The Seventh Gate

5

“I can’t ... go on.” Alfred pitched forward, lay very still.

Marit eyed him, frustrated. They were wasting time. Yet, though she didn’t like to admit it, she could not go much farther. Thinking back, she couldn’t remember how long it had been since she’d slept.

“You can rest,” she said curtly, sitting on a tree stump. “But only a few moments, till we catch our breath.”

Alfred lay with his eyes closed, his face half buried in the mud. He looked old—old and shrunken. Marit found it difficult to believe that this gangling, frail Sartan had once been a creature as beautiful and powerful as the green and golden dragon she’d seen soaring above Abri.

“What’s the matter with him now?” Hugh the Hand demanded, entering the small clearing where they had stopped. The Hand had been following some distance behind, keeping watch to make certain nothing was tracking them.

Marit shrugged, too tired to respond. She knew what was wrong with Alfred: the same thing that was wrong with her. What was the use? Why bother to keep struggling?

“I found some water,” Hugh said, gesturing. “Not far from here . . .”

Marit shook her head. Alfred made no move.

Hugh sat down, nervous, ill at ease. He sat with what patience he could for a few moments, then was on his feet again. “We’ll be safer in Abri—”

“For how long?” Marit returned bitterly. “Look. Look up there.”

Hugh peered through the tangled branches of the trees. The sky, which had been gray, was now tinged with a faint pinkish-orange glow.

The runes on her skin barely tingled at all. No enemy was near them. Yet that red fire in the sky seemed to be burning up her hope.

She closed her eyes wearily.

And she saw, once again, the world from the dragon’s eyes. She was flying above Abri, and saw its buildings and its people, saw its sheltering walls, the arms of the land reaching out to encircle the land’s children.

Her children. Her child. Hers and Haplo’s.

A girl-child. Her name—Rue. She was eight gates now, or around there. Marit could see her—skinny and wiry, tall for her age, with chestnut hair like her mother and her father’s quiet smile.

Marit could see it all so clearly.

“We taught Rue how to snare small game, how to skin a rabbit, how to catch fish with her hands,” Marit was telling Headman Vasu, who had inexplicably appeared out of nowhere. “She’s old enough to be of some help to us now. I’m glad we decided to keep her with us, instead of leaving her with the Squatters.”

Rue could run fast, when need arose, and she could fight if cornered. She had her own rune-covered dagger—a gift from her mother.

“I taught her how to use it,” Marit was saying to the headman. “Not long ago, Rue faced down a snog with it. She held the creature at bay until her father and I could rescue her. She wasn’t afraid, she said, though she shook in my arms afterward. Then Haplo came and teased her and made her laugh and we were all three of us laughing . . .”

“Hey!”

Marit jerked to sudden wakefulness. Hugh’s hand was on her shoulder. He’d caught her just as she was about to topple over.

She flushed deeply. “I’m sorry. I must have fallen asleep.”

Rubbing her burning eyes, she stood up. The temptation to slip back into that sweet dream was too strong. For an instant she let herself believe, superstitiously, that the dream held meaning for her. Haplo was alive. He would come back to her. Together, they would find their lost child.

The warmth of that dream lingered in her; she felt surrounded by love and caring . . . Angrily, she banished it.

A dream, she told herself coldly, firmly. Nothing more. Nothing I can ever attain. I threw it all away.

“What?” Alfred sat up. “What did you say? Something about Haplo?”

Marit didn’t think she had spoken aloud, but then she was so tired she didn’t know what she was doing anymore.

“We better get going,” she said, avoiding the subject. Alfred staggered to his feet, continued to stare at her with a strange, sad intensity.

“Where is Haplo? I saw him with Lord Xar, Are they in Abri?”

Marit turned away from him. “They left for Abarrach.”

“Abarrach ... the necromancy.” Alfred sank down despondently on the trunk of a fallen tree. “The necromancy.” He sighed. “Then Haplo is dead.”

“He isn’t!” Marit cried, rounding on Alfred viciously. “My lord would not let him die!”

“Like hell!” Hugh the Hand snorted. “You tried to kill Haplo—on your lord’s orders!”

“That was when he thought Haplo was a traitor!” Marit flared. “My lord knows better now! He knows Haplo was telling him the truth about the dragon-snakes. My lord won’t let Haplo die! He won’t ... he won’t . . .”

She was so tired, she began to sob like a frightened child. Embarrassed, ashamed, she tried to stop crying, but the pain inside was too great. The emptiness she had nurtured and cherished for so long was gone, filled by a terrible, burning ache only tears seemed to ease. She heard Alfred take a step toward her. Blindly, she turned from him, made it clear she wanted to be left alone.

His footsteps stopped.

When at last Marit was more composed, she wiped her nose, brushed away her tears. Her stomach hurt from sobbing; the muscles in her throat constricted spasmodically. She gulped, coughed.

Hugh the Hand was staring grimly at nothing, kicking moodily at a clump of weeds. Alfred sat hunched over, shoulders stooped, gangling arms dangling between his bony knees. His gaze was abstracted; he appeared deep in thought.

“I’m sorry,” Marit said, trying to sound brisk. “I didn’t mean to fall apart. I’m tired, that’s all. We better get back to Abri—”

“Marit,” Alfred interrupted timidly, “how did Lord Xar enter the Labyrinth?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say. What does it matter?”

“He must have come through the Vortex,” Alfred reasoned. “He knew we entered from that direction. I assume you told him that?”

Marit’s skin burned. She lifted her hand involuntarily to touch the sigil on her forehead, the sigil that Xar had rent open, the sigil that had once linked her and her lord together. Seeing Alfred watching her, she snatched her hand away.

“But the Vortex was destroyed—”

“It can never be destroyed,” Alfred corrected. “The mountain fell on it. Entering would not be easy, but it could be done. However . . .” He paused, thoughtful.

“He couldn’t leave that way!” Marit cried. “ ‘The Gate swings in only one direction.’ You said that to Haplo!”

“If what Alfred said was true,” Hugh the Hand growled. “Remember, he was the one who didn’t want to leave.”

“I told you the truth,” Alfred said, blushing. “It makes sense, if you stop to think about it. If the Gate swung in both directions, all the Patryns sent into the Labyrinth would have been able to escape back the way they came.”

Marit was no longer tired. Renewed energy surged through her. “Xar would have to leave through the Final Gate! That’s the only way out. Once he was there, he would see our danger! Our people would cry to him for help. He couldn’t leave them to fight alone. We’ll find my lord there, at the Final Gate. And Haplo will be with him.”

“Perhaps,” said Alfred. And now it was his turn to avoid her eyes.

“Of course he will be,” Marit said resolutely. “Now we must get there. Quickly. I could use my magic. It will take me to—”

She had been about to say to Xar, but then she remembered—the wound on her forehead. She forbore to touch it, though it had begun to burn painfully.

“To the Final Gate,” she finished lamely. “I’ve been there. I can see it in my mind.”

“You could go,” said Alfred. “But you couldn’t take us with you.”

“What does it matter?” Marit said, alive with hope. “What do I need with you now, Sartan? My lord will battle his foes and emerge triumphant. And Haplo will be healed . . .”

She made ready to draw the rune-circle, to step inside. Alfred was on his feet, babbling, apparently going to try to stop her. Marit ignored him. If he came too close, she would . . .

“Could I be of assistance, sir, madam?”

A gentleman—imposing, dressed all in black: black breeches, black velvet coat, black silk stockings; white hair, tied in back with a black ribbon—stepped out of the forest. He was accompanied by an old man, with flowing beard and hair, wearing mouse-colored robes, all topped by a shabby and sorry-looking pointed hat.

The old man was singing.

“ ‘One is one . . . and all alone . . . and ever more shall be so.’ ” He smiled gently, sadly, sighed, and began again. ” Til give you one-o, every day I grow, ei-o. What is your one-o? One is one . . .’ ”

“Excuse me, sir,” said the gentleman in a low voice, “but we are not alone.”

“Eh!” The old man gave a violent start. His hat fell off his head. He eyed the three astonished people facing him with deep suspicion. “What are you doing here? Get out!”

The gentleman in black sighed a long-suffering sigh. “I don’t believe that would be at all wise. These are the people we came to find, sir.”

“You sure?” The old man appeared dubious.

Marit stared. “I know you! In Abarrach. You’re a Sartan, a prisoner of my lord.”

Marit recalled his rambling, nonsensical conversation in the cells of Abarrach. She had thought him mad.

“Now I wonder if I am,” she muttered.

Did the old man truly exist? Or had he leapt into being from her own exhausted mind? People who went without sleep too long began to see things that weren’t there. She looked at Hugh the Hand, was relieved to see him staring at the old man, as was Alfred. Either they had all fallen under some extraordinary spell, or the old man was really standing in front of her.

Marit drew her sword.

The old man was regarding them with equal perplexity. “What does this remind me of? Three desperate-looking characters wandering around lost in a forest. No, don’t tell me. I’ll get it. Great Auntie Em’s ghost! The Scarecrow.” Rushing forward, the old man grabbed Alfred’s hand and shook it heartily.

The old man turned to Hugh. “And the Lion. How do you do, sir? And the Tin Man!” He lunged toward Marit, who lifted the point of her sword to the old man’s throat.

“Stay away from me, old fool. How did you get here?”

“Ah.” The old man fell back a step, gave her a cunning look. “Not been to Oz, yet, I see. Hearts are free there, my dear. Of course you do have to open yourself up to put the heart inside. Some find that rather an inconvenience. Still—”

Marit made a threatening motion with the sword. “Who are you? How did you get here?”

“As to who I am . . .” The old man was thoughtful. “Good point. If you’re the Scarecrow, you the Lion, and you the Tin Man, then that must make me ... Dorothy!”

The old man simpered, gave a curtsey, extended his hand. “My name is Dorothy. A small-town girl from a small town west of Topeka. Like my shoes?”

“Excuse me, sir,” the gentleman interrupted. “But you are not—”

“And this,” the old man cried triumphantly, flinging his arms around the gentleman in black, “is my little dog Toto!”

The gentleman appeared extremely pained at this suggestion. “I’m afraid not, sir.” He attempted to extricate himself from the old man’s embrace. “Forgive me, sirs, madam,” he added. “This is all my fault. I should have been watching him.”

“I know! You’re Zifnab!” cried Alfred.

“Bless you,” the old man returned politely. “Need a hankie?”

“He means you, sir,” the gentleman said in resigned tones.

“Does he?” The old man was considerably astonished.

“Yes, sir. You are Zifnab today.”

“Not Dorothy?”

“No, sir. And I must say, sir, I never cared for that one,” the gentleman added with some asperity.

“He’s not referring, perhaps, to Mr. Bond?”

“I am afraid not, sir. Not today. You are Zifnab, sir. A great and powerful wizard.”

“Well, of course I am! Pay no attention to the man behind the shower curtain. He’s just awakened from a bad dream. Takes a great and powerful wizard to come to the Labyrinth, doesn’t it? And I—Why, there, there, old chap. It’s nice to see you, too.”

Alfred was shaking hands with Zifnab solemnly. “I am so pleased to make your acquaintance, sir. Haplo told me about meeting you. On Pryan, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, that was it! I remember!” Zifnab beamed; then his face darkened. He grew sad. “Haplo. Yes, I do remember.” He sighed. “I’m so sorry—”

“That will be quite enough, sir,” interrupted the gentleman in stern tones.

“What does he mean?” Marit demanded. “What about Haplo?”

“He means nothing,” said the gentleman. “Do you, sir?”

“Uh, no. That’s right. Nothing. Nada. Zip.” Zifnab began toying nervously with his beard.

“We overheard you speaking of going to the Final Gate,” the gentleman continued. “I believe that I and my brethren might be of assistance. We are traveling there ourselves.”

He glanced skyward. Marit looked up, following his gaze distrustfully. A shadow flowed over her. Another and another. She stared, dazzled and dazed, at hundreds of dragons, blue-green as the sky of Pryan, scales gleaming bright as Pryan’s four suns.

And now, towering over her, its great bulk blotting out the gray sun of the Labyrinth, was a huge dragon. Blue-green scales glistened. The gentleman in black was gone.

Marit trembled with fear, but not for her safety or well-being. She was afraid because suddenly her world, her universe, had been ripped asunder, as her lord had ripped open the sigil on her skin. Through the rent, she caught a glimpse of radiant light, suddenly overwhelmed by terrible darkness. She saw the gray sky of the Labyrinth, the Nexus in flames, her people—small, fragile creatures, trapped between the darkness and the light—fighting a last desperate battle.

She struck out at the dragon with her sword, barely knowing what she was attacking or why, only knowing that she was consumed with despair.

“Wait!” Alfred caught hold of her arm. “Don’t fight!” He peered up at the dragon. “These dragons are here to help us, Marit. To help your people. They are the enemies of the serpents. Isn’t that true?”

“The Wave acts to correct itself,” said the Pryan dragon. “So it has been, since the beginning of time. We can take you to the Final Gate. We are taking others.”

Patryns rode on the backs of the dragons. Men and women, carrying weapons in their hands. Marit recognized Headman Vasu in the vanguard, and she understood. Her people were leaving the safety of their walled city, going to fight the enemy at the Final Gate.

Hugh the Hand had already mounted the dragon’s broad back, was now assisting Alfred—with some difficulty—to climb on behind.

Marit hesitated, preferring to trust in her magic. Then she realized that she might not make it. She was tired. So very tired. She would need all her strength once they reached the Final Gate.

Marit clambered up on the dragon, sat on the great broad back of the beast, between the shoulder blades where sprouted the enormous, powerful wings.[2] The wings began to beat on the air.

Zifnab, who had been directing operations, completely oblivious to the fact that no one was paying any attention to him, suddenly gave a strangled cry. “Wait! Where am I going to sit?”

“You’re not going, sir,” said the dragon. “It would be too dangerous for you.”

“But I just got here!” Zifnab whined.

“And done far more damage than I would have thought possible in such a short period of time,” the dragon remarked gloomily. “But there is that other little matter we spoke about. In Chelestra. I assume you can handle that without incident?”

“Mr. Bond could,” said Zifnab craftily.

“Out of the question!” The dragon flicked its tail in annoyance.

Zifnab shrugged, twiddled his hat. “On the other hand, I could be Dorothy.” He clicked his heels together. “ ‘There’s no place like home. There’s no place—’”

“Oh, very well,” the dragon snapped. “If nothing else will suit you. Try not to make a pig’s breakfast of this one, will you?”

“You have my word,” said Zifnab solemnly, saluting, “as a member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”

The dragon heaved a sigh. It waved a claw, and Zifnab disappeared.

Wings beat, raising clouds of dust, obscuring Marit’s sight. She clasped hold tightly of gleaming scales that were hard as metal to the touch. The dragon soared into the sky. The treetops fell away beneath her. Light—warm and bright as the beacon fire—touched her face.

“What is that light?” she cried fearfully.

“Sunlight,” said Alfred, awed.

“Where does the light come from?” she asked, staring all around. “There is no sun in the Labyrinth.”

“The citadels,” Alfred answered. Tears glimmered in his eyes. “The light beams from the citadel of Pryan. There is hope, Marit. There is hope!”

“Keep that in your heart,” said the dragon grimly. “For if all hope dies, then we die.”

Turning their faces from the light, they flew toward the red-tinged darkness.