The Seventh Gate

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.

“Those four doors”—Alfred pointed—“the ones that are slightly ajar, each lead to the four worlds. The door over there leads to the Labyrinth. That door—the one that is shut—must go to the Vortex, which, if you’ll remember, collapsed, and that door”—the pointing finger shook slightly—“that door, the one that’s wide open, leads to Death’s Gate.”

Haplo grunted. “I told you to stay away from that damn table. That door doesn’t lead anywhere except out into the hall. In case you’ve forgotten, my friend, that was the door we went through last time we were in here. Although, as I recall, you shut it when we left. Or rather, it almost shut you.”

“But that was in Abarrach,” Alfred argued. He looked around helplessly, the knowledge suddenly terrifying. “We’re not in the Chamber of the Damned. We’re not on Abarrach. We are inside the Seventh Gate.”

Haplo frowned, skeptical.

“You’re here,” Alfred said. “How did you get here?”

Haplo shrugged again. “I woke up, half frozen, in a prison cell. I was alone. No one was around. I walked out into the corridor and saw the blue runes shining on the wall, I followed them. Then I heard your voice, chanting. The warding runes let me pass. I came down here, found the door open. I walked inside. You were sitting at that damn table, whimpering and apologizing ... as usual.”

Perplexed, Alfred looked at Jonathon. “Are we on Abarrach still? I don’t understand.”

“Because you went to the Seventh Gate, you found the Seventh Gate. You are now in the Seventh Gate.”

“. . . Seventh Gate . . .” said the echo and it had a joyous sound.

“That door”—Jonathon glanced in the direction of the door with the sigil marking it as Death’s Gate—“has stood open all these centuries. To close Death’s Gate, that is the door you must shut.”

The enormity of the task overwhelmed Alfred. It had taken the Council of Seven, and hundreds of other powerful Sartan, to create and open that door. To shut it—only him.

“Then how did I get here?” Haplo demanded, obviously still not believing. “I didn’t use any magic—”

“Not magic,” Jonathon replied. “Knowledge. Self-knowledge. That is the key to the Seventh Gate. If my people, who found this place long ago, had truly known themselves, they could have discovered its power. They came close. But not close enough. They could not let go.”

“. . . let go . . .”

“I need proof. Open a door,” said Haplo. “Not that one!” He purposefully avoided going near the door that already stood ajar. “Open another door, one that’s closed. Let’s see what’s out there.”

“Which door?” Alfred asked, gulping.

Haplo was silent a moment, then said, “The one that you claim leads to the Labyrinth.”

Alfred slowly nodded. He thought back to the Chamber as he had seen it just before the Sundering. He saw again the door with the fiery red sigil.

He located the correct door. Edging his way around the table—careful not to touch the runes on the white wood—he came to stand before the door.

He reached out his hand, gently touched the sigil etched into the marble. He began to sing, very softly; then his song grew stronger. He traced over the sigil with his fingers and the sigil flared to life, glowed red.

The song caught in Alfred’s throat. He coughed, swallowed, tried to continue singing, though now the song was cracked and off-key. He pushed on the door.

The door swung silently open.

And they were inside the Labyrinth.