“We will understand,” Alfred said, hesitantly, “but will understanding help us? Will the future be better for it?”
“That remains to be seen, Brother,” said Haplo.
It is Haplo! And I am Alfred, not some nameless, faceless Sartan who once, long, long ago, stood trembling in this very chamber. And yet, at the same time, I am that unhappy Sartan. I am here and I was there.
“I should have been more courageous,” Alfred whispered. Sweat trickled down his balding head, soaked the collar of his robes. “I should have spoken up, tried to stop this madness. But I’m such a coward. I saw what happened to the others. I ... couldn’t face it. Though now, perhaps, I think it would have been better ... At least I could live with myself, though I wouldn’t live long. Now I must carry this burden with me the rest of my life.”
“It isn’t your fault,” said Haplo. “For the last time, quit apologizing.”
“Yes, it is . . .” Alfred said. “Yes, it is. For each of us who have turned a blind eye to prejudice, hatred, intolerance ... it is our fault . . .”
“Reach out, Brethren,” Samah was saying. “Reach out with your minds to the farthest point of your power and then reach beyond that. Envision the possibility that this world is not one, but has been reduced to its elemental parts: earth, air, fire, and water.”
A single sigil began to shine blue in the centers of four doors. Alfred recognized the symbols—one for each of the four elements. These, then, were the doors which would lead to the new worlds. He began to shiver.
“Our enemies, the Patryns, have been confined to prison. They are now contained, immobilized,” Samah continued. “We could have easily destroyed them, but we do not seek their destruction. We seek their redemption, their rehabilitation. Their prison house—no, let us term it a correction center—is ready to be sealed shut.”
A sigil on the fifth door burst into flame, burned an angry, fiery red. The Labyrinth. Redemption. Haplo laughed harshly.
“You must stop this, Samah!” Alfred wanted to shout frantically. “The Labyrinth is not a prison but a torture chamber. It hears the hatred and the fear that lie hidden behind your words. The Labyrinth will use that hatred to murder and destroy.”
But Alfred didn’t speak aloud. He was too afraid.
“We created a haven for the Patryns.” Samah smiled, tight-lipped, grim. “Once they have learned their hard lesson, the Labyrinth will free them. We will build for them a city, teach them how to live like civilized people.”
“Yes,” Alfred said to himself, “the Patryns will continue to study the ‘lesson.’ The lesson of hate you taught them. They will emerge from the Labyrinth stronger in their fury than ever. Except for some. Some like Haplo, who learned that true strength lies in love.”
The sixth door began to glimmer with twilight colors, soft, shimmering. The Nexus.
“And last,” said Samah, with a gesture toward the door that stood behind him, a door that—as he moved his hand—slowly began to open, “we create the path that will take us to these worlds. We create Death’s Gate. As this world dies, newer, better worlds will be born from it. And now the time has come.”
Samah turned slowly, faced the door, which now stood wide open. Alfred tried to catch a glimpse of what it revealed. Standing on his toes, he peered over the heads of the restive crowd.
Blue sky, white clouds, green trees, rolling oceans . . . The old world . . .
“Take it apart, my brethren,” Samah commanded. “Take the world apart.”
Alfred couldn’t cast the magic. He couldn’t. He saw the faces of the “regrettable but necessary civilian casualties.” He saw their disbelief, their fear, their panic. Thousands and thousands, running to their own ends, for there was no refuge, no sanctuary.
He was weeping, blubbering. He couldn’t help it, he couldn’t stop himself.
Haplo rested a bandaged hand on his shoulder. “Pull yourself together. This won’t help. Samah is watching you.”
Fearfully Alfred raised his head. His eyes met Samah’s and he saw the fear and anger in the man.
And then Samah wasn’t Samah any longer.
He was Xar.
26
“Alfred!”
The voice called to him across a vast distance, through time and space. It was faint, yet compelling. Urging him to leave, withdraw, return . . .
“Alfred!”
A hand on his shoulder, shaking him. Alfred looked down at the hand, saw it was bandaged. He was frightened, tried to get away, but he couldn’t. The hand gripped him tightly.
“No, please, let me alone!” Alfred whimpered. “I’m in my tomb. I’m safe. It’s peaceful and quiet. No one can hurt me here. Let me go!”
The hand didn’t let him go. It kept fast hold of him and drew him on, its strong grip no longer frightening, but welcome and comforting, supportive and reassuring. It was drawing him back, back into the world of the living.
And then, before he was quite there yet, the hand pulled away. The bandages fell off. He saw that the hand was covered with blood. Pity filled his heart. The hand was outstretched, reaching for him.
“Alfred, I need you.”
And there, at his feet, was the dog, gazing up at him with liquid eyes.
“I need you.”
Alfred reached out, caught hold of the hand . . .
The hand squeezed his painfully, jerked him backward, dragged him completely off his feet. He tumbled to the floor.
“And stay away from that damn table, will you?” Haplo ordered, standing over him, glaring down at him. “We almost lost you for good that time.” He eyed Alfred grimly, but with a touch of concern in the quiet smile. “Are you all right?”
Crouched on his hands and knees on the dusty marble, Alfred had no answer. He could only gaze in wordless astonishment at Haplo—Haplo, standing right there in front of him, Haplo whole, alive!
“You look,” said Haplo, suddenly grinning, “exactly like the dog.”
“My friend . . .” Alfred sat back on his heels. His eyes filled with tears. “My friend . . .”
“Now don’t start blubbering,” Haplo warned. “And get up, damn it. We don’t have much time. Lord Xar—”
“He’s here!” Alfred said fearfully, clambering to his feet. He stumbled around to face the head of the table.
Alfred blinked. Not Samah. Certainly not Xar. Jonathon stood at the table’s head. Beside him, grim and tense, was Hugh the Hand.
“Why ... I saw Xar . . .” Another thought occurred to Alfred. “You!” He staggered back around to face Haplo. “You. Are you real?”
“Flesh and blood,” said Haplo.
His hand—sigla-covered, strong and warm—took hold of Alfred, steadied the Sartan, who was extremely pale and wobbly.
Timidly, Alfred extended a bony finger, poked cautiously at Haplo. “You seem real,” he said, still dubious. He glanced around. “The dog?”
“The mutt’s run off,” said Haplo. He smiled. “Probably smelled sausages.”
“Not run off,” said Alfred tremulously. “Part of you. At last. But how did it all happen?”
“This chamber,” Jonathon answered. “Cursed . . . and blessed. In Haplo’s case, the rune-magic kept his body alive. The magic in this chamber, inside the Seventh Gate, has enabled the soul to rejoin the body.”
“When Prince Edmund came in here,” Alfred said, remembering, “his soul was freed from his body.”
“He was dead,” Jonathon replied. “And raised through the necromancy. His soul was in thrall. That is the difference.”
“Ah,” said Alfred, “I think I’m beginning to understand—”
“I’m very glad for you,” Haplo interrupted. “How many years do you think it might take you to completely understand? As I said, we don’t have much time. We have to establish contact with the higher power—”
“I know how! I was there, during the Sundering! Samah was here and the Council members were all gathered around the table. And you were here . . . Never mind,” Alfred concluded meekly, catching Haplo’s impatient glance. “I’ll tell you that later, too.