The Seventh Gate

28

“You see what is happening?” said Haplo.

Alfred shook his head. “It is hopeless. We will never learn. Our people will destroy each other . . .” His shoulders slumped in despair.

Haplo rested a hand on his arm. “It may not be that bad, my friend. If your people and mine can find a way to meet in peace, they will see the evil of the serpents. The dragon-snakes can’t keep playing one side off the other if both sides stand together. We have people like Marit and Balthazar and Vasu . . . They are our hope. But the Gate must be closed!”

“Yes.” Alfred lifted his head, a tinge of color in his gray cheeks. He stared at the door, the door marked Death’s Gate. “Yes, you’re right. The Gate must be shut and sealed. At least we can contain the evil, keep it from spreading.”

“Can you do it?”

Alfred flushed. “Yes, I believe I can. The spell is not all that difficult. It involves, you see, the possibility that—”

“No need to explain,” Haplo interrupted. “No time.”

“Oh, urn, yes.” Alfred blinked. Approaching the door, he eyed it wistfully, sadly. “If only this had never come to be. I’m not sure, you know, what will happen when the Gate is shut.” He waved his hand. “To this chamber, I mean. There exists the possibility that . . . that it could be destroyed.”

“And us with it,” Haplo said quietly.

Alfred nodded.

“Then I guess that’s a risk we’ll have to take.”

Alfred looked back into the door leading to the Labyrinth. The serpents twined about the ruins of the Nexus, their huge bodies roiling over the blackened stones and broken, charred beams. Red eyes glinted. He could hear their laughter.

“Yes,” Alfred said softly, exhaling an indrawn breath. “And now—”

“Wait a minute!” Hugh the Hand was standing near the door through which they’d entered. “I’ve got a question. This involves me as well,” he added harshly.

“Of course, Sir Hugh,” Alfred said, flustered, apologizing. “Please forgive . . . I’m sorry ... I wasn’t thinking—”

Hugh the Hand made an impatient gesture, cut off Alfred’s rambling.

“Once you shut the Gate, what will happen to the four mensch worlds?”

“I’ve been considering that,” Alfred pondered. “From my earlier studies, I think it highly possible that the conduits which connect each world to the other will continue working, even though the Gate is shut. Thus the Kicksey-winsey on Arianus will still send energy to the citadels on Pryan, which will beam energy to the conduits on Abarrach, which will in turn send—”

“So all the worlds would continue to function.”

“I’m not certain, of course, but the probability is such that—”

“But no one could travel between them.”

“No. Of that, I am certain,” Alfred said gravely. “Once Death’s Gate is shut, the only way to go from world to world would be to fly through space. Which is—given the mensch’s present state of magical development—the only way they could have traveled from one world to another anyway. So far as we know, the child Bane was the only mensch ever to enter Death’s Gate, and he did so only—”

A sharp nudge from an elbow caught Alfred in the ribs.

“I want to talk to you for a moment.” Haplo motioned Alfred over to stand near the table.

“Certainly,” Alfred replied, “just after I finish explaining to Hugh—”

“Now,” Haplo said. “Don’t you find that an odd question?” he asked beneath his breath.

“Why, no,” Alfred said, defending a brilliant pupil. “In fact, I thought it quite a good one. If you remember, you and I discussed this on Arianus.”

“Exactly,” said Haplo beneath his breath, looking at Hugh the Hand through narrowed eyes. “We discussed it. What’s it to an assassin from Arianus whether or not the mensch on Pryan can go visit their cousins on Chelestra? Why should he care?”

“I don’t understand.” Alfred was puzzled.

Haplo was silent, eyeing Hugh the Hand. He had shoved open one of the doors, was peering through it. Haplo saw, in the distance, the floating continent of Drevlin. Once shrouded in storm clouds, Drevlin now basked in sunshine. Light glinted and flashed off the gold and silver and brass parts of the fabulous Kicksey-winsey.

“I’m not sure I understand, either,” Haplo said at last. “But I think you’d better cut short the academics, get on with your magic.”

“Very well,” Alfred replied, troubled. “But I’ll have to go back in time.”

“Back? Back where?”

“Back to the Sundering.” Alfred looked down at the white table, shivered. “I don’t want to, but it’s the only way. I must know how Samah cast the spell.”

“Do it, then,” Haplo said. “But don’t forget to return. And don’t get yourself sundered in the process.”

Alfred smiled wanly. “No,” he said, blushing. “No, I’ll be careful . . .”

Slowly, reluctantly, fingers trembling, he placed his hands on the white table . . .

. . . Chaos swirled around him. Alfred stood, terrified, in the center of a storm of magic. Howling winds buffeted him, slammed him back against the wall, breaking his bones. Crashing waves washed over him. He was drowning, suffocating. Lightning flared, crackled, blinded; thunder rumbled in his head. Flames roared, burned, consumed his flesh. He was sobbing in fear and in pain; he was dying.

“A single drop, though it falls into an ocean, will yet cause a ripple. I need all of you! Don’t give up. The magic!” Samah was shouting to be heard over the tumult. “Use the magic or none of us will survive!”

The magic drifted toward Alfred like a bit of flotsam on a storm-tossed sea. He saw hands reaching out for it, saw some grasp it, saw others miss and disappear. He made a desperate grab.

His fingers closed over something solid. The noise and terror subsided for an instant, and he saw the world—whole, beautiful, shining blue-green in the blackness of space. He must break the world, or the power of the chaotic magic would break him.

“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.