Part 33 (1/2)

There was vast confusion among those left standing upon the beach. Bishop Vanya gave a strangled cry, clutched his throat, and pitched forward, senseless.

The DKarn-Duuk, seeing his prey escape, ran to the stone statue and tried to grab the Darksword. But the stone catalyst held it fast, some property of the metal, perhaps, fusing it to the man's arms. Or maybe it was the scabbard, for the runes upon is glowed with a holy silver light. Whatever the case, Prince Xavier could not budge it.

Lord Samuels ran distractedly along the sh.o.r.eline, crying out for his daughter. Accosting the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, he begged for their help. The black-robed figures only looked at him in cool pity and, disengaging themselves from his clutching hands stepped into the Corridors, returning to their duties within the world.

The catalysts helped each other to stand, the stronger a.s.sisting the weaken Staggering through the sand, they made them way to the Corridors that would take them home again to the Font. Any who looked at the stone statue of Saryon hastily averted their eves.

”Shall I make the man the same size as the rest, my lord?” the Executioner asked, his gaze going to the other Watchers that stood thirty feet tall.

”No!” snarled Prince Xavier, his eyes glittering. ”There must be some way to retrieve that d.a.m.n sword!” His hands reached out to touch it. ”Some way ...” he muttered.

Corridors opened and cleared rapidly. Theldara Theldara carried the stricken Bishop back to the Font. The body of the Empress, wrapped in white linen, was taken to the Palace. The DKarn-Duuk, surrounded by carried the stricken Bishop back to the Font. The body of the Empress, wrapped in white linen, was taken to the Palace. The DKarn-Duuk, surrounded by Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith and accompanied by the Executioner, returned to whatever dark and hidden place his Order inhabited, there to begin frantic studies into the properties of darkstone. Lord Samuels, stricken nearly mad with grief, returned to his home to break the news of their dreadful loss to his wife. and accompanied by the Executioner, returned to whatever dark and hidden place his Order inhabited, there to begin frantic studies into the properties of darkstone. Lord Samuels, stricken nearly mad with grief, returned to his home to break the news of their dreadful loss to his wife.

Soon, the only one standing on the beach was the Emperor. No one had spoken a word to him. They had removed the body of his wife from where it lay at his feet and he had never even looked down. He stood as still as stone himself, staring fixedly into the mists - that strange, sad smile upon his lips.

Joram had pa.s.sed Beyond, and the wind blowing among the sand dunes whispered, ”The Prince is Dead.... The Prince is Dead.”

Coda Twilight came to the Border, touching the mists with whorls of red and pink, purple and orange.

The beach was empty, except for the stone statue that stood there, staring out into the Realm of Death. Even the Emperor had gone at last, though no one knew where. He had not returned to the Palace and they were searching for him, needing him to begin the ceremonies for his dead wife.

A palm tree - a rather tall, thin, and sleek palm tree - located on the fringes of the gra.s.s near the beach shook itself, stretched, and gave a cavernous yawn.

”Egad,” stated the palm irritably. ”I'm stiff. Should know better than to fall asleep standing up like that. And I've been out in the sun all day. I've probably ruined my complexion!”

With a s.h.i.+ver of leaves, the palm changed form - turning into a bearded young man of indistinguishable age, dressed in a flamboyant costume consisting of skintight trousers over silken hose and a velvet coat that came to his knees. Trimmed in ostrich feathers, the coat parted in front to reveal a matching vest - likewise trimmed in ostrich feathers. Lace spilled from the feather-decorated cuffs and bubbled up around his neck. The entire ensemble was done in wide stripes of brownish orange and dark red.

”Perfect for the funeral. I'll call it Rust in Puce,” Rust in Puce,” Simkin said, conjuring up a mirror and examining himself in it critically. He stared intently at his nose. ”Ah, I did get sunburned. Now I'll freckle.” He sent the mirror away with an irritated gesture. Simkin said, conjuring up a mirror and examining himself in it critically. He stared intently at his nose. ”Ah, I did get sunburned. Now I'll freckle.” He sent the mirror away with an irritated gesture.

Thrusting his hands into pockets that appeared when he put his hands into them, Simkin flitted moodily along the beach.

”Perhaps I'll cover my skin all over with spots,” he remarked to the empty sand. Drifting across the beach, he came to a halt before the statue of the catalyst and slowly lowered himself to stand in front of it.

”Sink me!” Simkin said after a moment, profoundly moved. ”I am am impressed! A remarkable likeness! Bald pate and all.” impressed! A remarkable likeness! Bald pate and all.”

Turning from the statue, Simkin looked into the mists of Beyond. The mists took on night's blackness, their bright colors fading as twilight's dying grasp slipped from the world. Creeping and curling in upon the sh.o.r.e, they seemed, like the incoming tide, to advance a little farther each time. Simkin watched, smiling to himself, and smoothing his beard.

”Now the game begins in earnest,” he murmured.

Drawing forth the bit of orange silk from the air, he tied the silk around Saryon's stone neck. Then, humming to himself, Simkin disappeared into the evening, leaving the statue to stand in awful solitude on the silent sh.o.r.e, the orange banner fluttering from its neck; a tiny flicker of flame in the gathering gloom.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS.

Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman are the are the New York Times New York Times bestselling authors of the bestselling authors of the Dragonlance Dragonlance series, series, The Darksword Trilogy The Darksword Trilogy, and the Rose of the Prophet Rose of the Prophet trilogy. With trilogy. With The Death Gate Cycle The Death Gate Cycle, this imaginative team opens an ambitious, new chapter in epic fantasy.

SPECIAL PREVIEW.

The Seventh Gate The Final Death Gate Novel Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman Preeminent storytellers Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman have redefined epic fantasy with the vast scope and imaginative storytelling of their ”Death Gate” cycle.

The following is a special preview of the stunning conclusion to the Death Gate cycle-the opening chapter of The Seventh Gate: The Seventh Gate:

CHAPTER 1.

ABRI THE LABYRINTH.

VASU STOOD ON THE WALL above the gates of the city of Abri, stood silent and thoughtful as the gates boomed shut beneath his feet. It was dawn, which meant, in the Labyrinth, nothing more than a graying of night's black. But the dawn was different than most. It was more glowous than most ... and more terrifying. It was brightened by hope, darkened by fear. above the gates of the city of Abri, stood silent and thoughtful as the gates boomed shut beneath his feet. It was dawn, which meant, in the Labyrinth, nothing more than a graying of night's black. But the dawn was different than most. It was more glowous than most ... and more terrifying. It was brightened by hope, darkened by fear.

It was a dawn which saw the city of Abri, was the very center of the Labyrinth, still standing victorious, after a terrible battle with its more implacable enemies.

It was a dawn smudged with the smoke of funeral pyres; a dawn in which the living could draw a tremulous breath and dare to hope lit might be better.

It was a dawn lit by a lurid red glow on the far distant horizon, a red glow that was bright ening, strengthening. Those Patryns was guarded the city walls turned their eyes to the strange and unnatural glow, shook their head spoke of it in low and ominous tones.

”It bodes nothing good,” they said grimly.

Who could blame them for their dark outlook? Not Vasu. Certainly not Vasu, who knew what was transpiring. He would have to tell them soon, destroy the joy of this dawning.

”That glow is the fire of battle,” he would have to say to his people. ”A battle raging for control of the Final Gate. The dragon-snakes who attacked us were not defeated, as you thought. Yes, we killed four of them. But for every four that die, eight are born. Now they are attacking the Final Gate, seeking to shut it, seeking to trap us all in this dread prison.

”Our brothers, those who live in the Nexus and those near the Final Gate, are fighting this evil-so we have reason to believe. But they are few in number and the evil is vast and powerful.

”We are too far away to come to their aid. Too far. By the time we reached them-if we ever did reach them, alive-it would be too late. It may already be too late.

”And when the Final Gate is shut, the evil in the Labyrinth will grow strong. Our fear and our hatred will grow stronger to match and the evil will feed off that fear and that hatred and grow stronger still.”

It is hopeless, Vasu told himself, and so he must tell the people. Logic, reason said to him it was hopeless. Yet why, standing on the wall, staring at that red glow in the sky, did he feel hopeful?

It made no sense. He sighed and shook his head.

A hand touched his arm.

”Look, Headman. They have made it safely to the river.”

One of the Patryns, standing beside Vasu, had obviously mistaken his sigh, thought it indicated fear for the two who had left the city in the dark hour before the dawn, embarking on a dangerous and probably futile search for the green and golden dragon who had fought for them in the skies above Abri. The green and golden dragon who was the Serpent Mage, who was also the b.u.mbling Sartan with the mensch name, Alfred.

Certainly Vasu was afraid for them, but he was also hopeful for them. That same illogical, irrational hope.

Vasu was not a man of action. He was a man of thought, of imagination. He had only to look at his soft and pudgy Sartan body, tattooed with Patryn runes, to know that. He must give thought to what his people should do next. He should make plans, he should decide how they must prepare for the inevitable. He should tell them the truth, give his speech of despair.

But he didn't do any of that. He stood on the walls, watching the mensch known as Hugh the Hand and the Patryn woman Marit.