Margaret Weis - The Seventh Gate

Pushed hard, harder . . .

The door wouldn’t budge.

Fearfully, Alfred opened his eyes. Whatever he had done had at least slowed their descent. But Death’s Gate remained open; the universe was still tumbling down into it.

“Haplo! I need your help!” Alfred quavered.

“Are you mad? Patryn magic and Sartan magic can’t work together!”

“How do we know?” Alfred returned desperately. “Just because it’s never been done, at least that we’re aware of. Who knows but that somewhere, sometime in the past—”

“All right! All right! Shutting Death’s Gate. That’s it? That’s what we’ve got to do?”

“Concentrate on that!” Alfred cried. Their rate of descent was increasing once again.

Haplo spoke the runes. Alfred sang them. Sigla flared in the middle of the slanting corridor. The rune-structures were similar, but the differences were clearly obvious—appallingly obvious. The two magicks hung far apart, glowing with a weak and sullen flame that would soon flicker and die. Alfred stared at them, despaired.

“Well, we tried . . .”

Haplo swore in frustration. “It won’t end like this! Try harder. Sing, damn you! Sing!”

Alfred sucked in a deep breath, began to sing.

To his astonishment, Haplo joined him. The Patryn’s baritone slid in under, lifted, and supported Alfred’s high-pitched tenor.

A warmth flooded through Alfred. His voice grew stronger; he sang louder and with more assurance. Uncertain of the melody, Haplo scrambled around the notes, hitting them as near he could, depending on volume rather than accuracy.

The sigla began to burn brighter. The runes moved closer together, and soon it was apparent to Alfred that the differences in the structures were designed to complement each other, just as the incisions on a latchkey adapt to the wards of a lock.

A flare of radiance, brighter than the white-glowing heart of Pryan’s four suns, seared Alfred’s eyeballs. He shut his eyes, but the light burned through them, dazzling, explosive, bursting inside his head.

He heard a muffled thud, as of, somewhere in the distance, a door slammed shut.

And then everything was dark. He was floating, not in a sickening spiral, but gently, as if his body were made of thistledown and he were riding on a rolling wave.

“I think it worked,” he said to himself.

And the thought came to him that he could die now, without apology.

Haplo was hurt and exhausted. He’d spent the day running from his foes, turning and fighting when they had him cornered. Now, at last, he’d eluded them. But he was weak, wandering, needing desperately to stop and heal himself. But he dared not. He was alone in the Labyrinth. To lie down and sleep was to lie down and die.

Alone. It was what his name meant, after all. Haplo. Single. Alone.

And then a voice said softly, “You are not alone.”

Haplo lifted his dimming eyes. “Marit?” He was disbelieving. She was illusion, the result of his pain, of his terrible longing and despair.

Strong arms, warm and supporting, reached around his shoulders, bore him up when he would have fallen. He leaned thankfully against her. Gently, she eased him to the ground, pillowed his hurting body on a bed of leaves. He looked up at her. She knelt beside him.

“I’ve been searching for you,” he said.

“You’ve found me,” she answered.

Smiling, she placed her hand over his torn heart-rune. Her touch eased his pain. He could see her clearly now.

He reached up his hand, brushed back her hair. The sigil on her skin, Xar’s sigil, was starting to fade. But it, too, would never heal. She flinched at his touch, but she continued to smile. Taking hold of his hand, she pressed her lips against the palm.

Full consciousness brought awareness, the danger ...

“We can’t stay here,” he said, sitting up.

She stopped him, hands against his shoulders. “We’re safe. At least for the moment. Let go, Haplo. Let go of the fear and the hatred. It is all ended now.”

She was partly wrong. It had only just begun.

He lay back down in the leaves, drew her to lie beside him.

“I won’t let go of you,” he said.

She laid her head on his chest, over the heart-rune, the name-rune.

A single sigil, torn in two.

Stronger for the break.

“What’s the matter with him?” asked a woman. She sounded familiar, but Alfred couldn’t place the voice. “Is he hurt?”

“No,” a man answered. “He’s likely just fainted.”

I have not! Alfred wanted to return indignantly. I’m dead! I—

He heard himself make a noise, a croak.

“There, what did I tell you? He’s coming round.”

Alfred cautiously opened his eyes. He looked up into the branches of a tree. He was lying on soft grass. A woman knelt beside him.

“Marit?” he said, staring at her in wonder. “Haplo?”

His friend stood near.

Marit smiled down at Alfred, placed her hand gently on his forehead. “How do you feel?”

“I’m . . . I’m not sure.” Alfred .gingerly examined his various body parts, was surprised not to experience any pain. But then, of course, he wouldn’t, would he? “Are you dead, too?”

“You’re not dead,” said Haplo grimly. “Not yet, at any rate.”

“Not yet . . .”

“You’re in the Labyrinth, my friend. And likely to be here for a good long time.”

“Then it worked!” Alfred breathed. He sat up. Tears filled his eyes. “Our magic worked! Death’s Gate is—”

“Closed,” said Haplo and he smiled his quiet smile. “The Seventh Gate destroyed. The magic dumped us here, apparently. And, like I said, we’re going to be here a while.”

Alfred sat up. “Is there fighting?”

Haplo’s face darkened. “About to begin, according to Vasu. He’s been trying to open negotiations with Ramu, but the Councillor refuses to even talk. Claims it’s only a trap.”

“The wolfen and the chaodyn are massing for an assault,” Marit added. “There’ve already been skirmishes along the edges of the forest. If the Sartan would join together with us, but—” She shrugged, shook her head. “We thought maybe you could talk to Ramu.”

Alfred staggered to his feet. He still couldn’t quite believe that he wasn’t dead. He gave himself a surreptitious pinch, winced in pain. Perhaps he was alive . . .

“I don’t think I’d be of much help,” he said ruefully. “Ramu thinks I’m every bit as bad as any Patryn who ever lived. Or maybe worse. And if he ever found out I combined my magic with yours . . .”

“And that they worked,” Haplo added, grinning.

Alfred nodded, smiled back. He knew he should be downhearted over this, but couldn’t help himself. Joy seemed to be bubbling up in his heart. He glanced around his surroundings, caught his breath.

Two bodies lay on a bower of leaves in the center of a glade. One was clad in black robes, gnarled hands rested across the chest. The other was the body of a mensch, a human.

“Hugh the Hand!” Alfred didn’t know whether to be glad or to weep. “Is he ... is he .. .”

“He is dead,” said Marit gently. “He gave his life fighting to defend my people. We found him alongside the bodies of several chaodyn. He was as you see him now. At rest, at peace. When I found him dead”—her voice broke, and Haplo moved near, put his arm around her—“I knew that something awful had happened in Death’s Gate. And I knew I should be afraid, but I wasn’t.”

Alfred could only nod, unable to speak. Next to Hugh lay Xar, Lord of the Nexus.

Haplo followed his gaze, guessed what he was thinking. “We found him here, like this.”