1A dwarven phrase meaning to be truthful rather than self-deluding.
2In point of fact, dwarves depend totally on elven technomagics to make their submersibles function.
3The mensch of Chelestra are unaware that they are living inside larger living organisms (called durnai by the Sartan) and thus refer to their habitats as “worlds.” Gravity, to the mensch in Chelestra, is a force that pushes away from the center of their worlds—opposite of the attractive force known in all other worlds.
4The reliability of the elven “technomagical devices” is statistically extremely high by all accounts I have studied. The dwarven author of this description is showing the cultural dwarf bias against all technology.
5An important factor of dwarven design—dwarves generally get violently motion sick in conveyances.
6Such “repairs” mostly constitute wholesale replacement of large magical components on dwarf ships. Dwarves do not perform the magic of the elves.
7An old wives' tale or seafaring legend of the dwarves. It has no basis in fact.
8Dwarves prefer to be direct over condescending.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
MARGARET WEIS AND TRACY HICKMAN are the New York Times bestselling authors of the Dragonlance® series, The Darksword Trilogy, and the Rose of the Prophet trilogy. With over ten million copies of their novels in print around the world, they are among the bestselling fantasy writers of all time.
THE DEATH GATE CYCLE
Known for their innovation, Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman reach an entirely new level with The Death Gate Cycle. For this seven-book extravaganza they have developed four completely realized worlds. In the first four novels, a new adventure with both continuing and new characters will be set on each of the four worlds. In later volumes, the realms begin to interact, with the supreme battle for control of all the worlds in the final novel.
Dragon Wing, Volume 1
Generations ago, magicians sundered the world into four distinct realms. Now, few even know of the other worlds. Haplo has been sent through the treacherous Death Gate to explore the realms and stir up dissension. The first visit is to Aria-nus, a world where islands float in the sky and men travel by enchanted dragonships.
Elven Star, Volume 2
Haplo's second journey takes him to the jungle world of Pry an. Here the three races of men, elves, and dwarves seem to have already completed Haplos task of causing unrest—not even the threat of annihilation can bring these peoples together.
Fire Sea, Volume 3
The story takes a truly dark turn, as the enemies Haplo and Alfred are forced to travel together for their first visit to the world of Abarrach. Here, these powerful magicians discover that the barren Realm of Stone is also the land of the dead.
Serpent Mage, Volume 4
In the world of Chelestra, realm of water, Haplo the Patryn, discovers the seas counteract all magic—and leave him nearly powerless against a new threat.
The Hand of Chaos, Volume 5
The Lord of the Nexus has ordered Haplo and the human child known as Bane to the world of
Arianus, realm of air. Now Haplo must decide whether to obey his master or betray the powerful Pat ryn.
Into the Labyrinth, Volume 6
Xar, Lord of the Nexus, has learned of the existence of a Seventh Gate, which grants the power to create worlds—or destroy them. Only Haplo knows its location, and so he must seek sanctuary in the Labyrinth, a prison maze whose inhabitants are condemned to death.
The Seventh Gate, Volume 7
The titanic Death Gate saga concludes as Haplo must enter the deadly Seventh Gate, with the fate of the sundered realms in the balance. This scene sets the situation.
Vasu stood on the wall above the gates of the city of Abri, stood silent and thoughtful as the gates boomed shut beneath his feet. It was dawn, which meant, in the Labyrinth, nothing more than a graying of night's black. But this dawn was different than most. It was more glorious than most … and more terrifying. It was brightened by hope, darkened by fear.
It was a dawn which saw the city of Abri, in the very center of the Labyrinth, still standing, victorious, after a terrible battle with its most implacable enemies.
It was a dawn smudged with the smoke of funeral pyres; a dawn in which the living could draw a tremulous breath and dare to hope life might be better.
It was a dawn lit by a lurid red glow on the far distant horizon, a red glow that was brightening, strengthening. Those Patryns who guarded the city walls turned their eyes to that strange and unnatural glow, shook their heads, spoke of it in low and ominous tones.
“It bodes nothing good,” they said grimly.
Who could blame them for their dark outlook? Not Vasu. Certainly not Vasu, who knew what was transpiring. He would have to tell them soon, destroy the joy of this dawning.
“That glow is the fire of battle,” he would have to say to his people. “A battle raging for control of the Final Gate. The dragon-snakes who attacked us were not defeated, as you thought. Yes, we killed four of them. But for every four that die, eight are born. Now they are attacking the Final Gate, seeking to shut it, seeking to trap us all in this dread prison.
“Our brothers, those who live in the Nexus and those near the Final Gate, are fighting this evil—so we have reason to believe. But they are few in number and the evil is vast and powerful.
“We are too far away to come to their aid. Too far. By the time we reached them—if we ever did reach them, alive—it would be too late. It may already be too late.
“And when the Final Gate is shut, the evil in the Labyrinth will grow strong. Our fear and our hatred will grow stronger to match and the evil will feed off that fear and that hatred and grow stronger still.”
It is hopeless, Vasu told himself, and so he must tell the people. Logic, reason said to him it was hopeless. Yet why, standing on the wall, staring at that red glow in the sky, did he feel hopeful?
It made no sense. He sighed and shook his head.
A hand touched his arm.
“Look, Headman. They have made it safely to the river.”
One of the Patryns, standing beside Vasu, had obviously mistaken his sigh, thought it indicated fear for the two who had left the city in the dark hour before the dawn. They were embarking on a dangerous and probably futile search for the green and golden dragon who had fought for them in the skies above Abri. The green and golden dragon was the Serpent Mage, who was also the bumbling Sartan with the mensch name, Alfred.
Certainly Vasu was afraid for them, but he was also hopeful for them. That same illogical, irrational hope.
Vasu was not a man of action. He was a man of thought, of imagination. He had only to look at his soft and pudgy Sartan body, tattooed with Patryn runes, to know that. He must give thought to what his people should do next. He should make plans, he should decide how they must prepare for the inevitable. He should tell them the truth, give his speech of despair.
But he didn't do any of that. He stood on the walls, watching the mensch known as Hugh the Hand and the Patryn woman Mark.
He told himself he would never see them again. They were venturing out into the Labyrinth, dangerous at any time but doubly dangerous now that their defeated enemies skulked about in anger and waited for revenge. The two were going on a foolhardy and hopeless mission. He would never see them again, nor Alfred, the Serpent Mage, the green and golden dragon, for whom they searched.
Vasu stood on the wall and waited— hopefully—for their return.
… is there no place
Left for repentance, none for pardon left?
—John Milton, Paradise Lost
The monk's cell was dark and chill, small and narrow. Walls, ceiling, and floor were made of stone. It held a crude bed, a desk, a chair, and a small altar for personal use when the bells roused the brethren from their slumbers, called them to matins— midnight prayers.
The service had long ago been said. It was only a few hours before dawning, during tha
t restless part of sleep when dreams come most vividly, most terribly.
The sleeper in the crude bed was obviously entering into the shadowed world of one of these dreams. He stirred on his pillow, moving his head from side to side like a blind man, groping through his endless darkness. He stretched forth one hand suddenly, the right hand, and grasped an object that was not there, except for him, in the dream. His fingers closed over it, as they might close over the hilt on a sword. An expression of pain contorted his face. He groaned and caught his breath.
The one who watched over his sleep sighed and shifted restlessly in the chair on which she sat. She reached out a hand to waken him, checked herself. She would have wept for him— wept in pity and frustration—but for two things: the knowledge that her tears would irritate him and the fact that the dead are not permitted the comfort of tears, just as they are not permitted the comfort of a touch.
She could only sigh again and settle back in the chair that she occupied by instinct rather than by need, for she no longer possessed a body whose needs and aches and pains had to be considered. Her spirit could have floated upon the air, with less substance than the smoke of the flickering flame dancing upon the oil of the altar's small incense burner. She preferred to sit in the chair. It was an action of the living and it seemed to make her one again with the world of the living.
Night alter night, she had occupied that chair. Night after night, she'd watched over his sleep, guarded it—except that she made a poor guard, for she could not drive away the dreams that tormented him by night, just as she could not comfort him for the regret that tormented him by day. But her anger intensified, as she watched his suffering this night. She bit her lip and frowned and appeared to make up her mind to some action, for she rose to her feet and was taking a step toward the door of the cell when suddenly the sleeper sat upright; his eyes open, wide, and staring; a hoarse cry in his throat.
Startled, afraid at first that he'd seen her, Maigrey stumbled backward through the chair, the desk, into the corner of the cell. Then she realized he wasn't awake, nor was he staring at her, but at something beyond her. Something in the dream.
He sat on the edge of his bed. He wore the habit of his calling even when asleep; the cell was cold and the cassock and a loosely woven shabby blanket were all he had to protect himself against the dank chill. He dragged off the blanket, threw it to the floor, and stood up.
He raised the unseen weapon in either defense or salute— Maigrey could not be certain—and he spoke words that held some meaning to him, apparently, but which she couldn't make out.
She crept forward, out of her dark corner, instinct drawing her to his side, as she had gone to his side during countless battles faced together in their lifetime. Pity burned in her, pity and anger and frustration. She was tempted to thwart the prohibition that had been placed upon her, tempted to break the covenant she had made and speak to him.
She was close, so close to him, yet she knew the bitter pain of never being able to get close enough. His mortal flesh stood like a prison door, barring her entry. But their spirits had been closer than most; the mind-link that bound them together in life had not, apparently, been shattered, even by death.
Maigrey felt a jolt surge through her, a spark that arced from him to her, and she was sharing the vision, the dream … the reality. But she understood instantly what she saw and heard. He did not, and there was no way she could warn him.
He spoke again and stretched out his left hand.
The action woke him up. He was confused at first; confused and alarmed and he fell back in an instinctive defensive posture, sword hand raised. It was then, by the feeble flame burning on the dish of oil, that he saw where he was, saw that the right hand holding the weapon was, in reality, empty.
Sagan straightened and frowned and looked around. His frown grew deeper, darker. He raised his right hand to wipe the cold sweat from his face, caught a glimpse of the palm in the shadowy light. His eyes widened, he stared in disbelief. Falling to his knees before the altar, he held his hand to the light of the flame.
Maigrey, looking to see, shook her head, whispered in soft anger, “No! How could You? This is not fair!”
On Sagan's right hand—five scars. Five scars of five puncture wounds made by the needles of the bloodsword—the weapon of the Blood Royal.
Three years had passed since Derek Sagan had been constrained by Abdiel to throw the bloodsword into a lake of water and of flame. Three years had passed since he had put his hand to that weapon. The palm was callused, roughened by the hard, physical labor he'd endured since, smoothed by being pressed together in hour upon hour of passionate, desperate prayer. The scars had all but disappeared—from his hand, if not his soul.
But by the fire's light, this night, the scars were fresh, as if he'd just now released the bloodsword. A clear liquid, streaked with red, oozed from the wounds.
Sagan stared, disbelieving, pondering. Then he clenched his fist over the scars. He returned to his bed, lay facing the wall, his face grim and hard as the stone.
And though he did not know it he was alone. The silent guardian of his sleep had left him.
The radiant personage strode through the vast and echoing hallways of white marble and gold. Intent, earnest, all thoughts bent on the errand, the personage was only gradually aware of a shadow across the path. The radiant being turned eyes outward, instead of inward, and the shadow took on form and substance, took on the semblance of the living being it had once been, became a thin human male clad in faded blue denim jeans and a blue denim work shirt. The man was tall and stooped, his face pleasant and careworn and sad.
“Child of God,” said the radiant personage.
“Platus,” the man said with a quiet but dignified inclination of the head.
“What may I do for you, Platus?” asked the radiant being.
“If… if I could talk to her,” Platus suggested softly.
“Do you think it would do any good?” the personage asked after a moment's serious consideration.
“I understand her,” said Platus. “I believe I can reason with her.”
“I don't know, my son,” said the radiant being doubtfully.
“Much is at stake.”
“Yes … yes, I know. If I could just try …”
The radiant personage gave the matter thought, then indicated approval. “Perhaps it would be best. Go then, and may His Blessing go with you.”
Platus accepted the task and the blessing and continued on the way which the radiant personage would have taken; the radiant being turning aside to tend to other duties.
The martial tread of booted feet and the faint metallic jingle of armor echoed disturbingly through the peaceful vaults. Platus made his way toward the sound, walking slowly, taking his time. He could have reached his destination with the swiftness of a thought, for he was not bound by constraints of time or place or distance. But as his thoughts themselves were lumbering and slow-paced, so he matched his speed to them. Platus was far from being as assured as he'd assured the radiant being.
When he had at least some vague outline of his arguments readied, Platus drew near the echoing footfalls. He came upon Maigrey pacing the empty halls that were empty to her only because she refused to populate them. Every line of her body was expressive of anger, defiance.
She wore in death the silver armor she'd worn in life. Her right hand rested on the hilt of the bloodsword strapped at her waist. The long, pale hair flowed over her shoulders, drifted around her in the air she still breathed, air she created.
Aware of another presence, she turned on her heel, advanced on him, her face stern with resolve. But she had obviously expected someone else.
Seeing only her brother, Maigrey paused, a momentary confusion checked her swift steps. The hesitation passed swiftly, however. She continued on, the warlike sound of her clicking heels jarring Platus, seeming to jar the very stars.
“So, they sent you,” she said.
“I offered t
o come,” he returned mildly.
This answer was nonplussing, to judge by the fact that she was silent a moment, inwardly struggling.
“I want to know why they are tormenting him like this,” she demanded at last.
“Maigrey, it is not our place to question—”
“It is!” she flared. “He doesn't need to be involved! He was at peace …”
“Was he, Maigrey?” Platus asked quietly.
She raged on. “I see their intent. Not satisfied that they have brought him low, humbled and crushed him, they want to destroy him.”
“Maigrey, that's not true …”
“You probably approve of it!” she accused him bitterly.
“It isn't my place to approve or disapprove,” Platus said, uncomfortable. “And it isn't their intent to hurt him. He hurts himself…” He paused, began again. “Maigrey, what is done is done because of the failings of mortal men …”
“Do you approve?”
“I am afraid,” Platus said, after a moment. “Afraid for Dion. If Sagan …” He fell silent.
“If Sagan falls, you were going to say. You don't trust him!”
Platus smiled sadly. “It is difficult to trust one's killer, sister.”
Maigrey glared at him, as at an opponent who takes advantage of a misstep and thrusts the sword point home. Turning away in disgust, she began to pace again. “I want to talk to someone else.”
Platus checked a sigh. “They are displeased…”
“They don't trust me either, I suppose.”
“You came very close to breaking your covenant with God this time, Maigrey,” he told her gently.
She halted, stood a moment, her head bowed. Then, lifting her gaze, she looked earnestly at her brother. “If you could see Sagan, Platus! If you could see how he suffers! Why don't they hear his prayers? Why don't they grant him the peace he's earned and longs for—”
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