Patryns were, with very good reason, terrified of the Final Gate. It was tied to the worst memories of their lives, to incidents when they had almost died or been tortured or given up hope or…. The list of almosts went on and on. The point was, Xar was the only Patryn who had ever managed to reenter the Final Gate. Everyone else was too scared.

Alfred was not a Patryn. Besides, he didn't intend to go into the Labyrinth for long. All he had to do was peek in, memorize what the inside of the Gate looked like, and pop out. Then he could fly back into Death's Gate (which, judging from the ease with which he'd traveled through it, was now open), using the portal to head for the Vortex. Then he could fetch Orla, transport her to the Final Gate, and sprint through it before anything nasty could eat them. If he left his ship hidden in the Nexus, using his own gift of magical flight to access the Vortex, then he and Orla would have a way back to Chelestra.

It was, in all honesty, a fairly decent plan. He wouldn't be in the Labyrinth long enough for it to kill him (unless he was very, very unlucky). Neither was Orla, who probably hadn't left the Vortex yet.

That's not to say he didn't approach the Final Gate without trepidation. He wasn't exactly a brave man, and, had he expected his excursion into the Labyrinth to last more than a few minutes, he might not have scrounged up the courage at all. But it wouldn't take long for him to memorize the environment, and then it was back to the Nexus for him.

Any Patryn who saw the cowardly Sartan stick his head through the Gate would have been mortified.

But though Alfred was not afraid (well, not very), the Labyrinth more than made up for his lack of fear. It had no eyes with which to see the Sartan, but it could sense the… thing observing its domain. The creature was practically made of magic, which radiated from him like light from the sun.

Fortunately, Alfred got out of the Labyrinth before it recovered from its shock (shock which was, in its mind, quite justified. How often did someone powerful enough to make Xar look like a child stop by?) to kill him. However, the Serpent Mage's two-minute scouting trip was enough to set the prison maze on its guard. Best send something nasty to the Final Gate, just in case he decides to come back….

Alfred, oblivious to the plot against his life, sang the spell of flight and zoomed up into Death's Gate. Moments later, he touched down in the Vortex. The Sartan gazed about, half-expecting to see Orla then and there.

He did, just not in the way he'd expected.

The air drained from Alfred's lungs. He felt dizzy, hot, faint.

Maybe she was sleeping. Yes, that was reasonable. Of course she was sleeping. There was no way she-

"Orla?" he called, voice quavering. "Orla, it's me, Alfr-" No, she deserved better than that. "-Coren." It was the first time he'd spoken his name for centuries. The word tasted strange on his tongue. "I'm here to save you."

The Sartan woman did not stir.

Alfred flashed back to another day. He'd been so full of hope then too, only to be let down so horribly.

"Please wake up." His voice broke on the last word. Sick dread curdled in his belly. Hands trembled, shoulders shook. "Please, Orla. Wake up." He half-walked, half-ran over to her prone form.

And let out a sob.

Knowing it was hopeless- nightmares were always hopeless, always horrible- he grabbed her by the shoulders, shook her back and forth. "Wake up. Orla, wake up!" No answer. She flopped back and forth, limp as a rag doll, limp as the corpse she was.

"Wake up!"

This had happened before. Back on Arianus. He'd been so hopeful then, climbing out of his tomb (I never should have left), only to see that hope shattered in the worst way possible. Then he'd pounded at the other coffins' sides, screaming for their residents to wake up, wake up, wake up!

But they never had. And neither did Orla.

Alfred stumbled backwards from the corpse, fell to his back. Ragged sobs tore at his throat. Tears filled his eyes, blinding him.

Not again. Not again. Please, I'll do anything. Just not again.

But, short of practicing the foul arts of Abarrach, there was nothing he could do, no way to placate the fates which had done this to her.

Alfred hugged his knees to his chest and wept until he could weep no more. Then, exhausted, he lay in the same pathetic heap, slowly releasing his knees. His pants were soaked with tears, his eyes red and swollen.

When he woke, many hours later, from his misery-induced slumber, it was only to find that no, this hadn't been a nightmare. That nearly made him cry again, except by that point he was too dehydrated to weep. Thoroughly wretched, the Sartan went through the motions of a living man: he conjured water for himself, drank, sat back down. He stared dully at nothing in particular for a few long moments, then braced himself and glanced over at the dead woman. At Orla.

It seemed wrong to leave her lying there, crumpled on the floor like a discarded toy. More than seemed: it was wrong. Very wrong. But what could he do? He certainly wouldn't bring her back to her family, the two traitors who had sent her here. They didn't deserve her.

He briefly entertained the thought of taking her to Arianus, of laying her to rest in his own coffin. But then where would he sleep? After her death, he had no intention of going on. He just… couldn't care anymore.

But thoughts of home brought an idea to mind. He sang softly, mournfully, and a crystal tomb sprang into being. How fitting that all his loved ones rested in the same type of tomb….

Alfred sighed heavily, feeling every one of his nine centuries, even the ones he'd slept through. Weary beyond measure, wanting only to sleep, the Sartan trudged out into the Labyrinth. He sang. The magic comforted him slightly, like warm arms wrapping around him, like someone holding him close. But he was still gloomy as he transported to the Final Gate.

The Sartan was so distracted that he didn't notice the large and rather conspicuous red dragon standing guard until he'd finished his transportation spell. Fortunately, the dragon was rather surprised itself- it certainly hadn't expected a Sartan to materialize out of nowhere.

Neither had the bleeding Patryn woman it held in its claws.

For a moment, the three stared at each other: dragon and Patryn at Sartan, and Sartan at both of them. But of course, such a moment could not hope to last.

The woman recovered first. She yanked the knife- one of her own, which the dragon had shoved into her shoulder- from its fleshy sheath and stabbed it into one of the few unprotected parts of her captor's body: the delicate skin between its fingers. The monster yelped in startled pain, dropping her to the ground.

If it hadn't tried to kill the woman, get her out of the way before going after the more exotic and therefore more interesting prey, Alfred would probably have fainted. But the dragon attacked the Patryn, a helpless victim about to die.

Alfred was tired of life, but he was even more tired of people dying around him. Not to mention that Coren was still very close to the surface. A chant rose unbidden to the Sartan's lips. The Labyrinth dragon snorted, tried to brush aside the magic… but could not. Its enemy had put the full force of his considerable strength behind the spell, a spell more than capable of destroying even a feared dragon.

All that was left of the beast were a few dozen red scales and a charred skeleton.

Alfred stared in mute shock at the result of his spell. The Patryn stared in mute shock at this very… odd-looking, plainly-not-another-Patryn man who had just killed the most feared monster in the Labyrinth. Then Alfred realized that the woman was staring at him. He jumped guiltily, stared at her in wide-eyed fright. Unlike Haplo, this Patryn had no reason to keep him alive. Therefore she would probably try to kill him any moment now.

So he did what he always did in dangerous situations. He fainted.

Erri, the Runner who had just barely escaped a monster's claws, pushed herself to her feet. Her body ached all over, but long years of experience let her ignore the pain. Still, she was a great deal slower than normal as she stumbled towards the strange man with excellent timing.

The strange Sartan man who had, for some (doubtless twisted) reason of his own, decided to save her.

Her jaw tightened.

Like other Patryns who had yet to leave the Labyrinth, Erri knew nothing of the mensch. She had never heard of humans or elves or dwarves, just the rivals of her people. Just the creators of the prison maze. Just the beings who had consigned her ancestors and all their descendants to this foul pit.

Oh, yes. She very much looked forward to asking this Sartan a few questions.

A quick glance at her runes revealed that there wasn't any danger nearby. No surprise. Of course the maze wouldn't want to harm its-

Erri's eyes went wide. This skinny man couldn't possibly be the jailer himself, could he? But of course he had to be, because who else could access the Labyrinth so easily?

That, of course, made her even more interested in talking to him. She had quite a few questions for the jailer in charge of the Labyrinth's punishments. Many, many questions, few of which the Sartan would enjoy answering.

But she couldn't carry him to the safety of the Nexus. He was too large; she was too weak from blood loss and exhaustion. So she poked him with her one unbroken knife and snapped, "Get up."

Her order would have been a lot more impressive if her voice hadn't cracked with pain.

The Sartan didn't seem to notice her weakness, only her knife. He scurried to his feet. "Could… could you put that away, please? I'm rather clumsy."

Erri snorted. Like she'd ever disarm herself in the presence of an enemy. "Move," she barked.

Alfred moved.

Fortunately for both of them, the Final Gate was only a few steps away. Alfred only tripped once, just after they got out. Unfortunately, he ended up knocking Erri down as he fell (though he did manage not to accidentally slit his own throat on her knife). Had Erri been less weak from her fight with the dragon, she could have caught him, but she was exhausted, dizzy.

"I'm sorry!" the Sartan yelped, rolling aside. Then, more quietly, "Are you all right?"

Erri pushed herself up, trying to ignore the pain wracking her body. Her instincts cried out for the healing sleep, to sew up her wounds and replenish her blood, but there was no way she would sleep anywhere near a Sartan. Bad enough that she was obviously weak (she could barely bring herself to her feet), but to let an enemy see her at her most vulnerable? It wasn't going to happen. "Don't touch me."

The Sartan shrank in on himself. "All right."

Surprisingly (to Erri, at least), the Sartan didn't try to flee. He hovered nearby, watching her like a foolish-looking hawk. This, of course, only served to raise the hairs on Erri's neck. Why wasn't the Sartan running away? Was he stupid? Leading her into a trap? Whatever his reasons, she didn't like it. Nor did she like it when he observed, "You're hurt. Do you want me to-"

"The only thing I want you to do is answer some questions," she growled. "Are you the jailer?"

"No!" Alfred was horrified, sickened by the thought. She couldn't really think that he was the monster responsible for all her suffering, the pain of all her people, could she?

…Of course she did. He was a Sartan. The enemy.

For a brief moment, Alfred hated Samah. Had the other man been present, he would have been transformed into a slug or some other lowly life-form that even the mensch despised. It was his fault, all of this: Orla's death and Haplo's distrust and this woman's hate and-

As quickly as it had come, the anger cooled. Yes, Samah was at fault, but he was too. He wasn't quite certain how he was at fault but was entirely sure that he was. Somehow. The exact details could be figured out later, when he didn't have an angry armed Patryn out for his blood. He could figure that out back home, just before he went back to sleep.

"I'm not the jailer," he whispered. "I've never set foot in the control room. I don't even know where it is."

She cocked her head at him, a portrait of suspicion, before deciding to accept his answer. "Why did you save me?"

He remembered Orla, Lya, Ivor, all the others entombed in crystal. Tears blurred his vision; he blinked them away. "Because I am so, so tired of death."

The suspicion deepened, only to be replaced by an expression of pain. Clearly the woman's injuries were catching up to her. Her hands were shaking, her body tilting from side to side. Alfred instinctively reached out, tried to steady her, but she jerked away. "I said not to touch me."

"I'm sorry."

Erri's vision was beginning to blur. She'd obviously lost a great deal more blood than she had thought. Soon that loss would catch up with her, knock her unconscious. Then the Sartan would… she wasn't quite certain what he would do, but knew she wouldn't like it.

Her hand tightened around the hilt of her knife. The Sartan's neck was unguarded. Let's see him heal his own slit throat.

…Except he had saved her life. She owed him.

Erri swore, released her knife. It clattered onto the ground. Dizziness assaulted her; she staggered, would have fallen if not for the arms that wrapped around her, kept her upright.

"I said don't touch me!"

The Sartan helped her to the ground. "Do you need healing?"

"Try n'I'll bideyou," she slurred.

No, no, stay awake! Who knows what the Sartan will do when you conk out? Something horrible, no doubt. So you'd better stay aw-

When Erri woke up hours later, it was only to find herself wrapped in a warm blanket. Two loaves of bread and some kind of fruit rested on a nearby rock. Beside the food was a small jug of water. But the Sartan was gone.


"What do you mean, I won't be allowed out of the ship?" Bane demanded.

"Exactly what I said," Haplo replied. "There aren't any pale-skinned humans on Chelestra. I wouldn't be able to explain you."

"Tell them I'm a Patryn," the child ordered. "Say that Patryns don't get their tattoos until they're full-grown. In fact-" He smiled wickedly "-you can tell them that you're my uncle."

Haplo shook his head. Ignoring their 'relatedness,' he pointed out, "Sooner or later they'll learn what Patryn children really look like. Our goal is to ensure that my people can colonize the other worlds. Colonies include children."

Bane pouted.

Besides, Haplo thought, I don't trust you anywhere near the people of Chelestra. Not to mention that Alfred won't help with the Kicksey-winsey if he knows you're involved.

In the practical Patryn's opinion, it would be downright criminal not the Sartan in his task. He had no doubt that the other man would prove a font of valuable information. Recruiting him was much more efficient than guesswork, however educated those guesses might be.

"Just stay on board the ship," he instructed. "Read a book or something. Plan for Arianus. Just don't come to the funeral."

Bane sighed heavily but agreed to stay behind.

Haplo nodded and made a mental note to leave the dog to guard him.


*cowering* I'm sorry Orla, Alfred. The plot bunnies made me. They made me! (And is it just me, or have we already had this conversation?) The plot bunnies could not be placated!

Erri, threatening to bite the person who just saved your life is not nice. And Haplo, you're right not to trust Bane, but you're not going far enough. What you need to do is take a detour to Abarrach and chuck him into the Fire Sea. Then blame the dragon-snakes for his death. See? Two birds, one stone!

-Antares