Alfred knew what he was thinking.
The Councillor was wondering how best to ask a question he was deeply reluctant to ask.
At length, the Councillor glanced at Orla.
“We have a son. He is in the other room. He is twenty-five years of age, as counted at the time of the Sundering. If he had continued on in his life and had not chosen the Sleep, how old would he be?”
“He would not be alive,” said Alfred.
Samah's lips trembled. He controlled himself, with an effort. “We Sartan live long. Are you certain? If he grew to be an old, old man?”
“He would not be alive, nor would his children be alive, nor the children of his children.”
Alfred did not add the worst, that it was very likely the young man would have had no descendants at all. Alfred attempted to hide this fact, but he saw that the Councillor was beginning to understand. He'd seen in Alfred's mind the rows of crypts on Arianus, the dead Sartan walking the lava flows on Abarrach.
“How long have we slept?” Samah asked.
Alfred ran a hand over his balding head. “I can't say for certain, or give you numbers. The history, the time, differs from world to world.”
“Centuries?”
“Yes. I believe so.”
Orla's mouth moved, as if she would speak, but she said nothing. The Sartan appeared dazed, stunned. It must be a terrible thing, Alfred thought, to wake and realize that eons have passed while you slept. Wake to the knowledge that the carefully crafted universe you imagined pillowed your slumbering head has fallen into ruin and chaos.
“It's all so … confused. The only ones who might have any accurate record at all, the only ones who truly remember what happened, are the—” Alfred stopped, the dread words on his lips. He hadn't meant to bring that up, not yet at least.
“The Patryns.” Samah finished his sentence. “Yes, I saw the man, our ancient enemy, in your mind, Brother. He was free of the Labyrinth. You traveled with him.”
Orla's forlorn expression brightened. She sat forward eagerly. “Can we find comfort in this? I disapproved of this plan”—a glance at her husband—“but I would like nothing better than to have been proven wrong. Are we to understand that our hopes for reform worked? That the Patryns, when they emerged from the prison, had learned their lesson, hard as it was, and that they have forsaken their evil dreams of conquest and despotic rule?”
Alfred did not immediately respond.
“No, Orla, you can find no comfort anywhere,” Samah said coldly. “Of course, we should have known. Look at the image of the Patryn in this brother's mind! It is the Patryns who have brought this terrible destruction upon the worlds!” He slammed his hand down upon the arm of the chair, sent up a cloud of dust.
“No, Samah, you are wrong!” Alfred protested, startled at his own courage in defying the Councillor. “Most of the Patryns are still locked in that prison of yours. They have suffered cruelly. Countless numbers have fallen victim to hideous monsters that could only have been created by warped and evil minds!
“Those who have escaped are filled with hatred for us, hatred that has been bred into them for countless generations. A hatred that is in every way justifiable, as far as I'm concerned. I… I was there, you see, for a brief time … in another body.”
His newfound courage was rapidly evaporating beneath the blazing glare of Samah's eyes. Alfred shriveled up, shrank back into himself. His hands plucked at the frayed lace on the sleeves of his shirt hanging limply beneath the worn velvet of his top coat.
“What are you talking about, Brother?” Samah demanded. “This is impossible! The Labyrinth was meant to teach, to instruct. It was a game—a hard game, a difficult game—but nothing more than that.”
“It turned into a deadly game, I'm afraid,” said Alfred, but he spoke to his shoes. “Still, there might be hope. You see, this Patryn I know is a most complex man. He has a dog-”
Samar's
The Councillor was wondering how best to ask a question he was deeply reluctant to ask.
At length, the Councillor glanced at Orla.
“We have a son. He is in the other room. He is twenty-five years of age, as counted at the time of the Sundering. If he had continued on in his life and had not chosen the Sleep, how old would he be?”
“He would not be alive,” said Alfred.
Samah's lips trembled. He controlled himself, with an effort. “We Sartan live long. Are you certain? If he grew to be an old, old man?”
“He would not be alive, nor would his children be alive, nor the children of his children.”
Alfred did not add the worst, that it was very likely the young man would have had no descendants at all. Alfred attempted to hide this fact, but he saw that the Councillor was beginning to understand. He'd seen in Alfred's mind the rows of crypts on Arianus, the dead Sartan walking the lava flows on Abarrach.
“How long have we slept?” Samah asked.
Alfred ran a hand over his balding head. “I can't say for certain, or give you numbers. The history, the time, differs from world to world.”
“Centuries?”
“Yes. I believe so.”
Orla's mouth moved, as if she would speak, but she said nothing. The Sartan appeared dazed, stunned. It must be a terrible thing, Alfred thought, to wake and realize that eons have passed while you slept. Wake to the knowledge that the carefully crafted universe you imagined pillowed your slumbering head has fallen into ruin and chaos.
“It's all so … confused. The only ones who might have any accurate record at all, the only ones who truly remember what happened, are the—” Alfred stopped, the dread words on his lips. He hadn't meant to bring that up, not yet at least.
“The Patryns.” Samah finished his sentence. “Yes, I saw the man, our ancient enemy, in your mind, Brother. He was free of the Labyrinth. You traveled with him.”
Orla's forlorn expression brightened. She sat forward eagerly. “Can we find comfort in this? I disapproved of this plan”—a glance at her husband—“but I would like nothing better than to have been proven wrong. Are we to understand that our hopes for reform worked? That the Patryns, when they emerged from the prison, had learned their lesson, hard as it was, and that they have forsaken their evil dreams of conquest and despotic rule?”
Alfred did not immediately respond.
“No, Orla, you can find no comfort anywhere,” Samah said coldly. “Of course, we should have known. Look at the image of the Patryn in this brother's mind! It is the Patryns who have brought this terrible destruction upon the worlds!” He slammed his hand down upon the arm of the chair, sent up a cloud of dust.
“No, Samah, you are wrong!” Alfred protested, startled at his own courage in defying the Councillor. “Most of the Patryns are still locked in that prison of yours. They have suffered cruelly. Countless numbers have fallen victim to hideous monsters that could only have been created by warped and evil minds!
“Those who have escaped are filled with hatred for us, hatred that has been bred into them for countless generations. A hatred that is in every way justifiable, as far as I'm concerned. I… I was there, you see, for a brief time … in another body.”
His newfound courage was rapidly evaporating beneath the blazing glare of Samah's eyes. Alfred shriveled up, shrank back into himself. His hands plucked at the frayed lace on the sleeves of his shirt hanging limply beneath the worn velvet of his top coat.
“What are you talking about, Brother?” Samah demanded. “This is impossible! The Labyrinth was meant to teach, to instruct. It was a game—a hard game, a difficult game—but nothing more than that.”
“It turned into a deadly game, I'm afraid,” said Alfred, but he spoke to his shoes. “Still, there might be hope. You see, this Patryn I know is a most complex man. He has a dog-”
Samar's
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