Serpent Mage by Margaret Weis Page A

you an ancestor of the Samah who was Head of the Council during the time of the Sundering?”
    Orla's eyes flicked quickly to Samah. The woman's face was exceedingly pale. The other Council members shifted in their chairs, some looking at Samah, others looking at the dust all around them.
    “No,” said Samah. “I am not a descendant of that man.” He paused, perhaps considering the implications of his answer. “I am that man,” he said at last.
    Alfred nodded, breathed a gentle sigh. “Yes, I thought so. And this is the Council of Seven who made the decision to sunder the World, establish four separate and distinct worlds in its place. This is the Council who directed the fight against the Patryns, the Council who brought aboutour enemy's defeat and effected their capture. This is the Council who built the Labyrinth and imprisoned our enemies within it. This is the Council by whose direction some of the mensch were rescued from the destruction and transported to each of the four worlds, there to begin what you planned to be a new order, there to live together in peace and prosperity.”
    “Yes,” said Samah, “this is the Council of which you speak.”
    “Yes,” repeated Orla, softly, sadly, “this is that Council.”
    Samah shot her a displeased glance. Of the other Council members—four men and one more woman—two of the men and the woman frowned in agreement with Samah, the remaining two men nodded, apparently siding with Orla.
    The rift in the Council gaped, chasm-like, at Alfred's feet, causing him to lose hold of his thoughts, that had never been grasped all that securely. He could only stare at his brethren, open-mouthed.
    “We have answered your questions,” Samah said, voice grating. “Have you any others?”
    Alfred did, but he was having difficulty putting his questions in words proper to ask the head of the Council of Seven. At last he managed to say, lamely, “Why did you go to sleep?”
    The question was simple. To his horror, Alfred heard echoing around it all the other questions that should have remained locked in his heart. They reverberated through the room in unspoken, anguished cries.
    Why did you leave us? Why did you abandon those who needed you? Why did you shut your eyes to the chaos and destruction and misery?
    Samah appeared grave and troubled. Alfred, appalled at what he'd done, could only stammer and flap his hands ineffectually in a vague effort to silence the voice of his own being.
    “Questions begat questions, it seems,” Samah said at last. “I see that I cannot easily answer yours unless you answer some of mine. You are not from Chelestra, are you?”
    “No, Samah, 1 I am not. I am from Arianus, the world of air.”
    “And you came to this world through Death's Gate, I presume?”
    Alfred hesitated. “It might be more correct to say I came by accident… or perhaps by dog,” he added with a slight smile.
    His words were creating pictures in the minds of those he addressed, pictures that they were obviously, from the bewilderment on their faces, having difficulty understanding.
    Alfred could imagine their confusion. He could see in his mind Arianus, its various mensch races warring, its wonderful, marvelous machine doing absolutely nothing, its Sartan gone and forgotten. He could see in his mind his journey through Death's Gate, see Haplo's ship, see Haplo.
    Alfred steeled himself for what he assumed must be Samah's next question, but apparently the images were coming so fast and furious that the Sartan had evidently shut them out completely in an attempt to concentrate on his own thoughts.
    “You came accidentally, you say. You were not sent to wake us?”
    “No,” said Alfred, sighing. “There was, to be honest, no one to send me.”
    “Our people on Arianus did not receive our message? Our plea for help?”
    “I don't know.” Alfred shook his head, stared down at his shoes. “If they did, it was a long time ago. A long, long time ago.”
    Samah was silent.