Margaret Weis - The Seventh Gate

“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?”

The blue-green dragon of Pryan rose high above the treetops. Alfred glanced down at the ground once, shuddered, and resolved to look anywhere except that direction. Somehow, flying had been different when he’d been the one with the wings. He gripped the dragon’s scales more tightly. Trying to take his mind off the fact that he was perched precariously and unsteadily on the back of a dragon, soaring far, far above solid ground, Alfred searched for the source of the wondrous sunlight. He knew it shone from the citadels, but those were located on Pryan. How was the light shining into the Labyrinth? Turning slowly and carefully, he risked peering back tentatively over his shoulder.

“The light shines from the Vortex,” Vasu shouted. The headman was flying on another dragon. “Look, look toward the ruined mountain.”

Sitting up as tall as he dared, clinging nervously to the dragon, Alfred stared in the direction indicated. He gasped in awe.

It was as if a sun burned deep within the mountain’s heart. Shafts of brilliant light beamed from every crack, every crevice, illuminated the sky, poured over the land. The light touched Abri’s gray walls, causing them to glisten silver. The trees that had lived so long in the gray day of the Labyrinth seemed to lift their twisted limbs to this new dawn, as an aged man reaches aching fingers to a warm fire.

But, Alfred saw sadly, the light did not penetrate far into the Labyrinth. It was a tiny candle flame in the vast darkness; nothing more. And soon the darkness consumed it.

Alfred watched for as long as he could, until the light was blotted out by mountains, rising jagged and sharp, like bony hands thrust into his face to prohibit hope. He sighed, turned away, and saw the fiery red glow on the horizon ahead.

“What is that?” he called. “Do you know?”

Vasu shook his head. “It began the night after the attack on Abri. In that direction lies the Final Gate.”