Margaret Weis - The Seventh Gate

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?”