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—”
“Ah, so I am going to Pryan, am I?”
Sang-drax appeared somewhat confused. “I thought
that was my lord’s intent. When we discussed the matter, you said—”
“I said I would
consider
going to Pryan.” Xar eyed the dragon-snake narrowly. “You seem to be unusually interested in getting me to that particular world. Is there any special reason, I wonder?”
“My lord has said himself that the tytans of Pryan would make formidable additions to his army. And, in addition, I think it quite likely that you might find the Seventh Gate on—”
“The Seventh Gate? How did you come to find out about the Seventh Gate?”
Sang-drax was now definitely confused.
“Why … Kleitus told me you were searching for it, Lord.”
“He did, did he?”
“Yes, Lord. Just now.”
“And what do
you
know of the Seventh Gate?”
“Nothing, Lord, I assure you—”
“Then why are you discussing it?”
“The lazar brought it up. I was only—”
“Enough!” Xar had rarely been so angry. Was he the only person around here who
didn’t
know about the Seventh Gate? Well, that would soon end.
“Enough,” Xar repeated, casting a sidelong glance at Marit. “We will speak of this matter later, Sang-drax.
After
we have dealt with Samah. I trust I will receive many of the answers to my questions from him. Now, as to guards—”
“Allow me to serve you, Lord. I will use my own magic to guard the prisoners. That will be all you need.”
“Are you saying that your magic is more powerful than ours? Than Patryn magic?” Xar asked the question in a mild tone. A dangerous tone, to those who knew him.
Marit knew him. She drew a step or two away from Sang-drax.
“It is not a question of whose magic is more powerful, My Lord,” Sang-drax replied humbly. “But let us face facts. The Sartan have learned to defend against Patryn magic, just as you, My Lord, can defend against theirs. The Sartan have
not
learned to fight our magic. We defeated them on Chelestra, as you will remember, Lord—”
“Just barely.”
“But that was before Death’s Gate had been opened, My Lord. Our magic is much more powerful now.” Again the threatening softness. “I was the one who captured these two.”
Xar looked at Marit, who confirmed this fact with a nod. “Yes,” she conceded. “He brought them to us, where we stood guard, at the gates of Necropolis.”
The Lord of the Nexus pondered. Despite Sang-drax’s protestations, Xar didn’t like the implied conceit of the dragon-snake’s statement. The lord also didn’t like admitting that the creature had a point. Samah. The great Samah. Who among the Patryns could guard him effectively? Only Xar himself.
Sang-drax appeared ready to argue further, but Xar cut the dragon-snake’s words short with an impatient wave of his hand. “There is only one sure way to prevent Samah’s escape, and that is to kill him.”
Sang-drax demurred. “But surely you require information from him, My Lord …”
“Indeed,” Xar said with smooth satisfaction. “And I will have it—from his corpse!”
“Ah!” Sang-drax bowed. “You have acquired the art of necromancy. My admiration is boundless, Lord of the Nexus.”
The dragon-snake sidled closer; the red eye gleamed in the torchlight. “Samah will die, as you command, My Lord. But—there is no need for haste. Surely he should suffer as your people have suffered. Surely he should be made to endure at least a portion of the torment your people have been made to endure.”
“Yes!” Xar drew in a shivering breath. “Yes, he will suffer. I will personally—”
“Permit me, My Lord,” Sang-drax begged. “I have a rather special talent for such things. You will watch. You will be pleased. If not, you have only to take my place.”
“Very well.” Xar was amused. The dragon-snake was almost panting with eagerness. “I want to speak to him first, though. Alone,” he added, when Sang-drax started to accompany him. “You will wait for me here. Marit will take me to him.”
“As you wish, My Lord.” Sang-drax bowed again. Straightening, he added in solicitous tones, “Be careful, My Lord, not to get any of the sea water on yourself.”
Xar glowered. He looked away, looked back quickly, and it seemed to him that the red eye glinted with laughter.
The Lord of the Nexus made no reply. Turning on his heel, he stalked down the row of empty cells. Marit walked beside him. The sigla on the arms and hands of both Patryns glowed with a blue-red light that was not entirely acting in response to the poisonous atmosphere of Abarrach.
“You don’t trust him, do you, Daughter?”
1
Xar asked his companion.
“It is not for me to trust or distrust anyone whom my lord chooses to favor,” Marit answered gravely. “If my lord trusts this creature, I trust my lord’s judgment.”
Xar nodded in approval of the answer. “You were a Runner,
2
I believe?”
“Yes, My Lord.”
Slowing his steps, Xar laid his gnarled hand on the young woman’s smooth, tattooed skin. “So was I. We didn’t either of us survive the Labyrinth by trusting in anything or anyone other than ourselves, did we, Daughter?”
“No, My Lord.” She seemed relieved.
“You will keep your eye on this one-eyed snake, then.”
“Certainly, My Lord.”
Noticing Xar glancing around impatiently, Marit added, “Samah’s cell is down here, My Lord. The other prisoner is being held at the opposite end of the cellblock.
I deemed it wise not to put them too close together, although the other prisoner appears harmless.”
“Yes, I forgot there were two. What about this other prisoner? Is he a bodyguard? Samah’s son?”
“Hardly that, My Lord.” Marit smiled, shook her head. “I’m not even certain he’s a Sartan. If he is, he’s deranged. Odd,” she added, thoughtfully, “but if he were a Patryn, I would say he suffers from Labyrinth sickness.”
“Probably an act. If the man was mad, which I doubt, the Sartan would never permit him to be seen in public. It might harm their status as demigods. What does he call himself?”
“A bizarre name. Zifnab.”
“Zifnab!” Xar pondered. “I’ve heard that before … Bane spoke … Yes, in regard to—” Casting a sharp look at Marit, Xar shut his mouth.
“My Lord?”
“Nothing important, Daughter. I was thinking out loud. Ah, I see we are nearing our destination.”
“Here is the cell of Samah, My Lord.” Marit gave the man inside a cool, dispassionate glance. “I will return to guard our other prisoner.”
“I think the other will get along well enough on his own,” Xar suggested mildly. “Why not keep our snaky friend company?” He motioned with his head back toward the opening of the cellblock tunnels, where Sang-drax stood watching them. “I do not want to be disturbed in my conversation with the Sartan.”
“I understand, My Lord.” Marit bowed and left, walking back down the long, dark corridor flanked by rows of empty cells.
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?”