Margaret Weis - Into the Labyrinth

Xar waited until she had reached the end and was speaking to the dragon-snake. When the red eye turned upon Marit and away from Xar, the Lord of the Nexus approached the prison cell and looked inside.

Samah, head of the Sartan governing body known as the Council of Seven, was—in terms of years—far older than Xar. Yet because of his magical sleep—one which had been supposed to last only a decade but had inadvertently lasted centuries—Samah was a man in the prime of middle age.

Strong, tall, he had once had hard, chiseled features and a commanding air. Now the sallow skin sagged from his bones; the muscles hung loose and flaccid. The face, which should have been lined with wisdom and experience, was creviced, haggard, and drawn. Samah sat listlessly on the cold stone bed, his head and shoulders bowed in dejection, despair. His robes, his skin were sopping wet.

Xar clasped his hands around the bars, drew close for a better look. The Lord of the Nexus smiled.

“Yes,” he said softly, “you know what fate awaits you, don’t you, Samah? There is nothing quite as bad as the fear, the anticipation. Even when the pain comes—and your death will be very painful, Sartan, I assure you—it won’t be as bad as the fear.”

Xar gripped the bars harder. The blue sigla tattooed on the backs of his gnarled hands were stretched taut; the enlarged knuckles were as white as exposed bone. He could scarcely draw breath; for long moments he couldn’t speak. He had not thought to feel such passion in the presence of his enemy, but suddenly all the years—years of battle and suffering, years of fear—returned to him.

“I wish”—Xar almost choked on his words—“I wish I could let you live a long, long time, Samah! I wish I could let you live with that fear, as my people have lived with it. I wish I could let you live centuries!” The iron bars dissolved beneath Xar’s squeezing hands. He never noticed. Samah had not raised his head, did not look up at his tormentor. He sat in the same attitude, but now his hands clenched.

Xar entered the cell, stood over him.

“You can’t escape the fear, never for a moment. Not even in sleep. It’s there in your dreams. You run and run and run until you think your heart must burst and then you wake and you hear the terrifying sound that woke you and you get up and you run and run and run... all the time knowing it is hopeless. The claw, the tooth, the arrow, the fire, the bog, the pit will claim you in the end.

“Our babies suck fear in their mother’s milk. Our babies don’t cry. From the moment of birth, they’re taught to keep quiet—out of fear. Our children do not laugh either. Who knows who might be listening?

“You have a son, I am told. A son who laughs and cries. A son who calls you ‘Father,’ a son who smiles like his mother.”

A shiver crawled over Samah’s body. The lord didn’t know what nerve he had hit, but he reveled in the discovery and kept probing.

“Our children rarely know their own parents. A kindness—one of the few we can do for them. That way they don’t become attached to their parents. It doesn’t hurt so much when they find them dead. Or watch them die.” Xar’s hatred and fury were slowly suffocating him. There wasn’t enough air in Abarrach to sustain him. Blood beat in his head, and the lord feared for an instant that his heart might rupture. He raised his head and howled, a savage scream of anguish and rage that was like the heart’s blood bursting from his mouth.

The howl was horrifying to hear. It reverberated through the catacombs, growing louder by some trick of the acoustics, and stronger, as if the dead in Abarrach had picked it up and were adding their own fearful cries to those of the Lord of the Nexus.

Marit blanched and gasped and shrank in terror against the chill wall of the prison. Sang-drax himself appeared taken aback. The red eye shifted uneasily, darting swift glances into the shadows, as if seeking some foe. Samah shuddered. The scream might have been a spear driven through his body. He closed his eyes.

“I wish I didn’t need you!” Xar gasped. Foam frothed his mouth; spittle hung from his lips. “I wish I didn’t need the information you have locked in that black heart. I would take you to the Labyrinth. I would let you hold the dying children, as I have held them. I would let you whisper to them, as I have whispered: ‘All will be well. Soon the fear will end.’ And I would let you feel the envy, Samah! The envy when you gaze down upon that cold, peaceful face and know that, for this little child, the fear is over. While for you, it has just begun...”

Xar was calm now. His fury was spent. He felt a great weariness, as if he had spent hours fighting a powerful foe. The lord actually staggered as he took a step, was forced to lean against the stone wall of the prison cell.

“But unfortunately, I do need you, Samah. I need you to answer a... question.” Xar wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his robe, wiped the chill sweat from his face. He smiled, a mirthless, bloodless smile, “I hope, I sincerely hope, Samah, Head of the Council of Seven, that you choose not to answer!” Samah lifted his head. The eyes were sunken, the skin livid. He looked truly as if he were impaled on his enemy’s spear. “I do not blame you for your hatred. We never meant...” He was forced to pause, lick dry lips. “We never meant any of the suffering. We never meant for the prison to turn deadly. It was to be a test... Don’t you understand?”

Samah gazed at Xar in earnest appeal. “A test. That was all. A difficult test. One meant to teach you humility, patience. One meant to diminish your aggression...”

“Weaken us,” Xar said softly.

“Yes,” said Samah, slowly lowering his head. “Weaken you.”

“You feared us.”

“We feared you.”

“You hoped we would die...”

“No.” Samah shook his head.

“The Labyrinth became the embodiment of that hope. A secret hope. A hope you dared not admit, even to yourselves. But it was whispered into the words of magic that created the Labyrinth. And it was that secret, terrible hope that gave the Labyrinth its evil power.”

Samah did not answer. He sat again with his head bowed.

Xar shoved himself away from the wall. Coming to stand in front of Samah, the lord put his hand beneath the Sartan’s jaw, wrenched his head up and back, forced Samah to look up.

Samah flinched. He wrapped his hands around the old man’s wrists, tried to free himself from the lord’s grasp. But Xar was powerful. His magic was intact. The blue runes flared. Samah gasped in agony, snatched his hands away as if he had touched burning cinders.

Xar’s thin fingers bit deeply and painfully into the Sartan’s jaw.

“Where is the Seventh Gate?”

Samah stared, shocked, and Xar was pleased to see—at last—fear in the Sartan’s eyes.

“Where is the Seventh Gate?” He squeezed Samah’s face.

“I don’t know... what you’re talking about,” Samah was forced to mumble.

“I’m so glad,” Xar said pleasantly. “For now I will have the pleasure of teaching you. And you will tell me.”

Samah managed to shake his head. “I’ll die first!” he gasped.

“Yes, you probably will,” Xar agreed. “And then you’ll tell me. Your corpse will tell me. I’ve learned the art, you see. The art you came here to learn. I’ll teach you that, too. Though it will be rather late to do you much good.” Xar released his hold, wiped his hands on his robes. He didn’t like the feel of the sea water, could already notice it starting to weaken the rune-magic. Turning tiredly, he walked out of the cell. The iron bars sprang back into place as he passed by.

“My only regret is that I lack the strength to instruct you myself. But one waits who, like me, also wants revenge. You know him, I believe. He was instrumental in your capture.”