“You might help him,” Haplo advised.
Alfred emitted a final faint “What?” Then, compassion causing him to forget about himself, he began to sing a song in his reedy, thin voice, his hands fluttering, weaving the magic around Hugh the Hand. The mensch coughed, retched, drew in a deep breath—and looked startled.
“Who said that?” Hugh the Hand eyed Alfred; then, his eyes widening, he stared at the dog. “I heard Haplo’s voice! That animal has learned to talk!”
Alfred gargled. “How can he hear you? I don’t understand ... Of course,” he added on reflection, “I’m not certain how I can hear you.”
“The mensch is as much in my realm as I am in his,” Haplo said. “He hears my voice. So does Jonathon. I asked Jonathon to bring the fire dragon here, to snatch you off that ship, if necessary.”
“But . . . why?”
“Do you remember what we talked about, back in Salfag Caverns? How the Sartan would go out into the four worlds and then the Patryns after them and the fighting would start all over again?”
“Yes,” Alfred said quietly, sadly.
“That gave me an idea, made me realize what we had to do to stop Xar’s threat, to help both our peoples, and the mensch. I was trying to think of the best way to go about it, when suddenly Ramu arrived and took the matter out of my hands. He settled everything far better than I could have. And so I—”
“But . . . Ramu’s going to the Labyrinth!” Alfred cried. “To fight your people!”
“Precisely.” Haplo was grim. “That’s just where I want him.”
“It is?” Alfred was beyond amazement, well into bewilderment.
“It is. I explained my plan to Jonathon. He agreed to accompany us, so long as we brought Hugh the Hand with us.”
“Us.” Alfred gulped.
“I’m sorry, old friend.” Haplo’s voice softened. “I didn’t want you involved. But Jonathon insisted. He’s right. I need you.”
“For what?” Alfred was about to ask, wondered unhappily if he truly wanted to know.
The fire dragon skimmed across the lava sea, heading for the shoreline, for Necropolis. Marit’s ship, now bright with Sartan runes, was preparing to depart, as was the Sartan ship from Chelestra. Alfred glanced up as their dragon sailed beneath the prow and caught a glimpse of Ramu, glaring at them. The Councillor was grim, stony-faced. He turned coldly away. Probably considered Alfred’s abrupt departure good riddance. One person, watching from the rail, did not turn away. Balthazar raised his hand in farewell.
“I will take care of Marit,” he called out. “Have no fear for her.”
Alfred waved disconsolately back. He recalled the necromancer’s words, spoken just before the dog tumbled Alfred over the side.
Go do what you must . . .
Which was? . . .
“Would someone mind telling me what’s happening?” Alfred asked meekly. “Where are you taking me?”
“To the Seventh Gate,” Haplo replied.
Alfred lost his grip on the dragon’s mane, nearly fell overboard. This time it was Hugh the Hand who caught hold of him. “But . . . Lord Xar . . .”
“A risk we have to take,” Haplo replied.
Alfred shook his head.
“Listen, my friend.” Haplo spoke earnestly. “This is the chance you’ve wanted. Look—look at the ships sailing away, sailing for Death’s Gate.”
Alfred lifted his gaze. The two ships, both flaring with Sartan runes, soared up into the smoketinged air of Abarrach. The sigla glowed brilliant blue against the black shadows of the vast cavern’s ceiling. Both ships, under Ramu’s guidance, were headed for Death’s Gate. And beyond that, the Nexus, the Labyrinth, the four worlds.
“And there!” Jonathon lifted his wasted, waxen hand, pointed. “There, look what follows.”
“... follows . . .” mourned the echo.
Another ship, this one forged in the shape of an iron dragon, covered with Patryn runes, soared up from a hidden bay. It was taking the same course as the Sartan ship, its sigla burning red with the heat and the magical power that propelled it.
“Patryns!” Alfred said, staring in disbelief. “Where are they going?”
“They are chasing Ramu. He will lead them to the Labyrinth, where they will join the battle.”
“Perhaps Xar is with them?” Alfred was hopeful.
“Perhaps . . .” Haplo wasn’t.
Alfred heaved a deep sigh. “But this accomplishes nothing . . . except more bloodshed . . .”
“Think about it, my friend. The Sartan and the Patryns—now gathered together in one place. All of them in the Labyrinth. And with them—the serpents.”
Alfred raised his head, blinked.
“Blessed Sartan,” he murmured. He was beginning to see, beginning to understand.
“The worlds: Arianus, Pryan, Chelestra, Abarrach—free of them. Free of us. The elves and humans and dwarves left to live and die, love and hate all on their own. No interference from demigods or the evil we create.”
“That’s all very well now,” Alfred pointed out, hope slipping again. “But the Sartan won’t stay in the Labyrinth. Neither will your people. No matter who wins ... or loses.”
“That’s why we have to find the Seventh Gate,” Haplo said. “We find it ... and we destroy it.”
Alfred was amazed. Then appalled. The enormity of the task confounded him. It was too unreal even to be frightening.
Bitter, mortal enemies, with a legacy of hatred passed down through generations, locked up in a prison of their own creation with an immortal enemy: a product of their hatred. Sartan, Patryn, serpents—battling through eternity with no way to escape.
Or was there no way? Alfred looked over at the dog, reached out his hand to give it a timid pat. He and Haplo had once been mortal, bitter enemies. Alfred thought about Marit and Balthazar, two enemies drawn together by shared suffering, sorrow.
A handful of seeds, fallen onto burned, charred ground, had taken root, found nourishment in love, pity, compassion. If these seeds could blossom and grow strong, why not others?
The dread city of Necropolis was very close now, the fire dragon sailing toward it rapidly. Alfred couldn’t believe this was happening to him and wondered rather wistfully if he weren’t really on that Sartan ship, perhaps suffering from a blow to the head.
But the mane of the fire dragon, with its glistening bright red scales, pricked his flesh uncomfortably. The heat from the Fire Sea radiated around him. Beside him, the dog shivered in terror (it had never grown accustomed to riding dragon-back) and Hugh the Hand stared around at this strange new world in awe. Near him sat Jonathon—like Hugh, dead, not dead. One brought back by love, the other by hate.
Perhaps there was hope, after all. Or perhaps . . .
“Destroying the Seventh Gate might well destroy everything,” he observed in a low voice, after giving the matter some thought.
Haplo was silent a moment, then said, “And what will happen when Ramu and the Sartan arrive in the Labyrinth, along with my people and Lord Xar? The wars they wage will be meat and drink to the evil of the dragon-snakes, who will grow fat and sleek and urge them on. Perhaps my people will flee through Death’s Gate. Your people will chase after them. The battles will escalate, expand out into the four worlds. The mensch will be sucked in, as they were the last time. We will arm them, give them weapons like the Cursed Blade.
“You see the dilemma we face, my friend,” Haplo added, after a pause to allow Alfred a good long look. “You understand?”
Alfred shuddered. He covered his face with his hands. “What will happen to the worlds if we do shut Death’s Gate?” He lifted his head. His face was pale, his voice quivering. “They need each other. The citadels need the energy from the Kicksey-winsey. Such energy could stabilize the sun in Chelestra. And because of the citadels, the conduits on Abarrach are starting to carry water . . .”
“If the mensch have to, they can manage on their own,” Haplo said. “What would be better for them, my friend? To allow them to control their own destiny? Or to be pawns in ours?”