“No, Samah[19], I am not. I am from Arianus, the world of air.”
“And you came to this world through Death’s Gate, I presume?” Alfred hesitated. “It might be more correct to say I came by accident ... or perhaps by dog,” he added with a slight smile.
His words were creating pictures in the minds of those he addressed, pictures that they were obviously, from the bewilderment on their faces, having difficulty understanding.
Alfred could imagine their confusion. He could see in his mind Arianus, its various mensch races warring, its wonderful, marvelous machine doing absolutely nothing, its Sartan gone and forgotten. He could see in his mind his journey through Death’s Gate, see Haplo’s ship, see Haplo. Alfred steeled himself for what he assumed must be Samah’s next question, but apparently the images were coming so fast and furious that the Sartan had evidently shut them out completely in an attempt to concentrate on his own thoughts.
“You came accidentally, you say. You were not sent to wake us?”
“No,” said Alfred, sighing. “There was, to be honest, no one to send me.”
“Our people on Arianus did not receive our message? Our plea for help?”
“I don’t know.” Alfred shook his head, stared down at his shoes. “If they did, it was a long time ago. A long, long time ago.”
Samah was silent. Alfred knew what he was thinking. The Councillor was wondering how best to ask a question he was deeply reluctant to ask. At length, the Councillor glanced at Orla.
“We have a son. He is in the other room. He is twenty-five years of age, as counted at the time of the Sundering. If he had continued on in his life and had not chosen the Sleep, how old would he be?”
“He would not be alive,” said Alfred.
Samah’s lips trembled. He controlled himself, with an effort. “We Sartan live long. Are you certain? If he grew to be an old, old man?”
“He would not be alive, nor would his children be alive, nor the children of his children.”
Alfred did not add the worst, that it was very likely the young man would have had no descendants at all. Alfred attempted to hide this fact, but he saw that the Councillor was beginning to understand. He’d seen in Alfred’s mind the rows of crypts on Arianus, the dead Sartan walking the lava flows on Abarrach.
“How long have we slept?” Samah asked.
Alfred ran a hand over his balding head. “I can’t say for certain, or give you numbers. The history, the time, differs from world to world.”
“Centuries?”
“Yes. I believe so.”
Orla’s mouth moved, as if she would speak, but she said nothing. The Sartan appeared dazed, stunned. It must be a terrible thing, Alfred thought, to wake and realize that eons have passed while you slept. Wake to the knowledge that the carefully Grafted universe you imagined pillowed your slumbering head has fallen into ruin and chaos.
“It’s all so ... confused. The only ones who might have any accurate record at all, the only ones who truly remember what happened, are the—” Alfred stopped, the dread words on his lips. He hadn’t meant to bring that up, not yet at least.
“The Patryns.” Samah finished his sentence. “Yes, I saw the man, our ancient enemy, in your mind, Brother. He was free of the Labyrinth. You traveled with him.”
Orla’s forlorn expression brightened. She sat forward eagerly. “Can we find comfort in this? I disapproved of this plan”—a glance at her husband—“but I would like nothing better than to have been proven wrong. Are we to understand that our hopes for reform worked? That the Patryns, when they emerged from the prison, had learned their lesson, hard as it was, and that they have forsaken their evil dreams of conquest and despotic rule?”
Alfred did not immediately respond.
“No, Orla, you can find no comfort anywhere,” Samah said coldly. “Of course, we should have known. Look at the image of the Patryn in this brother’s mind! It is the Patryns who have brought this terrible destruction upon the worlds!” He slammed his hand down upon the arm of the chair, sent up a cloud of dust.
“No, Samah, you are wrong!” Alfred protested, startled at his own courage in defying the Councillor. “Most of the Patryns are still locked in that prison of yours. They have suffered cruelly. Countless numbers have fallen victim to hideous monsters that could only have been created by warped and evil minds!
“Those who have escaped are filled with hatred for us, hatred that has been bred into them for countless generations. A hatred that is in every way justifiable, as far as I’m concerned. I ... I was there, you see, for a brief time ... in another body.”
His newfound courage was rapidly evaporating beneath the blazing glare of Samah’s eyes. Alfred shriveled up, shrank back into himself. His hands plucked at the frayed lace on the sleeves of his shirt hanging limply beneath the worn velvet of his top coat.
“What are you talking about, Brother?” Samah demanded. “This is impossible! The Labyrinth was meant to teach, to instruct. It was a game—a hard game, a difficult game—but nothing more than that.”
“It turned into a deadly game, I’m afraid,” said Alfred, but he spoke to his shoes. “Still, there might be hope. You see, this Patryn I know is a most complex man. He has a dog—”
Samah’s eyes narrowed. “You seem very sympathetic to the enemy, Brother.”
“No, no!” Alfred babbled. “I really don’t know the enemy. I only know Haplo. And he’s—”
But Samah was not interested. He brushed aside Alfred’s words as so much dust.
“This Patryn I saw in your mind was free, traveling through Death’s Gate. What is his purpose?”
“Ex-exploration—” Alfred stammered.
“No, not exploration!” Samah rose to his feet, stared hard at Alfred, who fell back before the penetrating gaze. “Not exploration. Reconnaissance!” Samah glowered, glanced in grim triumph at the other Council members. “It seems we have, after all, awakened at a propitious time, Brethren. Once again, our ancient enemy intends to go to war.”
7
Morning. Another morning of despair, of fear. The mornings are the worst time for me. I wake from terrible dreams and for a minute I pretend I’m back in my bed in my home and I tell myself that the dreams are nothing more than that. But I can’t ignore the fact that the horror-filled dreams might, at any time, become reality. We have not seen any sign of the dragon-snakes, but we know Someone is watching us. We are none of us seaman, we have no idea how to steer this ship, yet Something is steering it. Something guides it. And we have no idea what.
Dread keeps us from even venturing on the upper deck. We have fled to the lower part of the ship, where the Something seems content to leave us alone. Each morning, Alake, Devon, and I meet and try to swallow the food for which we have no appetite. And we look at each other and we ask ourselves silently if today will be the day, the last day.
The waiting is the most awful part. Our terror grows in us daily. Our nerves are ragged, taut. Devon—good-natured Devon—quarreled with Alake over some little offhand remark she made about elves that he took completely the wrong way. I can hear them now, still raving at each other. It’s not anger that harries them, but fear. I think the fear will drive us mad. In remembering, I can, for a while, forget. I will tell about our leave-taking.
It was bitter and grievous. As it turned out, making that initial decision to give ourselves up to the dragon-snakes was the easy part. We composed ourselves, dried our tears, and talked over what we were going to say to our parents. We chose Alake as our speaker and went out to the terrace. Our parents were not prepared for the sight of us. Eliason, having so recently lost his beloved wife to some elven malady, could not bear to look at Sabia, his only daughter and the very image of her lovely mother. He turned away, his eyes filled with tears.