"Can't be helped, Thea." Paithan leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Business's business, you know." He started off down the hall, heading for his room.

"Oh," he added, turning back. "A word to the wise. Don't go in there now." He nodded his head in the direction of Calandra's study.

Aleatha withdrew her hand slowly from the door handle. Hidden beneath the silky folds of her gown, the fingers clenched.

"Sweet sombertime, Thea," said Paithan. He entered his room and shut the door.

An explosion, coming from the back of the house, set the windows rattling. Aleatha looked out, saw her father and the old man in the garden, gleefully setting off rockets. She could hear, from behind the closed door of her sister's study, the rustle of Cal's skirts, the tap, tap of her high-heeled, tight-laced shoes. Her sister was pacing. A bad sign. No, as Paithan said, it would not do to interrupt Calandra's thoughts.

Moving over to the window, Aleatha saw the human slave, lounging at his post near the carriage house, enjoying the rocket bursts. As she watched, she saw him stretch his arms above his head, yawning. Muscles rippled across his bare back. He began to whistle, a barbaric habit among humans. No one would use the carriage this late into shadow hour. He was due to go off-duty soon, when the storm began.

Aleatha hurried down the hall to her own room. Stepping inside, she glanced into her mirror, smoothing and arranging the luxuriant hair. Catching up a shawl, she draped it over her shoulders and, smiling once again, lightly glided down the stairs.

Paithan started on his journey early the following mistymorne. He was setting off alone, planning to join up with the baggage train on the outskirts of Equilan. Calandra was up to see him away. Arms folded tightly across her chest, she regarded him with a stern, cold, and forbidding air. Her humor had not improved during the night. The two were alone. If Aleatha was ever up at this time of day, it was only because she hadn't yet been to bed.

"Now, mind, Paithan. Keep on eye on the slaves when you cross the border. You know those beasts will run the moment they get a whiff of their own kind. I expect we'll lose a few; can't be helped. But keep our losses to the minimum. Follow the back routes and stay away from civilized lands if possible. They'll be less likely to run if there's no city within easy reach."

"Sure, Callie." Paithan, having made numerous trips to Thillia, knew more about the matter than his sister. She gave him this same speech every time he departed, until it had become a ritual between them. The easygoing elf listened and smiled and nodded, knowing that giving these instructions eased his sister's mind and made her feel that she retained some control over this end of the business.

"Keep sharp watch on this Roland character. I don't trust him."

"You don't trust any humans, Cal."

"At least I knew our other dealers were dishonest. I knew how they'd try to cheat us. I don't know this Roland and his wife. I'd have preferred doing business with our regular customers but these two came in with the highest bid. Make certain you get the cash before you turn over one single blade, Pait, and check to see that the money's real and not counterfeit."

"Yes, Cal." Paithan relaxed, and leaned on a fence post. This would go on for some time. He could have told his sister that most humans were honest to the point of imbecility, but he knew she'd never believe him.

"Convert the cash into raw materials as soon as you can. You've got the list of what we need, don't lose it. And make certain the bladewood is good quality, not like that stuff Quintin brought in. We had to throw three-fifths of it out."

"Have I ever brought you a bad shipment, Cal?" Paithan smiled at his sister.

"No. Just don't start," Calandra felt imaginary strands of hair coming loose from their tight coil. She smoothed them back into place, giving the hair pins a vicious jab. "Everything's going wrong these days. It's bad enough that I have Father on my hands, now I've got some insane old human, too! To say nothing of Aleatha and this travesty of a wedding-"

Paithan reached out, put his hands on his older sister's bony shoulders. "Let Thea do what she wants, Cal. Durndrun's a nice enough chap. At least he's not after her for her money-"

"Humpf!" Calandra sniffed, twitching away from her brother's touch.

"Let her marry the fellow, Cal-"

"Let her!" Calandra exploded. "I'll have little enough to say about it, you can be sure of that! Oh, it's all very well for you to stand there and grin, Paithan Quindiniar, but you won't be here to face the scandal. This marriage will be the talk of the season. I hear the dowager's taken to her bed over the news. I've no doubt she'll drag in the queen. And I'll be the one to deal with it. Father, of course, is less than useless."

"What's that, my dear?" came a mild voice behind them.

Lenthan Quindiniar stood in the doorway, the old man beside him.

"I said you'll be less than useless in dealing with Aleatha and this insane notion of hers-marrying Lord Durndrun," Calandra snapped, in no mood to humor her parent.

"But why shouldn't they get married? If they love each other-"

"Love! Thea?" Paithan burst out laughing. Noting the confused look on his father's face and the scowl on his sister's, the young elf decided it was high time to hit the bridges. "I've got to run. Quintin'll think I've fallen through the moss or been eaten by a dragon." Leaning over, the elf kissed his sister on her cold and withered cheek. "You will let Thea have her way in this, won't you?"

"I don't see that I've much choice. She's been having her way in everything since Mother died. Remember what I've told you and have a safe trip." Calandra pursed her lips, pecked Paithan's chin. The kiss was nearly as sharp as a bird's beak, and he had to restrain himself from rubbing his skin.

"Father, good-bye." The elf shook hands. "Good luck with the rockets."

Lenthan brightened visibly. "Did you see the ones we set off last night? Brilliant bursts of fire above the treetops. I attained real altitude. I'll bet people could see the blasts all the way to Thillia."

"I'm sure they could, sir," agreed Paithan. He turned to the old man. "Zifnab-"

"Where?" The old man whipped about.

Paithan cleared his throat, kept a straight face. "No, no, sir. I mean you. Your name." The elf held out his hand. "Remember? Zifnab?"

"Ah, pleased to meet you, Zifnab," said the old man, shaking hands. "You know, though, that name sure sounds familiar. Are we related?"

Calandra gave him a shove with her hand. "You better get going, Pait."

"Tell Thea good-bye for me!" Paithan said.

His sister snorted, shook her head, her face grim.

"Have a good trip, Son," said Lenthan in a wistful tone. "You know, sometimes I think maybe I should go out on the road. I think I might enjoy it... ."

Seeing Calandra's eyes narrow, Paithan struck in hastily, "You let me handle the travel for you. Father. You've got to stay here and work on your rockets. Leading the people forth, and all that."

"Yes, you're right," said Lenthan with an air of self-importance. "I had better get started working on that, right now. Are you coming, Zifnab?"

"What? Oh, you talking to me? Yes, yes, my dear fellow. Be along in a jiffy. You might want to increase the amount of sinktree ash. I think we'll achieve greater lift."

"Yes, of course! Why didn't I think of that!" Lenthan beamed, waved vaguely at his son, and hurried into the house.

"Probably won't have any eyebrows left," muttered the old man. "But we'll achieve greater lift. Well, you're off, are you?"

"Yes, sir." Paithan grinned, and whispered confidentially, "Mind you don't let any of that death, doom, and destruction start without me."

"I won't." The old man gazed at him with eyes that were suddenly, unnervingly, shrewd and cunning. He jabbed a gnarled finger in Paithan's chest. "Doom will come back with you!"

CHAPTER 8.

THE.

NEXUS.

HAPLO WALKED SLOWLY AROUND THE SHIP, INSPECTING IT CAREFULLY TO MAKE certain all was in readiness for his flight. He did not, as had the original builders and masters of the dragonship, inspect the guide ropes and the rigging, the cables that controlled the gigantic wings. He looked intently at the wooden hull, but he wasn't checking the caulking. He ran his hands over the skin on the wings, but he wasn't searching for rips or tears. He studied, instead, strange and elaborate symbols that had been carved, burned, stitched, and painted on the wings and the outside of the ship.

Every conceivable inch was covered with the fantastic designs-whorls and spirals; straight lines and curved; dots and dashes; zigzags, circles, and squares. Passing his hand over the sigla, the Patryn murmured to himself, reciting the runes. The sigla would not only protect his ship, the sigla would fly it.

The elves who had built the vessel-named Dragon Wing in honor of Haplo's journey to the world of Arianus-would not have recognized their handiwork. Haplo's own ship had been destroyed on his previous entry through Death's Gate. He had commandeered the elven ship on Arianus. Due to pursuit by an ancient foe, he had been forced to leave Arianus in haste and had inscribed only those runes absolutely necessary to his survival (and that of his young passenger) through Death's Gate.

Once safely in the Nexus, however, the Patryn had been able to expend both time and magic on modifying the vessel to his own specifications.

The ship, designed by the elves of the Tribus Empire, had originally utilized elven magic combined with mechanics. Being extraordinarily strong in his own magic, the Patryn did away completely with the mechanics. Haplo cleared the galley of the confused tangle of rigging and the harnesses worn by the slaves who operated the wings. He left the wings themselves outspread, and embroidered and painted runes on the dragonskin to provide lift, stability, speed, and protection. Runes strengthened the wooden hull; no force existed that was strong enough to crush it or stave it in. Sigla etched into the glass windows of the bridge prevented the glass from cracking while, at the same time, permitting an unobstructed view of the world beyond.

Haplo moved inside through the aft hatch, walked the ship's passageways until he came to the bridge. Here, he gazed about in satisfaction, sensing the full power of the runes come to a focus, converge at this point.

He had junked all the elaborate machines devised by the elves to aid in navigation and steering. The bridge, located in the dragon's "breast," was now a large, spacious chamber, empty except for a comfortable chair and a round, obsidian globe resting on the deck.

Haplo walked over to the globe, crouched down to inspect it critically. He was careful not to touch it. The runes carved into the obsidian's surface were so extremely sensitive that even a whisper of breath across them might activate the magic and launch the vessel prematurely.

The Patryn studied the sigla, going over the magic in his mind. The flight, navigation, and protection spells were complex. It took him hours to run through the entire recitation, and he was stiff and sore from lack of movement at the conclusion, but he was satisfied. He had not found a single flaw.

Haplo stood up, grunting, and flexed his aching muscles. Seating himself in the chair, he looked out upon the city he would soon be leaving. A tongue swiped wetly across his hand.

"What is it, boy?" Haplo glanced down at a nondescript, gangly black dog with white markings. "Think I forgot you?"

The dog grinned and wagged its tail. Bored, it had fallen asleep during the inspection of the steering stone and was pleased to have its master pay attention to it again. White eyebrows, slanting above clear brown eyes, gave the animal an unusually intelligent expression. Haplo stroked the dog's silky ears, gazed unseeing out at the world spread before him... .

.. . The Lord of the Nexus walked the streets of his world-a world built for him by his enemies, precious to him because of that very fact. Every finely chiseled marble pillar, every towering granite spire, every graceful minaret or sleek temple dome was a monument to the Sartan, a monument to irony. The lord was fond of walking among them and laughing silently to himself.

The lord did not often laugh aloud. It is a noticeable trait among those imprisoned in the Labyrinth that they rarely laugh and when they do, the laughter never brightens their eyes. Even those who have escaped the hellish prison and have entered the wondrous realm of the Nexus do not laugh. Upon their arrival through the Last Gate, they are met by the Lord of the Nexus, who was the first to escape. He says to them only two words.

"Never forget."

The Patryns do not forget. They do not forget those of their race still trapped within the Labyrinth. They do not forget friends and family who died by the violence of magic gone paranoid. They do not forget the wounds they themselves suffered. They, too, laugh silently when they walk the streets of the Nexus. And when they meet their lord, they bow before him in reverence. He is the only one of them who dares go back into the Labyrinth.

And even for him, the return is not easy.

No one knows the lord's background. He never speaks of it, and he is a man not easily approached or questioned. No one knows his age, although it is speculated, from certain things he has said, to be well beyond ninety gates. [13] The lord is a man of keen, cold, sharp intelligence His skills in magic are held in awe by his people, whose own skills would rank them as demigods in the worlds beyond. He has been back to the Labyrinth many, many times since his escape, reentering that hell to carve out safe havens for his people with his magic. And each time, before he enters, this cold and calculating man feels a tremor shake his body. It takes an effort of will for him to go back through that Last Gate. There is always the fear, deep in his mind, that this time the Labyrinth will win. This time it will destroy him. This time, he will never find his way back out.

That day, the lord stood near the Last Gate. Surrounding him were his people, Patryns who had already escaped. Their bodies covered with the tattooed runes that were shield, armor, and weapon, a few had decided that this time they would reenter the Labyrinth in company with their lord.

He said nothing to them, but accepted their presence. Walking to the Gate that was carved of jet, he placed his hands upon a sigil he himself had inscribed. The rune glowed blue at his touch, the sigla tattooed upon the backs of his hands glowed blue in answer and the Gate, that was never meant to open inward but only outward, fell back at the lord's command.

Ahead lay the weird and warped, ever-changing, deadly vistas of the Labyrinth.

The lord glanced around at those who stood near him. All eyes were fixed on the Labyrinth. The lord saw faces lose the color of life, he saw hands clench to fists, sweat trickle down rune-covered skin.

"Who will enter with me?" he asked.

He looked at each one. Each person tried to meet the lord's eyes, each person failed and eventually lowered his gaze. Some sought valiantly to step forward, but muscle and sinew cannot act without the mind's will, and the minds of those men and women were overcome with remembered terror. Shaking their heads, many of them weeping openly, they turned away.

Their lord walked up to them and laid his hands soothingly upon them. "Do not be ashamed of your fear. Use it, for it is strength. Long ago, we sought to conquer the world, to rule over those weak races not capable of ruling themselves. Our strength and our numbers were great and we had nearly succeeded in our goal. The only way the Sartan could defeat us was to sunder the world itself, sundering it into four separate parts. Divided by the chaos, we fell to the Sartan's might, and they locked us away in a prison of their own creation-the Labyrinth. Their 'hope' was that we would come out of it 'rehabilitated.'

"We have come out, but the terrible hardships we endured did not soften and weaken us as our enemies planned. The fire through which we passed forged us into sharp, cold steel. We are a blade to cut through our enemies, we are a blade that will win a crown.

"Go back. Go back to your duties. Keep always before you the thought of what will come when we return to the worlds. Keep always behind you the memory of what was."

The Patryns, comforted, were no longer ashamed. They watched their lord enter the Labyrinth, watched him enter the Gate with firm, unfaltering step, and they honored and worshipped him as a god.

The Gate started to swing shut on him. The lord halted it with a sharp command. He had found, lying near the Gate, stretched prone on the ground, a young man. The muscular, sigil-tattooed body bore the marks of terrible wounds-wounds that the young man had healed by his own magic, apparently, but which had almost drained him of his life. The lord, examining the young Patryn anxiously, could not see any sign that he was breathing.

Stooping, reaching out his hand to the young man's neck to feel for a pulse, the lord was brought up short by a low growling sound. A shaggy head rose up from near the young man's shoulder.

A dog, the lord saw in astonishment.

The animal itself had suffered serious injury. Though its growl was menacing and it was attempting valiantly to protect the young man, it could not hold up its head. The muzzle sank down feebly onto bloodied paws, But the growl continued.

"If you harm him," it seemed to say, "somehow, someway, I'll find the strength to tear you apart."

The lord, smiling slightly-a rare thing for him-reached out gently and stroked the dog's soft fur.

"Be at ease, small brother. I mean your master no harm."

The dog allowed itself to be persuaded and, crawling on its belly, managed to lift its head and nuzzle the young man's neck. The touch of the cold nose roused the Patryn. He glanced up, saw the strange man bending over him and, with the instinct and will that had kept him alive, struggled to stand.

"You need no weapon against me, my son," said the lord. "You stand at the Last Gate. Beyond is a new world, one of peace, one of safety. I am its lord. I welcome you."

The young man had made it to his hands and knees. Swaying weakly, he lifted his head and stared through the Gate. His eyes were glazed, he could see little of the wonders of the world. But a slow smile spread across his face.

"I've made it!" he whispered hoarsely, through blood-caked lips. "I've beaten them!"

"Such were my words when I stood before this Gate. What are you called?"

The young man swallowed, coughed before he could reply. "Haplo."

"A fitting name." The lord put his arms around the young man's shoulders. "Here, let me help you."

To the lord's amazement, Haplo thrust him away. "No. I want to walk ... through ... on my own."

The lord said nothing, his smile broadened. He rose to his feet and stood aside. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Haplo struggled to stand upright. He paused a moment, swaying with dizziness. The lord, fearing he would fall, took a step forward, but Haplo warded him off with outstretched hand.

"Dog," he said in a cracked voice. "To me."

The animal rose weakly and limped over to its master. Haplo placed his hand upon the animal's head, steadying himself. The dog stood patiently, its eyes fixed upon Haplo.

"Let's go," said the young man.

Together, step by faltering step, they walked toward the Gate. The Lord of the Nexus, marveling, came behind. The Patryns on the other side, seeing the young man emerge, did not applaud or cheer, but awarded him respectful silence. None offered to help him, though each saw that every movement caused the young man obvious pain. They all knew what it meant to walk through that last gate by oneself, or aided only by a trusted friend.

Haplo stood in the Nexus, blinking under the dazzling sun. Sighing, he keeled over. The dog, whimpering, licked his master's face.