Brett got her back on her feet, though he still had to bear most of her weight. He looked quickly about him, trying for a glimpse of whatever had unmanned Rose so utterly. But there were only the shadows, growing deeper and darker by the moment. Brett started back down the corridor, back to the entrance, and then he stopped suddenly and looked back over his shoulder. He could have sworn someone just called out his name. It was no voice he knew, but it knew him, and it promised him things. Things he'd always wanted, even if he'd never known it till just then. But he would have had to leave Rose, and he couldn't do that. The Maze was killing her. So he turned his back on the voice, and tenderly half led, half carried Rose out of the Madness Maze, and back into the waking world.
Getting out was a lot easier than getting in, and the two of them soon staggered out of the entrance to the Maze. Lewis and Jesamine were quickly there to help Brett with Rose, but she wouldn't let him go. In the end, Brett and Rose sat down on the floor together, holding each other like frightened children. Silence watched them, remembering a time from long ago, when he had brought Investigator Frost out of the Maze in much the same way. And probably for the same reason. Jesamine tried to comfort Rose, but she shook her head stubbornly.
"Brett. I want Brett."
"I'm here, Rose. We're out of the Maze. We're safe now."
"No. I'll never be safe again."
"What happened in there?" said Lewis. "You were only in there a few moments."
Brett didn't have an answer for him. He hugged Rose as tightly as he could, and her leathers creaked loudly, but still he couldn't seem to reach her. Her eyes were glazed over, her face was slack, as though she was fading away. So Brett did the only thing he could, no matter how much it scared him. He reached out with his esp, and deliberately reestablished the mental bond they'd shared when their minds first touched. Their thoughts slammed together, like two sides of the same coin, as though they belonged together and always had. Brett took her pain and shock for his own, and bore the weight of it for her, where she could not. And she took from him the strength and courage she needed, though he hadn't even known it was there. And if they both found dark places in each other's minds, the darkness was nothing compared to the shared light they generated. Brett Random and Rose Constantine; two wounded souls, healing each other.
They finally broke the mental link, dropped back into their own heads, and helped each other onto their feet again. Brett looked at the others, and smiled weakly. Rose was her old composed self again.
"Don't ask," said Brett.
"I wouldn't dare," said Jesamine.
"What did the Maze do to you?" said Lewis, stubbornly sticking to the point. Rose looked back at the entrance to the Maze.
"I didn't expect that," she said finally. "It made me feel so small, so limited. Like a caterpiller trapped forever in its cocoon. I couldn't go on, but I couldn't go back, and staying where I was was killing me by inches. The Maze has no mercy. I would have died in there, if Brett hadn't saved me."
"How do you feel, Brett?" said Silence.
"Lucky to be alive," Brett growled. "That place is dangerous. It's full of everything you never wanted to see. It can unmake you, tear up everything you thought you believed in. I won't go back in there. Not for anything."
Jesamine put a hand on Lewis's arm, and made him look at her. "You don't have to do this, Lewis. The Maze isn't anything like we thought it was. It plays games with people. You can't trust it."
"I do have to do this, Jes," said Lewis. "This is what it's all been about. Everything we've been through was about getting me here, to this place at this time. Looking at the Maze… feels like going home. It's where I belong."
"But I don't want you to go in," Jesamine said desperately, staring imploringly into eyes that looked like they belonged to someone else. "Lewis, even if by some miracle you do come back alive, you might not be you anymore. Even the legends couldn't disguise how different Owen and the others were after the Maze changed them. They were never the same again."
"No. They were better. Don't try to stop me, Jes. Be happy for me. This is my duty, and my destiny, as a Deathstalker. I've always wanted this. The Maze will make me into what I have to be, to save Humanity. Which includes you. And I'd do anything to save you, Jes."
"Maybe… the new you won't want me anymore," whispered Jesamine.
Lewis smiled, taking both her hands in both of his. "Owen still loved Hazel."
"They'd both been through the Maze."
"Then come in with me."
Jesamine jerked her hands from his. "No. Don't ask that of me, Lewis."
"I will stand between you and all harm. And I will tear the Maze apart before I let it hurt you."
"Only a Deathstalker can safely navigate the Madness Maze," said Silence.
"Hell with that," said Lewis. "She's with me."
Lewis Deathstalker and Jesamine Flowers entered the Madness Maze together, hand in hand so they couldn't be separated. The shimmering metal walls came and went before them like the slow waves of an endless sea. The air was bitter cold, and it smelled of roses and iron. They could taste hot leather and spices in their mouths. Someone was singing a lullaby in an unknown tongue, in a voice like clashing knives. There was a feeling of clockwork turning with inexorable slowness, of chess pieces moving on the board of their own accord. And from somewhere up ahead came the great slow flapping of giant wings.
Lewis and Jesamine wandered through the Maze like children in a great primeval forest, overawed by their surroundings and heading towards something they could feel, but not name. And despite all their best intentions, somewhere along the way they took different turnings and went their different ways. Jesamine skipped along, humming a happy tune, quite cheerful and unafraid, while layers of meaning and significance crystalized in her mind, and she finally understood all manner of things. The Maze led her round and round, pushing open doors in her mind and letting air into dusty old closets, and finally it brought her back to the entrance. She danced out into the world again, singing a glorious song. The others looked at her, dumbfounded, and then looked at the entrance to the Maze when it became clear that Lewis wasn't going to follow her out.
"What the hell happened to you?" said Brett. "And where's Lewis?"
"I'm fine. And Lewis is where he's supposed to be." She smiled widely at Silence. "No wonder you couldn't explain it to us. I feel like someone took my brain and scrubbed it clean of years of accumulated grime. And Lewis… is heading for the heart of the Maze. To get all the answers. I don't think I envy him."
"You look different," said Brett. "More .. .you."
"Why thank you, Brett. I feel like I could climb a mountain while singing an aria." She looked at Silence. "Is this how it was for you?"
"It's different for everyone," said Silence. "We all became more than we were, more than human. I only hope you people have better luck."
Lewis strode calmly through the branching corridors of the Madness Maze, never at a loss over which way to go. He knew where he was going. It was like coming home after being away for a long, long time. It was also like walking through a furnace, while the stoked fires burned away his imperfections. There was pain, and loss, but he embraced them as the hot steel accepts the tempering that turns it into a sword blade. Lewis was a warrior born, and now, finally, he understood why. The corridors unfolded before him like the pulsing crenellations of a living brain, like the blossoming of the flower at the heart of the soul, until finally he came to the guarded center of the Madness Maze.
Everything stood still. A perfect moment, at the heart of the storm. Lewis felt calm and secure, like a small child in his mother's arms. He felt he could have just stood there forever, freed from the demands of need or conscience or ambition; but he was a Deathstalker, and duty and destiny were not his to put aside. He looked slowly about him. He was in a wide circular space, composed mostly of pure white light. In the exact center of that space stood a great glowing crystal, some four feet in diameter. Lewis walke
d over and looked into it, and inside the crystal, in its warm golden heart, he found a tiny human baby. The babe looked to be about a month old, perfectly formed, his blurred face only hinting at the person he might eventually become. His eyes were closed, and he breathed slowly and calmly, as though he had all the time in the world. One thumb was tucked securely into the slightly pouting mouth.
"Well, took you long enough to get here," said a familiar voice.
Lewis looked up, and wasn't entirely surprised to find the small gray figure of Vaughn standing right beside him. A small gray hand with fingers missing came out of a sleeve and waved briefly at him before disappearing again.
"I might have known you'd turn up," said Lewis. "Any chance of some straight answers, just for a change? Like, who is this baby, and what is he doing here?"
"That is Deathstalker brat," said Vaughn. "Very old. Son of Giles, by someone else's wife. Been here eleven hundred years, and never had his nappy changed once. Should get out more, see universe, party hard, but no. Too young. Still being born, really."
Lewis sighed. "I don't suppose there's anyone else around here I could talk to? I thought not." He looked thoughtfully at the baby. "He's really been here for eleven hundred years? Sleeping at the heart of the Maze? Why hasn't he… grown up?"
"Only looks like baby, dummy. What we see is tip of iceburg. Rest is hidden from us, and probably just as well too."
Lewis glared at Vaughn. "Speaking of people who aren't all they seem to be; I saw Vaughn's grave at Lachrymae Christi. So who, or what, are you really?"
"Good question," said the small gray figure. "Let me just put on someone more comfortable."
The small form fell apart into floating mists, and then reassembled into the familiar muscular figure of Roland Deathstalker. Lewis stared at the image of his father, who smiled easily back at him.
"You're not my father," said Lewis.
"No, I'm not. But I thought you might find this image easier to talk to. Vaughn has his uses, but his speech patterns drive me crazy. And he has personal habits you really don't want to hear about. Hopefully this figure will put you more at your ease."
"You still haven't answered my question," said Lewis, refusing to be sidetracked. "What are you?"
"I'm the one with all the answers, boy, so don't get snotty with me. Now, I have many names, but one nature. Many faces, but one perspective. And if you find that confusing, think how I feel. I am older than the First Empire, though in rather better shape. I was here when your species were still learning the advantages of standing upright, and the joys of beating each other's heads in with big sticks. I created the Madness Maze, working under very specific instructions, and I was here when Owen finally came through the Maze, looking for answers. He didn't like everything I had to tell him, but unfortunately I can only deal in the truth. My form may vary, but my programming is inviolable.
"Yes, I know, I know; what am I? Well, as far as your extremely limited thinking can comprehend, I am an ancient semisentient artificial construct, left here by the last remnants of a once proud and mighty race, as they passed at speed through your galaxy to somewhere hopefully a bit safer."
"They met the Terror, didn't they?" said Lewis. "They were running from the Terror."
"Got it in one, Deathstalker. Take a prize from any shelf you like. While they were indeed once great and powerful, and vast beyond your understanding, they were still no match for the Terror when it came. Their whole civilization was destroyed. All their worlds and all their works, gone to nothing. Only a handful survived, fleeing across the galaxies. They left me here, a living recording, to warn of what was coming, and prepare."
"What were they like, this other race?" said Lewis.
"Trust me, you don't want to know. Not unless you're into mental projectile vomiting. Their nature took them in directions your species haven't even developed the concepts for yet. Following their orders, I have struggled to raise as many species as possible to a point where they might conceivably have some chance of standing up against the Terror. Following my programming, I have force-fed them evolution through the Madness Maze, but I can't say it's been particularly successful. A surprisingly large number of species self-destruct spectacularly when forced to confront the true nature of things in general, and the universe in particular. The Grendels missed the point completely, the Ashrai preferred to become gardeners, and I don't even want to talk about Mog Mor. Only Humanity has shown real potential, and even there it's been a lot of two steps forwards, one step back. Some days I'd like to take your entire race and give it a good slap round the back of the head."
"Can we please get to the point?" said Lewis.
"Sorry," said Roland. "But it's not often I get the chance to show off, and being the one who knows is so empowering! You see, I'm not actually allowed to do much myself, being essentially just a recording with a fairly strict set of parameters. The best I can do is sort of nudge certain gifted individuals in the right direction. Owen was the best. He was everything I could have hoped for. Someday, he might even have gone face-to-face with the Terror… But he died, saving Humanity from the wrath of the Recreated."
"So he is definitely dead?" said Lewis. "You're sure?"
"Oh, yes. I saw it happen. But you're going to bring him back."
"Where's Jesamine?" Lewis said suddenly. "I just realized she isn't with me. We came in together. Why isn't she here? She's the practical one."
"Not everyone gets this far, boy. Most don't even survive the opening gambits. Ten thousand eager volunteers came traipsing in here, wanting to be heroes like Owen, and most of them died. The few that crawled out alive probably wished they hadn't. You see, the Maze can't help people, can't change them, work its magic on them, unless they're ready and willing to embrace the change. The ones that died, or mutated, were so desperate to hang on to their precious limited humanity, or their provincial ideas about how the universe really works, that they couldn't, wouldn't, transcend. Evolution can be a frightening thing when it's thrust upon you. Essentially, they chose madness or death rather than face the scary unknown of post-human existence. It's not the Maze's fault. The monsters you saw outside did it to themselves; their fears made manifest in their flesh. They became the personifications of their own guilts and preoccupations."
"That's horrible," said Lewis. "Will I…"
"No," said Roland. "You adapted surprisingly quickly, but then, you're a Deathstalker. Your changes are already complete, even if you haven't learned to access them yet."
"How did you ever get to meet my father?" said Lewis. "You look and sound just like him."
"Oh, I get around. Really. You'd be surprised. I am a shape-shifting alien, after all. But mostly I'm filling in your father's details from what I see in your mind."
"Wait a minute, you can read my mind?"
"Trust me, Lewis, I have no desire to go rummaging. It's a wonder to me you can find anything in that mess. Now, enough of the small talk. The time has come to restore Owen Deathstalker to the Empire that needs him. And only you can do that."
"What really did happen to Owen?" said Lewis. "I've heard so many stories, so many versions… did he really die on Mistworld, saving us all through his own sacrifice?"
"Yes," said Roland. "He really did. Owen never was one to shrink from what was necessary. No matter what it cost him. The Maze, together with that incredibly powerful baby there, sent Owen back through time, past the Pale Horizon, and the Recreated followed him. They fought one last battle, in the past, in the grimy back streets of Mistport, and Owen won. But he'd used up all his power, and he was stranded there, years away from his own time. And then… Well. See for yourself."
Lewis and Roland were suddenly standing in a dead-end square in Mistport. There was snow and dirty trampled slush everywhere, along with filth and grime. A thick pervasive fog pearled the air. It should have been bitter cold, but Lewis couldn't feel anything. He slowly realized that he and Roland were pale misty things themselves, like ghosts from the fu
ture. I haven't even been born yet, Lewis thought slowly. "Remember, we can't interfere," Roland said quietly. "We can only observe. We're not really here. Look—it begins."
Owen Deathstalker staggered into the dead-end square, breathing hard. His clothes were torn and bloodied, topped with a ragged fur cloak. His face was gaunt and tired, as though he'd been running forever. He looked like death. He stopped and bent over, his lungs heaving for air, and he leaned on his sword to steady himself. He looked like a lion that had been pursued and harried by jackals. There was the sound of many approaching footsteps, pounding in the snow and slush. Owen's head snapped round, and he straightened up, his sword and gun at the ready. And worn out and exhausted as he was, at that moment Owen Deathstalker looked every inch the warrior Lewis had heard about his whole life.
The animals came spilling into the square. Ragged, stunted people, with drugged fires in their eyes and the anticipation of blood in their mouths. They howled like beasts, and threw themselves at Owen. And he went forward to meet them, swinging his sword like the hero he was. The odds were overwhelming, dozens to one, and Owen was almost totally burned out from everything he'd already been through. Anyone could see that. But Owen fought anyway, refusing to be beaten, because he was a Deathstalker, and that was what Deathstalkers did.
Owen blew a bloody hole in the pack with his disrupter, killing three of them in a moment, and setting fire to the furs of those around them. The animals kept coming anyway. Owen was quickly in and among them, cutting them down with swift strokes of his sword.
And still the animals pressed forwards, knives and lengths of chain flailing, forcing Owen back, step by step. Until there was nowhere left for him to go. His back slammed up against a stone wall, and the animals cried out as they fell upon him, swamping him with their numbers. Owen swung his sword in short deadly arcs, defiant to the last, and then one of them ducked under his swing and stabbed him in the side. Owen cried out, in shock as much as pain, and then they were all over him. Their knives plunged into his body again and again. Blood fell thickly, staining the filthy snow. Owen's legs gave way, and he slid down the wall. And still they kept at him, pushing each other aside in their eagerness. They kept on stabbing him with their dirty knives, his body shuddering under the impact of so many blows. Owen cried out again, but his voice was lost in the vicious baying of the pack.