“I’m sorry!” he wept and repeated the words over and over. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry . . .”
A single drop . . .
The world exploded.
Alfred reached desperately for the possibility that it could be re-formed, and he felt hundreds of other Sartan minds surge toward the same goal. Yet he still wept, even as he created, and his tears flowed into a sea of gently swelling waves . . .
Alfred lifted his head. Jonathon sat opposite him, on the other side of the table. The lazar said nothing, the eyes sometimes alive, sometimes dead. But Alfred knew that the eyes had seen.
“So many died!” Alfred cried, shuddering. He couldn’t breathe; spasmodic sobs choked him. “So many!”
“Alfred!” Haplo shook him. “Let go! Leave it!”
Alfred sat hunched over, his head in his hands, shoulders heaving.
“Alfred . . .” Haplo urged quietly. “Time . . .”
“Yes,” Alfred said, drawing in a shivering breath. “Yes, I’m all right. And ... I know how. I know how to shut Death’s Gate.”
He looked up at Haplo. “It will be for the best. I have no more doubts. Sundering the world was a great evil. But attempting to ‘fix’ one evil by means of another—by collapsing the worlds back into one—would be even more devastating. And Lord Xar might not succeed. There is a chance the magic could fail utterly. The worlds might break apart, never to be re-formed. Those living on the worlds would all die. Xar could be left with nothing but motes of dust, droplets of water, wisps of smoke, and blood . . .”
Haplo smiled his quiet smile.
“I know something else, too.” Alfred rose, tall and dignified, elegant and graceful, to his feet. “I can cast the spell myself. I don’t need your help, my friend. You can go back.” He gestured toward the door marked Labyrinth. “They need you there. Your people. Mine.”
Haplo looked in that direction, looked back at a land he had once despised, a land that now held everything dear to him. He shook his head.
Alfred, prepared for this, launched into his argument. “You are needed there. I will do what has to be done. It’s best this way. I’m not afraid. Well, not much,” he amended. “The point is, there’s nothing for you to do here. I don’t need you. And they do.”
Haplo said nothing, continued to shake his head.
“Marit loves you!” Alfred prodded at the weak point in Haplo’s armor. “You love her. Go back to her. My friend,” he continued earnestly, “for me to know that you two are together . . . well ... it would make what I have to do so much easier . . .”
Haplo was still shaking his head.
Alfred looked pained. “You don’t trust me. I don’t blame you. I know that in the past I’ve let you down, but, truly, I’m strong now. I am—”
“I know you are,” Haplo said. “I trust you. I want you to trust me.”
Alfred stared, blinked.
“Listen to me. In order to cast the spell, you’ll have to leave this chamber, enter Death’s Gate. Right?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then I’m staying here.” Haplo was firm.
“Why? I don’t—”
“To stand guard,” Haplo said.
Alfred’s hopes, which had been bright, were suddenly dimmed; a dark cloud passed over his sun. “Lord Xar. I forgot. But surely if he was going to try to stop us, he would have done so by now—”
“Just get on with the spell,” Haplo said sharply.
Alfred regarded him anxiously, sadly. “You know something. Something you’re not telling me. Something’s wrong. You’re in danger. Perhaps I shouldn’t leave . . .”
“You and I don’t matter. Think of them,” Haplo said quietly.
“Let go,” said Jonathon. “And take hold.”
“. .. let go ... take hold . . .” The phantasm’s voice was strong; stronger, almost, than that of the body.
“Cast the spell,” said Hugh the Hand. “Set me free.”
A single drop, though it falls into an ocean, will yet cause a ripple.
“I will,” said Alfred suddenly, lifting his head. “I can.”
“Farewell, my friend,” he said. “Thank you. For bringing me back to life.”
Haplo took Alfred’s hand, then embraced the embarrassed and startled Sartan.
“Thank you,” Haplo said, his voice gruff, “for giving me life. Farewell, my friend.”
Alfred was extremely red. He patted Haplo’s back awkwardly, then turned away, wiping his eyes and nose with his coat sleeve.
“You know,” said Alfred, voice muffled, his face averted, “I ... I miss the dog.”
“You know,” said Hap!o, grinning, “so do I.”
With a last fond look, Alfred turned and walked over to the door marked with the sigil meaning “death.”
He didn’t stumble once.
29
Haplo stood near Death’s Gate, watched as Alfred entered. The Patryn was aware of a presence near him. Hugh the Hand had come up to stand at his side, join him in his vigil. Haplo did not turn around, did not take his gaze from the doorway.
Alfred placed his hand on the sigil, spoke the rune.
The door swung open. Alfred, without a look behind, entered and disappeared.
Hugh the Hand began walking toward the door.
“I wouldn’t go any farther,” Haplo advised mildly.
The assassin halted, glanced back. “I only want to see what’s going on.”
“If you take another step, My Lord,” Haplo said, and his voice was respectful, “I will be forced to stop you.”
“ ‘My Lord?’ ” Hugh the Hand appeared puzzled.
Haplo moved to stand between the Hand and the door.
“Do no violence,” Jonathon warned quietly.
“. . . no violence . . .”
Hugh the Hand stared at the Patryn intently; then he shrugged and spoke several words—words in the Patryn language. Words a mensch could not possibly know.
A shower of sparkling runes swirled around the assassin. The light was dazzling; Haplo was forced to squint against it. When he could see, Hugh the Hand was gone. Lord Xar stood in his place.
“The question about the four worlds,” Xar said. “That’s what gave me away.”
“Yes, My Lord.” Haplo smiled, shook his head. “It wasn’t the type of question a mensch would ask. Hugh the Hand didn’t much care about his one world, let alone three others. Where is he, by the way?”
Xar shrugged; his gaze was now concentrated on Death’s Gate. “In the Fire Sea. In the Labyrinth. Who knows? The last I saw of him, he was on board the Sartan ship. While you were fooling with that bumbling Sartan, I was able to assume Hugh’s form, take his place on the back of the fire dragon. That thing knew the truth.” Xar’s gaze flicked to Jonathon.
The lazar remained seated at the table, seemingly uncaring, oblivious.
“But what do the living mean to those walking corpses? You were a fool to trust it. It has betrayed you.”
“Do no violence,” Jonathon repeated softly.
“. . . no violence . . .”
Xar snorted. The glittering eyes flicked back to Haplo. “So you truly intend—you and this Sartan master you serve—to shut Death’s Gate.”
“I do,” said Haplo.
The lord’s eyes narrowed. “You doom your own people! You doom the woman you love. You doom your child! Yes, she is alive. But she won’t remain alive if you permit the Sartan to shut the Gate.”
Haplo said nothing, tried to maintain his outward composure. Xar was swift to read the clenched jaw muscle, the faint pallor, the swift and doubtful glance toward the door that led to the Labyrinth.
“Go to her, my son,” Xar said gently. “Go to Marit, find your child. I found her. I know where she is. She is not far, not far at all. Take her and her mother to the Nexus. You will be safe there. When my work here is complete”—the lord made an all-encompassing gesture with his hands—“I will return in triumph to join you. Together, we will defeat our enemies, lock the Sartan in the prison they designed for us! And we will be free!”