“Is there anything we can do for you?” Orla sounded helpless. Alfred understood. She knew he wasn’t ill. She knew he was shamming, and she was upset and confused. Sartan didn’t deceive each other. They didn’t lie to each other. They weren’t afraid of each other. Perhaps Orla was beginning to share Samah’s view—that they had an insane brother on their hands. Sighing, Alfred closed his eyes. “Bear with me,” he said softly. “I know I’m behaving strangely. I know you don’t understand. I can’t expect you to understand. You will, when you have heard my story.”
He sat up then, weakly, with Orla’s assistance. But he managed to regain his feet on his own, managed to stand up and face Samah with dignity.
“You are the head of the Council of Seven. Are the other Council members present?” Alfred asked.
“Yes.” Samah’s gaze flicked about the chamber, picking out five other Sartan. The stern eyes came to rest, finally, on the woman, Orla. “Yes, the Council members are all here.”
“Then,” said Alfred humbly, “I beg the favor of a hearing before the Council.”
“Certainly, Brother,” said Samah, with a gracious bow. “That is your right, whenever you are feeling up to it. Perhaps in a day or two—”
“No, no,” said Alfred hastily. “There isn’t time to wait. Well, actually there is time. Time’s the problem. I mean ... I think you should hear what I have to say immediately, before . . . before . . .” His voice trailed off lamely. Orla caught her breath with a gasp. Her gaze sought Samah’s, and whatever tension had existed between them immediately eased and slackened. The Sartan language, comprising, as it does, Sartan magic, has the ability to summon up images and visions that enhance the speaker’s words in the minds of his hearers. A powerful Sartan, such as Samah, would have the ability to control these images, making certain that his listeners saw, as well as heard, exactly what he wanted.
Alfred, unfortunately, could no more control his mental processes than he could his physical. Orla and Samah and every other Sartan in the mausoleum had just witnessed astounding, frightening, and confusing sights. Sights that emanated directly from Alfred.
“The Council will convene immediately,” Samah said. “The rest of you . . .” He paused, looked with troubled eyes on the other Sartan standing in the mausoleum, patiently waiting his command. “I think perhaps you should remain here until we know for certain how matters stand on the surface. I note that some of our brethren have not awakened. Find out if anything is amiss with them.”
The Sartan bowed in silent, unquestioning acquiescence, and left to go about their duties.
Samah turned on his heel and headed out of the mausoleum, heading for a door separated from the chamber by a dark and narrow hallway. The five other Sartan Council members came after him. Orla walked near Alfred. She said nothing to him, courteously refrained from looking at him, giving him time to calm himself.
Alfred was grateful to her, but he didn’t think it would help. Samah strode the hall with swift, confident steps, as if he had walked these floors only yesterday. Preoccupied as he was, he apparently didn’t notice that his long, sweeping robes were leaving small trails in a thick layer of dust. Runes over the door lit with a blue radiance as Samah approached and began to chant. The door swung open, wafting a cloud of dust up from the floor. Alfred sneezed. Orla was looking about her in perplexed astonishment. They entered the Council room, which Alfred recognized by the round table adorned with sigla, standing in the center. Samah frowned at the sight of fine, soft dust that completely covered the table, obliterating the runes carved upon its surface. Coming to stand beside the table, he ran his finger through the dust, stared at it in pondering silence.
None of the other Council members approached the table, but remained near the door, whose runelight, once the door had opened, was beginning to fade. Samah, with a brief word, caused a white globe that hung suspended above the table to shine with a radiant white light. He gazed ruefully at the dust.
“If we attempt to clean this off, we’ll none of us be able to breathe the air.” He was silent a moment, then shifted his gaze to Alfred. “I foresee the path your words will likely travel, Brother, and I must admit that it fills me with a fear I had not thought myself capable of feeling. I think we should all sit down, but—this one time—there will be no need to take our accustomed places around the table.”
Pulling out a chair, he brushed it off and held it for Orla, who walked to it with steady, measured tread. The other Council members moved chairs for themselves, stirring up such a quantity of dust in the process that for a moment it seemed a fog had rolled in on them. Everyone coughed and uttered swift chants to help clear the air. Yet the entire time they talked, the dust drifted down and around them, covered their skin and clothing. Alfred remained standing, as was proper when appearing before the Council.
“Please, begin, Brother,” Samah said.
“First, I must ask that you grant me leave to ask you questions,” Alfred said, clasping his hands nervously before him. “I must have answers myself before I can proceed with any assurance that what I am about to tell you is right.”
“Your request is granted, Brother,” said Samah gravely. “Thank you.” Alfred gave an awkward bob, intended for a bow. “My first question is: Are you an ancestor of the Samah who was Head of the Council during the time of the Sundering?”
Orla’s eyes flicked quickly to Samah. The woman’s face was exceedingly pale. The other Council members shifted in their chairs, some looking at Samah, others looking at the dust all around them.
“No,” said Samah. “I am not a descendant of that man.” He paused, perhaps considering the implications of his answer. “I am that man,” he said at last. Alfred nodded, breathed a gentle sigh. “Yes, I thought so. And this is the Council of Seven who made the decision to sunder the World, establish four separate and distinct worlds in its place. This is the Council who directed the fight against the Patryns, the Council who brought about our enemy’s defeat and effected their capture. This is the Council who built the Labyrinth and imprisoned our enemies within it. This is the Council by whose direction some of the mensch were rescued from the destruction and transported to each of the four worlds, there to begin what you planned to be a new order, there to live together in peace and prosperity.”
“Yes,” said Samah, “this is the Council of which you speak.”
“Yes,” repeated Orla, softly, sadly, “this is that Council.” Samah shot her a displeased glance. Of the other Council members—four men and one more woman—two of the men and the woman frowned in agreement with Samah, the remaining two men nodded, apparently siding with Orla.
The rift in the Council gaped, chasm-like, at Alfred’s feet, causing him to lose hold of his thoughts, that had never been grasped all that securely. He could only stare at his brethren, open-mouthed.
“We have answered your questions,” Samah said, voice grating. “Have you any others?”
Alfred did, but he was having difficulty putting his questions in words proper to ask the head of the Council of Seven. At last he managed to say, lamely, “Why did you go to sleep?”
The question was simple. To his horror, Alfred heard echoing around it all the other questions that should have remained locked in his heart. They reverberated through the room in unspoken, anguished cries. Why did you leave us? Why did you abandon those who needed you? Why did you shut your eyes to the chaos and destruction and misery?
Samah appeared grave and troubled. Alfred, appalled at what he’d done, could only stammer and flap his hands ineffectually in a vague effort to silence the voice of his own being.
“Questions begat questions, it seems,” Samah said at last. “I see that I cannot easily answer yours unless you answer some of mine. You are not from Chelestra, are you?”