“If so, the morning has been long in coming,” he said huskily. “And the night that preceded it was very dark. I shouldn’t be troubling you—”
“No, I’m sorry,” she said hurriedly. “I shouldn’t have interrupted you. Please, go on.”
She continued to hold his hand. Her touch was warm, firm, comforting. Unconsciously, he moved nearer to her.
“One day, I found myself standing in front of the crypts of my friends. My own was empty and I remember thinking, ‘I have only to climb back in, shut my eyes, and this pain will end,’ Yes, suicide,” Alfred said calmly, seeing Orla stare at him in horror and shock. “I had come to a turning point, as the mensch say. I finally admitted to myself that I was alone in the world. I could either go forth and be part of life, or abandon it. My struggle was bitter. In the end, I left behind all I had known and loved and went out into the world.
“The experience was dreadful, terrifying. More than once, I thought of running back, hiding myself forever in the tombs. I lived in constant fear that the mensch would discover my true powers and try to use me. Where before I had lived in the past and found comfort in my memories, I saw now that those memories were a danger. I had to put all thoughts of my former life out of my head, or be constantly tempted to use it, to draw on it. I had to adapt to the mensch way of life. I had to become one of them.”
Alfred ceased talking, stared out into the night sky that was deep blue, streaked by lighter blue clouds.
“You cannot believe the loneliness,” he said at last, so softly that Orla was forced to move closer to him to hear. “The mensch are so very, very lonely. The only means they have of communicating are physical. They must rely on words or a look or a gesture to describe what they feel, and their languages are so limited. Most of the time, they are unable to express what they truly mean, and so they live their lives and die without ever knowing the truth, about themselves or others.”
“A terrible tragedy,” murmured Orla.
“So I thought, at first,” Alfred answered. “But then I came to realize that many of the virtues which the mensch possess have grown out of this inability to see into each other’s souls, the way we Sartan do. They have words in their languages like faith, trust, honor. One human says to another, ‘I have faith in you. I trust you.’ He doesn’t know what’s in his friend’s heart. He can’t see inside. But he has faith in him.”
“And they have other words we Sartan do not,” said Orla, more sternly. She let go his hand, drew away from him. “Words such as deceit, lie, betray, treachery.”
“Yes,” Alfred agreed meekly. “But, I found that it all balanced itself out, somehow.”
He heard a whine, felt a cold nose press itself against his leg. Reaching down his hand, Alfred absently fondled the dog’s soft ears, patted it on the head to keep it quiet.
“I’m afraid you’re right. I don’t understand,” said Orla. “What do you mean by balance?”
Alfred seemed to have a menschlike difficulty putting his thoughts into words.
“It’s just ... I’d see one mensch betray another and I’d be shocked and sickened. But, almost immediately after that, I’d come across an act of true selfless love, of faith, sacrifice. And I’d feel humbled and ashamed of myself for judging them.
“Orla.” He turned to face her. The dog pressed closer and he scratched the animal behind its ear. “What gives us the right to judge them? What gives us the right to say that our way of life is the right way of life and that theirs is wrong? What gives us the right to impose our will on them?”
“The very fact that the mensch do have such words as murder and betrayal!” she replied. “We must, by guiding them with a firm hand, train them out of these debilitating weaknesses, lead them to rely solely on their strengths.”
“But might we not,” Alfred argued, “inadvertently train them out of everything—strengths and weaknesses both? It seems to me that the world we wanted to create for the mensch was a world where the mensch were totally subservient to our will. I’m sure I’m wrong,” he continued humbly, “but I don’t understand the difference between that and what the Patryns intended.”
“Of course there’s a difference!” Orla flared. “How can you even think of comparing the two?”
“I’m sorry,” said Alfred in remorse. “I’ve offended you. And after all your kindness to me. Don’t pay any attention to me. I—What’s the matter?” Orla was staring, not him, but at his feet. “Whose dog is that?”
“Dog?” Alfred glanced down.
The dog looked up, and wagged its plumy tail.
Alfred staggered back against the rock wall.
“Blessed Sartan!” he gasped. “Where did you come from?” The dog, pleased that it now had everyone’s attention, pricked its ears, cocked its head expectantly, and barked once.
Alfred went deathly pale. “Haplo!” he cried. “Where are you?” He searched around wildly.
At the sound of the name, the dog began to whine eagerly, barked again loudly. But no one answered.
The dog’s ears drooped. The tail ceased to wave back and forth. The animal sank to the ground, put its nose between its paws, sighed, and looked up at Alfred dejectedly.
Alfred, recovering his composure, stared at the animal.
“Haplo’s not here, is he?”
The dog reacted to the name again, lifted its head, gazed about wistfully.
“Dear, dear,” Alfred murmured.
“Haplo!” Orla spoke the name with reluctance, it might have been coated with poison. “Haplo! That is a Patryn word.”
“What? Oh, yes, I believe it is,” Alfred said, preoccupied.
“Means ‘single.’ The dog doesn’t have a name. Haplo never gave it one. An interesting point, don’t you think?” He knelt down beside the animal, stroked its head with a gentle, trembling hand. “But why are you here?” he asked. “Not sick, are we? No. I didn’t think so. Not sick. Perhaps Haplo sent you to spy on me? That’s it, isn’t it?”
The dog gave Alfred a reproachful glance. I expected better from you than this, it seemed to say.
“The animal belongs to the Patryn,” Orla said.
Alfred looked up at her, hesitated. “You might say that. And then again . . .”
“It could be spying on us for him, right now.”
“It could be,” Alfred conceded the point. “But I don’t think so. Not that we haven’t used the animal for such purposes before—”
“We!” Orla drew back, away from him.
“I ... That is ... Haplo told it ... In Abarrach . . . The prince and Baltazar, a necromancer. I didn’t really want to spy on them but I didn’t have much choice ...”
Alfred saw he wasn’t helping matters. He began again. “Haplo and I were lost in Abarrach—”
“Please!” Orla interrupted faintly. “Please quit saying that name. I—” She covered her eyes. “I see horrible things! Hideous monsters! Brutal death . . .”
“You see the Labyrinth. You see where you . . . where the Patryns have been imprisoned all these centuries.”
“Where we imprisoned them, you were about to say. But, it’s so real in your mind. As if you’ve been there . . .”
“I have been there, Orla.”
To his vast astonishment, she turned pale, stared at him in fright. Alfred was quick to reassure her. “I didn’t actually mean I’d been there—”
“Of course,” she said faintly. “It . . . it’s impossible. Don’t say such things, then, if you don’t mean them.”
“I’m sorry. I hadn’t intended to upset you.” Although Alfred was completely at a loss to know why she was upset. And frightened. Why frightened? More questions.
“I think perhaps you had better explain yourself,” she said.
“Yes, I’ll try. I was in the Labyrinth, but it was in Haplo’s body. I traded minds with him, one might say. It was when we were going through Death’s Gate.”