The Seventh Gate

25

The chamber known as the Seventh Gate was crowded with Sartan. The Council of Seven sat around the table; all others stood. Alfred was shoved against a wall near the back, near one of the seven doors. The doors themselves and a series of seven squares on the floor in front of each were left clear.

The faces so near his were strained, pale, haggard. It was, Alfred thought, like seeing himself in a mirror. He must look exactly the same, for he felt exactly the same. Only Samah—seen occasionally when there was a shift in the numbers of people who surrounded him—appeared master of himself and the situation. Stern and implacable, he was the dire force holding them all together.

If his will falters, the rest of us will crumble like moldy cheese.

Alfred shifted from one foot to the other, trying to ease the discomfort of standing for such an interminably long period. He was not normally claustrophobic, but the tension, the fear, the crowded conditions were creating the impression that the walls were about to close in on him. It was hard to breathe. The room suddenly seemed a vacuum.

He pressed back against the wall, wishing it would give way behind him. He had wonderful, wild visions of the marble blocks collapsing, the fresh air flowing inside, the vast expanse of blue sky opening above him. He would flee this place, flee Samah and the Council guards, escape back into the world, instead of away from it.

“Brethren.” Samah rose to his feet. The entire Council was now standing. “It is time. Prepare yourselves to cast the magic.”

Alfred could see Orlah now. She was pale, but composed. He knew her reluctance, knew how vehemently she had fought this decision. She could. She was Samah’s wife. He would never cast her into the prison along with their enemies, not as he had done some of the others.

The Sartan stood with heads bowed, hands folded, eyes closed. They had begun sinking into the relaxed, meditative state required to summon such vast magical power as Samah and the Council were demanding.

Alfred endeavored to do the same, but his thoughts refused to focus, went dashing about desperately, running hither and yon with no escape, like mice trapped in a box with a cat.

“You seem unable to concentrate, Brother,” said a low, calm voice, very near Alfred.

Startled, Alfred looked for the voice’s source, saw a man leaning on the wall beside him. The man was young, but beyond that it was difficult to tell much about him. His head was covered by the cowl of his robe and his hands were swathed in bandages.

Bandages. Alfred stared at the white linen wrappings covering the man’s hands, wrists, and forearms, and was filled with a vague sense of dread.

The young man turned to him and smiled—a quiet smile.

“The Sartan will come to regret this day, Brother.” His voice changed, grew bitter. “Not that their regret will ease the suffering of the innocent victims. But at least, before the end, the Sartan will come to understand the enormity of what they have done. If that is of any comfort to you.”

“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.