The Seventh Gate

6

The world of Chelestra is a globe of water, hanging in the cold blackness of space. Its outside is ice; its inside—warmed by Chelestra’s free-floating sun—is water, warm, breathable as air, destructive of Sartan and Patryn magic. The mensch of Chelestra, brought here by the Sartan, dwell on seamoons—living organisms that drift through the water, following Chelestra’s erratic sun. The seamoons make their own atmosphere, surrounding themselves with a bubble of air. On these moons, the mensch build cities, raise crops, and sail the water in their magical submersibles.

On Chelestra, unlike the worlds of Arianus and Pryan, the mensch live together in peace. Their world and their lives had remained undisturbed for centuries, until the arrival of Alfred through Death’s Gate.[1] He accidentally waked a group of Sartan—the very ones who had sundered the world—from a stasis sleep. Once considered demigods by the mensch, the Sartan attempted again to rule over those believed to be inferior.

At this time, the evil dragon-snakes, long held prisoners in Chelestra by the ice, first felt the warmth of the sun. On Arianus, King Stephen hired an assassin to kill the changeling Bane. On Abarrach, Prince Edmund led his people to the doomed city of Necropolis. On Pryan, the tytans began their murderous rampage. The good dragons, sensing the awakening of their evil cousins, left their underground homes and prepared to enter the worlds. I do not believe we can consider such timing coincidence. It is, as we are beginning to learn, the Wave correcting itself.

Led by Samah, Head of the Council—the man who had ordered the Sundering—the Sartan were angered and amazed to find that these mensch not only refused to bow down and worship, but actually had the temerity to defy the so-called gods and wall the Sartan up in their own city, keeping them prisoners by flooding that city with the magic-destroying seawater.

Also living on Chelestra were the manifestation of evil in the worlds. Taking the form of enormous serpents, the evil dragon-snakes, as the dwarves named them, had long been seeking a way off Chelestra and into the other three worlds. Samah inadvertently provided it. Enraged at the mensch, fearful, no longer able to control men or events, Samah fell unwitting victim to the dragon-snakes. Despite the fact that he had been warned against it, the Sartan opened Death’s Gate.[3] Thus the evil dragon-snakes were able to enter the other worlds, where they worked to foment the chaos and discord that are their meat and drink.

Secretly appalled at what he had done, Samah left Chelestra, intending to travel to Abarrach. Here, as he had learned from Alfred, the Sartan were practicing the ancient and forbidden art of necromancy.

“If,” Samah reasoned, “I could bring the dead back to life, we would have a force strong enough to defeat the dragon-snakes, and once again rule the four worlds.”

Samah never lived to learn the art of raising the dead. He was captured, along with a strange old Sartan who called himself Zifnab, by their ancient enemy the Patryns, who had accompanied their lord Xar to Abarrach. Xar was there also to learn the art of necromancy. He ordered Samah executed, then attempted to raise the Sartan’s body through magical means.

Xar’s plan was thwarted. Samah’s soul was freed by an undead Sartan named Jonathon, of whom the prophecy says, “He will bring life to the dead, hope to the living, and for him the Gate will open.”

Following the departure of Samah from Chelestra, the other Sartan remaining on the Chalice—the only stable piece of land in the water-bound world—have been waiting impatiently, and with growing anxiety, for his return.

“The Councillor has been gone well past the time he himself set. We can no longer function leaderless. I urge you, Ramu, to accept your father’s position of Head of the Council of Seven.”

Ramu glanced around at each of the other six members. “Is this what you all think? Are you all of one mind?”

“We are.” They spoke in nods and words.[4]

Ramu had been carved from the same cold stone as Samah, his father. Not much could warm either man. Hard and unyielding, Ramu would shatter before he would bend. It was never twilight in Ramu’s vision—it was day or night. The sun shone brightly or darkness engulfed his world. And even when the sun shone, it cast shadows.

But he was basically a good man, honorable, a devoted father, friend, and husband. And if his worry over his own father’s disappearance was not etched on the rock-hard surface of his face, it had been burned deep within.

“Then I accept,” Ramu said. Glancing around the group again, he added, “until such time as my father returns.”

All on the Council gave agreement. To do otherwise would have been to disparage Samah.

Rising to his feet, his white robes brushing softly against the surface of the floor—a surface that was still cold and damp to the touch, despite the fact that the flood-waters had receded—Ramu moved from his seat at the end of the table to take his place in the chair in the center.

The other members of the Council of Seven rearranged themselves to suit, three sitting on Ramu’s left and three on his right.

“What business is brought before the Council this day?” Ramu asked.

One of the members stood up. “The mensch have returned a third time to sue for peace, Councillor. They have asked to meet with the Council.”

“We have no need to meet with them. For a peaceful settlement, they must meet our terms, as given to them by my father. They know what those are, I believe?”

“Yes, Councillor. The mensch either move off the Chalice, move off our lands which they usurped by force, or they agree to swear fealty to us, to permit themselves to be governed by us.”

“And what is their answer to these terms?”

“They will not leave the lands they have taken, Councillor. To be quite fair, they have nowhere else to go. Their former homelands, the seamoons, are now locked in ice.”

“They could climb in those boats of theirs and sail after the sun, go search for new homelands.”

“They see no need for such a traumatic upheaval in their lives, Councillor. There is land enough for all here on the Chalice. They cannot understand why they cannot settle it.”

The Sartan’s tone implied that he could not quite understand it, either. Ramu frowned, but at that moment, another Council member rose, asked leave to speak.

“To be fair to the mensch, Councillor,” she said deferentially, “they are ashamed of their past actions and are quite willing to ask our forgiveness and be friends. They have made improvements to the land, begun to build homes, establish businesses. I’ve seen these myself.”

“Indeed, Sister?” Ramu’s face darkened. “You have traveled among them?”

“Yes, Councillor. It was at their invitation. I saw no harm and the other members agreed with me. You were not available—”

“What’s done is done, Sister.” Ramu coldly ended the discussion. “Please continue. What have the mensch done to our land?”

No one missed the emphasis on the pronoun.

The Sartan nervously cleared her throat. “The elves have settled near the seashore. Their cities are going to be extraordinarily beautiful, Councillor, with dwellings made of coral. The humans have settled farther inland, in the forests which they love, but with access to the sea, granted them by the elves. The dwarves have moved into caverns in the mountains in the interior. They are mining the minerals, raising goats and sheep. They have set up forges—”

“Enough!” Ramu’s face was livid with anger. “I’ve heard enough. They have set up forges, you say. Forges to make weapons of steel which they will use to attack either us or their neighbors. The peace of our lives will be shattered, just as it was long ago. The mensch are quarrelsome, violent children who need our direction and control.”

The Council member was inclined to argue. “But they appear to be living quite peacefully—”

Ramu waved his hand, brushed her words away. “The mensch may get along for a time, particularly if they have some new toy to keep them occupied. But their own history shows that they cannot be trusted. They will either agree to live by our rules, under our laws, or they can depart.”

The Sartan glanced uncertainly around the Council. The other members indicated with nods that she was to continue. “Then ... uh ... the mensch have given me their terms for peace, Councillor.”

“Their terms!” Ramu was amazed. “Why should we bother to listen to their terms?”

“They consider that they won a victory over us, Councillor,” said the Sartan. She flushed beneath Ramu’s baleful gaze. “And it must be admitted that they could do the very same thing to us again. They control the floodgates. They could open them at any time, flood us out. The seawater is devastating to our magic. Some of us have only just recently regained complete use of our power. Without our magic, we are more helpless than the mensch—”

“Mind what you say, Sister!” Ramu warned.

“I speak the truth, Councillor,” the Sartan returned quietly. “You cannot deny it.”

Ramu did not argue. His hands, lying flat on the table, drew inward; the fingers curled over nothing. The stone table was cold, smelled wet and musty. “What about my father’s suggestion? Have we made any attempt to destroy these floodgates, seal them shut?”

“The floodgates are far below water level, Councillor. We cannot reach them, and even if we could, our magic would be rendered powerless by the water itself. Besides”—her voice lowered—“who knows but that the evil dragon-snakes are down there still, lying in wait.”

“Perhaps,” Ramu said, but would add nothing further. He knew, because his father had told him before he left, that the dragon-snakes had entered Death’s Gate, had left Chelestra, taken their evil to other worlds . . .

. . . “This is my fault, my son,” Samah said. “One reason I travel to Abarrach is in hopes of making reparation, of finding the means to destroy the dread serpents. I begin to think”—he hesitated, glanced at his son from beneath lowered eyelids—“I begin to think that Alfred was right all along. The true evil is here. We created it.”

His father placed his hand over his own heart.

Ramu did not understand. “Father, how can you say that? Look at what you created! It is not evil.”

Ramu gestured, a broad and sweeping motion that included not only the buildings and ground and trees and gardens of the Chalice, but the world of water itself, and beyond that, the worlds of air and fire and stone.

Samah looked where his son had pointed. “I see only what we destroyed,” he said.

Those were his last words, before he walked through Death’s Gate.

“Farewell, my father,” Ramu called after him. “When you return triumphant, with legions marching behind you, your spirits will lift.” . . .

But Samah had not returned. And there had been no word of him.

And now, though Ramu was loath to admit it, the mensch had—to all intents and purposes—conquered the gods. Conquered us! Their superiors! Ramu could see no way out of the present difficulty. Since the floodgates were under the magic-nullifying water, the Sartan could not destroy the floodgates with magic. We might resort to mechanical means. In the Sartan library are books which tell how, in ancient days, men manufactured powerful explosive devices.

But Ramu could not fool himself. He lifted his hands, turned them palm up, stared at them. The palms were soft and smooth, the fingers long and shapely. A conjurer’s hands, taught to handle the insubstantial. Not a craftsman’s. The clumsiest dwarf could manufacture in an eyeblink what it would take Ramu long hours of toil to produce with nothing but his hands.

“We might, after cycles and cycles, produce something mechanical capable of closing or blocking off the floodgates. But at that point we have become mensch,” Ramu said to himself. “Better to just open the floodgates and let the water rush in!”

It was then that the thought occurred to him. Perhaps we should leave. Let the mensch have this world. Let them look after themselves. Let them destroy each other, as—so Alfred had reported—the mensch were doing on other worlds.

Let the unruly and ungrateful children come home to find that their long-suffering parents have gone.

He was suddenly conscious of the other Council members exchanging glances, their expressions anxious, worried. He realized, too late, that his dark thoughts had been reflected on his face. His expression hardened. To leave now was to give up, surrender, admit defeat. He would sooner drown in that blue-green water.

“Either the mensch abandon the Chalice or agree to place themselves under our control. Those are their only two options. I assume the rest of the Council agrees with me?” Ramu glanced around.

The rest of the Council did agree, at least by voice. Any disagreement or dissent was not spoken aloud. This was no time for disunity.

“If the mensch refuse to meet these terms,” Ramu continued, frowning, speaking slowly and distinctly, his gaze fixing in turn on each person in the room, “there will be consequences. Dire consequences. You may tell them that.”

The Council members appeared more hopeful, relieved. Obviously, their Councillor had a plan. They delegated one of their number to speak to the mensch, then moved on to other business, such as cleaning up damage left by the floodwaters. When there were no other matters left to consider, the Council voted to adjourn. Most of them went about their business, but a few lingered behind, talking with Ramu, hoping to discover some hint of what the Councillor had in mind.

Ramu was expert at keeping his own counsel. He gave away nothing, and the other Council members at length departed. Ramu remained seated at the table, glad to be alone with his thoughts, when he suddenly realized he wasn’t alone.

A strange Sartan had entered the room.

The man looked familiar, but was not immediately recognizable. Ramu regarded him intently, trying to place him. Several hundred Sartan lived on the Chalice. A good politician, Ramu knew them all by sight and could generally put a name to a face. It disturbed him that he couldn’t remember this one. Yet he was positive he’d seen this man before.

Ramu rose politely to his feet. “Good day, sir. If you have come to present a petition to the Council, you are too late. We have adjourned.”

The Sartan smiled and shook his head. He was a man of middle age, handsome, with a receding hairline, strong jaw and nose, sad and thoughtful eyes.

“I come in time, then,” the Sartan said, “for I have come to talk to you, Councillor. If you are Ramu, son of Samah and Orlah?”

Ramu frowned, annoyed by this reference to his mother. She had been exiled for crimes against the people; her name was never to be spoken. He was about to make some comment on this when it occurred to him that perhaps the strange Sartan (what was his name!) did not know of Orlah’s exile to the Labyrinth, in the company of the heretic Alfred. Gossip had undoubtedly spread the word, but, Ramu was forced to admit, this dignified stranger did not look the type to indulge in whispers over the back fence.

Ramu bit back his irritation, made no comment. He answered the question with a slight emphasis that should have given the stranger a clue. “I am Ramu, son of Samah.”

At that point, Ramu was faced with a problem. Asking the man’s name was not a politic move, would reveal that Ramu did not remember him. There were diplomatic ways around this, but—being generally a blunt and forthright man—Ramu could think of none at the moment.

The strange Sartan, however, settled the matter. “You don’t remember me, do you, Ramu?”

Ramu flushed, was about to make some polite reply, but the Sartan went on.

“Not surprising. We met long, long, long ago. Before the Sundering. I was a member of the original Council. A good friend of your father’s.”

Ramu’s mouth sagged open. He did remember now ... in a way. He remembered something disquieting in regard to this man. But what was of more immediate interest was the fact that this Sartan was obviously not a citizen of Chelestra. Which meant he had come from another world.

“Arianus,” said the Sartan with a smile. “World of air. Stasis sleep. Much like you and your people, I believe.”

“I am pleased to know you again, sir,” Ramu said, trying to clear his confusion, recall what he knew about this man, and, at the same time, revel in the newfound hope the stranger brought. There were Sartan alive on Arianus!

“I trust you will not be insulted, but it has been, as you say, a long time. Your name . . .”

“You may call me James,” said the Sartan.

Ramu eyed him distrustfully. “James is not a Sartan name.”

“No, you’re right. But as a compatriot of mine must have told you, we on Arianus are not accustomed to using our true Sartan names. I believe you have met Alfred?”

“The heretic? Yes, I’ve met him.” Ramu was grim. “I think it only fair to warn you that he was exiled . . .”

Something stirred in Ramu, a distant memory, not of Alfred. Further back, much further back in time.

He had almost grasped it, but before he could lay hands on the memory, the strange Sartan unraveled it.

James was nodding gravely. “Always a troublemaker, was Alfred. I’m not surprised to hear of his downfall. But I didn’t come to speak of him. I came on a far sadder mission. I am the bearer of unhappy news and evil tidings.”

“My father,” Ramu said, forgetting everything else. “You come with news of my father.”

“I am sorry to have to tell you this.” James drew near to Ramu, placed a firm hand on the younger man’s arm. “Your father is dead.”

Ramu bowed his head. He didn’t for a moment doubt the stranger’s words. He’d known, deep inside, for some time.

“How did he die?”

The Sartan grew more grave, troubled. “He died in the dungeons of Abarrach, at the hands of one who calls himself Xar, Lord of the Patryns.”

Ramu went rigid. He could not speak for long moments; then he asked, in a low voice, “How do you know this?”

“I was with him,” James said softly, now intently regarding the young man. “I was myself captured by Lord Xar.”

“And you escaped? But not my father?” Ramu glowered.

“I am sorry, Councillor. A friend assisted me to escape. Help came too late for your father. By the time we reached him . . .” James sighed.

Ramu was overcome by darkness. But anger soon burned away his grief—anger and hatred and the desire for revenge.

“A friend helped you. Then there are Sartan living on Abarrach?”

“Oh, yes,” James replied, with a cunning look. “Many Sartan on Abarrach. Their leader is called Balthazar. I know that is not a Sartan name,” he added quickly, “but you must remember that these Sartan are twelfth-generation. They have lost or forgotten many of the old ways.”

“Yes, of course,” Ramu muttered, not giving the matter further thought. “And you say that this Lord Xar is also living on Abarrach. This can only mean one thing.”

James nodded gravely. “The Patryns are attempting to break out of the Labyrinth—such are the evil tidings I bear. They have launched an assault on the Final Gate.”

Ramu was appalled. “But there must be thousands of them . . .”

“At least,” James replied complacently. “It will take all your people, plus the Sartan of Abarrach—”

“—to stop this evil!” Ramu concluded, fist clenched.

“To stop this evil,” James repeated, adding solemnly, “You must go at once to the Labyrinth. It’s what your father would have wanted, I think.”

“Certainly.” Ramu’s mind was racing ahead. He forgot all about where he might have met this man, under what circumstances. “And this time, we will not be merciful to our enemy. That was my father’s mistake.”

“Samah has paid for his mistakes,” James said quietly, “and he has been forgiven.”

Ramu paid no attention. “This time, we will not shut the Patryns up in a prison. This time, we will destroy them—utterly.”

He turned on his heel, was about to leave, when he remembered his manners. He faced the elder Sartan. “I thank you, sir, for bringing this news. You may rest assured my father’s death will be avenged. I must go now, to discuss this with the other members of the Council, but I will send one of the servitors to you. You will be a guest in my house. Is there anything else I can do to make you comfortable—”

“Not necessary,” said James, with a wave of his hand. “Go along to the Labyrinth. I’ll manage on my own.”

Ramu felt again that same sense of unease and disquiet. He did not doubt the information the strange Sartan had brought to him. One Sartan cannot lie to another. But there was something not quite right . . . What was it about this man?

James stood unmoving, smiling beneath Ramu’s scrutiny.

Ramu gave up trying to remember. It was probably nothing, after all. Nothing important. Besides, it had all happened long ago. Now he had more urgent, more immediate problems. Bowing, he left the Council Chamber.

The strange Sartan remained standing in the room, staring after the departed man. “Yes, you remember me, Ramu. You were among the guards who came to arrest me that day, the day of the Sundering. You came to drag me to the Seventh Gate. I told Samah I was going to stop him, you see. He was afraid of me. Not surprising. He was afraid of everything by then.”

James sighed.

Walking over to the stone table, he traced his finger through the dust. Despite the recent flood, the dust continued to drift down from the ceiling, coating every object in the Chalice with a thin, fine, white powder.

“But I was gone when you arrived, Ramu. I chose to stay behind. I couldn’t stop the Sundering, and so I tried to protect those you left behind. But I couldn’t do anything to help them. There were too many dying. I wasn’t of much use to anyone then.

“But I am now.”

The Sartan’s aspect changed, altered. The handsome middle-aged man evolved, transformed in an instant into an old man with a long, scraggly beard, wearing mouse-colored robes and a battered, shapeless hat. The old man stroked his beard, looked extremely proud of himself.

“Pig’s breakfast, indeed! Just wait till you hear what I’ve done now! I handled that just exactly right. Did exactly what you told me, you elongated toad of a dragon . . .

“That is”—Zifnab thoughtfully tugged at his beard—“I believe I did what you said. ‘At all costs, get Ramu to the Labyrinth.’ Yes, those were your exact words . . .

“I think those were the exact words. Urn, now that I recall . . .” The old man began to twist his beard into knots. “Perhaps it was ‘At all costs, keep Ramu away from the Labyrinth’? . . .

“I’ve got the ‘at all costs’ bit down pat.” Zifnab appeared to take some comfort from this fact. “It’s the part that comes after I’m a bit muddled on. Maybe . . . Maybe I just better pop back and check the script.”

Mumbling to himself, the old man walked into a wall and vanished.

A Sartan, happening to enter the Council Chamber at that moment, was startled to hear a grim voice saying gloomily, “What have you done now, sir?”