Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman - Deathgate Cycle 4

PROLOGUE

I VISITED MY WRATH UPON HAPLO THIS DAY. [1] AN UNPLEASANT TASK

Few would believe me, but it grieved me to do what had to be done. It would

have been easier, perhaps, if I did not feel in some part responsible.

When it became clear to me that we Patryns were nearing our time, when we were

almost strong enough to be able to break out of this heinous prison into which

the Sartan hurled us and move once again to take our rightful place as leaders

in the universe, I chose one among us to go forth and learn about the new

worlds.

I chose Haplo. I chose him for his quickness of mind his independence of

thought, his courage, his adaptability to new surroundings. And those, alas,

are the very qualities that have led him to rebel against me. Therefore, I

reiterate—in this way I am responsible for what has befallen.

Independence of thought. Necessary, I deemed, when facing the unknown

territories of worlds created by our ancient enemy, the Sartan, and populated

with mensch. [2] It was vital that he be able to react to any situation with

intelligence and skill, vital that he not reveal to anyone on any of these

worlds that we Patryns have broken free of our bonds. He behaved quite

splendidly on two of the three worlds he visited, with a few minor lapses. It

was on the third that he failed not only me but himself.

I caught him just before he would have left to visit the fourth world, the

world of water, Chelestra. He was on board his dragonship, the one he took

from Arianus, preparing to set sail for Death's Gate. He said nothing when he

saw me. He did not appear surprised. It was as if he had been expecting me,

perhaps even waiting for me, though it seemed, from the disorder on board the

ship, that he had been preparing for a hasty departure. Certainly there is

much turmoil within him.

Those who know me would call me a hard man, hard and cruel, but I was bred in

a place far harder, far crueler. I have in my long life seen too much pain,

too much suffering, to be touched by it. But I am not a monster. I am not

sadistic. What I did to Haplo, I did out of necessity. I took no pleasure in

the doing.

Spare the rod and spoil the child—an old mensch proverb.

Haplo, believe me when I say I grieve for you this night. But it was for your

own good, my son.

Your own good.

CHAPTER

THE NEXUS

"DAMN IT! GET OUT OF THE WAY!" HAPLO KICKED AT THE DOG.

The animal cringed, slunk away, and endeavored to lose itself in the shadows

of the hold, hide until its master's bad mood passed.

Haplo could see the sad eyes, however, watching him from the darkness. He felt

guilty, remorseful, and that merely increased his irritation and anger. He

glared at the animal, glared at the confusion in the hold. Chests and casks

and boxes, coils of rope, and barrels had been tossed in hurriedly, to stand

where they landed. It looked like a rat's nest, but Haplo dared not take time

to rearrange them, stack them neatly, stow them away securely, as he had

always done before.

He was in haste, desperate to leave the Nexus before his lord caught him.

Haplo stared at the mess, ill at ease, his hands itching to sort it out.

Turning on his heel, he stalked off, heading back to the bridge. The dog rose

silently, padded soft-footed after him.

"Alfred!" He flung the word at the dog. "It's all Alfred's fault. That blasted

Sartan! I should never have let him go. I should have brought him here, to my

lord, let him deal with the miserable wretch. But who'd have guessed the

coward would actually have nerve enough to jump ship! I don't suppose you have

any idea how that happened?"

Haplo stopped, glowered suspiciously at the dog. The animal sat back, tilted

its head, regarded him with bland innocence, though its tail wagged cheerfully

at the sound of Alfred's name. Grunting, Haplo continued on his way, casting

cursory glances to the left and right. He saw — with relief — that his vessel

had sustained no lasting damage. The magic of the runes covering the hull had

done its job, kept the Dragon Wing safe from the fiery environment of Abarrach

and the lethal spells cast by the lazar in their efforts to hijack it.

He had only recently come through Death's Gate and knew that he should not be

going back this quickly. He had lost consciousness on the journey from

Abarrach. No, lost wasn't quite the correct term. He'd deliberately cast it

aside. The resultant undreaming sleep had restored him completely to health,

healed the arrow wound he'd taken in the thigh, removed the last vestiges of

the poison given him by the ruler of Kairn Necros. When he awoke, Haplo was

well in body, if not in mind. He was almost sorry to have awakened at all.

His brain was like the hold. Thoughts and ideas and feelings were in a tangle.

Some were thrust away in dark corners, where he could still see them watching

him. Others were tossed in any which way. Precariously and carelessly stacked,

they would come tumbling down at the slightest provocation. Haplo knew he

could organize them, if he took the time, but he didn't have time, he didn't

want time. He had to escape, get away.

He'd sent his report on Abarrach to the lord via a messenger, giving as his

excuse for not coming in person the need to hurry after the escaped Sartan.

My Lord, You may remove Abarrach completely from your calculations. I found

evidence to indicate that the Sartan and the mensch did once inhabit that hunk

of worthless, molten rock. The climate undoubtedly proved too harsh for even

their powerful magic to sustain them. They apparently tried to contact the

other worlds, but their attempts ended in failure. Their cities have now

become their tombs. Abarrach is a dead world,

The report was true. Haplo had said nothing false about Abarrach. But its

truth was polished veneer, covering rotten wood beneath. Haplo was almost

certain his lord would know his servant had lied; the Lord of the Nexus had a

way of knowing everything that went on in a man's head . . . and his heart.

The Lord of the Nexus was the one person Haplo respected and admired. The one

person Haplo feared. The lord's wrath was terrible, it could be deadly. His

magic was incredibly powerful. When still a young man, he had been the first

to survive and escape the Labyrinth. He was the only Patryn—including

Haplo—who had the courage to return to that deadly prison, fight its awful

magics, work to free his people.

Haplo grew cold with fear whenever he thought about a possible encounter

between his lord and himself. And he thought about it almost constantly. He

wasn't afraid of physical pain or even death. It was the fear of seeing the

disappointment in his lord's eyes, the fear of knowing that he had failed the

man who had saved his life, the man who loved him like a son.

"No," said Haplo to the dog, "better to go on to Chelestra, the next world.

Better to go quickly, take my chances. Hopefully, with time, I can sort out

this tangle inside me. Then, when I return, I can face my lord with a clear

conscience."

He arrived on the bridge, stood staring down at the steering stone. He'd made

his decision. He had only to put his hands on the sigla-covered round stone

and his ship would break the magical ties binding it to the ground and sail

into the rose-hued twilight of the Nexus. Why did he hesitate?

It was wrong, all wrong. He hadn't gone over the ship with his usual care.

They'd made it safely out of Abarrach and through Death's Gate, but that

didn't mean they could make another journey.

He'd prepared the ship in a slapdash manner, jury-rigging what he could not

take time to carefully repair. He should have strengthened rune structures

that almost surely had been weakened by the journey, should have searched for

cracks, either in the wood or the sigla, should have replaced frayed cables.

He should have, as well, consulted with his lord about this new world. The

Sartan had left written lore concerning the four worlds in the Nexus. It would

be folly to rush blindly into the world of water, without even the most

rudimentary knowledge of what he faced. Previously, he and his lord had met

and studied . . .

But not now. No, not now.

Haplo's mouth was dry, had a foul taste in it. He swallowed, but it did no

good. He reached out his hands to the steering stone and was startled to see

his fingers tremble. Time was running out. The Lord of the Nexus would have

received his report by now. He would know that Haplo had lied to him.

"I should leave . . . now," Haplo said softly, willing himself to place his

hands on the stone.

But he was like a man who sees dreadful doom coming upon him, who knows he

must run for his life, yet who finds himself paralyzed, his limbs refusing to

obey his brain's command.

The dog growled. Its hackles rose, its eyes shifted to a point behind and

beyond Haplo.

Haplo did not look around. He had no need. He knew who stood in the doorway.

He knew it by countless signs: he'd heard no one approaching, the warning

sigla tattooed on his skin had not activated, the dog had not reacted until

the man was within arm's reach.

The animal stood its ground, ears flattened, the low growl rumbling deep in

its chest.

Haplo closed his eyes, sighed. He felt, to his surprise, a vast sense of

relief.

"Dog, go," he said.

The animal looked up at him, whimpered, begged him to reconsider.

"Get," snarled Haplo. "Go on. Beat it." The dog, whining, came to him, put its

paw on his leg. Haplo scratched behind the furry ears, rubbed his hand beneath

the jowl.

"Go. Wait outside."

Head lowered, the dog trotted slowly and reluctantly from the bridge. Haplo

heard it flop down just outside the doorway, heard it sigh, knew it was

pressed as close against the door as was possible to do and still obey its

master's command.

Haplo did not look at the man who had materialized out of the twilight shadows

inside his ship. Haplo kept his head lowered. Tense, nervous, he traced with

his finger the runes carved upon the steering stone.

He sensed, more than heard or saw, the man come near him. A hand closed over

Haplo's arm. The hand was old and gnarled, its runes a mass of hills and

valleys on the wrinkled skin. Yet the sigla were still dark and easily read,

their power strong.

"My son," said a gentle voice.

If the Lord of the Nexus had come raging aboard the ship, denouncing Haplo as

a traitor, hurling threats and accusations, Haplo would have defied him,

fought him, undoubtedly to the death.

Two simple words disarmed him completely.

"My son."

He heard forgiveness, understanding. A sob shook Haplo. He fell to his knees.

Tears, as hot and bitter as the poison he'd swallowed on Abarrach, crept from

beneath his eyelids.

"Help me, Lord!" he pleaded, the words coming as a gasp from a chest that

burned with pain. "Help me!"

"I will, my son," answered Xar. His gnarled hand stroked Haplo's hair. "I

will."

The hand's grip tightened painfully. Xar jerked Haplo's head back, forced him

to look up.

"You have been deeply hurt, terribly wounded, my son. And your injury is not

healing cleanly. It festers, doesn't it, Haplo? It grows gangrenous. Lance it.

Purge yourself of its foul infection or its fever will consume you.

"Look at yourself. Look what this infection has done to you already. Where is

the Haplo who walked defiantly out of the Labyrinth, though each step might

have been his last? Where is the Haplo who braved Death's Gate so many times?

Where is Haplo now? Sobbing at my feet like a child!

"Tell me the truth, my son. Tell me the truth about Abarrach."

Haplo bowed his head and confessed. The words gushed forth, spewing out of

him, purging him, easing the pain of the wound. He spoke with fevered

rapidity, his tale broken and disjointed, his speech often incoherent, but Xar

had no difficulty following him. The language of both the Patryns and their

rivals, the Sartan, has the ability to create images in the mind, images that

can be seen and understood if the words cannot.

"And so," murmured the Lord of the Nexus, "the Sartan have been practicing the

forbidden art of necromancy. This is what you feared to tell me. I can

understand, Haplo. I share your revulsion, your disgust. Trust the Sartan to

mishandle this marvelous power. Rotting corpses, shuffling about on menial

errands. Armies of bones battering each other into dust." The gnarled hands

were once again stroking, soothing.

"My son, had you so little faith in me? Do you, after all this time, not know

me yet? Do you not know my power? Can you truly believe that I would misuse

this gift as the Sartan have misused it?"

"Forgive me, My Lord," whispered Haplo, weak, weary, yet feeling vastly

comforted. "I have been a fool. I did not think."

"And you had a Sartan in your power. You could have brought him to me. And you

let him go, Haplo. You let him escape. But I can understand. He twisted your

mind, made you see things that were not, deceived you. I can understand. You

were sick, dying. . . ."

Shame burned. "Don't make excuses for me, My Lord," Haplo protested harshly,

his throat raw from his sobs. "I make none for myself. The poison affected my

body, not my mind. I am weak, flawed. I no longer deserve your trust."

"No, no, my son. You are not weak. The wound to which I was referring was not

the poison given to you by the dynast, but the poison fed to you by the

Sartan, Alfred. A far more insidious poison, one that affects the mind, not

the body. It inflicted the injury of which I spoke earlier. But that wound is

drained now, is it not, my son?"

Xar's fingers twined through Haplo's hair.

The Patryn looked up at his master. The old man's face was lined and marked

with his toils, his tireless battles against the powerful magic of the

Labyrinth. The skin did not sag, however, the jaw was strong and firm, the

nose jutted out from the face like the tearing beak of a fierce flesh-eating

bird. The eyes were bright and wise and hungry.

"Yes," said Haplo, "the wound is drained."

"And now it must be cauterized, to prevent the infection from returning."

A scraping sound came from outside the door. The dog, hearing a tone of dire

threat in the lord's voice, jumped to its feet, prepared to come to its

master's defense.

"Dog, stay," Haplo ordered. He braced himself, bowed his head.

The Lord of the Nexus reached down, took hold of Haplo's shirt, and, with one

tear, rent the fabric in two, laying bare Haplo's back and shoulders. The

runes tattooed on his flesh began to glow slightly, red and blue, his body's

involuntary reaction to danger, to what he knew was coming.

He clenched his jaw, remained on his knees. The glow of the sigla on his body

slowly faded. He lifted his head, fixed his gaze, calm and steadfast, upon his

lord.

"I accept my punishment. May it do me good, My Lord."

"May it do so indeed, my son. I take no joy in the giving."

The Lord of the Nexus placed his hand on Haplo's breast, over his heart. He

traced a rune with his finger; the nail was long, it drew blood from the

flesh. But it did far worse to Haplo's magic. The heart-sigla were the first

links in the circle of his being. At the lord's touch, they began to separate,

the chain started to break.

The Lord of the Nexus drove the wedge of his magic inside the sigla, forced

them apart. A second link slipped from the first, cracked. The third slid off

the second, then the fourth and fifth. Faster and faster, the runes that were

the source of Haplo's power, his defense against the power of other forces,

broke and splintered and shattered.

The pain was excruciating. Slivers of metal pierced his skin, rivers of fire

coursed through his blood. Haplo closed his mouth against the screams as long

as he could. When they came, he didn't know them for his.

The Lord of the Nexus was skilled at his work. When it seemed Haplo must faint

from the agony, Xar ceased the torment, talked gently of their past lives

together, until Haplo had recovered his senses. Then the lord began again.

Night, or what the Nexus knows as night, drew its blanket of soft moonlight

over the ship. The lord traced a sigil in the air; the torture ceased.

Haplo fell back on the deck and lay like one dead. Sweat covered his naked

body, he shook with chills, his teeth chattered. A residue of pain, a flash of

flame, a stabbing of a blade, surged through his veins, wrenched from him

another agonized cry. His body twitched and jerked spasmodically, out of his

control.

The Lord of the Nexus bent down and, once again, laid his hand on Haplo's

heart. He could have killed him then. He could have broken the sigil,

destroyed it past any hope of repair. Haplo felt the lord's touch, cool on his

blazing skin. He shivered, choked back a moan, and lay rigid, perfectly still.

"Execute me! I betrayed you! I don't deserve ... to live!"

"My son," whispered the Lord of the Nexus in pitying tones. A tear dropped on

Haplo's breast. "My poor son."

The teardrop closed and sealed the rune.

Haplo sighed, rolled over, began to weep. Xar gathered the young man close,

cradled the bleeding head in his arms, rocked him, soothed him, and worked the

magic until all Haplo's runes had been rejoined, the circle of his being

reestablished.

Haplo slept, a healing sleep.

The Lord of the Nexus took off his own cape, a cloak of fine, white linen, and

drew it over Haplo. The lord paused a moment to look at the young man. The

remnants of the agony were fading, leaving Haplo's face strong and grim, calm

and resolute—a sword whose metal has been strengthened by being passed through

the fire, a granite wall whose cracks have been filled with molten steel.

Xar laid his hands upon the ship's steering stone and, speaking the runes,

started it upon its journey through Death's Gate. He was preparing to leave

when a thought struck him. He made a quick tour of the vessel, keen eyes

peering into every shadow.

The dog was gone.

"Excellent."

The Lord of the Nexus left, well satisfied.

CHAPTER * 2

SOMEWHERE BEYOND DEATH'S GATE

ALFRED AWOKE, A FRIGHTFUL YELL RINGING IN HIS EARS. HE LAY perfectly still,

terrified, listening with fast-beating heart and sweaty palms and

squinched-shut eyelids for the yell to be repeated. After long moments of

profound silence, Alfred came at last to the rather confused confusion that

the yell must have been his own.

"Death's Gate. I fell through Death's Gate! Or rather," he amended, shivering

at the thought, "I was pushed through Death's Gate."

If I were you, I wouldn't be around when I woke up, Haplo had warned him , . .

. . . Haplo had fallen asleep, fallen into one of the healing sleeps vitally

necessary to those of his race. Alfred sat in the lurching ship, alone except

for the dog, who lay protectively near its master. Alfred, looking around,

realized how alone he was. He was terrified, and he tried to combat his fear

by creeping nearer Haplo, seeking company, even if it was unconscious.

Alfred settled himself beside Haplo, occupied himself by studying the Patryn's

stern face. He noticed that it did not relax in repose, but retained its grim,

forbidding expression, as though nothing, not sleep, perhaps not even death,

could bring perfect peace to the man.

Moved by compassion, by pity, Alfred stretched out a hand to smooth back a

lock of hair that fell forward over the implacable face.

The dog raised its head, growled menacingly.

Alfred snatched his hand back. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

The dog, knowing Alfred, appeared to accept this as a plausible excuse. It

settled back down.

Alfred heaved a tremendous sigh, glanced nervously around the lurching ship.

He caught a glimpse through the window of the fiery world of Abarrach falling

away from them in a confused swirl of smoke and flame. Ahead, he saw the

rapidly approaching black hole that was Death's Gate.

"Oh, dear," Alfred murmured, shrinking. If he was going to leave, he had

better get going.

The dog had the same idea. It leapt to its feet, started to bark urgently.

"I know. It's time," Alfred said. "You gave me my life, Haplo. And it's not

that I'm ungrateful. But ... I'm too frightened. I don't think I have the

courage."

Do you have the courage to stay? the dog seemed to ask in exasperation. Do you

have the courage to face the Lord of the Nexus?

Haplo's lord—a powerful Patryn wizard. No fainting spell would save Alfred

from this terrible man. The lord would prod and probe and drag forth every

secret the Sartan had in his being. Torture, torment, lasting for as long as

the Sartan remained alive . . . and the lord was certain to ensure his prey

lived a long, long time.

The threat must have been sufficient to drive Alfred to action. At least

that's what he supposed. He remembered finding himself standing on the upper

deck, without the slightest notion how he had come to be there.

The winds of magic and time whistled around him, grabbed disrespectfully at

the wisps of hair on his balding head, set his coattails to flapping. Alfred

gripped the rail with both hands and stared out, horribly fascinated, into

Death's Gate.

And he knew, then, that he could no more hurl himself bodily into that abyss

than he could consciously end his own miserable and lonely existence.

"I'm a coward," he said to the dog. Bored, it had followed him up on deck.

Alfred smiled wanly, looked down at his hands, clinging to the rail with a

white-knuckled grip. "I don't think I could pry myself loose. I—"

The dog suddenly went mad, or so it seemed. Snarling, teeth slashing, it leapt

straight at him. Alfred wrenched his hands from the rail, flung them up in

front of his face, an instinctive, involuntary act of protection. The dog

struck him hard on the chest, knocked him over the side. . . .

What had happened after that? Alfred couldn't remember, except that it was all

very confused and all extremely horrible. He had a vivid impression of falling

... of falling through a hole that seemed far too small for a gnat to enter

and yet was large enough to swallow the winged dragonship whole. He remembered

falling into brightly lit darkness, of being deafened by a roaring silence, of

tumbling head over heels while not moving.

And then, reaching the top, he'd hit bottom.

And that's where he was now, or so he supposed.

He considered opening his eyes, decided against it. He had absolutely no

desire to see his surroundings. Wherever he was, it was bound to be awful. He

rather hoped that he would lose himself in sleep, and if he was lucky, he

wouldn't find himself again.

Unfortunately, as is generally the case, the more he tried to go back to

sleep, the wider awake he woke. Bright light shone through his closed eyelids.

He became aware of a hard, flat, cool surface beneath him; of various aches

and pains in his body that indicated he'd been lying here for some time; of

being cold and thirsty and hungry.

No telling where he'd landed. Death's Gate led to each of the four worlds

created magically by the Sartan following the Sundering. It led also to the

Nexus, the beautiful twilight land meant to hold the "rehabilitated" Patryns

after their release from the Labyrinth. Perhaps he was there. Perhaps he was

back on Arianus. Perhaps he hadn't really gone anywhere! Perhaps he'd open his

eyes and find the dog, grinning at him.

Alfred clamped his eyes tightly shut; his facial muscles ached from the

strain. But either curiosity or the stabbing pain shooting through his lower

back got the better of him. Groaning, he opened his eyes, sat up, and looked

nervously around.

He could have wept for relief.

He was in a large room, circular, lit by lovely, soft white light that

emanated from the marble walls. The floor beneath him was marble, inlaid with

runes—sigla he knew and recognized. The ceiling arched comfortingly overhead,

a dome supported by delicate columns. Embedded in the walls of the room were

row after row of crystal chambers, chambers meant to hold people in stasis,

chambers that had, tragically, become coffins.

Alfred knew where he was—the mausoleum on Arianus. He was home. And, he

decided at once, he would never leave. He would stay in this underground world

forever. Here he was safe. No one knew about this place, except for one

mensch, a dwarf named Jarre, and she had no means of finding her way back. No

one could ever find it now, protected as it was by powerful Sartan magic. The

war between the elves and dwarves and humans could rage on Arianus and he

would not be part of it. Iridal could search for her changeling son and he

would not help. The dead could walk on Abarrach and he would turn his back on

all except the familiar, the silent blessed dead that were his companions once

more.

After all, one man, alone, what can I do? he asked himself wistfully.

Nothing.

What can I be expected to do?

Nothing.

Who could possibly expect me to do it?

No one.

Alfred repeated that to himself. "No one." He recalled the wonderful, awful

experience on Abarrach when he had seemed to know with certainty that some

sort of higher power for good was present in the universe, to know that he

wasn't alone, as he had supposed all these years.

But the knowledge, his certainty, had faded, died with young Jonathan, who had

been destroyed by the dead and the lazar of Abarrach.

"I must have imagined it," said Alfred sadly. "Or perhaps Haplo was right.

Perhaps I created that vision we all experienced and didn't know I created it.

Like my fainting, or like casting that spell that took the magical life from

the dead. And, if that's true, then what Haplo said was true as well. I led

poor Jonathan to his death. Deceived by false visions, false promises, he

sacrificed himself for nothing."

Alfred bowed his head into his trembling hands, his thin shoulders slumped.

"Everywhere I go, disaster follows. And therefore, I won't go anywhere. I

won't do anything. I'll stay here. Safe, protected, surrounded by those I once

loved."

He couldn't, however, spend the remainder of his life on the floor. There were

other rooms, other places to go. The Sartan had once lived down here. Shaking,

stiff, and sore, he endeavored to stand up. His feet and legs appeared to have

other ideas, resented being forced back to work. They crumbled beneath him. He

fell, persisted in trying to stand, and, after a moment, managed to do so.

Once he was finally upright, his feet seemed inclined to wander off one way

when he actually had it in mind to go the opposite.

Finally, all his body parts more or less in agreement as to the general

direction he was headed, Alfred propelled himself toward the crystal coffins,

to bid fond greeting to those he had left far too long. The bodies in the

coffins would never return his greeting, never speak words of welcome to him.

Their eyes would never open to gaze at him with friendly pleasure. But he was

comforted by their presence, by their peace.

Comforted and envious.

Necromancy. The thought flitted across his mind, skittering like a bat. You

could bring them back to life.

But the dread shadow lay over him only momentarily. He wasn't tempted. He had

seen the dire consequences of necromancy on Abarrach. And he had the terrible

feeling that these friends of his had died because of the necromancy, their

life-force stolen from them, given to those who, he now suspected, didn't want

it.

Alfred went straight to one coffin, one he knew well. In it lay the woman he

loved. He needed, after the horrible sights of the restless dead on Abarrach,

to see her calm and peaceful sleep. He placed his hands on the outside of the

crystal window behind which she lay and, fondly, tears in his eyes, pressed

his forehead against the glass.

Something was wrong.

Admittedly, his vision was blurred by his tears. He couldn't see well.

Hastily, Alfred blinked, rubbed his hands over his eyes. He stared, fell back,

startled, shocked.

No, it couldn't be. He was overwrought, he'd made a mistake. Slowly he crept

back, peered inside the coffin.

Inside was the body of a Sartan female, but it wasn't Lya!

Alfred shivered from head to toe.

"Calm down!" he counseled. "You're standing in the wrong place. You've gotten

turned around by that terrible trip through Death's Gate. You've made a

mistake. You've looked into the wrong crystal chamber. Go back and start

over."

He turned around and tottered once more to the center of the room, barely able

to stand, his knees as weak as wet flax. From this distance, he carefully

counted the rows of crystal chambers, counted them up, then counted them

across. Telling himself that he'd been a row too far over, he crept back,

ignoring the voice that was telling him he'd been in exactly the right place

all along.

He kept his gaze averted, refusing to look until he was near, in case his eyes

might play another trick on him. Once arrived, he shut his eyes and then

opened them swiftly, as if hoping to catch something in the act.

The strange woman was still there.

Alfred gasped, shuddered, leaned heavily against the crystal chamber. What was

Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman - Deathgate Cycle 4 - Serpent Mage

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