Having survived the Labyrinth, I thought myself hardened, inured to the sight of almost any atrocity. But the walking dead of Abarrach still haunt my darkest dreams. I tried to convince myself that necromancy would prove a most valuable skill to my lord. An army of the dead is indestructible, invincible, undefeatable. With such an army, my lord could easily conquer the other worlds, without the tragic waste of the lives of my people.
I very nearly ended up a corpse myself, on Abarrach. The thought of my body continuing to live on in mindless drudgery horrified me. I could not bear the thought of this happening to others. I resolved, therefore, not to tell my lord that the art of necromancy was being practiced by the Sartan on that wretched world. That was my first act of rebellion against my lord.
It was not to be my last.
Another experience happened to me on Abarrach, one that is painful, perplexing, irritating, confusing, yet inspires me with awe whenever I recall it.
Fleeing pursuit, Alfred and I stumbled into a room known as the Chamber of the Damned. Through the magic of that chamber I was transported back in time, thrust again into another body, the body of a Sartan. And it was then, during this strange and magical experience, that I encountered a higher power. I was given to know that I was not a demigod, as I had always believed, that the magic I controlled was not the strongest force in the universe.
Another, stronger force exists, a benevolent force, a force that seeks only goodness and order and peace. In the body of this unknown Sartan, I longed to contact this force, but before I could, other Sartan—fearful of our newfound truth—swept into the chamber and cut us down. Those of us gathered in that chamber died there. All knowledge of us and our discovery was lost, except for a mysterious prophecy.
When I awoke, in my own time, in my own body, I could only imperfectly remember what I had seen and heard. And I tried very hard to forget even that much. I didn’t want to face the fact that—compared to this power—I was as weak as any mensch. I accused Alfred of attempting to trick me, of creating this illusion himself. He denied it, of course. He swore that he had experienced exactly the same thing that I did.
I refused to believe him.
We barely escaped Abarrach with our lives.* When we left, the Sartan on that dreadful world were busy destroying each other, turning the living into lazar—dead bodies whose souls are eternally trapped inside their lifeless shells. Different from the ambulating corpses, the lazar are far more dangerous, for they have minds and purpose—dark and dread purpose.
I was glad to leave such a world. Once inside Death’s Gate, I let Alfred go his way, as I went mine. He had, after all, saved my life. And I was sick of death, of pain, of suffering. I’d seen enough.
I knew well what Xar would do to Alfred, if my lord got hold of him.
*Fire Sea, vol. 3 of The Death Gate Cycle.
CHELESTRA
I returned to the Nexus, made my report on Abarrach to my lord in the form of a message, for I feared that if I had to face Xar, I could not hide the truth from him. But Xar knew I lied. He sought me out before I had a chance to escape from the Nexus. He chastised me, very nearly killed me. I deserved the punishment. The physical pain I endured was far easier to bear than the pain of my guilt. I ended up telling Xar everything I had found on Abarrach. I told him about the art of necromancy, about the Chamber of the Damned, about the higher power.
My lord forgave me. I felt cleansed, whole. All my questions had been answered. I once more knew my purpose, my goal. They were Xar’s. I was Xar’s. I traveled to Chelcstra— the world of water—strong in my resolve to renew my lord’s faith in me.
And here an odd circumstance occurred. The dog—my constant companion ever since he saved my life in the Labyrinth—disappeared. I searched for the beast, for though he is a nuisance sometimes, I’d grown used to having him around. He was gone. I felt bad about this, but only for a while. I had more important matters on my mind.