The Seventh Gate

17

Balthazar remained silent during their walk, for which Alfred was extremely grateful. Having endeavored to extricate himself from one problem, he had—as usual—become embroiled in another. Now he had to find a way out of both. Try as he might, he could see no solution to either.

They walked on, the dog pattering watchfully behind. And then they came to the portion of the cavern in which the Sartan lived.

Alfred peered through the darkness. His worries about Haplo and Marit, his suspicions of Balthazar, were submerged beneath a wave of pity and shock. Fifty or so Sartan men, women, and a few—far too few—children were sheltered in this dismal cavern. The sight of them, their wretched plight, was heart-wrenching. Starvation had taken its terrible toll, but worse than physical deprivation, terror and fear and despair had left their souls as emaciated as their bodies.

Balthazar had done what he could to keep up their spirits, but he was near the end himself. Many of the Sartan had given up. They lay on the hard, cold floor of the cavern, doing nothing but staring into the darkness, as if beseeching it to come down and wrap around them.

Alfred knew such hopelessness well, knew where it could lead, for he himself had once walked that dread road. If it had not been for the coming of Haplo—and Haplo’s dog—Alfred might have followed the road to its bitter conclusion.

“This is what we live on,” Balthazar said, gesturing to a large sack. “Kairn-grass seed, meant to be used for planting, salvaged from Safe Harbor. We grind the seeds, mix them with water to make gruel. And this is the last sack. When it is gone . . .”

The necromancer shrugged.

What magical powers the Sartan had left were being used to simply stay alive, to breathe the poisonous air of Abarrach.

“Don’t worry,” said Alfred. “I will aid you. But first, I must heal Marit.”

“Certainly,” Balthazar said.

Marit lay on a pile of ragged blankets. Several Sartan women were tending her, doing what they could to make her comfortable. She’d been warmly covered, given water. (Alfred couldn’t help wondering at the apparent abundance of fresh water; the last time he’d been on Abarrach, water had been extremely scarce. He would have to remember to ask.)

Thanks to these ministrations, Marit had regained consciousness. She was quick to catch sight of Alfred. Weakly raising her hand, she reached out to him. He started to kneel beside her. Marit grabbed hold of him, nearly pulled him off-balance.

“What . . . where are we?” she asked through teeth clenched against the chills that shook her. “Who are these?”

“Sartan,” said Alfred, soothing her, trying to coax her to lie back down. “You are safe here. I’m going to heal you, then you need sleep.”

An expression of defiance hardened Marit’s face. Alfred was reminded of the time—another time—in Abarrach, when he’d healed Haplo, against his will.

“I can take care of myself,” Marit began, but her words were choked off. She couldn’t catch her breath.

Alfred took hold of her hands, her right in his left, her left in his right, completing, sharing the circle of their beings.

She attempted feebly to snatch her hand away, but Alfred was stronger now than she was. He held on to her tightly and began to sing the runes.

His warmth and strength flowed into Marit. Her pain and suffering and loneliness entered his. The circle wrapped around them, bound them together, and for just a brief instant, Haplo was included within it.

Alfred had a strange, eerie image of the three of them, floating on a wave of light and air and time, talking to each other.

“You have to leave Abarrach, Alfred,” Haplo said. “You and Marit. Go someplace safe, where Xar can’t find you.”

“But we can’t take the dog, can we?” Alfred argued. “Xar is right. The dog cannot pass through Death’s Gate. Not without you.”

She seemed surrounded by light, was beautiful in Alfred’s eyes. She leaned near Haplo, reached out her hand to him, but he couldn’t touch her. She couldn’t touch him. The wave carried them, supported them, but it also separated them.

“I lost you once, Haplo. I left you because I didn’t have the courage to love you. I have the courage now. I love you and I won’t lose you again. If the situation were reversed,” Marit continued, not letting him speak, “and I were the one lying back there on that stone bier, would you leave me? Then how can you think I am less strong than you are?”

Haplo’s voice faltered. “I don’t ask you to be less strong than I am. I ask you to be stronger. You must find the strength to leave me, Marit. Remember our people, fighting for their lives in the Labyrinth. Remember what will happen to them and to everyone in the four worlds if our lord succeeds in closing the Seventh Gate.”

“I can’t leave you,” Marit said.

Her love poured out from her. Haplo’s love flowed from him, and Alfred was the fine silk cloth through which both passed. The tragedy of their separation grieved him deeply. If he could have given them ease by tearing himself apart, he would have done so. As it was, he could only be a poor sort of go-between.

What made it worse was that he knew Haplo was speaking to him, too—to Alfred as well as Marit. Alfred, too, must find the strength to leave someone he had come to love.

“But in the meantime, what do I do about Balthazar?” Alfred asked.

Before Haplo could answer, the light began to fade, the warmth receded. The wave ebbed, leaving Alfred stranded and alone in darkness. He sighed deeply, shud-deringly, not wanting to let go, not wanting to return. And, as he did so, he heard his name.

“Alfred.” Marit was half sitting up, propped on her elbow. The fever had left her eyes, although the lids were now heavy with the longing for sleep. “Alfred,” she repeated urgently, struggling to remain awake.

“Yes, my dear, I am here,” he replied, close to tears. “You should be lying down.”

She sank back onto the blankets, permitted him to fuss over her, because she was too distracted to stop him. When he started to leave, she caught hold of his hand.

“Ask the Sartan . . . about the Seventh Gate,” she whispered. “What he knows about it.”

“Do you really think that’s wise?” Alfred demurred.

Now that he had seen Balthazar again, he was reminded of the power of the necromancer. And though weakened from anxiety and lack of food, Balthazar would regain his strength quickly enough if he thought he’d found a way out for him and his people.

“I’m not certain I want Balthazar to find the Seventh Gate, any more than Lord Xar. Perhaps I shouldn’t bring it up.”

“Just ask what he knows,” Marit pleaded. “What harm can there be in that?”

Alfred was reluctant. “I doubt if Balthazar knows anything . . .”

Marit held fast to his hand, squeezed it painfully. “Ask him. Please!”

“Ask me what?”

Balthazar had been standing at a distance, watching the healing process with intense interest. Now, hearing his name, he glided forward. “What is it you want to know?”

“Go ahead,” said Haplo’s voice suddenly, startling Alfred. “Ask him. See what he says.”

Alfred sighed, gulped. “We were wondering, Balthazar, have you ever heard of ... of something called the Seventh Gate?”

“Certainly,” Balthazar answered calmly, but with a stabbing glance of his black eyes that slid through Alfred like a sharp blade. “All on Abarrach have heard of the Seventh Gate. Every child learns the litany.”

“What . . . what litany would that be?” Alfred asked faintly.

“ ‘The Earth was destroyed,’ ” Balthazar began, repeating the words in a high, thin voice. “ ‘Four worlds were created out of the ruin. Worlds for ourselves and the mensch: Air, Fire, Stone, Water. Four Gates connect each world to the other: Arianus to Pryan to Abarrach to Chelestra. A house of correction was built for our enemies: the Labyrinth. The Labyrinth is connected to the other worlds through the Fifth Gate: the Nexus. The Sixth Gate is the center, permits entry: the Vortex. And all was accomplished through the Seventh Gate. The end was the beginning.’ ”

“So that was how you knew about Death’s Gate, about the other worlds,” Alfred said, recalling the first time he’d met Balthazar, how the necromancer had seen through the lies Haplo had used to conceal his true identity. “And you say this is taught to children?”

“It was,” Balthazar said, with rueful emphasis on the word. “When we had leisure to teach our children other things besides how to die.”

“How did your people come to be in this condition?” Marit asked, fighting drowsiness, fighting sleep. “What happened to this world?”

“Greed is what happened,” Balthazar replied. “Greed and desperation. When the magic that kept this world alive started to fail, our people began to die. We turned to necromancy, to hold on to those dear to us, at first. Then, eventually, we used that black art to increase our numbers, to add soldiers to our armies, servants to our houses. But things grew worse instead of better for us.”

“Abarrach was always intended to be dependent on the other three worlds for its survival,” Alfred explained. “Conduits, known on this world as colossi, were meant to channel energy flowing from the citadels of Pryan into Abarrach. The energy would provide light and heat, enable the people to live near the surface, where the air is breathable. The plan did not work out. When the Kicksey-winsey failed, the light of Pryan’s citadels failed as well, and Abarrach was left in the darkness.”

He stopped. His didactic lecture had worked. Marit’s eyes were closed, her breathing deep and even. Alfred smiled slightly, carefully tucked the blankets around her to keep her warm. Then he stole silently away. Balthazar, after a glance at Marit, followed Alfred.

“Why do you ask about the Seventh Gate?”

Another one of the stabbing glances penetrated Alfred, who was immediately rendered incoherent.

“I ... I ... curious . . . heard . . . somewhere . . . something . . .”

Balthazar frowned. “What are you trying to find out, Brother? The location? Believe me, if I had any idea where the Seventh Gate was, I would have used it myself, to help my people escape this terrible place.”

“Yes, of course.”

“What else do you want to know about it, then?”

“Nothing, really. Just . . . just curious. Let’s go see what we can do about feeding your people.”

Truly concerned for his people’s welfare, the necromancer said nothing more. But it was apparent to Alfred that, as he had feared, his sudden interest in the Seventh Gate had aroused Balthazar’s interest as well. And the necromancer was a great deal like Haplo’s dog. Once he had something in his teeth, he would not easily let go.

Alfred began replicating sacks of the kairn-grass seed,[6] providing enough so that the Sartan could turn it into flour, bake it into hardbread—far more substantial and nourishing than the gruel. As he worked, he glanced surreptitiously around the cavern. No dead Sartan served the living, as had been the case the last time Alfred had visited these people. No soldier-corpses guarded the entrance, no cadaver-king tried to rule. Wherever the dead lay, they lay at rest—as Balthazar had said.

Alfred looked at the children huddled around him, begging for a handful of seed that, on Arianus, he would have thrown to the birds.

His eyes filled with tears, and that reminded him of a question. He turned to Balthazar, who kept near him, watching each spell Alfred cast, almost as hungry for the magic as he was for the food.

The necromancer had, at Alfred’s insistence, eaten a small amount and was looking somewhat stronger—although the renewal of hope probably accounted more for the change than the unappetizing kairn-grass paste he had consumed.

“You seem to have plenty of water,” Alfred remarked. “That’s different from when I was here last.”

Balthazar nodded. “You recall that one of the colossi stands not far from here. We had assumed it was dead, its power gone out. But, quite suddenly, not too long ago, its magic returned to life.”

Alfred brightened. “Indeed? Do you have any idea why?”

“There has been no change on this world. I can only assume that there have been changes on others.”

“Why, yes! You’re right!” Alfred was all eager enthusiasm. “The Kicksey-winsey . . . and the citadels on Pryan . . . they’re working now! . . . Why, this means—”

“—nothing to us,” Balthazar finished coolly. “Change comes too late. Suppose the heat from the conduits has returned, suppose it is causing the ice that rimes this world to begin to melt. We once again find water. But it will be many, many lifetimes before this world of the dead can be inhabited by the living. And by then the living will be no more. The dead alone will rule Abarrach.”

“You are determined to leave,” Alfred said, troubled.

“Or die trying,” Balthazar said grimly. “Can you envisage a future for us, for our children, here, on Abarrach?”

Alfred couldn’t answer. He handed over more food. Balthazar took it and left, doling it out to his people.

“I can’t blame them for wanting to leave,” Alfred said quietly. “I want to leave very badly myself at this moment. But I know perfectly well what will happen when these Sartan arrive on the other worlds. It will only be a matter of time before they begin to try to take over, disrupting the lives of the mensch.”

“They’re a sad-looking lot,” Haplo said.

Alfred, not realizing he’d spoken aloud, jumped to hear Haplo’s voice. Or maybe he hadn’t spoken aloud. Haplo had always been able to read his thoughts.

“You’re right,” Haplo went on. “These Sartan are weak now, but once they are able to quit using their magic for survival, their magic will strengthen. They’ll discover its power.”

“And then there are your people.” Alfred glanced at the sleeping Marit. The dog lay protectively at her side, growling warningly at anyone who ventured near her. “If they escape from the Labyrinth and enter the worlds, who can say what will happen? Patryns have sucked in hatred with their mothers’ milk, and who can blame them?”

Alfred began to tremble. He dropped the food, pressed his hands to his burning eyes. “I see it all happening again! The rivalries, the wars, the deadly confrontations. The innocent victims caught up in it, dying for something they don’t understand ... All ... all ending in disaster!”

The last burst from Alfred in a hollow cry. Looking up, he encountered the necromancer’s glittering black-eyed gaze. Balthazar had returned. Alfred had the sudden, uncanny impression that the necromancer had followed every twist and turn of his thoughts. Balthazar had seen what Alfred had seen, shared the vision that had led to his horrified cry.

“I will leave Abarrach,” Balthazar said to Alfred, softly. “You cannot stop me.”

Alfred, shaken and disturbed, was forced to quit using his magic. He didn’t feel strong enough to turn ice to water on a hot summer’s day.

“It was a mistake to come here,” he muttered.

“But if we hadn’t, they would have all died,” Haplo observed.

“Perhaps it would have been best.” Alfred stared at his hands—large, with large-boned wrists; slender, tapering fingers; graceful, elegant . . . and capable of causing so much harm. He could use them for good, too, but at the moment he was not disposed to see that. “It would be best for the mensch if we all died.”

“If their ‘gods’ left them, you mean?”

“ ‘Gods’!” Alfred repeated, with contempt. “ ‘Enslavers’ is nearer the mark. I would rid the universe of us and our corrupt ‘power’!”

“You know, my friend”—Haplo sounded thoughtful—“there may be something in what you say . . .”

“There may be?” Alfred was startled. He’d been babbling, flailing about mentally, not expecting to hit anything. “What exactly did I say?”

“Don’t worry about it. Go make yourself useful.”

“Do you have any suggestions?” Alfred asked meekly.

“You might want to find out what Balthazar’s scouts are reporting to him,” Haplo suggested dryly. “Or hadn’t you noticed that they’d returned?”

Alfred hadn’t noticed, as a matter of fact. His head jerked up, his body twitched. The Sartan he’d seen posted near the cavern’s entrance—the one Balthazar had sent on some sort of errand—was back. Balthazar brought the young woman food. She was eating ravenously, but between mouthfuls, she was talking to him, their discussion low-voiced and intense.

Alfred started to stand up, slipped on a smattering of kairn-grass seeds, and sat back down again.

“Stay here,” Haplo said. He gave the dog a silent command.

The animal rose to its feet. Padding silently over to Balthazar, the dog flopped down at his feet.

“He sent her to inspect the ship. He’s going to try to seize it,” Haplo reported, hearing through the dog’s ears.

“But they can’t, can they?” Alfred protested. “Marit surrounded it with Patryn runes . . .”

“Under ordinary circumstances, no,” Haplo said. “But apparently someone else on Abarrach has had the same idea. Someone else is also trying to steal the ship.”

Alfred was astonished. “Surely not Xar . . .”

“No, my lord has no need for that ship. But someone else on this world does.”

Suddenly, Alfred knew the answer.

“Kleitus!”