“—felt as if you’d come home,” he finished for her. Her eyes blinked rapidly. “But I haven’t,” she said in a low voice. “I can’t.” She glanced over her hunched shoulder at the Patryns, gathered together. “I’m different.” Another moment’s silence, then she said, “That’s what you meant, wasn’t it?”
“About Hugh and me being alike?” Haplo knew exactly what she was thinking, feeling. “Now I’m beginning to understand how the Sartan came to name Death’s Gate. When we passed through Death’s Gate, you and I both died, in a way. When we try to come back here, come back to our old life, it isn’t possible. We’ve both changed. We’ve both been changed.”
Haplo knew what had changed him. He wondered very much what had happened to change Marit.
“But I didn’t feel like this when I was in the Nexus,” Marit protested.
“That’s because being in the Nexus isn’t truly leaving the Labyrinth. You can see the Final Gate. Everyone’s thoughts are centered in the Labyrinth. You dream about it, as you said. You feel the fear. But now, you dream about other things, other places...”
Did Hugh the Hand dream? Did he dream about that haven of peace and light he’d described? Was that what made it so hard, so very hard to come back?
And what did Marit dream?
Whatever it was, she obviously wasn’t going to tell him.
“In the Labyrinth, the circle of my being encompassed only myself,” Haplo went on.-“It never really included anyone else, not even you.” She looked over at him.
“Just as yours never really included me,” he added quietly. She looked away again.
“No names,” Haplo continued. “Only faces. Circles touched, but never joined—” She shivered, made a sound, and he stopped talking, waited for her to say something.
She kept silent.
Haplo had hit some vital part of her, but he couldn’t tell what. He went on talking, hoping to draw her out. “In the Labyrinth, my circle was a shelf protecting me from feeling anything. I planned to keep it that way, but first the dog broke the circle, and after that, when I went beyond Death’s Gate, other people just sort of seeped inside. My circle grew, expanded.
“I didn’t intend it. I didn’t want it. But what choice did I have? It was either that or die. I’ve known fear out there, worse than any fear in the Labyrinth. I healed a young man—an elf. I was healed by Alfred—my enemy. I’ve seen wonders and horrors. I’ve known happiness, hurt, sorrow. I’ve come to know myself.
“What changed me? I’d like to blame it on that chamber. That Chamber of the Damned. Alfred’s Seventh Gate. A brush with the ‘higher power’ or whatever it was. But I don’t think that was the cause. It was Limbeck and his speeches and Jarre calling him a druz. It was the dwarf maid Grundle and the human girl, Alake, who died in my arms.”
Haplo smiled, shook his head. “It was even those four irritating, quarreling mensch on Pryan: Paithan, Rega, Roland, and Aleatha. I think about them, wonder if they’ve managed to survive.”
Haplo touched the skin of his forearm; the tattoos were glowing faintly, indicating danger, but a danger that was far away. “You should have seen how the mensch stared when they first saw my skin start to glow. I thought Grundle’s eyes were going to roll out of her head. Now, among my own people, I feel the way I did among the mensch—I’m different. My journeys have left their mark on me and I know that they must be able to see it. I can never be one of them again.”
He waited for Marit to say something, but she didn’t. She jabbed the stick into the water and huddled away from him. Obviously she wanted to be alone. Standing up, he limped back to his bed, to heal himself—as far as possible—and try to sleep.
“Xar,” Marit pleaded silently after Haplo had gone. “Husband, Lord, please help me, guide me. I’m so afraid, so desperately afraid. And alone. I don’t know my own people anymore. I’m not one of them.”
“Do you blame me for that?” Xar questioned mildly.
“No,” Marit answered, poking the stick into the stream. “I blame Haplo. He brought the mensch here, and the Sartan. Their presence puts us all in danger.”
“Yes, but it may work for us in the end. You say you are at the very beginning of the Labyrinth. This village, from what you describe, must be an incredibly large one, larger by far than any I ever knew existed. This suits me well. I have formed a plan.”
“Yes, Lord.” Marit was relieved, vastly relieved. The burden was to be lifted from her shoulders.
“When you reach the village, Wife, this is what you will do...” It was now extremely dark; Haplo could barely find his way back to the group. Hugh the Hand looked up at him hopefully, a hope that died when he saw that Haplo’s hands were empty. “I thought you’d gone to get us something more to eat.”
Haplo shook his head. “There is nothing more. We have a saying: ‘The hungrier you are, the faster you’ll run.’”
The Hand growled, and—scowling darkly—he went to the stream to fill his stomach with water. He moved silently, stealthily, as he always moved, as he had trained himself to move. Marit didn’t hear him coming, apparently, and when he drew near, she gave a violent start.
“A guilty start,” the Hand told Haplo later, describing the incident. “And I could have sworn I heard her talking to someone.”
Haplo brushed it off; what else could he do? She was hiding something from him, of that he was certain. He longed to be able to trust her, but he couldn’t. Did she feel the same about him? Did she want to trust him? Or was she only too happy to hate him?
Marit walked over to join the circle of Patryns, tossing down her water skin among them as an offering. Perhaps she was out to prove that she, at least, was still one with her people.
Kari looked over at Haplo, extending an invitation. He could have joined them if he had wanted, but he was too tired, too sore to move. His leg ached and the scratches on his face burned like fire. He needed to heal himself, to close the circle of his being—as best he could, considering the circle was torn and would be forever.
He scraped together a bed of dried fir needles and lay down. Hugh the Hand sat down beside him.
“I’ll take the first watch,” the assassin offered quietly.
“No, you won’t,” Haplo told him. “To do so would be an insult, would look as if we didn’t trust them. Lie down. Get some rest. You, too, Alfred.” The Hand thought he was going to argue; then he shrugged and stretched himself out on the ground, propped up against the curved bole of a tree. “Anything says I’ve got to fall asleep?” he asked, crossing his legs and taking out his pipe.
Haplo smiled tiredly. “Just don’t make it look too obvious.” He petted the dog, which had curled up beside him.
It raised its head lazily, blinked at him, went back to its dreams. Hugh the Hand stuck the pipe between his teeth. “I won’t. If anyone asks, I’ll say I’m troubled with insomnia. Eternal insomnia.” He cast a dark glance at Alfred.
The Sartan flushed, his face reddening in the glow cast by the fire. He had been attempting to find himself a place to sleep, but first he’d struck his head on a buried rock; then he’d apparently sat down on an anthill, because he suddenly leapt to his feet and began slapping at his legs.
“Stop it!” Haplo commanded irritably. “You’re drawing attention to yourself.” Alfred collapsed hastily to the ground. A faint expression of pain crossed his face. He reached underneath him, removed a pine cone, and tossed it away. Catching Haplo’s disapproving glance, the Sartan hunkered down in the dirt and attempted to look comfortable. Surreptitiously, his hand slid underneath his bony posterior, removed another pine cone.
Haplo closed his eyes, began the healing process. Slowly the pain in his knee receded, the burning cuts on his face closed. But he couldn’t sleep. Eternal insomnia, as Hugh the Hand had put it.
The other Patryns set the watch, doused the fire. Darkness closed over them, lit only by the softly glowing sigla on the skin of his people. Danger was around them, always around them. Marit did not return to her group, nor did she stay with the other Patryns, but chose a place to sleep about halfway between both.