“No more games, Aleatha,” Roland said softly, his grip on her tightening. His gaze went to the body of the dwarf. “We never know when the game’s going to come to an end.”
“No more games, Roland,” she said, and rested her head against his chest.
“What do we do about Drugar?” Paithan asked after a moment’s silence. His voice was husky. “I don’t know anything about dwarven burial customs.” Take him to his people, came a tytan’s voice.
“Take him to his people,” Aleatha repeated.
Paithan shook his head. “That’d be fine, if we knew where they were. Or even if they were still alive...”
“I know,” said Aleatha. “Don’t I?”
“Who are you talking to, Thea?” Paithan looked a little frightened. You know, came the answer.
“But I don’t have the amulet,” she said.
You don’t need it. Wait until the starlight shines.
“This way,” said Aleatha confidently. “Come with me.” Taking off her shawl, she laid it reverently over the dwarf’s body. Roland and Paithan lifted Drugar. Rega went to walk at Aleatha’s side. Together they entered the maze.
“Can I stand up now?” came a peevish voice.
“Yes, sir, but you must hurry. The others might be back at any moment.” The pile of bricks began to move. A few on top slid down, clattered to the floor.
“Please be quiet, sir!” intoned the dragon.
“You could give me a hand,” muttered the peevish voice. “Or a claw. Whatever you’ve got available at the moment.”
The dragon, with a long-suffering sigh, began to sift through the rubble with a green-scaled forearm. Snagging the old man by the collar of his mouse-gray robes—now brick-reddish robes—the dragon hauled the old man up out of the ruin.
“You dropped that wall on me on purpose!” the old man said, shaking his clenched fist.
“I had to, sir,” the dragon answered gloomily. “You were breathing.”
“Well, of course I was breathing!” the old man cried in high dudgeon. “A fellow can only hold his breath so long, you know! I suppose you expected me to turn blue and pass out!”
A bright and happy gleam lit the dragon’s eyes; then it sighed, as over something lost, gone forever.
“I meant, sir, that you were being obvious about your breathing. Your chest was rising and falling. At one point, you even made a sound. Not a very corpse-like thing to do—”
“Beard flew up my nose,” the old man muttered. “I thought I was going to sneeze.”
“Yes, sir,” said the dragon. “That was when I dropped the wall on you, sir. And now, sir, if you’re quite ready ...”
“Are they all right?” the old man asked, peering out the hole in the wall.
“Will they be safe?”
“Yes, sir. The tytans are inside the citadel. The seven chosen will take their places in the seven chairs. They will begin to channel the energy up from the well, use their mental powers to beam it out into Pryan and, eventually, through Death’s Gate. The two humans and the two elves will be able to communicate with others of their kind in the other citadels. And now that the tytans are back under control, the humans and the elves will be able to venture forth into the jungle. They will find others of their races—and the dwarven race as well. They will lead them to safety inside these walls.”
“And they’ll live happily ever after,” the old man concluded, beaming.
“I wouldn’t go that far, sir,” said the dragon. “But they’ll live as happily as can reasonably be expected. They will have plenty to keep them busy. Particularly after they’ve made contact with their people on the other worlds of Arianus and Chelestra. That should give them quite a bit to think about.”
“I’d like to stay and see that,” said the old man wistfully. “I’d like to see people happy, working together, building their lives in peace. I don’t know why”—he frowned—“but I think it would help me get over these terrible dreams I have sometimes.”
He began to tremble. “You know the dreams I mean. Horrible dreams. Dreadful fires and buildings falling and the dying... I can’t help the dying...”
“Yes, you can, Mr. Bond,” said the dragon gently. He passed a clawed hand over the old man’s head. “You are Her Majesty’s finest secret agent. Or perhaps you would rather be a certain befuddled wizard today? You were always rather fond of that one—”
The old man pursed his lips. “Nope. No wizards. I don’t want to get typecast.”
“Very good, Mr. Bond. I think Moneypenny is trying to get hold of you.”
“She’s always trying to get hold of me!” the old man said with a cackle.
“Well, off we go. Let’s be quick about it. Mustn’t keep Q waiting.”
“I believe the initial is M, sir—”
“Whatever!” the old man snapped.
The two began to fade into the air, became one with the dust. The table built by the Sartan lay shattered beneath the bricks and the fallen stone. Many cycles later, when Paithan, along with his wife, Rega, had become rulers of the city named Drugar, the elf commanded that this chamber be sealed off. Aleatha claimed she could hear voices inside it, sad voices, talking a strange language. No one else could hear them, but since Aleatha was now High Priestess of the Tytans and her husband was High Priest Roland, no one questioned her wisdom.
The chamber was made into a memorial for a rather daft old wizard who had twice given his life for them, and whose body—so far as any of them knew—lay buried beneath the rubble.
44
“Excuse me, Haplo...” Alfred’s whisper drew Haplo away from an internal struggle. He looked over at the Sartan, not sorry to put his mental weapons down, turn his dark thoughts to something else, probably equally dark.
“Yes, what is it?”
Alfred cast a fearful glance at their guards, marching at their side, edged his way closer to Haplo.
“I—Oh, dear me! Where did that come from?”
Haplo caught hold of Alfred, kept him from walking straight into a solid rock wall.
“The mountain’s been here a long time,” Haplo said, and steered Alfred into the cavern entrance.
He kept fast hold of the Sartan, whose fumbling feet discovered every loose rock, every crack and fissure. The guards, after a long, frowning scrutiny, apparently decided Alfred was harmless, for they left him alone. Most of their attention was centered on Hugh the Hand.
“Thank you,” Alfred murmured. “What... what I wanted to ask... and this may sound like a stupid question...”
“Coming from you?” Haplo was amused.
Alfred smiled, embarrassed. “What I was wondering is about this prison. I didn’t think your people did that sort of thing ... to each other.”
“I didn’t think we did,” Hapto said pointedly.
Vasu, who had been walking alongside, as silent and preoccupied as Haplo himself, looked up.
“Only in cases of dire necessity,” the headman replied gravely. “Mainly for the prisoner’s own good. Some of our people suffer from what we call Labyrinth sickness. In the lands out beyond the walls, the sickness usually leads to death.”
“Out beyond these walls,” Haplo added grimly, “a person with Labyrinth sickness puts his or her entire tribe in danger.”
“What happens to them? What do they do?” Alfred asked. Haplo shrugged. “Usually they go crazy and jump off a cliff. Or charge a pack of wolfen alone. Or drown themselves in the river...”
Alfred shuddered.
“But we have discovered that, with time and patience, these people can be helped,” Vasu said. “We keep them in a place where they are safe, where they can do no harm to themselves or to others.”
“And that’s where you’re going to be putting us,” Haplo said.
“Essentially it’s where you’re putting yourselves,” Vasu replied. “Isn’t that true? If you wanted to leave, you could do so.”
“And bring destruction on my own people? I didn’t come here to do that,” Haplo replied.