Margaret Weis: Into the Labyrinth

Samah. Of all the wonderful prizes. Samah. The Sartan who had thought up the plot to sunder the world. The Sartan who had sold the idea to his people. The Sartan who had taken their blood and the blood of countless thousands of innocents in payment. The Sartan who had locked the Patryns in the prison hell of the Labyrinth.

“And,” Xar said to himself suddenly, his gaze going back to the book, “the Sartan who undoubtedly knows the location of the Seventh Gate! Not only that, but he will probably refuse to tell me where it is or anything about it.” Xar rubbed his hands. “I will have the inordinate pleasure of forcing Samah to talk!”

There are dungeons in the palace of stone on Abarrach. Haplo had reported their existence to Xar. Haplo had very nearly died in the dungeons of Abarrach.

Xar hastened through the rat’s warren of corridors that led downward to the dungeons—the “catacombs,” as they had been euphemistically known during the reign of the Sartan.

What had those early Sartan used the catacombs for? Prisons for the malcontents among the mensch? Or perhaps the Sartan had even tried housing the mensch down here, away from the corrupt atmosphere of the caverns above, the atmosphere that was slowly poisoning every living thing the Sartan had brought with them. According to Haplo’s report, there were rooms down here, other rooms besides prison cells. Large rooms, big enough to hold a fair number of people. Sartan runes, traced along the floor, led the way, for those who knew the secrets of their magic.

Torches burned in sconces on the wall. By their light, Xar caught an occasional glimpse of these Sartan runes. Xar spoke a word—a Sartan word—and watched the sigla flicker feebly to life, glow a moment, then die, their magic broken and spent.

Xar chuckled. This was a game he played around the palace, a game of which he never tired. The sigla were symbolic. Like their magic, the power of the Sartan had shone briefly, then died. Broken, spent.

As Samah would die. Xar rubbed his hands together again in anticipation. The catacombs were empty now. In the days before the accidental creation of the dread lazar, the catacombs had been used to house the dead, both types of dead: those who had been reanimated and those awaiting reanimation. Here they stored the corpses for the three days requisite to being brought back to life. Here, too, were the occasional dead who had already been brought back to life but who had proved a nuisance to the living. Kleitus’s own mother had been one of these.

But now the cells were empty. The dead had all been freed. Some had been turned into lazar. Others, dead too long to be of use to the lazar—like the queen mother—were left to wander vaguely around the halls. When the Patryns arrived, such dead had been rounded up, formed into armies. Now they awaited the call to battle.

The catacombs were a depressing place in a world of depressing places. Xar had never liked coming down here, and had not done so after his first brief tour of inspection. The atmosphere was heavy, dank and chill. The smell of decay was rank, lingering on the air. It was even palpable to the taste. The torches sputtered and smoked dismally.

But Xar didn’t notice the taste of death today. Or if he did, it left a sweet flavor in his mouth. Emerging from the tunnels into the cellblock, he saw two figures in the shadows, both keeping watch for him. One was the young woman who had summoned him. Marit was her name. He’d sent her on ahead to prepare for his arrival. Although he could not see her clearly in the murky dimness, he recognized her by the sigla glowing faintly blue in the darkness; her magic acting to keep her alive in this world of the living dead. The other figure Xar recognized by the fact that the sigla on this man’s skin did not glow. That and the fact that one of his red eyes did.

“My Lord.” Marit bowed with deep reverence. “My Lord.” The dragon-snake in man’s form bowed, too, but never once did the one red eye (the other eye was missing) lose sight of Xar.

Xar didn’t like that. He didn’t like the way the red eye was always staring at him, as if waiting for the moment the lord would lower his guard, when the red eye could slide swordlike inside. And Xar did not like the lurking laughter he was positive he could see in that one red eye. Oh, its gaze was always deferential, subservient. The laughter was never there when Xar looked into the eye directly. But he always had the feeling that the eye gleamed mockingly the moment he glanced away.

Xar would never let the red eye know it bothered him, made him uneasy. The lord had even gone so far as to make Sang-drax (the dragon-snake’s mensch name) his personal assistant. Thus Xar kept his eye on Sang-drax.

“All is in readiness for your visit, Lord Xar.” Sang-drax spoke with the utmost respect. “The prisoners are in separate cells, as you commanded.” Xar peered down the row of cells. It was difficult to see by the feeble light from the torches—they too seemed to be coughing in the ruinous air. Patryn magic could have lit this foul place as bright as day on the sunny world of Pryan, but the Patryns had learned from bitter experience that one didn’t waste one’s magic on such luxuries. Besides, having come from the dangerous realm of the Labyrinth, most Patryns felt more at ease under the protection of darkness.

Xar was displeased. “Where are the guards I ordered?” He looked at Marit.

“These Sartan are tricky. They might well be able to break free of our spells.”

She glanced at Sang-drax. Her glance wasn’t friendly; she obviously disliked and distrusted the dragon-snake. “I was going to post them, My Lord. But this one prevented me.”

Xar turned a baleful gaze on Sang-drax. The dragon-snake in Patryn form gave a deprecating smile, spread his hands. Patryn runes adorned the backs of those hands, similar in appearance to the runes tattooed on Xar’s hands and on Marit’s. But the sigla on Sang-drax’s hands didn’t glow. If another Patryn attempted to read them, the runes wouldn’t make any sense. They were strictly for show; they had no meaning. Sang-drax was not a Patryn.

Just what he was Xar wasn’t certain. Sang-drax called himself a “dragon,” claimed he came from the world of Chelestra, claimed he and others of his kind were loyal to Xar, living only to serve Xar and further his cause. Haplo referred to these creatures as dragon-snakes, insisting that they were treacherous, not to be trusted.

Xar saw no reason to doubt the dragon or dragon-snake or whatever it was. In serving Xar, Sang-drax was only showing good sense. Still, the lord didn’t like that unblinking red eye, or the laughter that wasn’t in it now but almost certainly would be when Xar’s back was turned.

“Why did you countermand my orders?” Xar demanded.

“How many Patryns would you require to guard the great Samah, Lord Xar?” Sang-drax asked. “Four? Eight? Would even that number be sufficient? This is the Sartan who sundered a world!”

“And so we have no guards to guard him. That makes sense!” Xar snorted. Sang-drax smiled in appreciation of the humor, was immediately serious again.

“He is under constraint now. A mensch child could guard him, in his state.” Xar was worried. “He is injured?”

“No, My Lord. He is wet.”

“Wet!”

“The sea water of Chelestra, My Lord. It nullifies the magic of your kind.” The voice lingered over the last two words.

“How did Samah come to soak himself in sea water before entering Death’s Gate?”

“I cannot imagine, Lord of the Nexus. But it proved most fortuitous.”

“Humpf! Well, he will dry out. And then he will need guards—”

“A waste of manpower, My Lord Xar. Your people are few in number and have so many matters of urgent importance to deal with. Preparing for your journey to Pryan—”