The Seventh Gate

8

Abarrach—world of fire, world of stone. world of the dead. And of the dying.

In the dungeons of Necropolis, dead city of a dead world, Haplo lay dying.

He lay on a stone bed, his head pillowed on stone. It was not comfortable, but Haplo was past the need for comfort. He had been in terrible pain, but the worst of the pain was gone now. He could feel nothing except the burning pull of every ragged breath, each breath more difficult to draw in than the previous. He was a little afraid of that last breath, the final spasmodic gasp that would not sustain his life; the choke, the rattle. He imagined it, feared it would be similar to the time on Chelestra when he had thought he was drowning.

Then he had drawn water into his lungs and the water had been life-giving. Now he would draw in nothing. He would struggle to keep away the darkness, a struggle terrifying, but mercifully brief.

And his lord was here beside him. Haplo was not alone.

“This is not easy for me, my son,” Xar said.

He was not being sarcastic, or ironic. He was truly grieving. He sat beside Haplo’s hard bed and the lord’s shoulders were stooped, his head bowed. He looked far older than his many, many years. His eyes, watching Haplo die, shimmered with unshed tears.

Xar could have killed Haplo, but he didn’t.

Xar could have saved Haplo’s life, but he wasn’t doing that either.

“You must die, my son,” Xar said. “I dare not let you live. I cannot trust you. You are more valuable to me dead than you are alive. And so I must let you die. But I cannot kill you. I gave you life. Yes, I suppose that this makes it my right to take that life away. But I cannot. You were one of the best. And I loved you. I still love you. I would save you if only ... if only . . .”

Xar did not finish.

Haplo said nothing, made no argument, no plea for his life. He knew the pain this must cause his lord and he knew that if there were any way, Xar would spare him. But there wasn’t. Xar was right. The Lord of the Nexus could no longer trust his “son.” Haplo would fight him and continue to fight until, as now, he had no more strength left.

Xar would be a fool to give Haplo back that strength. Once Haplo was dead, his corpse—poor mindless, soulless shell—would be at Xar’s command. Haplo—the living, breathing, thinking Haplo—would not.

“There is no other way,” Xar said, his thoughts running parallel with Haplo’s, as they often did. “I must let you die. You understand, my son. I know you do. You will serve me in death, as you did in life. Only better. Only better.”

The Lord of the Nexus sighed. “But this is still not easy for me. You understand that, too, don’t you, my son?”

“Yes,” Haplo whispered. “I understand.”

And so the two remained together in the darkness of the dungeon. It was quiet; very, very quiet. Xar had ordered all the other Patryns to leave them alone. The only sounds were Haplo’s shuddering breaths; Xar’s occasional question; Haplo’s whispered answers.

“Do you mind talking?” Xar asked. “If it pains you, I will not press you.”

“No, Lord. I don’t feel any pain. Not anymore.”

“A sip of water, to ease the dryness.”

“Yes, Lord. Thank you.”

Xar’s touch was cool. His hand smoothed back Haplo’s sweat-damp hair from his feverish forehead. He lifted Haplo’s head, held a cup of water to the dying man’s lips. Gently, the lord laid Haplo back down on the stone.

“That city in which I found you, the city of Abri. A city in the Labyrinth. And I never knew it was there. Not surprising, of course, since it was in the very heart of the Labyrinth. Abri has been there a long, long time, I assume, judging by its size.”

Haplo nodded. He was very tired, but it was comforting to hear his lord’s voice. Haplo had a dim recollection of being a boy riding on his father’s back. The boy’s small arms wrapped around muscular shoulders, small head drooping. He could hear his father’s voice and feel it at the same time, feel it resonate in his chest. He could hear his lord’s voice and feel it at the same time—an odd sensation, as if it were coming to him through the cold hard stone.

“Our people are not city-builders,” Xar commented.

“The Sartan,” Haplo whispered.

“Yes, so I judged. The Sartan who, long ago, defied Samah and the Council of Seven. They were punished for their defiance, sent to the Labyrinth with their enemies. And we did not turn on them and kill them. I find that strange.”

“Not so strange,” said Haplo, thinking of Alfred.

Not when two people have to fight to survive in a terrible land that is intent on destroying them both. He and Alfred had survived only by helping each other. Now Alfred was in the Labyrinth, in Abri, perhaps helping Haplo’s people to survive.

“This Vasu, the leader of Abri, a Sartan, isn’t he?” Xar continued. “Part Sartan, at least. Yes, I thought so. I did not meet him, but I saw him on the fringes of my mind. Very powerful, very capable. A good leader. But ambitious, certainly. Especially now that he knows the world is not bounded by Abri’s walls. He will want his share, I am afraid. Perhaps the whole of it. That is the Sartan in him. I can’t permit it. He must be eradicated. And there may be more like him. All those of our people whose blood has been tainted by the Sartan. I am afraid they will seek to overthrow my rule.”

I am afraid . . .

You are wrong, Lord, Haplo said silently. Vasu cares only for his people, not for power. He is not afraid. He is what you were, Lord. He will not become what you are—afraid. You will rid yourself of Vasu, because you fear him. Then you will destroy all those Patryns who have Sartan ancestry. Then you will destroy the Patryns who were friends of those who have been destroyed. And at the end, there will be no one left but yourself—the person you fear most.

“The end is the beginning,” Haplo murmured.

“What?” Xar leaned forward, sharp, intent. “What did you say, my son?”

Haplo had no recollection. He was in Chelestra, world of water, drifting in the seawater, sinking slowly beneath the waves, as he had done once before. Except that now he was no longer afraid. He was only a little sad, a little regretful. Leaving matters undone, unfinished.

But others were left to pick up what he had been forced to let fall. Alfred, bumbling, clumsy . . . golden, soaring dragon. Marit, beloved, strong. Their child . . . unknown. No, that was not quite true. He knew her. He’d seen her face . . . faces of his children ... in the Labyrinth. All of these . . . drifting on the waves.

The wave bore him up, cradled him, rocked him. But he saw it as it had once been—a tidal wave, rising, rising to a fearful promontory, crashing down to engulf, deluge the world, split it apart.

Samah.

And then the ebb. Debris, wreckage, floating on the water. The survivors clinging to fragments until they found safe haven on strange shores. They flourished, for a time. But the wave must correct itself.

Slowly, slowly, the wave built again, in the opposite direction. A vast mountain of water, threatening to again crash down on and drown the world.

Xar.

Haplo struggled, briefly. It was hard—hard to leave. Especially now that he was finally beginning to understand . . .

Beginning. Xar was talking to him, cajoling him. Something about the Seventh Gate. A child’s poem. End is the beginning.

A muffled whimper came from beneath the stone bed, was louder than Xar’s voice. Haplo found just strength enough to move his hand. He felt a wet lick. He smiled, fondled the dog’s silky ears.

“Our last journey together, boy,” he said. “But no sausages . . ,”

The pain was back. Bad. Very bad.

A hand took hold of his. A hand gnarled and old, strong and supportive.

“Easy, my son,” said Xar, holding fast. “Rest easy. Give up the struggle. Let go . . .”

The pain was agony.

Closing his eyes, Haplo sighed his last breath and sank beneath the waves.