Haplo rested until, slowly, he felt his energy return. Then, using the plank for support, he began to swim toward the light.
1Children are extremely valued in the Labyrinth and are raised by the Squatters. Runners, such as Haplo, would often father children but, due to the nature of their lives, could not stay with a tribe to raise it. Female Runners, becoming pregnant, would move into a Squatter tribe until the babe was born, then give it to one of the Squatter families.
9raise. Occasionally Runners, such as Haplo's parents, would cease their Run and move in with a Squatter tribe until the child was old enough to keep up with them. Such instances were very rare. The fact that Haplo has any memory at all of his biological parents is quite remarkable among Patryns.
2Although Chelestra is a world made up entirely of water, there are places where large pockets of gases collect to form gigantic bubbles. One of these bubbles surrounds Death's Gate, probably placed there purposefully by the Sartan, in order to allow time for the traveler to make the transition from one world to another, and to prepare his vessel for entry into the sea.
THE FIRST WORDS ALFRED HEARD, WHEN HE MANAGED TO rouse himself from his fainting spell, were not propitious to his recovery. Samah was speaking to the assembled Sartan, who were—Alfred imagined since he was keeping his eyes shut—gathered around a fallen brethren, staring at him in amazement.
“We lost many during the Sundering. Death took most of our brethren then, but I fear that here we have a casualty of a different nature. This poor man has obviously been driven out of his mind.”
Alfred kept quiet, pretending he was still unconscious, wishing desperately that were the case!
He sensed people around him, he heard them breathing, heard robes rustling, though no one else spoke. Alfred was still lying on the cold floor of the mausoleum, though someone had been kind enough to place a pillow—probably from one of the crypts—beneath his bald head.
“Look, Samah. I believe he is reviving,” came a woman's voice.
Samah—the great Samah! Alfred almost groaned, swallowed it in time.
“The rest of you, back away. Don't frighten him,” the male voice that must belong to Samah ordered.
Alfred heard pity and compassion in the man's voice and nearly wept. He longed to rise up, fling his arms around this Sartan's knees, and acknowledge him Father, Ruler, Patriarch, Councillor.
What holds me back? Alfred wondered, shivering on the chill floor. Why am I deceiving them, my own brothers and sisters, by lying here, pretending to be unconscious, spying on them? It's a dreadful thing I'm doing. He thought with a jolt, This is something Haplo would do!
And at this terrible realization, Alfred groaned aloud.
He knew he had betrayed himself, but he didn't feel up to facing these people yet. He remembered Samah's words, I have the right and the duty to ask questions of you, not from mere idle curiosity, but, considering these times of crises, out of necessity.
And what, wondered Alfred miserably, will I answer?
His head rolled from side to side, seemingly of its own volition, for he tried to stop moving and couldn't. His hands twitched. His eyes opened.
The newly awakened Sartan stood around him, staring down at him, no one making any move to assist him. They were not being cruel or neglectful. They were simply bewildered. They had never seen or heard one of their own kind behave in such a bizarre manner and had no idea what to do to help him.
“Either he's reviving or having a fit,” said Samah. “Some of you”—he gestured to several young Sartan men—“keep near him. He may need to be physically restrained.”
“That will not be necessary!” protested the woman who knelt beside him.
Alfred fixed his gaze on her, recognized her as the woman he'd seen lying in what he'd thought was Lya's crypt.
She lifted his hand in hers and began to pat it soothingly. His hand responded, as usual, of its own accord. Certainly he wasn't the one who commanded his fingers to tighten over hers. But he was the one who was comforted by her. She clasped his hand strongly and warmly in return.
“I thought the time of defiance was over, Orla,” said Samah.
The Councillor's tone was mild, but there was a hard edge to his voice that caused Alfred to blanch. He heard the Sartan around him stir restlessly, like children of an unhappy home, afraid their parents are going to fight again.
The woman's hand on Alfred's tightened; her voice, when she spoke, was sad.
“Yes, Samah. I suppose it is.”
“The Council made the decision. You are part of the Council. You cast your vote, as did the others.”
The woman said nothing aloud. But these words came suddenly into Alfred's head, shared with him by the shared touching of their hands.
“A vote in your favor, as you knew I would. Am I part of the Council? Or am I merely Samah's wife?”
Alfred realized, suddenly, that he wasn't meant to hear those words. Sartan could speak to each other silently sometimes, but generally only those who were very close, such as husband and wife.
Samah hadn't heard. He had turned away, his thoughts obviously on other, more important matters than a weak brother lying stretched out on the floor.
The woman continued to gaze at Alfred, but she wasn't seeing him. She was staring through him, at something that had happened long ago. Alfred didn't like to intrude upon such private, unhappy thoughts, but the floor was getting awfully hard. He moved just a tiny bit, to ease a cramp in his right leg. The woman came back to herself, and to him.
“How are you feeling?”
“Not… not very well,” Alfred stammered.
He tried to make himself sound as ill as possible, hoping Samah, hoping all these Sartan, would go away and leave him alone.
Well, perhaps not all of them. His hand was, he discovered, still clinging tightly to the woman's. Orla was her name, apparently. Orla, a beautiful name, yet the images it brought to him were sad ones.
“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 S
artan 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 graveiy.
“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?”
“No, Samah,1 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 n
ot 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 crafted 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!
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