The Seventh Gate

15

Entombed in Sartan magic, Xar quelled his anger, relied on patience and calm to free himself. His brain, like a sharp knife, slid into each chink in the Sartan runes, searching for a weakness. He found it, and worked at it patiently, breaking down the sigil, chipping away at the magic. One crack, and the rest of the hastily designed structure shattered.

Xar gave Alfred credit; the Serpent Mage was good. Never before had any magic completely stopped and confounded the Lord of the Nexus. Had the situation not been so critical, so dire, Xar would have enjoyed the mental exercise.

He stood in the prison cell, alone except for Kleitus, and that heap of bones and rotting flesh scarcely counted. The lazar continued under the constraints of Xar’s spell and did not move. Xar ignored it. He walked over to stand beside Haplo’s body, encased in the Sartan’s magical coffin.

The funeral fire had been snuffed out. Xar could always start it again. He could break the magic that protected Haplo as the lord had broken that which had imprisoned him.

But he did not.

He gazed down at the body and smiled.

“They won’t abandon you, my son. No matter how much you try to persuade them otherwise. Because of you, Alfred will lead me to the Seventh Gate!”

Xar touched the sigil on his own forehead, the rune-mark he had drawn, destroyed, then redrawn on Marit’s forehead. Once again, they were joined. Once again, he could share her thoughts, hear her words. Except that this time, provided he was careful, she wouldn’t be conscious of his presence.

Xar left the dungeons, began his pursuit.

No sigla lit their path. Alfred guessed this was a result of the confusion in his own mind—he couldn’t decide where he wanted to go. And then he considered that it might be safer to travel without guidance. If he didn’t know where he was going, no one else would, either. Or such was his rather confused logic.

He spoke a sigil, caused it to burn softly in the air in front of him, giving them light enough to walk by. They stumbled on, as fast as they could, until Marit could go no farther.

She was very ill. He could feel the poison’s heat on her skin. Her body shook with chills; pain gripped her, twisted her. She’d fought gamely to keep up, but the last few hundred paces or so, he’d been forced to almost carry her. Now her body was dead weight. His arms were trembling and limp with fatigue. He let go of her. She sagged to the floor.

Alfred knelt down beside her. The dog whined, nosed her limp hand.

“Give me time ... to heal myself.” She gasped for breath.

“I can help you.” Alfred hovered over her, peering at her in the darkness. The sigla on her skin barely glimmered.

“No. Keep watch,” she ordered. “Your magic won’t stop Xar ... for long.”

She hunched into a ball, bringing her knees to her chin, resting her head on her knees. Wrapping her arms around her body, she closed her eyes, closed the circle of her being. The sigla on her arms glowed more warmly. Her chills and shivering ceased. She huddled in the darkness, enveloped in warmth.

Alfred watched anxiously. Generally a healing sleep was required to make Patryns perfectly well. He wondered if she had fallen asleep, wondered what he would do if she did. He was very tempted to let her rest. He’d seen no sign that Xar was following them.

Timidly, he reached out his hand to smooth back the damp hair from her forehead. And he saw, suddenly, with a pang of fear, that the sigil Xar had marked on her forehead, the sigil joining the two together, was once more whole. Swiftly, Alfred snatched his hand away.

“What?” Startled at his chill touch, Marit lifted her head. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing,” Alfred stammered. “I ... thought you might want to sleep . . .”

“Sleep? Are you crazy?”

Refusing his help, Marit rose slowly to her feet.

She was no longer feverish, but the marks on her throat were still plainly visible—black slashes, cutting through the rune-light. She gingerly touched the wounds, winced, as if they burned. “Where are we going?”

“Out of here!” Haplo ordered peremptorily. “Off of Abarrach. Go back through Death’s Gate.”

Alfred looked at the dog, didn’t know quite how to respond.

Marit saw his glance, understood. She shook her head.

“I won’t leave Haplo.”

“My dear, there’s nothing we can do for him . . .”

Alfred’s lie trailed into silence. There was something he could do. Kleitus had spoken the truth. Alfred had, by this time, given a lot of thought to the Seventh Gate. He had gone over all that he’d heard about it from Orlah, who had described to him how Samah and the Council used the magic of the Seventh Gate to sunder the world. Alfred had also delved deep in his own memory, recalling passages he’d read in the books of the Sartan. From his research, he guessed that, once inside, he could use the Gate’s powerful magic to work wonders beyond belief. He could restore Haplo to life. He could grant Hugh the Hand peace in death. He could, perhaps, even come to the aid of those fighting for their lives in the Labyrinth.

But the Seventh Gate was the one place in the four worlds where Alfred dared not go. Not with Xar watching, waiting for him to do that very thing.

The dog pattered nervously back and forth, up and down the corridor.

“Get yourself out of here, Sartan!” Haplo told Alfred, reading his thoughts as usual. “You’re the one Xar wants.”

“But I can’t leave you,” Alfred protested.

“You’re not.” Marit gave him a puzzled look. “No one ever said you were.”

“All right, then.” Haplo was talking at the same moment. “Don’t leave me. Take the damn dog with you! So long as the dog is safe, Xar can’t do anything to me.”

Alfred, listening to two voices speaking simultaneously, opened and shut his mouth in hopeless confusion.

“The dog . . .” he murmured, attempting to grasp one solid point in the strange conversation.

“You and Marit take the dog to a world where it will be safe,” Haplo repeated, patiently, insistently. “Where Xar can’t possibly find it. Pryan, maybe . . .”

The suggestion sounded good, made sense—take the dog and themselves out of harm’s way. But something about it wasn’t quite right. Alfred knew that if he could only take the time to stop and think about the matter long and hard, he’d discover what was wrong with it. But between fear, confusion, and amazement at being able to communicate with Haplo at all, Alfred was completely befuddled.

Marit leaned against the wall, her eyes closed. Her magic was too much weakened by her injury to sustain her, apparently. She was once more shivering, in obvious pain. The dog crouched at her feet, gazed up at her forlornly.

“If she doesn’t heal herself——or if you don’t heal her, Sartan—she’s going to die!” Haplo said urgently.

“Yes, you’re right.”

Alfred made up his mind. He put his arm around Marit, who stiffened at his touch but then went limp against him.

A very bad sign.

“Who are you talking to?” she murmured.

“Never mind,” Alfred said quietly. “Come along . . .”

Marit’s eyes opened wide. For an instant, strength suffused her body, hope eased her suffering. “Haplo! You’re talking to Haplo! How is that possible?”

“We shared consciousness once. In Death’s Gate. Our minds exchanged bodies ... At least”—Alfred sighed—“that’s the only explanation I can think of.”

Marit was silent long moments; then she said in a low voice, “We could go to the Seventh Gate now. While my lord is still imprisoned by your magic.”

Alfred hesitated. And, as the thought came into his mind, the sigla on the wall suddenly flared to life, lit up a corridor previously dark. So dark, they had never, before now, suspected its existence.

“That’s it,” Marit said, awed. “That’s the way . . .”

Alfred gulped, excited, tempted . . . afraid.

But then, when in his life hadn’t he been afraid?

“Don’t go!” Haplo warned. “I don’t like this. Xar must have unraveled your spell by now.”

Alfred blenched. “Do you know where he is? Can you see him?”

“What I see, I see through the dog’s eyes. So long as the mutt’s with you, I’m with you, for all the good that’s likely to do any of us. Forget the Seventh Gate. Get off of Abarrach while you still have a chance.”

“Alfred, please!” Marit begged. She pushed away from him, tried to stand on her own. “Look, I’m well enough—”

The dog barked sharply, leapt to its feet.

Alfred’s heart lurched.

“I don’t . . . Haplo’s right. Xar is searching for us. We’ve got to leave Abarrach! We’ll take the dog with us,” Alfred said to Marit, who was glaring at him, the glow of the runes bright in her feverish eyes. “We’ll go someplace where we can rest and you can heal yourself. Then we’ll come back. I promise—”

Marit shoved him out of her way, prepared to go around him, over him, through him, if necessary. “If you won’t take me to the Seventh Gate, I’ll find—”

Her words were cut off. A spasm shook her body. She clutched at her throat, fighting to breathe. Doubling over, she fell to her hands and knees.

“Marit!” Alfred gathered her into his arms. “You have to save yourself before you can save Haplo.”

“Very well,” she whispered, half choked. “But . . . we’re coming back for him.”

“I promise,” Alfred said, no doubt at all remaining in him. “We’ll go to the ship.”

The sigla lighting the way to the Seventh Gate flickered and died.

Alfred began to sing the runes, softly, sonorously. Sparkling, shimmering runes enveloped him, Marit, and the dog. He continued to sing the runes, the runes that would stretch forth into the possibility that they were safely on board the ship . . .

And within a heartbeat, Alfred and Marit and the dog were standing on the deck.

And there, waiting for them, was Lord Xar.