“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?”[3] 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,[4] 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.”
3
Marit is not his daughter in the literal sense of the word. Xar considers all Patryns his children, since he was the one who brought them forth out of the darkness of the Labyrinth. It is not known whether Xar fathered any natural children of his own. If so, the youngest would be old by Patryn standards, at least past their Seventieth Gate. Since few Patryns trapped in the Labyrinth live even half that long, we must assume that Xar’s true children, if he had any, are long since dead.
4
Those who live in the Labyrinth are divided into two categories: Runners and Squatters. Runners live and travel alone, their only object to escape the Labyrinth. Squatters live in large groups. Their object is also escape, but they place greater value on the survival and perpetuation of their race.