“Causing no end of trouble,” concluded the dragon gloomily.
“Well, actually, that’s not precisely true anymore.”
Headman Vasu, accompanied by Balthazar, entered the glade.
“We bring good news. For the time being, there will be no battle. At least not among ourselves. Ramu has been forced to resign his post as Councillor. I have taken over. Our people”—Balthazar glanced at Headman Vasu, who smiled—“are now forming an alliance. Working together, we should be able to drive back the armies of evil.”
“That is truly good news, sir. My kind will welcome it. You both realize,” the dragon added gravely, “that this battle will not be the end. The evil present in the Labyrinth will remain here forever, although its effect will be lessened by the advent of trust and reconciliation between your two peoples.” The dragon glanced at Alfred. “The Wave correcting itself, sir.”
“Yes, I see,” said Alfred thoughtfully.
“And here remain our cousins, the serpents. They can never be defeated, I’m afraid. But they can be contained, and, I am thankful to say, most of them are now trapped in the Labyrinth. Very few live among the mensch on the four worlds.”
“What will happen to the mensch, now that Death’s Gate is closed?” Alfred asked wistfully. “Will all they have accomplished be wasted? Will they be completely shut off from each other?”
“The Gate is closed, but the conduits remain open. The great Kicksey-winsey continues working. Its energy beams through the conduits to the citadels. The citadels amplify that energy and send it to Chelestra and Abarrach. Chelestra’s sun is starting to stabilize, which means that the seamoons will awaken. Life there will flourish.”
“And Abarrach?”
“Ah, we are not certain about Abarrach. The dead have left it, of course. The citadels will warm the conduits, which will melt its icy shell. Regions now gripped by cold will be habitable once more.”
“But who will come to repopulate it?” Alfred asked sadly. “Death’s Gate is closed. The mensch could not have traveled through it anyway.”
“No,” said the dragon, “but one mensch currently living on Pryan—an elf named Paithan Quindiniar—is working on experiments begun by his father. Experiments having to do with rocketry. The mensch might reach Abarrach sooner than you think.”
“As for us, life for our peoples will not be easy,” said Vasu. “But if we work together, we can hold back the evil and bring a measure of peace and stability—even to the Labyrinth.”
“We will rebuild the Nexus,” said Balthazar. “Tear down the wall and the Final Gate. Perhaps, someday, our two peoples will be able to live there together in harmony.”
“I am truly grateful. Truly thankful.” Alfred wiped his eyes with the frayed lace of his collar.
“So am I,” said Haplo. He put his arm around Marit, held her close. “All we need to do now is to find our daughter—”
“We’ll find her,” said Marit. “Together.”
“But,” said Alfred, with a sudden thought, “what in the name of the Labyrinth happened to Ramu? What caused him to relinquish command?”
“A peculiar incident,” said Balthazar gravely. “He was wounded, I’m afraid. In rather a tender spot. And, what’s truly odd, he can’t seem to heal himself.”
“What wounded him? A dragon-snake?”
“No.” Balthazar glanced shrewdly at Haplo, almost smiled. “It seems poor Ramu was bitten by a dog.”
Epilogue
The strange storm that had swept over Arianus abated as quickly as it had come up. There had never been a storm to equal it, not even on the continent of Drevlin, which was—or had been—subjected to severe storms on a nearly hourly basis. Some of the terrified inhabitants of the floating continents feared that the world was coming to an end, though the more rational among them—this included Limbeck Bolttightner—knew better.
“It is an environmental flux,” he said to Jarre, or rather what he assumed to be Jarre, but which was, in fact, a broom. He had broken his glasses during the storm. Jarre, used to this, moved the broom and took its place, without the nearsighted Limbeck knowing the difference. “An environmental flux, no doubt caused by the increased activity of the Kicksey-winsey, which has created a heating up of the atmosphere. I will call it Winsey-warming.”
Which he did, and made a speech about it that very night, to which no one listened, due to the fact that they were mopping up the water.
The ferocious storm winds threatened to cause considerable damage to the cities of the Mid Realms, particularly elven cities, which are large and densely populated. But at the height of the storm’s fury, human mysteriarchs—high-ranking wizards of the Seventh House—arrived and, with their magical ability to exert control over the natural elements, did much to protect the elves. Damage was kept to a minimum and injuries were minor. Most important, this unasked-for and unlooked-for aid did much to ease tensions between former bitter enemies.
The only building to suffer extensive damage in the storm was the Cathedral of the Albedo, the repository for the souls of the dead.
The Kenkari elves had formed the Cathedral of crystal, stone, and magic. Its crystal-paned dome protected an exotic garden of rare and beautiful plants, some purportedly dating back to preSundering times—plants brought from a world whose very existence was now mostly forgotten. Inside this garden, the souls of elves of royal blood fluttered among the leaves and the fragrant roses.
Each elf, before he or she died, bequeathed the soul to the Kenkari, leaving it in the care of keeper elves, who were known as geir or weesham. The geir brought the soul, imprisoned in an ornate box, to the Cathedral, where the Kenkari set it loose among the other souls held in the garden. It was believed, among the elves, that these souls of the dead granted the gift of strength and wisdom gained in life to the living.
The ancient custom had been started by the holy elf-woman Krenka-Anris, the souls of her own dead sons having returned to save their mother from a dragon.
The Kenkari elves lived in the Cathedral, tending to the souls, accepting and releasing new souls into the garden. At least, that was what had been done in the past. When it became clear to the Kenkari that the elven emperor Agah’ran was having young elves murdered in order to obtain their souls to aid his corrupt rule, the Kenkari closed the Cathedral, forbade the acceptance of any more souls.
Agah’ran was overthrown by his son, Prince Rees’ahn, and the human rulers Stephen and Anne of Volkaran. The emperor fled and disappeared. The elves and humans formed an alliance. The peace was an uneasy one, its overseers working hard to keep it, constantly forced to put out fires, quell riots, rein in headstrong followers. So far, it was working.
But the Kenkari had no idea what to do. Their last instructions, given to them by the Keeper of the Soul, revealed to him by Krenka-Anris, was to keep the Cathedral closed. And so they did. Every day, the three Keepers—Soul, Book, and Door—approached the altar and asked for guidance.
They were told to wait.
And then came the storm.
The wind began rising unexpectedly around midday. Frightful-looking dark clouds formed in the skies above and below the Mid Realms, completely obscured Solarus. Day turned to night in an instant. All commerce ceased in the city. People ran out into the streets, staring nervously at the sky. Ships plying the air between isles sought safe haven as fast as they could, putting down in any harbor close by, which meant that elves were landing in human ports, humans seeking refuge in elven towns.
The winds continued to rise. The brittle hargast trees shattered and cracked. Flimsy buildings were flattened as if smashed by a giant fist. The strong fortresses of the humans shook and shuddered. It was said that even the Kir death monks, who pay little attention to what is transpiring in the world of the living, actually emerged from their monasteries, looked up at the sky, nodded gloomily to themselves in anticipation of the end.