The Hand of Chaos

4

The journey through Death’s Gate is a terrible one—a frightening collision of contradictions slamming into the consciousness with such force that the mind blacks out. Haplo had once attempted to remain conscious during the journey[11]; he still shuddered when he recalled that frightful experience. Unable to find refuge in oblivion, his mind had jumped into another body, the nearest body—that of Alfred. He and the Sartan had exchanged consciousness, relived each other’s most profound life experiences.

Each had learned something about the other then; neither could quite view the other the same as before. Haplo knew what it was like to believe yourself to be the last member of your race, alone in a world of strangers. Alfred knew what it was like to be a prisoner in the Labyrinth.

“I guess Alfred knows firsthand now,” Haplo said, settling down beside the dog, prepared to sleep as he always did now before entering Death’s Gate.

“Poor bastard. I doubt if he’s still alive. He and the woman he took with him. What was her name? Orla? Yes, that was it. Orla.”

The dog whimpered at the mention of Alfred’s name, laid its head in Haplo’s lap. He scratched the dog’s jowls. “I guess the best to hope for Alfred would be a quick death.”

The dog sighed and gazed out the window with sad, hopefill eyes, as if expecting to see Alfred bumble his way back on board any moment.

Guided by the rune-magic, the ship left behind the waters of Chelestra, entered the huge pocket of air that surrounded Death’s Gate. Haplo roused himself from musings that weren’t offering either help or consolation, checked to make certain that the magic was working as it should, keeping his ship protected, holding it together, propelling it forward.

He was astounded to notice, however, that his magic was doing remarkably little. The sigla were inscribed on the inside of the ship, not the outside, as he’d always done before, but that should not make a difference. If anything, the runes should be working harder to compensate. The cabin should be lit with a bright blue and red light, but the interior was only suffused with a pleasant glow that had a faint purplish tinge.

Haplo fought down a brief moment of panicked doubt, carefully went over every rune structure inscribed on the interior of the small submersible. He found no flaw and he wouldn’t, he knew, because he’d gone over it twice previously. He hurried over to the window in the steerage, stared out. He could see Death’s Gate, a tiny hole that looked much too small for a ship of any size larger than a ...

He blinked, rubbed his eyes.

Death’s Gate had changed. Haplo couldn’t think why, couldn’t understand for a moment. Then he had the answer.

Death’s Gate was open.

It had not occurred to him that opening the Gate would make any difference. But it must, of course. The Sartan who designed the Gate in the beginning would have provided themselves with quick, easy access to the other three worlds. It was logical, and Haplo berated himself for being thickheaded, for not having thought of this before. He could probably have saved himself time and worry.

Or could he?

He frowned, considering. Entering Death’s Gate might be easier, but what would he do once he was inside? How was it controlled? Would his magic even work? Or would his ship come apart at the seams?

“You’ll have your answer soon enough,” he told himself. “You can’t very well go back.”

He controlled an urge to pace nervously about the small cabin, focused his attention on Death’s Gate.

The hole that had previously appeared too small for a gnat to pass through now loomed large. No longer dark and forbidding, the entrance was filled with light and color. Haplo couldn’t be certain, but he thought he caught glimpses of the other worlds. Quick impressions slid into his mind and then out, moving too rapidly for him to focus on any in particular, like images seen in a dream.

The steamy jungles of Pryan, the molten-rock rivers of Abarrach, the floating islands of Arianus passed swiftly before his eyes. He saw, too, the soft shimmering twilight of the Nexus. This faded and from it emerged the stark and terrifying wasteland of the Labyrinth. Then, very briefly—gone so fast that he wondered if he’d truly seen it—he caught a glimpse of another place, a strange place he didn’t recognize, a place of such peace and beauty mat his heart constricted with pain when the vision vanished.

Dazed, Haplo watched the images shift rapidly from one to the other, was reminded of an elven toy[12] he’d seen on Pryan. The images began to repeat themselves. Odd, he thought, wondering why. They went through his mind again, in the same order, and he finally understood.

He was being given a choice: destination. Where did he want to go?

Haplo knew where he wanted to go. He just wasn’t certain how to get there anymore. Before, the decision had been locked into his magic—he sorted through the possibilities and selected a site. The rune structure necessary to effect such a determination had been complex, extremely difficult to devise. His lord had spent innumerable hours studying the Sartan books[13] until he learned the key, then spent additional time translating the Sartan language into Patryn in order to teach it to Haplo. Now everything had changed. Haplo was sailing closer and closer to the Gate, his ship moving faster and faster, and he had no idea how to control it.

“Simplicity,” he told himself, fighting his rising panic. “The Sartan would have made it simple, easy to travel.”

The images flashed past his vision again, whirling faster and faster. He had the horrible sensation of falling, as one does in a dream. Pryan’s jungles, Arianus’s islands, Chelestra’s water, Abarrach’s lava—all spun around him, beneath him. He was tumbling into them, he couldn’t stop himself, Nexus twilight...

Desperately, Haplo latched onto that image, grabbed hold of it, clung to it in his mind. He thought of the Nexus, remembered it, summoned images of its twilight forests and ordered streets and people. He closed his eyes, to concentrate better, and to blot out the terrifying sight of spinning into chaos.

The dog began to yelp, not with warning, but with glad excitement and recognition.

Haplo opened his eyes. The ship was flying peacefully over a twilight land, illuminated by a sun that never quite rose, never quite set. He was home.

Haplo wasted no time. On landing his ship, he traveled directly to his lord’s dwelling place in the forest to give his report. He walked rapidly, abstracted, absorbed in his thoughts, paying very little attention to his surroundings. He was in the Nexus, a place that held no danger for him. He was considerably startled, therefore, to be roused out of his musings by the dog’s angry growl.

The Patryn glanced instinctively at the sigla on his skin, saw, to his surprise, that they gave off a faint blue glow.

Haplo writes: “We assumed that the Sartan left the books behind to taunt us, never thinking that we would have the patience or the desire to learn to read and make use of them. But now, knowing that Sartan were once in the Labyrinth, I wonder if we are wrong. Perhaps Xar was not the first one to escape the Labyrinth. Perhaps a Sartan emerged and left these books—not for us—but for those of his people he hoped would follow.”

Someone stood on the path before him.

Haplo quieted the dog with a hand on its head, a hand whose sigla were glowing brighter every moment. The runes tattooed on his skin itched and burned. Haplo waited, unmoving, on the path. No use hiding. Whatever was in the forest had already seen him and heard him. He would remain and find out what danger lurked so near his lord’s mansion, deal with it if necessary. The dog’s growl rumbled in its chest. Its legs stiffened, the hackles rose on the back of its neck. The shadowy figure came closer, not bothering to hide, but taking care to keep out of the few patches of light that filtered through open places amid the thick leaves. The figure had the form and height of a man, moved like a man. Yet it wasn’t a Patryn. Haplo’s defensive magic would have never reacted so to any of his own kind.

His puzzlement increased. The idea that a foe of any sort should exist in the Nexus was untenable. His first thought was Samah. Had the head of the Sartan Council entered Death’s Gate, found his way here? It was possible, though not very likely. This would be the last place Samah would come! Yet Haplo could think of no other possibility. The stranger drew nearer and Haplo saw, to his astonishment, that his fears had been groundless. The man was a Patryn. Haplo didn’t recognize him, but this was not unusual. Haplo had been gone a long while. His lord would have rescued many Patryns from the Labyrinth during the interim.

The stranger kept his gaze lowered, glancing at Haplo from beneath hooded eyelids. He nodded a stern, austere greeting—customary among Patryns, who are a solitary and undemonstrative people—and appeared likely to continue on his way without speaking. He was traveling the opposite direction from Haplo, heading away from the lord’s dwelling.

Ordinarily Haplo would have responded with a curt nod of his own and forgotten the stranger. But the sigla on his skin itched and crawled, nearly driving him frantic. The blue glow illuminated the shadows. The other Patryn’s tattoos had not altered in appearance, remained dark. Haplo stared at the stranger’s hands. There was something odd about those tattoos.

The stranger had drawn level with him. Haplo had hold of the dog, forced to drag the excited animal back or it would have gone for the man’s throat. Another oddity.

“Wait!” Haplo called out. “Wait, sir. I don’t know you, do I? How are you called? What is your Gate?”[14]

Haplo meant nothing by the question, was hardly aware of what he asked. He wanted only to get a closer look at the man’s hands and arms, the sigla tattooed on them.

“You are wrong. We have met,” said the stranger, in a hissing voice that was familiar.

Haplo couldn’t recall where he’d heard it and was now too preoccupied to think about it. The sigla on the man’s hands and arms were false; meaningless scrawls that not even a Patryn child would have drawn. Each individual sigil was correctly formed, but it did not match up properly to any other. The tattoos on the man’s arms should have been runes of power, of defense, of healing. Instead, they were mindless, a jumble. Haplo was suddenly reminded of the rune-bone game played by the Sartan on Abarrach, of the runes tossed at random on a table. This stranger’s runes had been tossed at random on his skin.

Haplo jumped forward, hands reaching, planning to seize the false Patryn, find out who or what was attempting to spy on diem.

His hands closed over air.

Overbalanced, Haplo stumbled, fell onto his hands and knees. He was up instantly, looking in all directions.

The false Patryn was nowhere in sight. He had vanished without a trace. Haplo glanced at the dog. The animal whimpered, shivered all over. Haplo felt like doing the same. He poked halfheartedly among the trees and brush lining the path, knowing he wouldn’t find anything, not certain he wanted to find anything.

Whatever it was, it was gone. The sigla on his arms were starting to fade, the burning sensation of warning cooled.

Haplo continued on his way, not wasting further time. The mysterious encounter gave him all the more reason to hurry. Obviously, the stranger’s appearance and the opening of Death’s Gate were not coincidence. Haplo knew now where he’d heard that voice, wondered how he could have ever forgotten. Perhaps he had wanted to forget.

At least now he could give the stranger a name.