Into the Labyrinth (41 page)

“An interesting analogy,” Xar remarked, transporting himself to the Star Chamber with a spoken word of magic. He disliked climbing the stairs. “A mother’s soothing voice. A lullaby. The Sartan used this to control them, and while they were under this influence, they were slaves to the Sartan’s will. If
I
could just learn the secret …”

Reaching the door that led into the Star Chamber, Xar peered cautiously inside. The machine was shut down. The blinding light was off. The machine had been running erratically ever since the lord’s arrival. The elf thought it was supposed to work this way, but Xar guessed not. The Lord of the Nexus knew little about machinery; he truly missed the child Bane at this moment. The boy had figured out how to work the Kicksey-winsey; he could undoubtedly have solved the mystery of this far simpler machine.

Xar was confident that he himself would solve it in time. The Sartan, as was their custom, had left behind innumerable volumes, some of which must contain something other than their constant whining—complaints about how tough things were, how awful their lives had become. He grew irritated every time he tried to read one.

What with wading through books of useless twaddle, listening to the mensch bicker and quarrel, and keeping an eye on the tytans, who had once again massed outside the citadel’s walls, Xar had found very little information to help him.

Until now. Now he was beginning to get somewhere.

He entered the Star Chamber, stalked over to the window, and stared outside. It took him several moments of intense searching to find the ship, partly hidden in the thick jungle foliage. When he located it, he wondered how he could have missed it. His eye was instantly drawn to it—the only ordered thing in a world of wild disorder.

He examined it intently, excited, tempted. The ship was in plain view. He could whisk himself there at this moment. Leave this world, leave the mensch. Return to the Labyrinth, return to find Haplo.

Haplo—who knew the location of the Seventh Gate on Abarrach. Who wanted nothing more than to take his lord with him …

Sartan runes.

Xar narrowed his eyes, brought the ship into tighter focus. He could not be mistaken. The hull of the vessel—it was built to resemble some type of giant bird—was covered with Sartan runes.

Xar cursed. The Sartan magic would keep him out as effectively as it had kept him out of the citadel.

“The mensch …” he whispered.

They had managed to enter the citadel; they could certainly
enter the ship. That dwarf with his amulet and his puny little bit of Sartan rune-magic. The mensch could get inside the ship, take Xar with them. The mensch would be thrilled to leave this place.

But between the mensch and the ship, between Xar and the ship, was an army of tytans.

Xar cursed again.

The creatures—hundreds of them—were camped outside the walls. Whenever the machine flared to life, they swarmed out of the jungle, surrounded the citadel, blind heads turned in the direction of the gate, waiting for it to open. This transfixion lasted as long as the humming and the brilliant starlight. When the machine shut off, the tytans came out of the trance and attempted to break into the citadel.

Their rage was truly frightening. The tytans beat on the walls with their fists and tree-branch clubs. Their silent shouts reverberated in Xar’s head until it almost drove him mad. But the walls held; Xar gave grudging thanks to the Sartan for that much at least. Eventually, worn out, the tytans would shuffle back into the cover of the jungle and wait.

They were waiting now. He could see them. Waiting to question the first living being who came out of the citadel, waiting to club him to death when they didn’t get the right answer.

This was maddening, truly maddening. I know now the location of the Seventh Gate—back on Abarrach. Haplo could lead me to it. He will lead me to it. Once Sang-drax finds him …

But what about Sang-drax? Does Sang-drax know? Has the dragon-snake deliberately lied—

Movement outside the door. A shuffling sound. Drat those snooping mensch! Couldn’t they leave him alone an instant?

A rune flared from his hand; the door dissolved. A startled-looking old man, clad in mouse-colored robes, with his hand raised to the now nonexistent door handle, was staring into the room in amazement.

“I say,” he said. “What’d you do with the door?”

“What do you want?” Xar demanded.

“This isn’t the men’s room?” The old man glanced about in wistful expectation.

“Where did you come from?”

The old man shuffled into the room, still looking about hopefully. “Oh, down the hall. Take a right at the potted palm. Third door on the left. I asked for a room with a bath, but—”

“What are you doing here? Were you following me?”

“I don’t believe so.” The old man considered the matter. “Can’t think why I would. No offense, old chap, but you’re not exactly my type. Still, I suppose we should make the best of it. Two girls left at the altar, aren’t we, my dear? Abandoned at the church door …”

The old man had wandered over near the well. A magical shove and Xar would be rid of this irritating fool for good. But Xar found what the old man was saying intriguing.

“What do you mean … abandoned?”

“Dumped is more like it,” said the old man with increasing gloom. “So I won’t get hurt. ‘You’ll be safe here, sir,’ ” he mimicked, scowling. “Thinks I’m too old and frail to mix it up in a good brawl anymore. I’ll show you, you hyperthyroid toad …”

He shook a scrawny fist in the general direction of nothing, then sighed and turned to Xar. “What was the excuse yours gave you?”

“Who gave me?” Xar was playing along. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Why, your dragon. Geriatric? Feeble? Slow him down? I— Ah, of course.” The old man’s vague expression grew disconcertingly sharp. “I understand. Quite clever. Lured you here. Got you here. Left you here. And now he’s gone. And you can’t follow.”

Xar shrugged. The old man knew something. Now to keep him talking. “Are you referring to Sang-drax?”

“On Abarrach, you’re too close. Kleitus has already talked too much. He might say more. Sang-drax is worried. Suggests Pryan. Wasn’t expecting my dragon, though. Opposing team. Flip side. Change in plans. Haplo trapped in Labyrinth. You here. Not perfect, but better than nothing. Takes ship.
And
people. Leaves you—lurch. Goes to Labyrinth. Kills Haplo.”

Xar shrugged. “Dead or alive, it doesn’t matter to me.”

“That’s true.” The old man pondered. “So long as
Sang-drax brings you the body. But that … that’s the one thing he
won’t
do.”

Xar stared out the window. He stared long and hard out the window. Stared long and hard at the ship guarded by the Sartan runes, an army of tytans between him and escape.

“He’ll bring him,” said Xar at last.

“No, he won’t,” the old man replied. “Care to wager?”

“Why wouldn’t he? What would be his reason?”

“To keep you and Haplo from reaching the Seventh Gate,” the old man said triumphantly.

“So,” Xar said, turning to face the old man. “You
do
know about the Seventh Gate.”

The old man tugged nervously at his beard. “The fourth race at Aqueduct. A horse. Seventh Gate. Six to one. Prefers a muddy track.”

Xar frowned. He advanced on the old man, stood so close that his breath disturbed the wispy gray hair. “You
will
tell me. If you don’t, I can make the next few minutes very unpleasant for you …”

“Yes, I’ve no doubt you could.”

The vague look left the old man’s eyes, leaving them filled with an inexpressible pain, a pain Xar could never hope to replicate.

“It wouldn’t matter what you did to me.” The old man sighed. “I truly don’t know where the Seventh Gate is. I never went there. I disapproved, you see. I was going to stop Samah, if I could. I told him so. The Council members sent their guards to bring me by force. They needed my magic. I am powerful, a powerful wizard …”

The old man smiled briefly, sadly.

“But when they came, I wasn’t there. I couldn’t leave the people. I hoped I might be able to save them. And so I was left behind. On Earth. I saw it. The end. The Sundering.”

The old man drew in a trembling breath. “There was nothing I could do. No help. Not for them. Not for any of them—the ‘deplorable but unavoidable civilian casualties.’ … ‘It’s a question of priorities,’ Samah said. ‘We can’t save everyone. And those who survive will be better off.’

“And so Samah left them to die. I saw … I saw …”

A tremor shook the old man’s thin body. Tears filled
his eyes and a look of horror began to contort his face—a look so dreadful, so awful, that despite himself, Xar recoiled before it.

The old man’s thin lips parted as if he would scream, but no scream came out. The eyes grew wider and wider, reliving horrors only he could see, only he could remember.

“The fires that devoured cities, plains, and forests. The rivers that ran blood-red. The oceans boiling, steam blotting out the sun. The charred bodies of the countless dead. The living running and running, with nowhere to run to.”

“Who are you?” Xar asked, awed. “
What
are you?”

The old man’s breath rattled in his throat; spittle flecked his lips. “When it was over, Samah caught me, sent me to the Labyrinth. I escaped. The Nexus, the books
you
read—mine. My handiwork.” The old man looked faintly proud. “That was before the sickness. I don’t remember the sickness, but my dragon tells me about it. That was when he found me, took care of me …”

“Who are you?” Xar repeated.

He looked into the old man’s eyes … and then Xar saw the madness.

It dropped like a final curtain, dousing the memories, putting out the fires, clouding over the red-hot skies, blotting out the horror.

The madness. A gift? Or a punishment.

“Who are you?” Xar demanded a third time.

“My name?” The old man smiled vacantly, happily. “Bond. James Bond.”

THE CITADEL
PRYAN

A
LEATHA FLOUNCED THROUGH THE GATE LEADING INTO THE
maze. Her skirt caught on a bramble. Swearing, she tore it loose, taking a certain grim satisfaction in hearing the fabric rip. So what if her clothes were in shreds? What did it matter? She would never get to go anywhere, never get to do anything with anybody of interest ever again.…

Angry and miserable, she curled up on the marble bench, giving herself up to the luxury of self-pity. Outside the maze, through the hedgerows, she could hear the other three continuing to bicker. Roland asked if they shouldn’t go in after Aleatha. Paithan said no, leave her alone, she wouldn’t go far and what could happen to her anyway?

“Nothing,” said Aleatha drearily. “Nothing will happen. Ever again.”

Eventually their voices faded away; their footsteps trailed off. She was alone.

“I might as well be in prison,” she said, looking at her surroundings, the green walls of the hedges with their unnaturally sharp angles and lines, strict and confining. “Except prison would be better than this. Every prisoner has
some
chance of escape, and I have none. Nowhere to go but this same place. No one to see except these same people. On and on and on … through the years. Wearing away at each other until we’re all stark, raving mad.”

She flung herself down on the bench and began to cry bitterly. What did it matter if her eyes turned red, her nose
dripped? What did it matter who saw her like that? No one cared for her. No one loved her. They all hated her. She hated them. And she hated that horrid Lord Xar. There was something frightening about him …

“Don’t do that, now,” came a gruff voice. “You will make yourself sick.”

Aleatha sat up swiftly, blinking back her tears and fumbling for what remained of her handkerchief, which—from being put to various uses—was now little more than a ragged scrap of lace. Not finding it, she wiped her eyes with the hem of her shawl.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said.

Drugar stood over her, gazing down at her with his black-browed frown. But his voice was kind and almost shyly tender. Aleatha recognized admiration when she saw it, and though it came from the dwarf, she felt comforted.