“You want to tell him about the Labyrinth, Sartan, or shall I?”
Alfred looked up briefly, an expression of hurt in his eyes. Haplo saw the pain, knew the reason for it, chose to ignore it. Alfred wasn’t Alfred anymore. He was the enemy. No matter that they were all in this together now. Haplo needed someone to hate, needed his hate as a strong wall to lean against for support, or he’d fall and maybe never get up.
The dog had been standing beside Haplo, near the open archway, sniffing the air and not liking what it smelled. It shook itself all over, padded to Alfred. The dog
rubbed against the Sartan’s leg, its plumy tail brushing back and forth slowly, gently.
“I understand how you feel,” Alfred said. Reaching out, he gave the dog a timid pat on the head. “I’m sorry.”
Haplo’s wall of hate began to crumble; fear started climbing up over the pieces. He gritted his teeth. “Damn it, Alfred, stop apologizing! I’ve told you before, it’s not your fault!” The echo came bounding back at him.
Your
fault …
your
fault …
your
fault …
“I know. I will. I’m s-s-s—” Alfred made a hissing sound like a spent teakettle, caught Haplo’s eye, and fell silent.
The Hand looked from one to the other. “I don’t give a damn whose fault it is. Somebody explain what’s going on.”
Haplo shrugged. “A long time ago there was a war between his people and mine. We lost and they won—”
“No,” Alfred corrected gently, sadly, “nobody won.”
“At any rate, they shut us up in this prison, then went off to find prisons of their own. Is that how you’d put it, Alfred?”
The Sartan did not answer.
“This prison is known as the Labyrinth. It’s where I was born. It’s where she was born.” He gestured at Marit. “It’s where our child was born. And where our child lives.”
“
If
she lives,” Marit muttered beneath her breath.
She had regained a certain amount of control; she was no longer shaking. But she did not look at them. Leaning against the wall, she kept her arms clasped about her tightly, holding herself together.
“It’s a cruel place, filled with cruel magic that delights not only in killing, but in killing slowly, torturing, tormenting you until death comes as a friend.
1
The two of us managed to escape, with the help of our lord, Xar. But many don’t. Many haven’t. Generations of our people have been born, have lived and died in the Labyrinth.
“And there are none of our people now living,” Haplo finished quietly, “who started at the First Gate and made it all the way through to the end.”
The assassin’s expression darkened. “What are you saying?”
Marit turned to him, anger burning her tears dry. “It took our people hundreds of years to reach the Final Gate. And they did it by standing on the bodies of those who fell before them! A dying father points out the way ahead to his son. A dying mother hands her daughter to those who will carry the child on. I escaped and now I’m back.”
She gulped, a dry, wrenching sob. “To face it all over again. The pain, the fear … And no hope of escape. We’re too far away.”
Haplo wanted to comfort her, but he guessed his sympathy wouldn’t be appreciated. Besides, what comfort could he offer? She spoke the truth.
“Well, no use standing around here. The sooner we start the sooner we’re finished,” he said, and didn’t realize the dark import of his words until he heard Marit’s bitter laughter.
“I was coming on this journey with the intent of going back inside the Labyrinth,” he went on, deliberately brisk, businesslike. “I just hadn’t planned on entering from this direction. But I guess one way is as good as another. Maybe the best. Now I won’t miss anything.”
“You were going back?” Marit stared at him in wonder. “Why?” Her eyes narrowed. “To escape Xar?”
“No,” Haplo answered. He didn’t look at her. His gaze shifted to the cavern, to the gray light gleaming off the eddies in the dark water. “I was going back to find you. And our daughter.”
She seemed about to say something; her lips parted. Then they closed over the words. Her eyes lowered.
“I am going in there now to search for our daughter,” Haplo said. “Will you go with me?”
Marit raised her head, her face pale. “I … I don’t know. I have to think …”
“Marit, you don’t have much choice. There’s no other way out.”
“According to the Sartan!” She sneered. “Maybe you trust him. But I don’t. I have to think about it.”
She saw the pity on Haplo’s face. Very well. Let him think she was afraid. Let him think she needed time to bolster her courage. What did it matter to her what he thought?
Her body rigid, she stalked up the path toward the mausoleum. Coming level with Alfred, she glared at him until he cringingly fell back out of her way, stumbling over the dog as he did so. Marit swept past him, disappeared up the corridor.
“Where’s she off to?” Hugh the Hand demanded, suspicious. “Maybe one of us should go with her.”
“Leave her alone. You don’t understand. We both nearly died in there. Going back isn’t easy. Are you coming?”
The Hand shrugged. “Either that or spend eternity here. I don’t suppose I could die of boredom?” He cocked an eye at Alfred.
“No, I’m afraid … not,” said Alfred, thinking the question was serious.
Hugh laughed, bitter and sharp. “I’ll go with you. What can happen to me?”
“Good.” Haplo’s spirits lightened. He almost began to think they had a chance. “We can use your skills. You know, when I first contemplated going back inside, I thought of you for a companion. Strange the way it’s all worked out. What weapons do you carry?”
Hugh the Hand started to answer, but Alfred interrupted.
“Uh … that won’t matter,” he said in a small voice.
“What do you mean, it won’t matter? Of course it matters—”
“He can’t kill,” said Alfred.
Haplo stared, struck dumb with astonishment. He didn’t want to believe it, but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made—at least from a Sartan point of view.
“You understand?” Alfred asked hopefully.
Haplo intimated that he did with a few brief and unrepeatable words.
“Well, I sure as hell don’t!” Hugh the Hand snarled.
“You can’t be killed. You can’t kill. It’s as simple as that,” said Haplo.
“Think about it,” Alfred continued in a low voice. “Have you killed anything—even a bug—since your … uh … return?”
Hugh stared, his face going sallow beneath the black sprouts of beard.
“That’s why no one would hire me,” he said harshly. Sweat glistened on his skin. “Trian wanted me to kill Bane. I couldn’t. I was supposed to kill Stephen. I couldn’t. I was hired to kill you”—he gave Haplo a haunted look—“and I couldn’t. Damn it, I couldn’t even kill myself! I tried”—he stared at his hands—“and I couldn’t do it!”
He looked at Alfred, eyes narrowed. “Would the Kenkari have known that?”
“The Kenkari?” Alfred was puzzled. “Ah, yes. The elves who keep the souls of the dead. No, I don’t believe they would have known. But the dead would,” he added after a moment’s thought. “Yes, they would have known. Why?”
“The Kenkari were the ones who sent me to kill Haplo,” the Hand said grimly.
“The Kenkari?” Alfred was amazed. “No, no, they would never kill anyone or hire it done. You may be certain, you were sent for some other reason …”
“Yes,” said the Hand, eyes glittering, “I’m beginning to understand. They sent me to find you.”
“Isn’t that interesting, Alfred,” Haplo added, regarding the Sartan intently. “They sent Hugh the Hand to find you. I wonder why?”
Alfred’s eyes slid out from beneath both of their gazes. “I can’t imagine—”
“Wait a minute,” Haplo interrupted. “What you said can’t be right. Hugh the Hand
did
damn near kill me. And Marit as well. He has some sort of magical weapon—”
“
Had
,” Hugh the Hand corrected with grim satisfaction. “It’s gone. Lost in the sea water.”
“A magical weapon?” Alfred shook his head. “From the Kenkari? They are quite gifted in magic, but they would never use their magic to make weapons—”
“Naw,” Hugh the Hand growled. “I got it from … well, let’s just say it came from another source. The blade was supposedly of ancient Sartan make and design. Your people used it during some long-ago war …”
“Perhaps.” Alfred looked extremely unhappy. “Many magical weapons were made, I’m afraid. By both sides. I don’t know anything about this particular one, but my guess is that the weapon itself was intelligent, could act on its own. It used you, Sir Hugh, simply as a bearer, a means of transport. That and your fear and will to guide it.”
“Well, it’s lost now, so it doesn’t matter,” Haplo said. “Lost in the waters of Chelestra.”
“A pity we cannot flood the universe with such water,” said Alfred quietly to himself.
Haplo looked into the cavern, into the dark water that flowed through it. He could hear the water now that he listened, hear it churn and gurgle and lap against the bordering rocks. He could imagine what horrid things swam in its foul currents, what dread creatures might crawl out of its dark depths.
“You’re not coming with us, are you,” Haplo said.
“No,” said Alfred, staring at his shoes. “I’m not.”
Almost sick with fear, Marit took her time returning to the white room, knowing she must compose herself before she spoke to Xar. He would understand; he always understood. She had seen him—countless times—comfort those unable to go back into the Labyrinth. He was the only one who’d ever done so. He would understand, but he would be disappointed. Marit entered the round room.
The crystal coffins were no longer visible, covered over by Sartan magic, but she sensed their presence. And being around dead Sartan didn’t give her as much pleasure as she might have imagined.
Standing at the opposite end of the room from the coffins, as far away as she could get, she placed her hand on the sigil tattooed on her forehead and bowed her head.
“Xar, My Lord,” she murmured.
He was with her immediately.
“I know where we are, Lord,” she said softly, unable to check a sigh. “We are in the center of the Labyrinth. We stand at the very first gate.”
Silence. Then Xar said, “And will Haplo enter?”
“He claims he will. But I doubt he has the courage.” She doubted she had the courage, but she didn’t mention that. “No one has ever gone back before, Lord, except you.” Still, what do we have if we stay here? Our own tombs.
Marit recalled the face of the woman in the crystal coffin. She rested peacefully, wherever she was. Her death had been an easy one.
“What reason does Haplo give for entering the Labyrinth?” Xar asked.
Marit found it difficult to answer. She hesitated, felt him press her—an uncomfortable sensation.
“The—the child, Lord,” she said at last, stammering. She’d almost said,
our
child.
“Bah! What a paltry excuse! He must take me for a fool! I know his
true
reason. He has become ambitious, has Haplo. He has succeeded in seizing control of Arianus. Now he and that Sartan friend of his plan to try to subvert my own people, turn them against me. He will enter the Labyrinth and raise his own army! He must be stopped … You doubt me, Marit?”
She sensed his displeasure, almost anger. Yet she couldn’t help what she felt. “I think he is serious … He has certainly never mentioned …”
“Of course he wouldn’t.” Xar dismissed her admittedly weak arguments. “Haplo is cunning and clever. But he will not succeed. Go with him, Daughter. Stay with him. Fight to stay alive. And do not fear. Your time there will not be long. Sang-drax is on his way to the Labyrinth. Through me, he will find you and Haplo. Sang-drax will bring Haplo to me.”
Since you have failed.
Marit heard the rebuke. She accepted it in silence, knowing she deserved it. But the image of the horrid dragon-snakes she’d glimpsed on Chelestra rose hideously in her mind. Firmly she banished the vision. Xar was asking other questions.
“Haplo and the Sartan. What did they talk about? Tell me everything they have said.”
“They spoke of Hugh the Hand, how the Sartan might be able to lift the curse of immortal life from the human. They talked of Abarrach and a chamber there. It is called the Chamber of the Damned—”
“Again that wretched chamber.” Xar was angry. “Haplo talks of nothing else! He is obsessed with it! He once wanted to take me to it. I—”
A pause.
A long, long pause.
“I … have been a fool. He would have taken me,” Xar murmured. His words were soft, brushing across her forehead like the wings of a butterfly. “What did he say
about this chamber? Did he or the Sartan mention something called the Seventh Gate?”
“Yes, Lord.” Marit was astounded, awed. “How did you know?”
“A fool, a blind fool!” he repeated bitterly, and then he was urgent, compelling. “What did they say about it?”
Marit related all she could remember.
“Yes, that is it! A room imbued with magic! Power! What can be created can be destroyed!”
Marit could feel Xar’s excitement; it quivered through her like an electric jolt.
“Did they say where it was on Abarrach? How to reach it?”
“No, Lord.” She was forced to disappoint him.
“Speak to him about this chamber further! Find out all you can! Where it is! How to enter!” He grew calmer. “But don’t rouse his suspicions, Daughter. Be circumspect, cautious. Of course, that is how they plan to defeat me. Haplo must never come to suspect—”
“Suspect what, Lord?”
“Suspect that I know about this chamber. Keep in contact with me, Daughter … Or perhaps I should say
Wife.
”
He was pleased with her again. Marit had no idea why, but he was her lord and his commands were to be obeyed without question. And she would be glad to have his counsel when they were in the Labyrinth. But his next statement proved troubling.
“I will let Sang-drax know where you are.”
That brought no comfort to her, though she knew it should. Only unease.
“Yes, Lord.”
“Of course, I do not need to tell you—mention none of what we have discussed to Haplo.”