The dragon-snake glanced behind him occasionally, but never more than a glance and an uninterested one at that. He was about halfway down the alley when he stopped, looked more carefully up and down. Then he stepped into a shadowed doorway and disappeared.
Marit waited tensely, not wanting to move closer until she was certain he wasn’t going to reemerge.
Nothing happened; nothing stirred. The alley was empty. But she could hear voices, low and indistinct, coming from the building Sang-drax had entered. Marit traced a series of sigla in the air. Tendrils of fog began to swirl down the alley. She waited patiently, worked the magic slowly. The sudden appearance of a thick fog-bank would look extremely suspicious. When she could no longer see the squat, square shape of the building across from her, Marit walked across the alley, using the enveloping cloud as cover. She had already marked her destination—a window in the building’s side, on a wall that ran perpendicular to the alley.
Sang-drax would have had to be standing in the alley itself, watching for her, to have seen her. And he was nowhere in sight. As it was, she would be only a vague shape, made visible by the faint warning glow of the runes on her bare hands and arms.
Reaching the window, she flattened herself against the wall, then risked a look inside.
The room was small, bare. Former nomads, Patryns didn’t have much use for furniture in their dwellings, no such things as tables and chairs. Mats for sitting and pallets for sleeping were all the furnishings considered necessary.
Sang-drax stood in the middle of the empty room, talking to four other Patryns—who were not Patryns, Marit quickly determined. She couldn’t see the rune-markings clearly—the fog outside had caused the interior of the building to grow quite dark. But the very fact that the room was dark was the determining factor. A true Patryn’s sigla would have been glowing, even as Marit’s were.
More dragon-snakes, disguised as Patryns. They spoke the Patryn language well—all of them. Marit found this disturbing. Sang-drax spoke her language, but then he had spent a great deal of time with Xar. How long had these other snakes had her people under observation?
“—are proceeding. Our people are massed at the Final Gate. We wait only for your signal,” one of the dragon-snakes was saying.
“Excellent,” Sang-drax replied. “My signal will not be long in coming. The armies of the Labyrinth are gathering. At what passes for dawn in this land, we will attack this city and destroy it. When the city is leveled, I will allow a handful of ‘survivors’ to flee, to spread their tale of destruction, stir up terror at our coming.”
“You will not permit Alfred the Sartan to survive?” asked another in a hissing voice.
“Of course not,” Sang-drax replied harshly. “The Serpent Mage will die here, as will Haplo the Patryn. Both are far too dangerous to us, now that Lord Xar knows about the Seventh Gate. It is only a matter of time before either Haplo or the Serpent Mage figures out that he has been there. Curse that fool Kleitus for telling Xar in the first place.”
“We must find a way to deal with the lazar,” observed one dragon-snake.
“All in good time,” Sang-drax returned. “When this is finished, we will return to Abarrach, take care of the lazar, then deal with Xar himself. First, however, we will conquer and control the Labyrinth. When we seal shut the Final Gate, the evil trapped in this place will grow a hundredfold—and our power along with it. Our kind will thrive and multiply here, safe from interference, assured of a continual source of nourishment. Fear, hatred, chaos will be our harvest—”
“What was that?” A dragon-snake turned its head toward the window. “A spy?” Marit had made no sound, although what she had overheard very nearly caused her to sink, weak-kneed, to the ground.
Sang-drax was walking toward the window.
Silent, soft-footed, Marit glided into the thick fog, ran swiftly down the alley.
“Did she hear?” The dragon-snake asked. Sang-drax dispelled the fog with a wave of his hand. “She heard,” he replied with satisfaction.
43
The starlight shone brightly from the citadel’s tower. The faint humming sound, whose words could be heard but not distinguished, vibrated through the streets. Outside the walls, the tytans stood in their trance. Inside, Aleatha was holding the amulet on the gate.
“We’d better run for it,” advised Paithan, licking dry lips.
“I’m not leaving without Aleatha,” said Roland.
“I’m not going without Roland,” said Rega, standing next to her brother. Paithan regarded them both with exasperation and despairing fondness. “I won’t go anywhere without you two.” Bracing himself, he added, “I guess this means we’re all going to die.”
“At least we’ll be together,” Rega said softly, reaching out one hand to hold Paithan’s while her other took her brother’s.
“We’ll be safe as long as the light keeps shining.” Roland was considering the matter. “Paithan, you and I’ll run to the gate, grab Aleatha, and then head for the citadel. Then—”
At that moment the gates swung open and the starlight suddenly went off. The tytans outside the walls began to stir about. Paithan tensed, waiting for the tytans to surge inside and start bashing them into the ground. He waited... and waited.
The tytans remained unmoving, sightless heads turned toward the open gate. Aleatha stood before them, just inside the gate. “Please,” she said, with the gracious gesture of an elf queen, “please, come inside.” Paithan groaned. He exchanged glances with Roland. The two made ready to dash forward.
“Stop!” Rega ordered, awed. “Look!”
Quietly, humbly, reverently, the tytans dropped their tree-sized clubs to the ground and began to file peacefully up the hill to the gate. The first tytan to reach the gate stopped and turned its sightless head toward Aleatha.
Where is the citadel? What must we do?
Paithan shut his eyes. He couldn’t look. Next to him, Roland moaned in anguish.
“Here is the citadel,” Aleatha said simply. “You are home.” Wounded and exhausted, Xar sought refuge inside the library. He managed to make his way that far before he collapsed onto the floor. For long moments he lay there, his body bleeding and broken, too weak to heal himself. The Lord of the Nexus had fought many powerful opponents in his long lifetime. He’d fought many dragons, but never one as strong in magic as this wingless beast of fury.
But the lord had given as good as he’d got.
Lightheaded, dazed with pain and loss of blood, Xar had no very clear idea what had happened to the dragon. Had he killed it? Wounded it so severely it had been forced to withdraw? He didn’t know, and at this moment he didn’t particularly care. The beast had disappeared. Xar must heal himself quickly, before those fool mensch found him in this weakened state.
The Lord of the Nexus clasped his hands together, closed the circle of his being. Warmth spread through him, sending him into the restorative sleep that would return him fully to strength and health. He very nearly succumbed to it, but an urgent voice, calling to him, woke him up.
Swiftly he shook off the drowsiness. There was no time for sleep. In all probability the dragon was lurking somewhere, healing itself.
“Marit, you come to me in good time. Have you obeyed my commands? Are Haplo and the Sartan in prison?”
“Yes, Lord. But I fear you’ve... you’ve made a terrible mistake.”
“I’ve made a mistake.” Xar was upright, rigid, lethal. “What do you mean, Daughter—I’ve made a mistake?”
“Sang-drax is a traitor. I overheard him plotting. He and the others of his kind are going to attack this city and destroy it. Then they plan to seal shut the Final Gate. Our people will be trapped. You must come—”
“I will come,” Xar said, barely able to contain his anger. “I will come and deal with Haplo and this Sartan, who have obviously subverted you to their foul cause—”