Into the Labyrinth (62 page)

His home was no different from any of the other Patryn dwellings, except that it appeared older than most and stood apart. Braced against the mountain, it was like a stalwart guard who plants his back against a secure surface to take on his foes.

Vasu entered first. Alfred followed, tripping over the doorstep but managing to catch himself before he fell face first on the floor. The dwelling was clean and neatly kept and, like all Patryn homes, almost devoid of furniture.

“You are not marr—er … joined?” Alfred asked, seating himself awkwardly on the floor, his long legs folding beneath him with difficulty.

Vasu was taking bread from a basket suspended from the ceiling. Rows of sausages, also hanging from the ceiling, brought Alfred a fond memory of Haplo’s dog.

“No, I live alone for now,” Vasu replied, adding some
type of unrecognizable fruit to the simple meal. “I haven’t been headman very long. I inherited the position from my father, who only recently died.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Alfred said politely.

“His life was one well lived,” Vasu returned. “We celebrate such lives, not mourn them.” He placed the food on the floor between them, sat down himself. “Our family has held this position for generations. Of course, any man or woman has the right to challenge us, but no one ever has. My father worked hard to govern well, govern justly. I strive as best I can to emulate his good example.”

“It seems you are succeeding.”

“I hope so.” Vasu’s troubled gaze shifted to the small window, out into the darkness. “My people have never faced so great a challenge, so grave a threat.”

“What about the Final Gate?” Alfred asked timidly, aware that such matters were really none of his business, that he knew very little about it. “Shouldn’t someone be sent to warn … somebody?”

Vasu sighed softly. “The Final Gate is far, far from here. They would never reach it in time … or alive.”

Alfred looked at the food, but he had very little appetite.

“But enough dismal talk.” Vasu returned to the meal with a cheerful smile. “We need the strength food offers us. And who knows when we may have time to eat again? Shall I offer the blessing? Or will you?”

“Oh, you, please!” Alfred said hastily, blushing. He had no idea what a Patryn might consider a proper blessing.

Vasu extended his hands, began to speak. Alfred joined in the words unconsciously, repeating them without thinking—until it occurred to him that Vasu was speaking the blessing in Sartan.

Alfred’s breath caught in his throat, making such a strange half-strangled clicking noise that it caught the headman’s attention. Vasu ceased the blessing in the middle, looked up.

“Are you all right?” he asked, worried.

Alfred stared wildly and confusedly at Vasu’s glowing, tattooed skin. “You’re not … Are you? … You can’t be … S-s-sartan!”

“About half,” Vasu said imperturbably. He held up his
arms, gazed at the sigla with pride. “Our family has adapted over the centuries. In the beginning, we wore the tattoos only for disguise. Not to delude the Patryns, mind you; we only wanted to fit in. Since then, through intermarriage, we have come to be able to use the magic—although not as well as a full-blooded Patryn. But what we lack, we compensate for by using Sartan magic.”

“Intermarriage! But … the hatred?” Alfred thought back to the River of Anger. “Surely you must have been persecuted …”

“No,” said Vasu quietly. “They knew why we were sent here.”

“The Vortex!”

“Yes, we came from beneath the mountain, where we were sent because of our heretical beliefs. My ancestors opposed the Sundering; they opposed the building of this prison. They were a danger, a threat to the established order. Like yourself, or so I must imagine. Although you are the first Sartan to arrive in the Vortex in many long ages. I had hoped that things had changed.”

“You are still here, aren’t you?” Alfred said quietly, pushing his food around with trembling fingers.

Vasu regarded him for a long moment in silence. “I suppose explanations would be too long, too complex.”

“Not really.” Alfred sighed. “We Sartan locked ourselves in our own prison, just as surely as we locked you in yours. Our prison walls were pride; our iron bars were fear. Escape was impossible, for that would have meant tearing down the walls, opening up the barred gates. We dare not do that. Our prison not only kept us in, you see—it kept
them
out. We stayed inside, and shut our eyes, and went to sleep. And we’ve been asleep all these years. When we woke, everything had changed except us. And now our prison is the only place we know.”

“But not you,” said Vasu.

Alfred blushed. “I can take no credit for it.” He smiled faintly. “I met a man with a dog.”

Vasu was nodding. “It would have been easy for our people, when we were first sent here, to give up and die. It was the Patryns who kept us alive. They took us in, accepted us, protected us from harm until we grew strong enough to protect ourselves.”

Alfred was beginning to understand. “And it must have been a Sartan idea to build this city.”

“I think perhaps it was. Somewhere back in long-forgotten times. It would be natural for the Sartan, who came from cities and liked to live in large groups. We could see the advantages gained by banding together, dwelling in one place, working to make it strong.

“Even back in the ancient world, the Patryns were nomads, tended to be loners. The family unit was—and still is—important to them. But in the Labyrinth, many families were wiped out. The Patryns had to adapt or cease to survive. They did so by expanding the family unit into the tribe. The Patryns learned the importance of banding together for mutual defense from the Sartan. And the Sartan learned the importance of family from the Patryns.”

“The worst in both our peoples brought us to this end.” Alfred spoke with emotion. “The worst perpetuated it. You have taken the best and used it to build stability, find peace in the midst of chaos and terror.”

“Let us hope,” said Vasu somberly, “that this is
not
the end.”

Alfred sighed, shook his head.

Vasu observed him closely. “The intruders called you the Serpent Mage.”

Now Alfred smiled; his hands fluttered. “I know. I have been called that before. I don’t know what it means.”

“I do,” said Vasu unexpectedly.

Alfred looked up, astonished.

“Tell me what happened to earn you this title,” Vasu said.

“Why, that’s just it. I don’t know. You think I’m being evasive. Or that I don’t want to help. I do! I would give anything … Let me try to explain.

“To make a long story short, I woke from my sleep to find myself alone. My companions had all died. I was on the air world of Arianus, a world populated by mensch.”

He paused, looked at Vasu to see if he understood. Apparently he did, though he said nothing. His attentive silence encouraged Alfred to proceed.

“I was terrified. All this magical power”—Alfred stared at his hands—“and I was alone. And afraid. If anyone discovered what I could do, they might … try to take advantage. I could imagine—the coercion, the pleadings, the
urgings, the threats. Yet I wanted to live among the mensch, to be of service to them. Not that I was much help.”

Alfred sighed again. “Anyway, I developed a most unfortunate habit. Whenever danger threatens, I … faint.”

Vasu looked amazed.

“It was either that or use my magic, you see,” Alfred continued, his face red. “But that’s not the worst. Apparently I have worked some very remarkable magic—quite remarkable, in fact—and I don’t remember doing it. I must have been fully conscious at the time, but when it’s all over I haven’t the slightest memory of it. Well, I guess I do. Deep inside.” Alfred laid his hand on his heart. “Because I feel uncomfortable whenever the matter comes up. But I swear to you”—he gazed earnestly at Vasu—“I can’t consciously remember!”

“What sort of magic?” Vasu asked.

Alfred swallowed, licked dry lips. “Necromancy,” he said in a low, anguished voice, barely audible. “The human, Hugh the Hand. He was dead. I brought him back to life.”

Vasu drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly. “And what else?”

“I was told that I … I changed into a serpent—a dragon, to be exact. Haplo was in danger, on Chelestra. And there were children … The dragon-snakes were going to kill them.” Alfred shuddered. “They needed my help, but, as usual, I fainted. At least, that’s what I thought I did. Haplo tells me that I didn’t. I don’t know.” Alfred shook his head. “I just don’t know.”

“What happened?”

“A magnificent dragon—green and gold—appeared out of nowhere and fought the snakes. The dragon destroyed the king snake. Haplo and the children were saved. The only thing I remember was waking up on the beach.”

“Indeed, a serpent mage,” Vasu said.

“What
is
a serpent mage, Headman? Does it have anything to do with these dragon-snakes? If so, how is that possible? They were unknown to the Sartan at the time of the Sundering—at least so far as I can determine.”

“It seems odd that you—a pure-bred Sartan—don’t know,” Vasu responded, regarding Alfred with some misgiving. “And that I—a half-breed—do.”

“Not so strange,” Alfred said, smiling bleakly. “You have kept the fire of memory and tradition burning brightly. In our obsession with trying to put back together what we destroyed, we let our fire go out. And then I was very young when I went to sleep. And very old when I woke up.”

Vasu considered this in silence; then, relaxing, he smiled. “The Serpent Mage has nothing to do with those you call dragon-snakes, although it is my guess that they have been around far longer than you credit them. ‘Serpent Mage’ is a title denoting ability—nothing more.

“At the time of the Sundering, there was a hierarchy of magi among the Sartan, denoted by animal names. Lynx, Coyote, Deer … It was very involved, complicated.” Vasu’s remarkable eyes were fixed on Alfred. “Serpent was near the top. Extraordinarily powerful.”

“I see.” Alfred was uncomfortable. “I suppose there was training involved, years of study—”

“Of course. With that much power comes responsibility.”

“The one thing I’ve never been very good at.”

“You could be of immense help to my people, Alfred.”

“If I don’t pass out,” Alfred said bitterly. “But then again, you might be happier if I did. I could bring more danger to you than I’m worth. The Labyrinth seems to be able to turn my magic against me—”

“Because you’re not in control of your magic. Or of yourself. Take control, Alfred. Be the hero of your own life. Don’t let someone else play that role.”

“Be the hero of my own life,” Alfred repeated softly. He almost laughed. It was so very ludicrous.

The two men sat together in companionable silence. Outside, the black began to soften to gray. Dawn—and battle—approached.

“You are two people, Alfred,” said Vasu at length. “An inner person and an outer. A chasm exists between the two. Somehow you must bridge it. The two of you must meet.”

Alfred Montbank—middle-aged, balding, clumsy, a coward.

Coren—life-giver; a creature of power, strength, courage, the chosen.

These two could never come together. They had been apart far too long.

Alfred sat dejected. “I think I would only fall off the bridge,” he said miserably.

A horn sounded, a call of warning. Vasu was on his feet. “Will you come with me?”

Alfred attempted to look brave. Squaring his shoulders, he stood up … and tripped over the corner of the rug.

“One of us will come,” he said, and picked himself up with a sigh.

ABRI
THE LABYRINTH

B
Y THE GRAY LIGHT OF DAWN, IT SEEMED TO THE PATRYNS THAT
every enemy in the Labyrinth was ranged against them.

Until that moment, when they looked out over the walls and stared in horrified awe, some had doubted, not believed the warnings. They thought the headman’s fears exaggerated. There had been intruders in the city, but they had done no harm. A few packs of wolfen might attack. Or perhaps even a legion of the hard-to-kill
¹
chaodyn. How could such vast forces as the headman spoke of gather unobserved? The forest and the surrounding lands had been no more dangerous than normal.