Serpent Mage

2

Alfred awoke, a frightful yell ringing in his ears. He lay perfectly still, terrified, listening with fast-beating heart and sweaty palms and squinched-shut eyelids for the yell to be repeated. After long moments of profound silence, Alfred came at last to the rather confused confusion that the yell must have been his own.

“Death’s Gate. I fell through Death’s Gate! Or rather,” he amended, shivering at the thought, “I was pushed through Death’s Gate.” If I were you, I wouldn’t be around when I woke up, Haplo had warned him , . .

. . . Haplo had fallen asleep, fallen into one of the healing sleeps vitally necessary to those of his race. Alfred sat in the lurching ship, alone except for the dog, who lay protectively near its master. Alfred, looking around, realized how alone he was. He was terrified, and he tried to combat his fear by creeping nearer Haplo, seeking company, even if it was unconscious. Alfred settled himself beside Haplo, occupied himself by studying the Patryn’s stern face. He noticed that it did not relax in repose, but retained its grim, forbidding expression, as though nothing, not sleep, perhaps not even death, could bring perfect peace to the man.

Moved by compassion, by pity, Alfred stretched out a hand to smooth back a lock of hair that fell forward over the implacable face.

The dog raised its head, growled menacingly.

Alfred snatched his hand back. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” The dog, knowing Alfred, appeared to accept this as a plausible excuse. It settled back down.

Alfred heaved a tremendous sigh, glanced nervously around the lurching ship. He caught a glimpse through the window of the fiery world of Abarrach falling away from them in a confused swirl of smoke and flame. Ahead, he saw the rapidly approaching black hole that was Death’s Gate.

“Oh, dear,” Alfred murmured, shrinking. If he was going to leave, he had better get going.

The dog had the same idea. It leapt to its feet, started to bark urgently.

“I know. It’s time,” Alfred said. “You gave me my life, Haplo. And it’s not that I’m ungrateful. But ... I’m too frightened. I don’t think I have the courage.”

Do you have the courage to stay? the dog seemed to ask in exasperation. Do you have the courage to face the Lord of the Nexus?

Haplo’s lord—a powerful Patryn wizard. No fainting spell would save Alfred from this terrible man. The lord would prod and probe and drag forth every secret the Sartan had in his being. Torture, torment, lasting for as long as the Sartan remained alive . . . and the lord was certain to ensure his prey lived a long, long time.

The threat must have been sufficient to drive Alfred to action. At least that’s what he supposed. He remembered finding himself standing on the upper deck, without the slightest notion how he had come to be there. The winds of magic and time whistled around him, grabbed disrespectfully at the wisps of hair on his balding head, set his coattails to flapping. Alfred gripped the rail with both hands and stared out, horribly fascinated, into Death’s Gate.

And he knew, then, that he could no more hurl himself bodily into that abyss than he could consciously end his own miserable and lonely existence.

“I’m a coward,” he said to the dog. Bored, it had followed him up on deck. Alfred smiled wanly, looked down at his hands, clinging to the rail with a white-knuckled grip. “I don’t think I could pry myself loose. I—” The dog suddenly went mad, or so it seemed. Snarling, teeth slashing, it leapt straight at him. Alfred wrenched his hands from the rail, flung them up in front of his face, an instinctive, involuntary act of protection. The dog struck him hard on the chest, knocked him over the side. . . . What had happened after that? Alfred couldn’t remember, except that it was all very confused and all extremely horrible. He had a vivid impression of falling ... of falling through a hole that seemed far too small for a gnat to enter and yet was large enough to swallow the winged dragonship whole. He remembered falling into brightly lit darkness, of being deafened by a roaring silence, of tumbling head over heels while not moving.

And then, reaching the top, he’d hit bottom.

And that’s where he was now, or so he supposed.

He considered opening his eyes, decided against it. He had absolutely no desire to see his surroundings. Wherever he was, it was bound to be awful. He rather hoped that he would lose himself in sleep, and if he was lucky, he wouldn’t find himself again.

Unfortunately, as is generally the case, the more he tried to go back to sleep, the wider awake he woke. Bright light shone through his closed eyelids. He became aware of a hard, flat, cool surface beneath him; of various aches and pains in his body that indicated he’d been lying here for some time; of being cold and thirsty and hungry.

No telling where he’d landed. Death’s Gate led to each of the four worlds created magically by the Sartan following the Sundering. It led also to the Nexus, the beautiful twilight land meant to hold the “rehabilitated” Patryns after their release from the Labyrinth. Perhaps he was there. Perhaps he was back on Arianus. Perhaps he hadn’t really gone anywhere! Perhaps he’d open his eyes and find the dog, grinning at him.

Alfred clamped his eyes tightly shut; his facial muscles ached from the strain. But either curiosity or the stabbing pain shooting through his lower back got the better of him. Groaning, he opened his eyes, sat up, and looked nervously around.

He could have wept for relief.

He was in a large room, circular, lit by lovely, soft white light that emanated from the marble walls. The floor beneath him was marble, inlaid with runes—sigla he knew and recognized. The ceiling arched comfortingly overhead, a dome supported by delicate columns. Embedded in the walls of the room were row after row of crystal chambers, chambers meant to hold people in stasis, chambers that had, tragically, become coffins.

Alfred knew where he was—the mausoleum on Arianus. He was home. And, he decided at once, he would never leave. He would stay in this underground world forever. Here he was safe. No one knew about this place, except for one mensch, a dwarf named Jarre, and she had no means of finding her way back. No one could ever find it now, protected as it was by powerful Sartan magic. The war between the elves and dwarves and humans could rage on Arianus and he would not be part of it. Iridal could search for her changeling son and he would not help. The dead could walk on Abarrach and he would turn his back on all except the familiar, the silent blessed dead that were his companions once more.

After all, one man, alone, what can I do? he asked himself wistfully. Nothing.

What can I be expected to do?

Nothing.

Who could possibly expect me to do it?

No one.

Alfred repeated that to himself. “No one.” He recalled the wonderful, awful experience on Abarrach when he had seemed to know with certainty that some sort of higher power for good was present in the universe, to know that he wasn’t alone, as he had supposed all these years.

But the knowledge, his certainty, had faded, died with young Jonathan, who had been destroyed by the dead and the lazar of Abarrach.

“I must have imagined it,” said Alfred sadly. “Or perhaps Haplo was right. Perhaps I created that vision we all experienced and didn’t know I created it. Like my fainting, or like casting that spell that took the magical life from the dead. And, if that’s true, then what Haplo said was true as well. I led poor Jonathan to his death. Deceived by false visions, false promises, he sacrificed himself for nothing.”

Alfred bowed his head into his trembling hands, his thin shoulders slumped.

“Everywhere I go, disaster follows. And therefore, I won’t go anywhere. I won’t do anything. I’ll stay here. Safe, protected, surrounded by those I once loved.”

He couldn’t, however, spend the remainder of his life on the floor. There were other rooms, other places to go. The Sartan had once lived down here. Shaking, stiff, and sore, he endeavored to stand up. His feet and legs appeared to have other ideas, resented being forced back to work. They crumbled beneath him. He fell, persisted in trying to stand, and, after a moment, managed to do so. Once he was finally upright, his feet seemed inclined to wander off one way when he actually had it in mind to go the opposite.

Finally, all his body parts more or less in agreement as to the general direction he was headed, Alfred propelled himself toward the crystal coffins, to bid fond greeting to those he had left far too long. The bodies in the coffins would never return his greeting, never speak words of welcome to him. Their eyes would never open to gaze at him with friendly pleasure. But he was comforted by their presence, by their peace.

Comforted and envious.

Necromancy. The thought flitted across his mind, skittering like a bat. You could bring them back to life.

But the dread shadow lay over him only momentarily. He wasn’t tempted. He had seen the dire consequences of necromancy on Abarrach. And he had the terrible feeling that these friends of his had died because of the necromancy, their life-force stolen from them, given to those who, he now suspected, didn’t want it.

Alfred went straight to one coffin, one he knew well. In it lay the woman he loved. He needed, after the horrible sights of the restless dead on Abarrach, to see her calm and peaceful sleep. He placed his hands on the outside of the crystal window behind which she lay and, fondly, tears in his eyes, pressed his forehead against the glass.

Something was wrong.

Admittedly, his vision was blurred by his tears. He couldn’t see well. Hastily, Alfred blinked, rubbed his hands over his eyes. He stared, fell back, startled, shocked.

No, it couldn’t be. He was overwrought, he’d made a mistake. Slowly he crept back, peered inside the coffin.

Inside was the body of a Sartan female, but it wasn’t Lya!

Alfred shivered from head to toe.

“Calm down!” he counseled. “You’re standing in the wrong place. You’ve gotten turned around by that terrible trip through Death’s Gate. You’ve made a mistake. You’ve looked into the wrong crystal chamber. Go back and start over.”

He turned around and tottered once more to the center of the room, barely able to stand, his knees as weak as wet flax. From this distance, he carefully counted the rows of crystal chambers, counted them up, then counted them across. Telling himself that he’d been a row too far over, he crept back, ignoring the voice that was telling him he’d been in exactly the right place all along.

He kept his gaze averted, refusing to look until he was near, in case his eyes might play another trick on him. Once arrived, he shut his eyes and then opened them swiftly, as if hoping to catch something in the act. The strange woman was still there.

Alfred gasped, shuddered, leaned heavily against the crystal chamber. What was happening? Was he going insane?

“It’s quite likely,” he said. “After all I’ve been through. Perhaps Lya was never there at all. Perhaps I only willed her to be there and now, after all this time away, I can’t call her to mind.”

He looked again, but if his mind was truly behaving irrationally, it was doing it in a most rational manner. The woman was older than Lya, close to Alfred’s age, he guessed. Her hair was completely white; her face—a handsome face, he thought, gazing at it in sorrowful confusion—had lost the elasticity and smooth beauty of youth. But she had gained, in exchange, the becoming gravity and purpose of middle age.

Her expression was solemn and grave, yet softened by lines around that mouth that seemed to indicate a warm and generous smile had graced her lips. A line down the center of her forehead, barely visible beneath the soft folds of her hair, indicated that her life had not been easy, that she had pondered much, thought long and hard about many things. And there was a sadness about her. The smile that touched the lips had not touched them often. Alfred felt a deep hunger and an aching unhappiness. Here was someone he could have talked to, someone who would have understood.

But . . . what was she doing here?

“Lie down. I must lie down.”

Blindly, his vision clouded by his confused thoughts, Alfred stumbled and groped his way along the wall that held many crystal chambers until he came to his own. He would return to it, lie down, sleep ... or maybe wake up. He might be dreaming. He—

“Blessed Sartan!” Alfred fell back with a hoarse cry. Someone was in it! His chamber! A man of early middle years, with a strong, cold, handsome face; strong hands stretched out at his side.

“I am mad!” Alfred clutched at his head. “This . . . this is impossible.” He stumbled back to stare at the woman who was not Lya. “I’ll shut my eyes and when I open them, all will be well again.”

But he didn’t shut his eyes. Not trusting himself to believe what he thought he’d seen, he looked fixedly at the woman. Her hands were folded across her breast—

The hands. The hands moved! They rose . . . fell! She had drawn a breath. He watched closely for long moments; the magical stasis in which they lay slowed breathing. The hands rose and fell again. And now that Alfred was over his initial shock, he could see the faint flush of blood in the woman’s cheeks, a flush that he would never see in Lya’s.

“This woman’s . . . alive!” Alfred whispered.

He staggered across to the crystal chamber that had been his own, but was now another’s, and stared inside it. The man’s clothing—a plain, simple, white robe—stirred. Eyeballs beneath closed lids moved; a finger twitched. Feverishly, his mind overwhelmed, his heart almost bursting with joy, Alfred ran from one crystal chamber to another, staring inside each. There could be no doubt. Every one of these Sartan was alive!

Exhausted, his mind reeling, Alfred returned to the center of the mausoleum and tried to unravel the tangled skein of his thoughts. It was impossible. He couldn’t find the end of the thread, couldn’t find the beginning. His friends in the mausoleum had been dead for many, many years. Time and again he’d left them, time and again he’d returned, and nothing had ever changed. When he’d first realized that he and he alone, out of all the Sartan on Arianus, had survived, he’d refused to believe it. He’d played a game with himself, told himself that this time, when he came back, he’d find them alive. But he never had, and soon the game became so exceedingly painful that he’d quit playing it.

But now the game was back on and, what’s more, he’d won!

Admittedly these Sartan were strangers, every one of them. He had no idea how they came to be here, or why, or what had happened to those he’d left behind. But these people were Sartan and they were alive!

Unless, of course, he was truly insane.

There was one way to find out. Alfred hesitated, not certain he wanted to know.

“Remember what you said about retreating from the world? About no longer getting involved in other people’s lives? You could leave, walk out of this chamber without looking back.”

“But where would I go?” he asked himself helplessly. “This is my home, if anyplace to me is home.”

Curiosity, if nothing else, propelled him to act.

Alfred began to chant the runes, singing them in a high-pitched nasal voice. As he chanted, his body swayed and he moved his hands in time to his rhythm. Then, lifting his hands, he traced the sigla in the air and, at the same time, formed their intricate patterns with his feet.

The body that was so incredibly clumsy when left on its own filled with magic and Alfred became, for an instant, beautiful. Grace flowed through every limb, radiance touched his sad face, bliss lit his smile. He gave himself to the magic, danced with it, sang to it, embraced it. Round and round the mausoleum he solemnly whirled, coattails flying, frayed lace fluttering. One by one, crystal doors opened. One by one, those in the chamber drew their first breaths of air of an outside world. One by one, heads turned, eyes opened, gazing in wonder or confusion, loath to leave the sweet dreams that had entertained them.

Alfred, lost in the magic, noticed nothing. He continued his dance, weaving gracefully back and forth across the marble floor, feet moving in prescribed patterns. When the magical spell was cast, the dance coming to its end, he moved slower and slower, continuing the same graceful gestures, but smaller in scope. At last, he ceased to dance and, lifting his head, gazed about him, far more bewildered than those who had just risen from their dreams. Several hundred men and women, all clad in soft white robes, had gathered in silence around Alfred, politely waiting for him to complete his magic before disturbing him. He came to a halt and they waited another respectful moment, to give him time to let go of the bliss and return to reality, tantamount to falling into an ice-cold lake.

A man, the same Sartan who had been in Alfred’s crystal chamber, stepped forward. He was obviously the acknowledged spokesman of the group, for the others gave way deferentially, regarded him with trust and respect. He was, as Alfred had seen already, a man in early midlife, and it was easy to see, from his appearance, how the mensch had once mistaken the Sartan for gods. His face was cast in strong lines; intelligence molded the features and lit the brown eyes. His hair was trimmed short and curled over his forehead in a fashion that was familiar to Alfred, yet he couldn’t quite recall where he’d seen it.

The strange Sartan moved with a casual grace the clumsy Alfred envied.

“I am Samah,” said the man in a voice that was rich and mellow. He bowed in respectful greeting, an old-fashioned, courtly gesture that had gone out of style long before Alfred’s childhood, but had been occasionally practiced among the elder Sartan.

Alfred made no response. He could do nothing except stare, transfixed. The man had given his Sartan name![5] This either meant that Samah trusted Alfred—a stranger, an unknown—as a brother or that he was so supremely secure in his own magical prowess he had no need to fear another gaining ascendancy over him. Alfred concluded the reason must be the latter. The man’s power radiated from him, warming the wretched Alfred like the sun on a winter’s day. In ages past, Alfred would have given this man his own Sartan name without a thought, knowing that any influence such a man as this must have over him could only be good. But that had been an Alfred of innocence, an Alfred who had not seen the bodies of his friends and family stretched out in their crystal coffins, an Alfred who had not seen Sartan practicing the forbidden black art of necromancy. He longed to trust them, he would have given his very life to trust them.

“My name is ... Alfred,” he said, with an awkward bob.

“That is not a Sartan name,” said Samah, frowning.

“No,” Alfred agreed meekly.

“It is a mensch name. But you are a Sartan, are you not? You are not a mensch?”

“Yes, I am. That is, no, I’m not,” Alfred floundered, rattled. The Sartan language, as the Patryn language, being magic, has the ability to conjure up images of the worlds and environment of the speaker. Alfred had just witnessed, in Samah’s words, a realm of extraordinary beauty, a realm made entirely of water, its sun shining in its center. A world of smaller worlds—landmasses encased in bubbles of air, landmasses that were themselves magically alive though now they slept, drifting in their dreams around the sun. He saw a Sartan city, his people working, fighting . . . Fighting. War. Battle. Savage monsters crawling from the deep, wreaking havoc, bringing death. The vastly conflicting images came together with a crash in Alfred’s head, nearly depriving him of his senses.

“I am head of the Council of Seven,” began Samah. Alfred gaped; the breath left his body as completely as if he’d been knocked flat on the floor.

Samah. Council of Seven. It couldn’t be possible. . . .

It occurred to Alfred, eventually, by the man’s frown, that he was asking a question.

“I—I beg your pardon?” Alfred stammered.

The rest of the Sartan, who had been standing in respectful silence, murmured, exchanged glances. Samah looked around, quieted them without speaking a word.

“I was saying, Alfred"—Samah’s tone was kind, patient. It made Alfred want to burst into tears—“that, as head of the Council, I have the right and the duty to ask questions of you, not from mere idle curiosity, but, considering these times of crises, out of necessity. Where are the rest of our brethren?” He glanced about eagerly.

“I ... I am alone,” Alfred said, and the word alone conjured up images that made Samah and all the rest of the Sartan stare at him in sudden, aching silence.

“Has something gone wrong?” Samah asked at last.

Yes! Alfred wanted to cry. Something has gone dreadfully wrong! But he could only stare at the Sartan in dismayed confusion, the truth thundering around him like the fearsome storm that rages perpetually on Arianus.

“I ... I’m not on Arianus, am I?” Alfred squeezed the words out of the tight feeling in his chest.

“No. What put such an idea into your head? You are on the world of Chelestra, of course,” said Samah sternly, his patience starting to wear thin.

“Oh, dear,” said Alfred faintly, and in a graceful, spiraling motion, he slid gently and unconsciously to the floor.