Another one of the stabbing glances penetrated Alfred, who was immediately rendered incoherent.
“I ... I ... curious . . . heard . . . somewhere . . . something . . .”
Balthazar frowned. “What are you trying to find out, Brother? The location? Believe me, if I had any idea where the Seventh Gate was, I would have used it myself, to help my people escape this terrible place.”
“Yes, of course.”
“What else do you want to know about it, then?”
“Nothing, really. Just . . . just curious. Let’s go see what we can do about feeding your people.”
Truly concerned for his people’s welfare, the necromancer said nothing more. But it was apparent to Alfred that, as he had feared, his sudden interest in the Seventh Gate had aroused Balthazar’s interest as well. And the necromancer was a great deal like Haplo’s dog. Once he had something in his teeth, he would not easily let go.
Alfred began replicating sacks of the kairn-grass seed,[6] providing enough so that the Sartan could turn it into flour, bake it into hardbread—far more substantial and nourishing than the gruel. As he worked, he glanced surreptitiously around the cavern. No dead Sartan served the living, as had been the case the last time Alfred had visited these people. No soldier-corpses guarded the entrance, no cadaver-king tried to rule. Wherever the dead lay, they lay at rest—as Balthazar had said.
Alfred looked at the children huddled around him, begging for a handful of seed that, on Arianus, he would have thrown to the birds.
His eyes filled with tears, and that reminded him of a question. He turned to Balthazar, who kept near him, watching each spell Alfred cast, almost as hungry for the magic as he was for the food.
The necromancer had, at Alfred’s insistence, eaten a small amount and was looking somewhat stronger—although the renewal of hope probably accounted more for the change than the unappetizing kairn-grass paste he had consumed.
“You seem to have plenty of water,” Alfred remarked. “That’s different from when I was here last.”
Balthazar nodded. “You recall that one of the colossi stands not far from here. We had assumed it was dead, its power gone out. But, quite suddenly, not too long ago, its magic returned to life.”
Alfred brightened. “Indeed? Do you have any idea why?”
“There has been no change on this world. I can only assume that there have been changes on others.”
“Why, yes! You’re right!” Alfred was all eager enthusiasm. “The Kicksey-winsey . . . and the citadels on Pryan . . . they’re working now! . . . Why, this means—”
“—nothing to us,” Balthazar finished coolly. “Change comes too late. Suppose the heat from the conduits has returned, suppose it is causing the ice that rimes this world to begin to melt. We once again find water. But it will be many, many lifetimes before this world of the dead can be inhabited by the living. And by then the living will be no more. The dead alone will rule Abarrach.”
“You are determined to leave,” Alfred said, troubled.
“Or die trying,” Balthazar said grimly. “Can you envisage a future for us, for our children, here, on Abarrach?”
Alfred couldn’t answer. He handed over more food. Balthazar took it and left, doling it out to his people.