The First Stone

“You forgot something,” Travis said.

The dim air of the hallway condensed in on itself, solidifying into a thing of sleek fury. The Scirathi started to turn, but he was too slow. A fist lashed out, striking him in the face. There was a bright flash of gold, and the sorcerer screamed. He groped with trembling fingers, touching the scarred ruin of what had once been his face. His gold mask clattered to the floor across the room.

For eons, the Scirathi had poured all their will and energy into the forging of the golden masks. The masks channeled their magic, focused it, granting a sorcerer abilities that otherwise would lay beyond his skill. Yet there was a price. Over time, the Scirathi had become dependent on the masks, and so without the devices they were powerless.

The sorcerer started to stumble toward the mask, but Vani landed soundlessly next to him. She laid her hands on either side of his head and made a motion so gentle it seemed a caress. There was a popping sound, and the sorcerer slumped to the floor.

Beltan jumped over the corpse, sword before him.

“Travis,” he growled. “Duck.”

Travis knew not to question. He grabbed Deirdre, pulling her to the floor along with Nim, and rolled to one side. He looked up in time to see the remaining sorcerer reach a hand toward Beltan’s chest to cast a death spell. However, the blond man’s sword was already moving. The Scirathi’s hand flew off, hitting the floor with a thud. A hiss escaped the mouth slit of the sorcerer’s mask, and he clutched the stump of his wrist to his chest. Beltan pulled his sword back, preparing a killing blow.

“No, Beltan,” Travis said, the words sharp. “Wait.”

Beltan gave him a puzzled look, but he did as Travis asked. Travis set Nim on the floor next to Deirdre and stood. The sorcerer let out another venomous hiss, reaching toward Travis’s chest. Only his hand was gone. Blood rained from the stump.

The red fluid vanished before it touched the floor.

Travis could hear it now: a buzzing noise, growing louder. The sorcerer jerked his gold face upward. Yes, he heard, too.

“You called them to you with your spell,” Travis said softly. “Now they’re coming.”

The sorcerer frantically clutched the wounded stump of his wrist, trying to staunch the flow of blood with his robe.

It was no use. They howled in through the window like a swarm of angry insects. Travis knew they would be invisible to the eyes of the others, but he could see them as tiny motes whirling on the air: sparks of blackness rather than light. Travis knelt and shielded Nim’s eyes with a hand.

A part of him watched with disinterested fascination. He had always wondered if the morndariexisted on this world. But of course they had to; otherwise the magic of the sorcerers would not work here. The spirits had passed through the crack Travis had opened between the worlds in 1883, just like the power of rune magic.

Only just like rune magic, the morndariwere far weaker here on Earth. They should have consumed the sorcerer’s blood swiftly, granting him a quick, if not painless, end.

Instead it was slow. Horribly slow. He waved his remaining hand in frantic motions, as if he could beat them away, though that was impossible, for they had no substance, no form. They swarmed around the stump of his hand like bees around a flower dripping nectar, consuming the blood that poured from it. Then, hungry for more, they passed through the wound into his veins. He fell to the floor, back arching, crimson froth bubbling through the mouth slit of his mask.

At last the sorcerer went still. His body was an empty husk; there was no more blood to drink. The morndaribuzzed away and were gone. They had been sated, for now at least.

Deirdre wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “What the hell just happened?”

“A sorcerer must control the flow of his blood,” Vani said. “He did not, and so the morndarihe summoned turned on him.” She moved forward and picked up Nim. “Are you well, daughter?”

The girl gave a somber nod. “My father Travis is a powerful sorcerer.”

Travis felt Vani’s gold eyes on him.

“Yes,” the T’golsaid. “He is.”

“What was in the bedroom?” Deirdre said, looking as if she was trying hard not to vomit.

“A stone through the window,” Beltan said. “It was a distraction, meant to separate us. It nearly worked. I should have known the Scirathi would try a trick like that. They’re sly dogs.” He looked at Vani. “I wonder how they knew you and Nim were here.”

Travis crossed his arms over his chest, trying not to think of the way his own blood surged through his veins. “I have a better question: How are the sorcerers here on Earth at all? Sareth has the one gate artifact, and the other was lost when the Etherion collapsed.”

“Perhaps it was found,” Vani said.

Beltan pulled the robes of the sorcerers over their faces. “And maybe they still had some of the fairy’s blood. I mean Sindar’s blood. He gave himself up to the Scirathi so he could get to Earth and find you, Travis, to give you the Stone of Twilight. The sorcerers might have preserved some of his blood.”

Travis couldn’t help a grim smile. As usual Beltan saw the simple solution the rest of them had overlooked. “That explains how the Scirathi got here, but how did they know you were here, Vani?”

“I would give much to know the answer to that,” the T’golsaid. “I cannot believe they followed me.”

Nor could Travis. The T’golcould make herself virtually invisible when she wanted. No one could have followed her, not even a sorcerer. All the same, somehow they had known she and Nim were there.

Beltan picked up the gold mask, which had fallen to the floor. “Vani, do the Scirathi usually attack in twos?”

The T’golshook her head. “There will be more. We must go.”

“Go where?” the blond knight said.

“The Seeker Charterhouse,” Deirdre said, gripping Travis’s arm. “There’s no place in the city with tighter security. Not even Buckingham Palace.”

Beltan tossed down the mask. “We’ll take my cab.”

Vani moved down the hallway. “We will take the fire escape and go through the alley. The front of the building might be watched.”

However, by the time they peered around the corner of the alley, the street beyond was dark and silent.

“Can you see anything?” Beltan whispered to Travis.

Travis could see in the dark better than even Vani; it was one of the ways he had been changed by the Stone of Fire. But there was nothing there. In fact, he had never seen the street so utterly devoid of signs of life. Every window was dark; even the street‑lamps seemed dim, their circles of light contracted.

Beltan motioned for the others to follow and led the way to his cab. They climbed in–Beltan and Vani up front, Travis, Nim, and Deirdre in the back. Beltan cranked the key in the ignition.

Nothing happened. Beltan made a growling sound low in his throat. “By the Holy Bull’s Big Bloody B–”

Vani slapped the blond man’s cheek. Hard.

He shot her a wounded look. “What was that for?”

“I think it was for swearing when children are present,” Deirdre said, hugging Nim on her lap.

“No,” Vani said, then reconsidered. “Well, yes, now that you mention it. But it was mostly for this.”

She opened her hand. On her palm was what looked at first like a crumpled piece of gold foil.

“Get out of the car,” Travis said. “Now!”

They scrambled out of the taxi. Travis grabbed Deirdre, spinning her around, searching for any signs of them on her or on Nim.

“Are you trying to make me throw up?” the Seeker said, staggering.

“Gold spiders,” Travis said. “Do you see any gold spiders on you or Nim? The Scirathi create them. They move like they’re alive, only they’re not. They’re more like little machines, filled with venom. One bite and you’re–” He clamped his mouth shut, aware of Nim’s wide eyes locked on him.

“I don’t like spiders,” the girl said, pronouncing the word thpiderth. “They have too many legs.”

“I’m with you on that one,” Deirdre said in a cheerful voice. “But look–they’re all gone now.”

They were, as far as Travis could tell, though there could be more of them in the taxi, hiding in niches and recesses, waiting to crawl out when a hand passed nearby. It didn’t matter. The car was dead.

“We must go,” Vani said, giving him a sharp look.

Travis started to reply, then froze. He saw them before the others possibly could have, making out the hump‑backed shapes against the gloom. They loped down the street, moving swiftly on both feet and knuckles. A moment later Beltan swore, and Vani went rigid. So they had seen the things as well.

“Run,” Travis said. “Now.”

They turned and careened down the street. Travis muttered the runes of twilight and shadow through clenched teeth. They only seemed to work half the time, and when they did they were pitifully frail, but he had to hope their magic would conceal the five of them. Because there was no way they could outrun the things that were after them.

Beltan took Nim from Deirdre, holding the girl easily under one arm as he ran.

“Are those things back there what I think they are?” Deirdre said between ragged breaths.

“They are if you think they are gorleths,” Vani answered. “I am not certain how many are following us.”

Travis tried to count the shadows he had seen. “Too many,” he said, and ran faster. The gorlethswere abominations spawned by the Scirathi, creatures pieced together from the blood and flesh of multiple beasts. Their strength, hunger, and desire to kill knew no limits.

“Where are we going?” Beltan asked as they rounded a corner.

Travis pointed. “There. The Tube station. We can catch a train to the Charterhouse.”

They pounded the last hundred yards to the entrance of the station, and Travis uttered a constant litany of runes as they dashed down a flight of steps. It was late, and there was no attendant on duty in the booth next to a bank of turnstiles. Deirdre stopped, searching in her pockets.

Travis stared at her. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for a ticket. Ah.” She pulled a small cardboard rectangle from her pocket, put it in the slot, and passed through the turnstile.

Vani jumped over the turnstile after her. Beltan handed Nim to the T’goland followed suit, as did Travis.

Deirdre grimaced. “Well, if I had known we were going to be a gang of hoodlums, I would have saved the fare.”

“Come on,” Travis said, grabbing her hand.

They dashed down the steps that led to the southbound platform of the Jubilee line. They could take the train to Westminster, then catch either the District or Circle line to the Blackfriars station. From there it was only a few blocks to the Seeker Charterhouse.

And what if the Scirathi know where the Charterhouse is? What if they’re staking it out?

Travis set aside the question. They could worry about that on the train ride there. They halted at the edge of the platform. Travis leaned out, peering down the lightless tunnel, hoping to feel the puff of air that would indicate an arriving train.

“How long until a vehicle comes?” Vani said, cradling Nim. The girl seemed unable or unwilling to blink.

Travis peered at the electronic sign over the platform. It was blank. There were no other passengers in sight; the platform was deserted.

“I don’t see a schedule anywhere,” Deirdre said, gazing around. “The trains don’t run as often this late at night.”

“Or maybe not at all,” Beltan said. He knelt to pick up a length of yellow plastic tape from the tile floor–the kind of tape often used for police or construction barricades. The blond man held out the tape. Words were printed on it: DO NOT ENTER. CLOSED FOR MAINT–

“Great Spirit protect us,” Deirdre murmured, gripping her bear claw necklace, but Travis knew it was too late for that, that there was nothing to protect them now.

Vani turned, arms locked around Nim. “We were herded here. This is where they wanted us to come all along.”

Even as the T’golspoke, the first hungry, guttural sounds skittered along the curved tile walls of the station.

13.

There was a stairway at either end of the platform; the growling noises emanated from both.

“Get ready, Vani.” Beltan said as he raised his sword. Travis hadn’t realized the knight had carried it all this way.

“Deirdre, take Nim,” Vani said, handing the girl to the Seeker. “I must be free to fight.”

“I don’t want you to fight the ’leths,” Nim said, then began to cry.

Vani caressed her damp cheek. “You must be brave, daughter.”

Nim nodded, her sobs ceasing if not her tears, and Deirdre hugged the girl tight, looking as if she was trying to be brave herself.

“Travis,” Beltan said, alternating his gaze between both stairways, “can you speak any runes that might help us?”

Travis was so tired. Speaking runes on Earth was like running through water: great effort for little effect. “I’ll try.”

The first dark forms appeared at the foot of both stairways. They were the size of apes. But then, the gorlethshad been apes once–or at least part of them had. Chimpanzees were one of the animals the Scirathi used in fashioning the gorlethshere on Earth. What other animals they had used, Travis could only imagine. Muscles writhed under the skin of their humped backs, their digits ended in curved talons, and knifelike teeth jutted from their maws.

Beltan and Vani each faced one of the stairwells, with Travis, Deirdre, and Nim between them. The first gorlethshad already covered half the distance across the platform, their talons scraping against the tiles, making a sound like fingernails being dragged across a blackboard. Their pale eyes shone with hungry intelligence.

“Not to rush you, Travis,” Beltan said, holding his sword ready, “but now would be a good time for those runes.”

Travis drew in a breath, but he felt so weak–just like rune magic did here on Earth.

By the Lost Hand of Olrig, that’s no way for a Runelord to think!Jack Graystone’s voice thundered in his mind. You’re a wizard, Travis, on this or any world. Now speak a rune.Gelth should do nicely, I think.

This time Jack was right. Travis clenched his right fist, knowing without looking that the silvery symbol–three crossed lines, the rune of runes–had blazed to life on his palm.

“ Gelth,” he intoned.

Again he felt the deep wrenching sensation inside, as if someone had just punched him in the gut. The rune had no effect.

Beltan tightened his hands around the hilt of the sword. “Travis . . .”

There was love in the blond man’s voice, and urgency. The gorlethswere so close Travis could hear their whuffling, could smell the putrid reek of their breath.

“ Gelth!” Travis shouted, straining with all his being.

This time a thousand voices chanted the rune in his mind, and he felt a hum resonate through him like a tone through a pitchfork. Instantly, tiny, glittering crystals precipitated out of thin air, frosting the gorleths’dark fur, and sheeting the tiles of the platform with a glaze of ice.

On Eldh, Travis would have been able to conjure an ice storm; he could have frozen the gorlethssolid. However, in some ways, the coating of ice was equally effective. The curved talons of the gorlethscould find no purchase. The nearest creatures let out shrieks of fury as they fell, skidding across the platform.

One slid close to Beltan, and the blond knight took the opportunity to swing his sword, lopping the beast’s head off. Another gorlethflew over the edge of the platform. There was a sizzling sound as the creature struck one of the electrified rails on which the trains ran.

Vani gazed at the smoking gorleth, then glanced at Beltan. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

The blond man snorted. “I think everyone is thinking what you’re thinking.”

Three more gorlethsremained close by and were starting to slowly crawl toward them, while five or six of the beasts clustered at the foot of each stairwell, testing the ice with their talons; it was already beginning to melt. They could fight four of the creatures, maybe five. But not a dozen of them, not even with Beltan and Vani.

The T’golprowled toward one of the nearby gorleths, moving across the ice as surefooted as if it were rough cement. Beltan started to do the same, but he swore as he nearly lost his footing, only catching himself by digging the point of his sword into the ice.

Travis knelt and touched Beltan’s boots. “ Krond,” he murmured.

“What are you doing?” Beltan yowled stamping his feet. “That’s hot!”

The ice melted through to the tiles where his boots touched.

“Oh,” he said, then started toward one of the struggling gorleths, able to move across the ice now, if not as quickly as Vani. The creature reached for him, trying to rake open his stomach, but Beltan swiped with his sword, sending the beast’s arm spinning across the ice. He kicked, and the gorlethflew over the edge of the platform, striking the rails. Again came the sizzle of electricity, a sound that continued as Vani heaved first one, then another gorlethover the edge. However, one of them raked its claws across her leg, and she limped as she came back toward them, trailing a line of blood.

“It is a scratch,” she said in answer to their looks, but her words were more for Nim’s benefit than theirs. The ice was growing slushy beneath her feet, not just Beltan’s.

“ Gelth,” Travis said, pressing his hand against the floor, murmuring the rune over and over. The tiles froze again, but they began to melt almost immediately. Despite the chill that radiated from them, Travis was sweating, and he couldn’t stop shaking. He kept speaking runes.

A group of gorlethsedged away from one of the stairwells. They crept across the ice, pressing themselves against the wall at the end of the platform for support, moving toward the edge.

“What are they doing?” Beltan said.

Vani’s gold eyes narrowed. “They’re learning.”

When they reached the edge of the platform, the beasts lowered themselves into the trench where the trains ran, careful to avoid the electrified rails. Slowly, the gorlethsbegan making their way parallel to the rails. Creatures from the other end of the platform were following suit. Travis knew what would happen when they reached the center of the platform. They would climb back up; and then there would be no escaping them.

Deirdre eyed the advancing monsters. “Travis, stop it with the ice runes. I think we need to run for the stairs.”

However, even as she said this, several more gorlethsappeared at the foot of each stairwell. Vani and Beltan stood at the edge of the platform, ready to try to fend off the creatures when they started to climb up, though there were far too many of them. The snarls of the gorlethsechoed off the curved walls of the tunnel, a cacophony that drowned out the voices of the Runelords in Travis’s mind. He stopped speaking the rune of ice and knelt on the tiles, bowing his head, exhausted.

A puff of air caressed his cheeks–warm rather than cold, smelling of steel and soot.

In Castle City, Travis had often stood on the boardwalk in front of the Mine Shaft Saloon, facing toward the mountains. He would feel an ache of possibility in his chest as he waited for the wind, wondering what it might blow his way. Only he knew what this wind was bringing. Already he could feel the tiles vibrating beneath his knees.

“Vani, Beltan! Get back!”

The two hesitated, then stepped away from the edge. Travis stood and grabbed Deirdre, pulling her and Nim back. The first gorleths, three of them, started to scramble up onto the platform, their eyes glowing with malice. They opened their fanged maws and roared.

The roar grew louder, deeper, filling the tunnel like thunder. The gorlethsshut their maws, but the roar continued. Their pale eyes flickered with confusion, and they turned to look down the tunnel–

–just as the oncoming train struck them.

Two of the gorlethswent flying through the air, their bodies limp and broken before they crashed onto the tiles. The third was caught between the train and the platform, its body smearing into a stripe of black jelly. The gorlethsin the trench shrieked, then their cries were cut short.

Beltan, Vani, and Deirdre all stared, motionless with shock, but Travis knew they only had a moment. The ice had melted. Already the gorlethsfrom the stairwells were loping toward them across the platform. The train slowed, wheels screeching in protest.

“Everyone!” Travis shouted. “Get into the train!”

His words shattered their paralysis; they started moving. The train rattled to a stop, and a set of doors whooshed open before them.

Anders stood on the other side.

“Hello there, mates,” he said in his cheery, gravelly voice. As usual, the Seeker wore a sleek designer suit that could barely contain the bulk of his shoulders. His close‑cropped hair looked freshly bleached–an unnatural contrast to his dark beard and eyebrows.

“Anders,” Deirdre breathed. “How–?”

Travis shoved Deirdre, pushing her through the doors.

“Mind the gap,” intoned a voice over the loudspeakers. The gorlethssnarled as they drew close. Vani and Beltan jumped into the train, Travis on their heels.

“Close the doors!” Anders shouted into a black walkie‑talkie.

The doors whooshed shut just as the gorlethsstruck them. The train rocked under the blow. Vani and Beltan stumbled back, and talons slipped through the crack between the doors, wrenching them open. A snarling head shot through the gap, and before Travis could scream, the thing’s maw clamped around his upper arm.

The gorleth’steeth sank easily into his flesh. He could see the creature’s gullet moving. It was suckling, pulling blood out of the wound with terrible force, swallowing it. A buzzing noise filled Travis’s ears. The world began to go white, and he no longer felt pain.

He watched through a veil as Vani and Beltan shoved on the doors, closing them, catching the creature’s neck as in a vise. It opened its maw to let out a hiss, releasing Travis’s arm. Travis stumbled back, and Beltan’s sword flashed. The gorleth’shead rolled to the floor, and the doors clamped shut. Outside the windows of the train the creature’s decapitated body slumped backward onto the tiles.

Vani took Nim from Deirdre. The girl was not crying. Her face was ashen and her eyes were circles of fear as she stared at Travis.

“Anders,” Deirdre said, grabbing her partner’s arm, “get this train running again.”

“You got it, mate.” Anders raised the walkie‑talkie and pressed a button. “Eustace, take us out of the station. Now.”

The train lurched into motion, pulling away from the platform. Travis caught one last glimpse of the remaining gorlethson the edge of the platform, swarming around the headless body of their kin. Then the train passed into the darkness of a tunnel, and he felt strong hands lowering him into a seat.

“Travis, are you all right?” It was Beltan, his green eyes worried.

“He has lost much blood,” Vani said.

Before Anders could react, she tore one of the sleeves from his suit coat and bound it around Travis’s arm.

“Hey, now!” Anders said, annoyance on his pitted face. “You don’t just go making bandages out of Armani.”

Travis shook his head. The fog was beginning to lift. “I’m fine, really. I just got dizzy for a moment.”

But was it the loss of blood that had made him dizzy, or the smell of it? It filled his nostrils now: the rich, coppery scent. Were the morndaristill sated? Could he not call them to him with blood such as his?

“Travis?” Beltan touched his cheek.

He focused on the blond man’s face, letting the desire to work blood sorcery fade away. Only it didn’t, not completely.

Deirdre slumped back against one of the seats. “How did you find us?” she said to Anders. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

“I got your message, mate,” Anders said, gripping a pole as the train rattled around a corner. “I must have just missed you, only when I called back you didn’t answer. It sounded like you’d gotten yourself into a bit of a scrape, so I decided to investigate. I went to the Bond Street station to hop on the Tube to Travis and Beltan’s neighborhood, and I knew something was definitely wrong when I ran into this chap.”

The Seeker picked up something resting on one of the seats: a gold mask. There was a small hole between the mask’s eyes.

“Needless to say, I was a bit surprised,” Anders continued, clearly enjoying telling the story. “This fellow here wiggled his fingers at me, and I suppose my heart should have exploded. Only I think something made his magic go all wonky. He got flustered, and I took the chance to get a shot off. Turns out their masks don’t stop bullets so well. Eustace showed up then. You remember him, Deirdre–the new apprentice you met the other day, scrappy lad. He had caught some chatter on the police radio scanners, something about a commotion at the Green Park station, and right away we had a pretty good notion what was up. So Eustace headed to the front of the train. There was no sign of the driver, but he got the train running, and here we are.”

Deirdre stood and gave Anders a fierce hug.

Surprise registered in his vivid blue eyes and–for a moment, Travis thought–a note of wistfulness. “Now there, mate, that’s enough of that. You would have done the same for me. Besides, I don’t think partners are supposed to fraternize quite like this.” He gently pushed her away.

“Are we heading to the Charterhouse?” she asked.

“On the double. I’d say it’s the only safe place in the city for these folks right now.”

“I do not understand this,” Vani said, sitting next to Travis. Nim was curled up on her lap. The girl’s eyes were closed now, but Travis was certain she was listening to every word. “There is no way the Scirathi could know I brought Nim to Earth,” Vani went on, her face hard with anger. She looked at Travis. “How could they have followed me across the Void, let alone to your home?”

Anders cleared his throat. “Actually, miss, I don’t think they did. I found something on the body of that sorcerer fellow– something that tells me it wasn’t your daughter they were after.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sheet of stiff paper. It was a photograph of a man.

“By the Blade of Vathris,” Beltan growled. “I swear I’ll kill them all!”

Another wave of dizziness swept over Travis, and not just from loss of blood. The man in the photo was him.

14.

It was far after midnight by the time they gathered in a mahogany‑paneled parlor in the Seekers’ London Charterhouse.

Deirdre sank down into one of the parlor’s comfortably shabby chairs. For the first time since they heard the sound of glass breaking in Travis’s and Beltan’s flat her heart rate slowed to a normal cadence, and a feeling of safety encapsulated her, as familiar and reassuring as the embrace of the wing‑backed chair.

It had taken over two hours to get through all of the Charterhouse’s security checkpoints. While it hadn’t been difficult to gain entry for Travis and Beltan–their files were on record with the Seekers–new dossiers had to be created for Vani and Nim. Fingers were printed, retinas scanned, and Deirdre’s authorization codes processed. She had thought the security guards would call Director Nakamura for confirmation, but to her surprise they hadn’t. It seemed Echelon 7 clearance was good for more than just access to Seeker databases.

“How long can we stay in this place?” Vani said, prowling around a Chippendale sofa where Nim lay curled up. The T’gollimped slightly, favoring her injured leg. The nurse–there was always one on duty at the Charterhouse–had cleaned and bandaged the wound.

“You can stay as long as you need to,” Deirdre said.

Vani gripped the laminated ID badge that hung from a lanyard around her neck. “And we can leave at any time?”

“Of course you can leave,” Anders said, hanging his torn suit coat on the back of a chair. “Not that I’d recommend it. In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s not exactly safe out there.”

Vani spun around, advancing on him. “You Seekers are arrogant fools. I have watched you. You believe you know everything, yet there is so much you cannot understand. Is it truly so safe here?”

“Not if you keep talking like that, it isn’t,” Anders growled, cracking his knuckles.

Vani treated the Seeker to a scornful look. “If you think simply because you have large muscles that you have any chance against me, then you deceive yourself.”

“It sounds to me like you’re the cocky one,” Anders said. “Just because you’re some superspooky assassin type doesn’t mean you know every trick in the book. I worked security long before I became a Seeker, and I don’t need muscles to take out the likes of you. Go on, Deirdre. Tell her how I aced all those logic tests the Seekers gave me.”

Beltan interposed himself between the Seeker and the T’gol. He faced Anders. “I doubt I’d do very good on those tests, but my logic tells me you’d better back off if you want to keep your brain inside your skull.” He glared at Vani. “You, too. Do you think this is a good example for Nim?”

Vani’s scowl became a worried expression. “She is asleep.”

“Not anymore,” Travis said.

Nim was sitting up on the sofa, her gray eyes wide. “Are you going to hurt the bad man, Mother?”

Deirdre pushed herself from the chair, then knelt on the carpet next to the sofa. “Don’t be afraid, Nim. Anders isn’t a bad man.”

“Yes he is. That’s why Mother wants to hurt him.”

“No, he’s my partner, and he helped us get away from the monsters. Don’t you remember?”

Nim hesitated, then nodded.

“Anders and your mother are just a little tired, that’s all. We’re all tired.” Deirdre smiled, touching the girl’s chin. “You, too, I bet. Why don’t you go to sleep?”

Nim held her hands out before her. “No, I don’t want to sleep. I won’t see the gold men if my eyes are closed. They want to take me away from my mother because I’m a key. That’s what they tell me, only their mouths don’t move.”

“Hush, daughter,” Vani said, sitting on the arm of the sofa and stroking Nim’s dark hair. “There is no need to fear. You are safe here.”

“That’s right,” Deirdre said, doing her best to sound convincing. But they weresafe there. Underneath all the rich wood paneling, every door in the Charterhouse was made of tempered steel fitted with electronic locks. This parlor was like a bank vault. Nothing could pass the doors. Or the windows. “Show her, Anders.”

The Seeker moved to one of the windows. “See that little beam of green light here? That’s a laser. Look what happens if something gets in the way of that beam.” Anders stuck a finger in the path of the laser beam–then snatched his hand back just in time to keep it from getting smashed as a row of gleaming metal bars whooshed into place, covering the window.

Nim clapped her hands. “Again!”

After several more demonstrations of the automatic safety features of the windows and doors, Nim was finally content to lie down on the sofa. She yawned and stuck a finger in her mouth, and her breathing grew slow as her eyes drooped shut.

Deirdre would have liked to curl up herself, but there was too much to try to understand. They moved to the other side of the parlor and spoke in low voices so as not to disturb Nim. A sleepy‑eyed butler brought coffee, and Deirdre helped Anders pour cups for all of them.

“It’s not fair,” he grumbled in a low voice as they stood at a sideboard, backs to the others. “I get the train rolling along, smash all the baddies, and somehow I’m still the bad man.”

“Don’t worry about Nim. She just doesn’t know you like I do. Remember, I didn’t exactly trust you at first, either.”

However, in the time since, Deirdre had learned that she could rely on Anders in any situation. In fact, she trusted Anders more than she had ever trusted Hadrian Farr. With Farr, she had always felt there was some deeper agenda she didn’t know about, that if he ever thought he needed to, he would abandon her in an instant. Then he had, and now she knew why. Somehow he had found a doorway to Eldh, and he had taken it, leaving her behind. She supposed she couldn’t blame him for that.

Only she did. Farr had found what they had always sought together, and he had gone on without her. Something told her Anders wouldn’t do the same–that if he found a portal to another world, he would hold the door open like a gentleman and let her go first.

“You trust me now, don’t you, mate?” he said, pouring cream.

She laid a hand on his broad shoulder, drawing closer. Anders wasn’t handsome, but damn if he didn’t always smell good. . . .

Stop it right now, Deirdre.

Her hand pulled back. She wasn’t certain when she realized she could fall in love with Anders if she let herself. It wasn’t at all like what she had felt for Farr when she first met him. Back then, she had been as infatuated with the idea of the Seekers as with Farr’s film noir good looks. It was hard to say which of them had seduced her.

With Anders, it was different. There had been so much to get through: her mistrust, the fact that he had worked security, and the realization that underneath that heavy Cro‑Magnon brow lurked a sharp mind. Even then she probably wouldn’t have realized the truth if it hadn’t been for Sasha.

“Quit glowing,” Sasha had said to her one day.

“What?” Deirdre had said, utterly confused.

“I said quit glowing. You’re like a night‑light.”

Deirdre was scandalized. “I don’t glow.”

“You do when you look at Anders,” Sasha had said with a wicked grin. “Grant you, we’ve all gotten rather attached to the big lug, and not simply because he makes heavenly coffee. But it’s best to keep one’s professional relationships from becoming unprofessional. And by that I mean personal. I know you agree, darling.”

Just to confuse things, which Sasha had a great fondness for, she gave Deirdre a warm kiss on the lips before sauntering away on her lanky supermodel legs.

Ever since then, Deirdre had been careful, and as far as she knew Anders didn’t suspect anything. Which was good. Deirdre valued him too much as a partner and a friend to ever do anything to jeopardize their relationship.

“Come on,” she said, leading the way as he carried a tray of coffee cups to a table in the corner. While Nim slept, the adults gathered around the table, trying to make sense of everything that had happened.

“So it was me they came looking for,” Travis said, looking at Vani, “not you and Nim.” He touched the bandage on his arm and winced.

Vani circled her hands around her cup. “Yes, but it does not matter, for they have learned I brought Nim to Earth. There is nowhere I can take her now that will be safe from them.”

“But why do they want us?” Travis said, his gray eyes serious. For the first time Deirdre noticed that they were flecked with gold, just like Nim’s.

“You’re the one fated to raise Morindu,” Beltan said. “They must know that.”

“That is impossible,” Vani said, her visage darkening. “Besides the people in this room, and Grace Beckett and her closest companions on Eldh, only a few among the Mournish know this fact. I do not believe our closest friends have betrayed us to the Scirathi.”

“All the same,” Beltan said, using a cloth to wipe the edge of his sword, “they must know. And that means the Scirathi will come again.”

Deirdre cast a glance at the sofa where Nim lay. Something the girl had said echoed in her mind. “What did she mean?” She turned her gaze on Vani. “Nim said something about how the Scirathi wanted her because they think she’s a key. A key to what?”

Vani sighed, brushing her sleek hair from her brow. “I do not know what she means. A few times she has told me that the Scirathi have spoken to her. However, her story keeps changing. First she said they told her she was a precious jewel, then it was a little spider, and now it’s this–a key, she says. But I can only imagine she was dreaming. They have never gotten close enough to speak to her.”

“Haven’t they?” Travis said. “They were right outside her bedroom window tonight. Besides, you’ve forgotten how . . .” He cast a furtive glance at Beltan. “She’s not like other children, Vani. You know she’s not.”

Deirdre had heard the story: how the fairies had tricked Beltan and Vani, making each believe the other was Travis. While under the fairy spell, they had conceived Nim between them. Only it was more than that. Duratek had performed experiments on Beltan, infusing him with fairy blood. In a way, Nim was a fairy child. What that meant, Deirdre wasn’t sure, but the girl was certainly not a typical three‑year‑old.

Talk turned then to the matter of the stone arch–the gate– that had been discovered on the island of Crete. Vani was convinced it was a sign of Fate that the arch had been uncovered just when Travis needed to return to Eldh in order to fulfill his destiny.

“I don’t know if it’s Fate,” Travis said, gazing down at his hands. “But I’m willing to bet it’s not a coincidence that gate came to light on this world just when Morindu has been found on Eldh. There has to be a connection. Only what is it?”

Vani reached across the table, gripping his hands. “You are the connection, Travis Wilder. Don’t you see? The gate has come to light becauseMorindu has been found. It wants to take you there.”

He snatched his hands back. “What it if I don’t want to go?”

“You will go, because it is Fate.”

“I don’t have a fate,” Travis snapped, and Beltan cast him a worried look.

Vani seemed undisturbed. “Perhaps not. But my people do, and that fate is bound up with you. You will go to Morindu. We must go to this gate at once. Your blood will awaken it.”

“Blood,” Deirdre murmured, her mind humming. She glanced at the sofa and Nim’s sleeping form. “It’s what you and Nim have in common, Travis. That’s what connects you. Blood of power.”

Beltan cast a startled look at Nim. “A jewel, a spider, a key. Those things she said–all those words could be used to describe a scarab.”

“And the scarabs contain Orъ’s blood.” Deirdre felt hot, a sheen of sweat breaking out on her skin. “That’s why the Scirathi want both of you. Either one of you could be used to open a gate.”

“Or perhaps open something else,” Vani said, her coppery face turning ashen. “Why did I not see it before?”

Anders refilled her empty coffee cup. “Sometimes it’s hard to see the truth when you’re too close to it.”

Deirdre had to agree with that. And there was one truth the others couldn’t see yet. “The gate on Crete won’t do you any good. You won’t be able to open it.”

Vani scowled at her. “Why is that?”

“Because the arch isn’t complete. The archaeologists won’t find the center keystone with it.”

“This is madness,” Vani said, clenching her hands into fists. “You only say this to keep Travis here. How can you know the keystone will not be found?”

“Because it’s in the vaults of the Philosophers.”

Deirdre couldn’t help feeling a little satisfied as they all stared at her. It was good to be the one with the astonishing revelation for a change.

“You remember the Philosopher who was helping me?”

Anders cocked his head. “He hasn’t contacted you again, has he, partner?”

Deirdre thought of the message on her computer screen, just before Travis had called. “Actually, I think maybe he has. But he first helped me to learn about the keystone over three years ago.”

It had been almost that long since she had gone over her notes on the case, but it didn’t matter; she remembered every detail of the mystery as if she had just uncovered it. Anders knew all of this already–she had vowed not to keep any secrets from him, and she had kept that promise–but to the others it would all be new.

She began by explaining how her shadowy helper–the one who she was convinced was a Philosopher–had first contacted her, just after she had stumbled upon a computer file with her new Echelon 7 clearance. A file that was deleted from the system the moment she found it.

Deirdre had never learned what was in that file, but soon after she made another breakthrough with the help of the unknown Philosopher. She explained how she had stumbled across a reference to the keystone in the archives of the Seekers while researching an old case, one concerning a Seeker named Thomas Atwater. In the early seventeenth century, Atwater was forbidden to return to a tavern where he had worked prior to joining the Seekers. The tavern had stood on the same spot where the Seekers would later discover the keystone, and which, three centuries after that, would house the nightclub Surrender Dorothy.

Talking about Glinda was still difficult, even after this long. Deirdre gripped the silver ring Glinda had given her as she described the nightclub and its half‑fairy denizens. Duratek had been using them, hoping to learn from the experiments they performed on the folk of the nightclub, then had destroyed the tavern once they gained access to a true fairy.

“Are you all right, Deirdre?” Anders asked, his voice husky. As always, he pronounced her name DEER‑dree, but she no longer found it quite so annoying as she used to.

She did her best to smile. “I’ll be fine. Really.”

“You said there was writing on the keystone,” Travis said, his gray eyes curious. “Were you ever able to read it?”

Deirdre nodded. “My mysterious helper gave me a photograph of a clay tablet that bore the inscription on the keystone, as well as the same passage written in Linear A. Back then, I wondered at the connection, but now it’s fairly obvious.”

“To you, maybe,” Beltan said with a grunt.

She grinned at the blond man. “Linear A is the writing system used by the Minoan civilization on ancient Crete.”

Vani’s expression was guarded. “So what does the inscription on the keystone say?”

“It says, ‘Forget not the Sleeping Ones. In their blood lies the key.”

“The key,” Travis murmured, looking at Nim. However, whatever he was thinking, he kept it to himself.

There was one last thing she had to tell them. Deirdre took off the silver ring Glinda had given her and showed them how the same inscription as on the keystone was written inside it. However, there was one thing she did not tell them, and it was the one secret she had allowed herself to keep even from Anders: how, in the moment they had kissed, Deirdre had loved Glinda with all her being.

“ ‘The Sleeping Ones,’ ” Beltan said, scratching the tuft of blond hair on his chin. “That doesn’t really sound familiar. What does it mean?”

No one, not even Vani, offered an answer.

Deirdre slipped the ring back on her finger. “The inscription talks about blood, and traces of blood were found on the keystone–blood with DNA similar to Glinda’s. Whoever they were, these Sleeping Ones were important to the folk at Surrender Dorothy for some reason.” Though why that was, they would never know, thanks to Duratek.

“This all seems a small complication,” Vani said, standing and stalking around the table. “True, the gate will not be complete without this keystone. However, it could be in a vault in this very building. Cannot this Philosopher ally of yours deliver the keystone to us?”

Deirdre opened her mouth, not certain how she was going to answer that. Would the unknown Philosopher really respond to a direct request for help? Before she could speak, there was a knock at the door, and the butler entered. On the silver tray he carried was not another pot of coffee but a manila envelope.

“A message just arrived for you, Miss Falling Hawk,” he said, holding the tray toward Deirdre.

She stared at the envelope. “Who’s it from?”

“I have no idea, miss.” The butler looked slightly ruffled, as if she were accusing him of snooping.

She took the envelope off the tray. “Thank you, Lewis.”

The butler retreated from the parlor; the door shut.

“It’s from him, isn’t it?” Travis said. “Your Philosopher friend.”

Anders thumped the table. “Well, that was right on cue. He’s an eerie fellow, but you can’t fault his timing, now can you?”

Deirdre was beyond words. She forced her trembling fingers to open the envelope. Inside was a folded up sheet of newsprint. Trying not to tear it, she unfolded the sheet and spread it on the table. It was a page taken from the Times–the coming day’s edition, according to the date. It must have come right off the presses.

They all leaned over the page. At the top was a large article about Variance X, the growing stellar anomaly that astronomers had observed beyond the boundaries of the solar system. However, the article didn’t hold Deirdre’s attention. Nor did the headlines about devastating typhoons in India, or the jittery United States stock markets. Instead, her eyes were drawn to the small headline at the bottom of the page: DARING ARCHAEOLOGICAL THEFT ON CRETE.

Numb, she scanned the article. It described how a stone archway was stolen mere hours after it had been revealed live on the program Archaeology Now!There was no clue as to the perpetrators, but one worker at the site reported seeing men dressed in black and wearing masks.

Gold masks.

Vani looked up, her own face becoming a mask: one of fury. “Sacred Mahonadra, they have taken it!”

Beltan and Travis exchanged a grave look, and Deirdre understood what it meant. Somehow, the Scirathi had taken the gate, and without it there was no way to open a doorway to Eldh. But the gate wouldn’t do the Scirathi any good either, not without–

A sound like the crackle of electricity permeated the air, along with the metallic scent of ozone. Deirdre turned, and her heart became stone. On the other side of the parlor, a circle of darkness hung in midair, rimmed by blue fire. Nim was no longer on the sofa. Instead the girl padded across the carpet on bare feet, approaching the mouth of the portal.

Vani sprang forward. “Nim, get away from that!”

Fast as she was, Beltan was ahead of her, leaping over the back of the sofa. Travis scrambled after them.

Nim stopped before the dark circle and gazed into it. After a moment she nodded, the way a child might when obeying an adult’s instructions. She held her chubby arms out.

“No!” Beltan shouted.

A pair of black‑gloved hands reached out of the circle of blue sparks, snatching up Nim. The girl screamed.

“Mother!” she cried, twisting in the gloved hands that gripped her, looking back, her eyes large with fear.

Beltan dived forward, lunging for the girl. His arms closed around empty air, and he crashed against an end table. The hands pulled Nim into the blazing iris of the portal, and both they and the girl vanished. At once the gate began to shrink in on itself, a blue eye winking shut.

Travis thrust a hand into the rapidly dwindling circle. Azure magic crackled around his wrist, biting his hand like a hungry maw.

“You must not let the gate close,” Vani said, her voice hard as steel. “There is no other way we can follow her.”

Travis nodded, his face lined with pain. However, the blue circle constricted more tightly about his wrist. Beltan lay on the floor. He wasn’t moving.

“Anders, help me,” Deirdre said as she knelt beside the blond man. Anders helped her roll him over. He was breathing, but his eyes were shut, and there was a bruise forming on his forehead. Anders helped her haul his limp body onto the sofa.

“Vani,” Travis gritted between clenched teeth. “My bandage. Take it off. I think it was my blood they used to open this gate. They must have gotten it from the stomach of the dead gorleth.”

Her eyes blazed. “What fools we are! We should have known they would do this.”

Travis flinched as she jerked the bandage off his wound. Blood began to ooze forth.

“More,” he said.

She dug her fingers into the wound, and a moan escaped him. Blood flowed freely from the gorleth’sbite marks, running down his arm. When it reached his wrist, the circle of blue sparks flared, then began to expand outward. Travis stuck his other hand into the opening, gripping its blazing edges, straining as he forced it wider. More blood flowed down his arm, and it vanished as it reached his wrist. The gate was consuming it.

Travis staggered. His face was white, and alarm coursed through Deirdre. He’s lost too much blood. He’s going to pass out.

“Do not stop!” Vani said, her voice a cruel slap.

Again Travis strained. The gate expanded a fraction; it was as wide as his shoulders now.

“Hello there, mate,” Anders said as Beltan drew in a shuddering breath and sat up on the sofa.

“What’s going–?” The blond man’s eyes went wide. “Travis!”

Travis cast a look of pain, sorrow, and love over his shoulder, his eyes locking on Beltan’s.

“Now, Vani. Help me.”

In a single motion, the T’golgripped his shoulders and pushed him forward, into the mouth of the gate. However, she did not loosen her grasp on him, and his momentum carried her forward as she dived into the circle after him. Travis’s feet vanished, then Vani’s, as the ring of azure magic rapidly contracted.

“No!” Beltan shouted, pushing himself free of Deirdre and Anders, throwing himself forward. However, before he could reach it, the blue circle collapsed into a single point, then disappeared.

The gate had closed.

PART TWO

MASKS

15.

“So, dear,” Melia said, regarding Grace over the rim of a steaming cup of maddok, “I hear you had a chat with a dragon.”

The amber‑eyed lady sat beside the window in the chamber she and Falken shared. The chamber was small, but it was the sunniest in the keep, and that was why Melia had chosen it over grander rooms. She had been born long ago in a land far warmer than this, and her bronze skin seemed to absorb the morning light that streamed through the window.

Daylight had diminished Grace’s dread a fraction–the rift was invisible against the flawless blue sky–and she gave Melia a crooked smile. “News travels fast.”

“No, dragons travel fast,” Falken said, his hair disheveled from sleep. He poured a cup of maddokand handed it to her.

Grace sighed as she breathed in the rich, slightly bitter aroma, then sat in a chair opposite Melia while Falken perched on the windowsill.

“You’re blocking my sunshine, dear one,” Melia said in the kind of pleasant tone that demanded immediate attention.

“I thought I was your sunshine,” Falken said dryly, though he hastily hopped off the windowsill and retired to another chair.

A black cat sprawled on the carpet, licking a paw as it regarded Grace with moon‑gold eyes. It had finally outgrown its seemingly eternal kittenhood over two years ago. Grace should have realized then that Melia was no longer immortal.

“So what did the dragon speak to you about?” Melia said, her amber eyes as curious as the cat’s.

Grace gripped the hot cup. “Nothing.”

A frown shadowed the lady’s brow. “If you’d rather not tell us, that’s your prerogative, but please don’t speak a falsehood, Ralena. Sfithrisir is not one for idle conversation. I doubt the dragon flew all the way here from the Fal Erenn simply to tell you about nothing.”

“But that’s it,” Grace said, struggling to find a place she could begin. “That’s exactly what the problem is. It’s nothing at all.”

Falken raised an eyebrow, glancing at Melia. “I think the dragon addled her wits.”

“They’ve been known to have that effect,” the lady agreed.

Grace set down her cup and stood. “It’s the rift in the sky,” she said, shaking with frustration and fear. “It’s growing. It’s going to annihilate this world, and Earth, and any other world that lies close to them, and when it’s done, there won’t be anything left. There’ll be nothing. Nothing at all.”

Melia and Falken were no longer smiling. As precisely as she could, Grace recounted her conversation with Sfithrisir. When she was done, both the bard and the lady stared, their faces ashen.

“This cannot be true,” Melia said, shivering. The sun had gone behind a cloud. “Things cannot simply . . . cease to be.”

Grace looked at Falken. “You’re the one who told me dragons can only speak the truth.”

“That’s so,” Falken said, doubt in his faded blue eyes. “But you have to be wary of what a dragon says. They speak the truth, but they also twist that truth to their own ends.”

Grace thought about this, then shook her head. “He was afraid, Falken. I know that seems impossible, that a creature that existed before the world was even created could feel fear, but he did, I’m sure of it. Whatever the rift really is, Sfithrisir is terrified of it, and he can’t stop it.”

“And you believe Travis can?” Melia said.

“I have to.”

Falken rose from his chair. “What will you do, Ralena?”

She gripped the bard’s hand. “I am making you regents of Malachor, you and Melia both. I want you to keep things running. It won’t be hard–Sir Tarus pretty much does everything. All you have to do is put my stamp on things once in a while.”

Sorrow shone in Falken’s faded blue eyes. “So you’re leaving us.”

She nodded, unable to speak for the tightness in her throat.

Melia stood, her blue gown fluttering as she drew close. Tears streamed from her amber eyes, but she smiled. “Do tell Travis hello for us when you find him, dear.”

Then Grace was weeping, too, as she hugged them both.

Preparations for her departure began at once. Horses were readied, supplies packed, and a proclamation granting regent power to Falken and Melia penned, though Sir Tarus handled the majority of this, and mostly what Grace did was tell people they couldn’t come with her.

Aldeth and Samatha were the first, though the two Spiders were squabbling so intently over which of them should be the one to go south with Grace that they hardly heard her say that both of them were staying there, and she finally had to shout.

“But you’ll need a spy with you, Your Majesty,” Aldeth said, looking as if he had been slapped.

“The idea is to find Travis, not hide from him. Besides, Malachor needs you both. I won’t be able to focus on my task if I have to worry about what’s going on here.” Grace lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ll sleep much better if I know you two are keeping an eye on . . . well, I dare not say, but you know exactly who I mean.”

By the look in their eyes, they didn’t have the foggiest idea who she meant, which was precisely Grace’s intention. Trying to figure out who she was referring to ought to keep them occupied while she was gone. Although, as the two Spiders vanished, she supposed she had just doomed everyone in the keep to weeks of constant spying.

Master Graedin came next, then King Kel, and even the witch Lursa. Grace thanked them but told each that they could not come on the journey, that this was something she had to do alone. She was taking a small retinue of knights with her for security on the road, but that was all. Both Graedin and Lursa were disappointed but wished her well, and while Grace feared King Kel would maul her after she refused his offer of company, instead he caught her in a bear hug.

“My little Queenie is all grown‑up now.” He released her, then sniffed, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Go on, then, fly from the nest. Have your adventure out in the world. But don’t you forget me, lass.”

Grace winced, probing her aching ribs. “I honestly don’t think that’s possible, Your Majesty.”

By late morning everything was ready for her departure, and the good thing about having to tell everyone they couldn’t come with her was that she had already taken care of all her good‑byes. Or make that almost all, for there was one person who hadn’t come to her. She found him in the highest chamber of his tower, his face close to the runestone; both face and stone were covered with a webwork of thin lines.

“Your Majesty,” Master Larad said, looking up. “Forgive me–I did not see you there.”

She approached the runestone. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

“I found another piece sundered from it this morning.”

So the power of magic was continuing to deteriorate. “I think maybe I know what’s happening,” Grace said. “What’s affecting magic.”

“You mean the rift in the heavens.”

She stared at him. “You know about it?”

It almost seemed a smile touched his lips. “You were not the only one looking at the sky last night, Your Majesty.”

“I suppose this means,” she said, moderately perturbed, “that you’re not going to be at all surprised when I tell you I spoke to a dragon?”

He shook his head.

Giving up all hope of ever astonishing Master Larad, Grace told him everything Sfithrisir had said, and what she had decided to do. When she was done, his scarred face was expressionless. However, a light shone in his eyes, though it seemed more curious than alarmed.

“I am not certain how this knowledge helps me, Your Majesty. However, it cannot be chance that the rift has appeared just as the power of magic is faltering. I will focus my studies on it.”

She touched his arm. “If anyone can find a way to keep magic from getting any weaker, it’s you, Master Larad.”

He pulled away. “Dragons cannot lie, Your Majesty. You must find Travis Wilder. Is it not time for you to depart?”

She moved to a narrow window. From there she could see the keep, blue banners bearing the white star of Malachor snapping above. “Yes,” she murmured. “It istime.”

“You sound as if you’ve decided something, Your Majesty.”

Grace hadn’t meant to speak aloud, but she longed to tell someone what she had been thinking. She looked down at the people moving in the bailey below. They were her subjects, yet at that moment she felt so distant from them. They were like patients who had been discharged from Denver Memorial Hospital; they didn’t need her anymore.

“Melia and Falken will be good regents,” she said, “but in time I think the people of Malachor should elect a leader.”

“Elect?” Larad said, a note of scorn in his voice. “You mean let the people choose who their ruler will be?”

“Yes.” She turned to face him.

His eyes narrowed. “And whom do you think they would choose?”

“You, perhaps.”

Almost never had she seen Larad laugh, but he did now, a sound at once ironic and genuinely mirthful. “I think not, Your Majesty. Yours is a keen mind, but I think in this matter reason has eluded you. I have heard what you speak of before–the absurd notion that common people are capable of choosing their own ruler wisely.”

“It isn’t absurd,” Grace said, a little angry now. “People canmake wise choices for themselves, if they’re given the chance.”

“Perhaps,” Larad said, though he did not sound convinced. “But even if the people of Malachor did choose their leader, whom do you think they would select? A man who spends all day studying runes in a tower? The people do not follow you because they have to, Your Majesty, but because they wish to. They have already made their choice. There is no need for them to elect a–”

The Runelord staggered back, gripping the window ledge for support. “You’re not coming back. You’re leaving, and you don’t intend to return to Malachor, do you?”

So he had seen the truth–the truth which, like a dragon, she had concealed in a fog even from herself. She crossed her arms over her chest, her heart beating with anguish. Or was it excitement?

“I don’t know if I’ll come back, Larad,” she said softly. “I honestly don’t know.”

He said nothing. She had finally managed to astonish Larad, but already his shock was gone, or at least concealed, and his eyes were hard and unreadable once again.

“Farewell then, Your Majesty,” he said.

Grace found she had no words to reply. She nodded, then descended the stairs, leaving the tower of the Runelords.

A short while later she mounted Shandis beside the gates of the keep. Four stern‑faced knights sat ready on their chargers. There was no wagon for supplies, only a packhorse that carried the absolute minimum, for Grace intended to ride fast. She arranged her riding gown over the saddle, then sighed. Now came the hardest good‑bye of all.

“No, Sir Tarus,” she said as the red‑haired knight placed his foot in a stirrup, ready to mount his charger.

He turned around. “Your Majesty?”

She could not bring herself to speak the words, but by his stricken look he understood her. He drew close, clutching the hem of her gown, and shook his head.

“No, Your Majesty.” His voice was ragged with despair. “Please do not do this thing to me. Do not command me to stay.”

She had to keep her voice hard, or she would not be able to speak at all. “You must, Sir Tarus. Melia and Falken cannot run this kingdom without your help.”

His face grew red, but from grief this time, not frustration. “I am your seneschal. I serve you, Your Majesty.”

“And so you must do what I bid,” she said, hating how cruel the words sounded.

“Have I served you so ill, then, that you must leave me behind?” He was weeping now, and Grace nearly lost her resolve, for in that moment she finally understood why he had been so stern these last three years, so grim and determined.

He had been trying to be Durge.

“No, Tarus,” she said, on the verge of weeping herself. “You have served me better than any other. And that’s why I must ask you to do this. For me. And for Malachor.”

“But I have every reason to go with you.”

She thought of the young Runelord Alfin, and despite her sorrow she smiled. “I believe you have a better reason to stay, Sir Tarus.”

She bent over and kissed the top of his head. Then she urged Shandis toward the gates, the four knights behind her, and without fanfare or further farewells, Grace, Queen of Malachor, left her kingdom.

16.

She spoke little with the knights who accompanied her as they rode south from Gravenfist Keep along the Queen’s Way. When she gave Tarus the names of the warriors she wished for her retinue, she had deliberately chosen the most reticent and taciturn in the keep; she had no desire for idle conversation on this journey.

Her only purpose now was to ride as swiftly as possible, to reach Sareth, and have him lead her to Hadrian Farr. Not because she wished to see the Seeker–though, she was forced to confess, the thought of seeing him again did give her a strange thrill she couldn’t quite analyze. For a reason she couldn’t name, she kept trying to picture him, though all she could seem to see were his eyes: dark, mysterious, compelling. Not that it mattered. All that mattered was that Farr could lead her to Morindu the Dark. And if she found Morindu, then she would find Travis–she was certain of it.

The weather was fine and clear, and they made good time that first day. Over the last few years, the Embarran engineers had labored on the Queen’s Way, clearing away fallen trees, replacing cracked paving stones, and shoring up bridges. By nightfall they had covered nearly all the ten leagues of the Queen’s Way the Embarrans had repaired. They were deep in the Winter Wood now, and they made camp in a grove of valsindartrees as the last sunlight filtered between silver‑barked trunks.

They ate a supper of the foodstuffs that would not keep– bread, a clay pot of butter, fruit, and some roasted chicken, which was already a little questionable after a full day riding in their saddlebags–then readied for sleep as purple dusk crept among the trees. The summer night was balmy, and the four men spread blankets on beds of old leaves, while Grace slipped into a small tent they had set up for her. She wouldn’t have minded sleeping out in the open like the men, but maybe it was better not to. This way she wouldn’t try to peer through the leafy branches of the valsindarto see if the dark hole in the sky had grown.

Grace had just shut her eyes when she heard the ringing of steel. She threw back the flap and scrambled out of the tent. All four of the knights stood with their swords drawn. As Grace’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, fear stabbed at her heart. A figure stood on the edge of the clearing where they had made camp, hooded and robed in black.

“Move, and you will be slain,” said one of the knights–a stout, gray‑bearded man named Brael.

“How about if I simply speak?” the figure said in a sardonic voice, and before the knights could move, the one cloaked in black uttered a word in a commanding tone. “Lir!”

There was a flash of blue light, and the knights staggered back. However, the light quickly shrank to a ball hovering above the man’s palm, and in its soft glow Grace saw that the man’s garb was not black, but rather deep blue. There was a look of satisfaction on his scarred face.

The knights recovered, and looked more ready than ever to use their swords. However, Grace hurried forward.

“That wasn’t particularly wise, Master Larad,” she said in a sharp whisper. “These men might have killed you.”

The Runelord simply shrugged, as if to say he was less certain of that outcome than she.

Brael regarded Larad with suspicion. “This one must have been skulking after us all day, Your Majesty. I’d like to find out why. I’ve always thought he had a crafty look about him.”

“You can put that sword away,” Grace said to Brael. She gave the other knights what she hoped was a commanding glance. “All of you. I’ve been expecting Master Larad. Though he’s a little late.”

Brael gave her a startled look. He began to speak, but she turned her back on him, and she knew the knight would not dare to question her. Being a queen did have certain advantages. She heard the men grumble as they sheathed their swords. Taking Larad’s arm, she steered him to the other side of the grove. The ball of blue light bobbed after them.

“You can thank me later for saving you from getting your head lopped off,” she said quietly. “Right now, I want you to tell me what you think you’re doing. And I had better be mightily entertained by the story, or I’m handing you back over to Brael.”

“I’m coming with you,” Master Larad said.

It was a statement, not a request. Grace knew it was neither useful nor queenly, but she could only gape at him.

“I must speak with Master Wilder,” the Runelord went on. “After you left my tower, I considered all that you told me. I can only believe the rift and the weakening of magic are linked somehow. Perhaps both arise from the same cause. In which case, my recent studies regarding magic may prove useful to Master Wilder in his search for the Last Rune.”

Grace finally found her tongue. “And it didn’t occur to you this morning to ask if you could come with me?”

“It did, and I rejected that idea, for I knew you were refusing all who asked.”

“So you decided to follow me without my permission.” She placed her hands on her hips and glared at him. “What’s to stop me from sending you back to Gravenfist?”

“You won’t, Your Majesty.”

“And why not?”

“Because yours is a logical mind, and you’ve already realized that I must come with you on this journey.” He nodded to the ball of light. “Even this simple runespell is proving a challenge to maintain. Something must be done before all magic ceases to be, and our chances of finding a solution are greater if Master Wilder and I can work together.”

Grace was angry enough to disagree out of spite, but before she could, the dry doctor’s voice spoke in her mind.

He’s right. You didn’t refuse the o fers of the others because you didn’t want their company, but because you knew that this time they couldn’t help you. However, Larad is a Runelord. There’s a significant probability he can help Travis discover what the Last Rune is.

Even so, she had the feeling Larad was not telling her all his reasons for following her. The Runelord had a history of keeping his true motivations secret. However, he also had a history of doing what he believed was for the greater good, without regard to the cost to himself.

She looked him in the eye. “No more tricks, Master Larad. From now on, if you want something, then you ask me for it. Do you understand?”

His scarred face was as unreadable as ever. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He closed his hand around the ball of blue light, snuffing it out, and night closed back in over the forest.

Dawn found them already riding down the Queen’s Way. Larad had ridden after them on one of the trusty mules the Runelords favored. With a rider, the mule would not be able to travel as fast as the horses, so they had transferred the foodstuffs and gear to it, and now Larad bounced in the saddle of the former packhorse. The Runelord was every bit as poor a horseman as Travis. Grace was beginning to think a talent for wizardry precluded any ability whatsoever for riding. Luckily, the horse was a placid beast, and it bore Larad with a resigned look on its long face.

They moved at a steady pace over those next days, though their progress seemed maddeningly slow to Grace. On the second day they left behind the section of the Queen’s Way the Embarran engineers had repaired. While the road continued to cut unswervingly over the landscape, its stones were cracked and weathered, or in some places gone altogether, replaced by grass or trees, so that the way could be discerned only as a flat space between two sloping banks. However, all of the bridges they came to still stood, arching over stream or gorge, a testament to the skill of the ancient builders who had erected them.

On their fourth day they left the silvery trees of the Winter Wood behind and found themselves riding over plains that had been baked gold by the summer sun. To their left rose the Fal Erenn, the Dawning Fells: a purple‑gray range of mountains, their tumbled brows crowned by circlets of white clouds. For the first time in a long time, Grace found herself thinking of Colorado. The Beckett‑Strange Home for Children–the orphanage where she had spent most of her childhood–had been built on a high plain not so different from this. Except its windows had all been boarded up, shutting out the beauty of the mountains.

“What is it, Your Majesty?” Master Larad said as his horse veered close to Shandis. “Is something amiss?”

She smiled, not taking her gaze from the mountains. “No, I was just looking out the window.”

The next afternoon they came to a crossroads. A timeworn statue stood watch over the meeting of ways, a nameless goddess who gazed with moss‑filled eyes. The main road continued on straight, while a smaller path led off to the left, winding up a steep embankment. Grace had never been that way–despite many invitations over the last three years–but she knew that if she followed the path she would come to a valley and a half‑ruined keep on the shores of a lake.

She had long wanted to visit Kelcior, though she was always afraid doing so would convince King Kel she had at last acquiesced to his proposals of marriage. Now it was but an hour’s ride away. However, Kel was not at his keep; he had remained in Malachor to give Melia and Falken advice on ruling in her absence.

“The bard has more experience at wrecking kingdoms than running them, in case you didn’t know,” Kel had told Grace in a gruff attempt at a whisper that half the keep could hear.

Besides, she didn’t have even an hour to spare. Now that they had left the forest behind, Grace had been able to see the rift again at night. It was still there, and she was certain it was larger than when she first saw it–a dark hole twice the size of Eldh’s enormous moon.

They left the silent goddess at the crossroads and rode on.

Three days later they came to the town of Glennen’s Stand. The town stood on the banks of a stream a few furlongs from the Queen’s Way: a hundred or so slate‑roofed houses clustered beneath a hill with a modest stone keep. As they drew near, Grace noticed that here and there a section of a pale stone wall still stood on the perimeter of the town, though in most places it had been knocked down and its stones hauled away. A lot of walls had been torn down since the war, Grace thought as they rode closer. And not just those around towns.

They found Glennen’s Stand crowded, dirty, and thronging with life. There were at least as many animals as people, and all of them were talking, laughing, or braying loudly. The Dominion of Eredane had suffered longest under the oppression of the Onyx Knights, and its people were perhaps the most grateful to be freed from it. As they rode through a market in the heart of the city, Grace saw folk selling mysteries–small figures carved of wood, representing the gods of the seven Mystery Cults– and hedgewives hawking potions. Such acts would have been punishable by death under the rule of the Onyx Knights. Now they were practiced in broad daylight.

They reached the edge of the market. There, an old woman was taking small bottles of green glass from a table where they had been displayed and, one by one, opening them and pouring their contents into the gutter.

Grace pulled her horse away from the others and rode close. “What are you doing, sister?”

The woman did not look up. “Wrong,” she muttered. “All wrong.”

“What’s wrong?” Grace said, shaking her head.

“My simples, that’s what. All the good has gone out of them. There’s no use in selling them anymore. This morning I tried to weave a spell of plenty over my hens. Only they pecked at each other, and broke one another’s eggs. Sia is angry. She has placed a curse on the world.”

The crone took another bottle and poured out its contents. The emerald fluid blended with the sludge in the gutter. Grace opened her mouth, but then she saw Brael motioning for her to follow. The old woman kept muttering as she emptied out her potions. Grace turned Shandis around and followed after the others.

They rode on, to an inn near the town’s center. After a discussion with the proprietor, who was as jovial and red‑faced as an innkeeper should be, they were led to rooms on the upper floor. Now that they were in Eredane, Grace should have presented herself to King Evren to request permission to ride through his Dominion. However, there wasn’t time for such formalities; the king’s castle of Erendel lay fifty leagues to the west. She told the innkeeper she was the daughter of a Calavaner merchant traveling on business for her father. No one would question her story. There were many travelers on the roads these days–another benefit of freedom.

They took their supper in a private dining chamber and retired early to their rooms. As night fell, music and laughter rose from the common room below, but Grace felt no temptation to go down and join in the merriment.

It was after midnight when she woke. The inn was silent, and starlight filtered through a crack in the shutters, slicing across the chamber like a silver knife. Grace tried to will herself back to sleep, but it was no use; her bladder would not be denied. She rose and used the chamber pot, then started back to bed.

Halfway there, she halted and moved to the window. She hesitated, then opened one of the shutters. The window faced north, and she wondered if she might be able to see it: the rift.

No. A haze of smoke hung over Glennen’s Stand. She doubted if the folk in this town even knew it existed. How could they, if they had been so willing to sing and clap and laugh in the common room below? Only perhaps some did know. Grace thought of the old woman in the market, pouring out her potions. Sighing, she reached to close the shutter.

And froze. A shadow moved in the narrow street below. It slunk toward the inn, keeping low to the ground, avoiding any stray beams of light that spilled from nearby windows.

It’s just a dog looking for scraps, Grace told herself, even though she knew it was too large to be one, that it moved nothing like a dog.

A night breeze wafted down the street, and the shadow’s outlines appeared to ripple. The thing’s motions were slow and purposeful, almost languid; it seemed to ooze rather than creep as it drew closer to the inn, heading straight for the wall below her window.

A door opened across the lane, and a beam of firelight fell onto the street. In an eyeblink the shadow slipped into the alley between the inn and the stable, vanishing as if absorbed by the darkness. Grace snatched the shutter back and locked it with an iron bar, her heart thudding.

She considered waking Brael. However, that was absurd. What would she tell him? That she had looked out her window and had seen a drunken man crawling home? For that was surely all it had been. She climbed back into bed, and at last she fell asleep.

By daylight, the memory of the shadow was less sinister, and she nearly forgot about it until Larad asked her as they rode from the town how she had slept, and she mentioned it to him.

“You should have come to me at once, Your Majesty,” the Runelord said, his expression stern. “I could have spoken the rune of vision. We might have gotten a glimpse of it.”

These words startled her. “It was only a shadow, Master Larad.”

“If you wish, Your Majesty.”

However, rather than reassuring her, the Runelord’s words ate at her like acid all that day, and she resolved that if she saw something out of the ordinary again, she would alert Larad at once.

Only she didn’t, and as they continued their journey south, it became harder to maintain the same keen sense of urgency she had felt on setting out from Gravenfist Keep. Instead, the monotony of the journey dulled the edge of her fear as well as her mind. Every day was the same: The mountains rose up to their left, the plains swept away to their right, and the road stretched on before them: straight, predictable, and–as far as the eye could see–endless.

Her urgency might have been renewed each night if she could see the rift, only she couldn’t. The air in southern Eredane was moist, and at night all the stars were lost in haze. By day the weather was unseasonably hot and muggy, and she found the woolen riding gowns she had packed heavy and oppressive.

At last, on their twelfth day out from Gravenfist, the Queen’s Way veered sharply in its course, turning to zigzag its way up a steep ridge in a series of switchbacks. They had reached the juncture of the Fal Erenn and the Fal Sinfath, the Gloaming Fells.

All that day they climbed upward, and in some places the road was so steep they were forced to dismount and walk in front of the horses so as not to exhaust the beasts–though Larad’s mule plodded along as placidly as it had when the road was level.

They reached the top of the pass just as night began to fall. Before them lay the rock‑strewn highlands of Galt, while behind and far below lay the rolling fields of Eredane. Grace panted for breath, for they had gone the last half mile on foot. Then she turned around, and her breath ceased. They had ascended far above the hazy air of the lowlands, and there was nothing to block her view.

“It has grown,” Larad said beside her.

A hard wind scoured across the highlands, evaporating the sweat from Grace’s skin. Though the stars were only just beginning to come out, there could be no doubting it: The rift had indeed grown, eating a dark hole in the northern sky. The dullness of boredom vanished; fear once again sliced into Grace’s chest with a sharp blade. She welcomed the pain, for it cleared her mind and reminded her of her purpose.

Larad touched her arm. “Look, Your Majesty. Down there.”

It took Grace a moment to see it in the failing light. Below them–far, but not so far as she might have liked–a dark blot moved along the road. It progressed rapidly, smoothly, ascending toward the highlands like a drop of dark liquid flowing up rather than down.

“It seems your shadow has followed us,” the Runelord said softly.

Grace knew it was anatomically impossible, but it felt as if her heart was lodged in her esophagus. “Can you see what it is?”

Larad held out his right hand. “ Halas,” he whispered. In the gloaming, the silver rune shone clearly on his palm: three crossed lines. At the same time his eyes glowed crimson, like those of an animal caught in the beam of a flashlight.

The night was deepening. Grace couldn’t be sure, but it seemed the shadow halted, then flowed toward a crevice in the rocks, vanishing.

She clutched the sleeve of Larad’s robe. “Did you see what it was?”

“No,” he said, the red light fading from his eyes. “Whatever our stalker might be, I think it realized we had detected it. Even as I gazed at the thing, it seemed to melt away into the rocks. I doubt we will see it again tonight. Or at all, after this. It is likely to be even stealthier.”

Grace wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. “But why would someone be following us?”

Larad did not answer. The sound of boots against gravel approached. They turned to see Sir Brael walking toward them.

“The men have found a flat space just off the road,” he said. “A stone shelf affords some protection from the wind. Shall we set up your tent there, Your Majesty?”

Grace thought of the way the shadow had moved with liquid stealth along the road. “No,” she said, shuddering. “The moon will rise soon, and it’s close to full. We ride on to Castle Galt. We can be there by midnight if we hurry.”

17.

They reached Castle Galt just before midnight, as Grace had hoped. It was not a vast, walled complex like Calavere, but rather a blocky tower keep perched on a windswept spur of rock. They pounded on the gate, and though the guards answered, they were suspicious of any travelers who arrived so late, and would have turned them away. However, at that moment the king himself came downstairs, clad in a nightshirt and carrying a candle, drawn by the commotion. He recognized Grace at once, scolded his guards–though not too harshly, at Grace’s urging, for they were only doing their duty–and ushered the travelers inside.

Grace pleaded with the king to return to his bed, and not to let them be a trouble, but he would not hear of it, and called for a late supper to be set on the board in the hall. His twin sister, Kalyn, appeared–looking fresh‑faced as ever, despite being disturbed from her rest–and served them bread, meat, and ale with her own hand. Grace was careful to take only a polite sip from the tankard of dark, foamy brew that was set before her. She had heard stories about Galtish ale, and most of them ended with falling down and taking a long time to get up again.

“C‑c‑can you tell us the reason for your j‑j‑journey south, Your Majesty?” Kylar said when they had finished eating. “I c‑c‑confess, I am surprised to see you here. Since the shadow appeared in the northern sky, most people k‑k‑keep close to their homes and do not stray far. These are strange t‑t‑times, to be sure. Goats go lost, and their owners don’t b‑b‑other to look for them. Old women stare at their looms as if they have never woven cloth in their lives. And it seems every other c‑c‑cask of ale my steward taps has spoiled.”

“I’m sure Queen Grace’s reasons for traveling are her own,” Kalyn said crisply. She glanced at Grace, concern in her gentle brown eyes.

“Of c‑c‑course,” King Kylar sputtered, looking mortified. The tassel at the end of his nightcap bobbed up and down. “P‑p‑please forgive me for b‑b‑being so rude, Your Majesty.”

Grace pushed away her tankard. “No, I won’t forgive you, because you have every right to ask, Your Highness. You’ve been so kind to take us in at this late hour. I want very much to tell you, and–”

Larad gave her a sharp look.

“And it’s best if you don’t,” Kalyn said, touching Grace’s hand. “Don’t worry, Your Majesty. We know that whatever you’re doing, it’s for the greater good. We needn’t hear the particulars.”

Grace sighed. “Thank you.”

“Now,” Kalyn said, “there is one thing you must tell us, and that is how we can help you.”

After an abbreviated but welcome night’s rest, they set out again an hour after dawn. Grace considered telling Kylar to keep watch for their shadowy pursuer, then decided against it. Whatever the shadow was, it would not be lingering in Galt. The only thing Grace knew for certain was that it was following her.

“Is something wrong, Master Larad?” she asked as they mounted the horses. The Runelord’s face was gray and pinched, and he seemed unable to stand up straight.

She couldn’t understand his muttered reply, though she caught the words “hammer” and “skull.” Apparently he hadn’t heard the stories about Galtish ale.

They made good time that day–despite Larad’s indisposition–for King Kylar kept the section of the Queen’s Way that passed through Galt in good repair. The pack mule was now laden down with supplies from Kylar’s larder and wore something of a betrayed expression on its long face. The beast really hadn’t signed on for all this, Grace supposed. She had taken to calling the mule Glumly, for that was he how did everything, though he never balked and always kept pace with the horses.

They spent that night at a small, cheerful inn, though Larad hastily retreated to his room, hand to his mouth, when the innkeeper set a foaming tankard before him. The next day the road descended a rocky valley, following the course of a noisy stream, and by evening they made camp on the edge of greener, gentler lands. As they set out the next morning, Grace found herself leaning forward in the saddle, and it was afternoon of the day after that–their fourth out from Galt–when they crested a rise and she finally caught sight of what she had been straining to glimpse: a castle with seven towers rising on a distant hill.

“Calavere,” she murmured, her heart quickening. Shandis let out a snort, and even Glumly pricked up his long ears. They cantered the last league to the castle, not afraid of tiring their mounts, for despite their haste Grace intended to stay there for a day. It would be good to rest–if only for a short while–in the company of friends.

When they arrived at Calavere’s gates, they found Aryn, Teravian, and Lirith waiting for them.

“How did you sense we were near the castle?” Grace asked as she gripped Aryn’s hands. “I can hardly reach more than a hundred paces with the Touch these days.”

I don’t need magic to sense when you’re coming, sister, came Aryn’s warm reply over the Weirding. My heart knows.

Grace laughed, holding the other witch tight, and for the first time in days she thought nothing of dragons or rifts or shadows. Teravian and Lirith pressed forward then, and there was a good deal of embracing all around–so much so that even Master Larad could not escape a hug or two, despite the Runelord’s best efforts.

However, that evening found them all in a grimmer mood as they gathered in Teravian’s chamber for a private supper. Though the fare set on the table by the servants–roasted goose, golden loaves of bread, berries and fresh cream–was far more sumptuous than anything they had gotten on the road south, Grace found she had little appetite as she listened to Aryn and Teravian speak of affairs in Calavan and Toloria.

There had been a good deal of unrest already that summer. The weather had been unusually hot; it had seldom rained, and when it did the storms were violent, pounding the crops in the fields to pulp. A two‑headed calf had been born at a farm not far from the castle–an event considered an ill omen by most folk. Stranger still, stories told that the old witch who had gone to dispel the curse that hung over the farm had dropped dead when she tried to weave the spell.

“But can that be, sister?” Lirith said, looking at Aryn.

The young queen hesitated, then nodded. “It could, if the threads of the Weirding tangled around her tightly enough. Her own thread might have been strangled.”

Lirith clasped a hand to her mouth.

“A week ago, my castle runespeaker tried to speak the rune of purity at dinner,” Teravian said. “Only he couldn’t. ‘My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth every time I try to speak a rune,’ he told me. The poor man was nearly in tears. He returned to the Gray Tower the next day, saying that he would have a replacement sent to Calavere right away.” He looked at Grace. “But I don’t suppose one will come?”

“Not if the rift keeps growing,” Grace said, trying not to think of the witch who had been strangled by her own spell. “Have you seen it here? I don’t know if it’s visible this far south yet–the last few nights have been cloudy.”

Teravian picked up a glass of wine but did not drink. “Yes, we’ve seen it. Ten nights ago, it appeared in the north–a dark hole in the sky, just like you described.”

“Are people afraid?” Grace said.

Teravian frowned. “That’s the peculiar thing. I thought they would be. I thought there would be fire and panic, and I was ready to send my guards out to stop it. Only there was no need. The people go about their daily lives as before. They tend to their fields, their shops, their children. Only there is no joy to it, no meaning. They’re going through the motions, that’s all. Folk have stopped leaving offerings at the shrines of the Mystery Cults. They say the gods have abandoned them, only they do nothing to bring the gods back. It’s as if they’ve run out of–”

“Hope,” Aryn said softly. She sat in a chair near the window, her left hand resting on her full belly. “They’ve run out of hope.”

Teravian set down his goblet and knelt before her. “There ishope, Aryn.” He laid his hand over hers. “It’s right here.”

Despite the dread that seemed to be a permanent fixture in her chest, Grace found herself smiling. Aryn and Teravian hadn’t chosen one another. If fact, given a choice, surely either would have selected almost anyone else. All the same, in the three years since their marriage, love had grown between them, and it was all the more precious because it had been so un‑looked for, like a flower blooming in the midst of winter.

Aryn had bloomed herself. The lovely but tentative young woman Grace had first met in this castle was gone, replaced by a beautiful and regal queen. Her blue eyes were still vivid, but tempered with wisdom now, and her raven hair framed a porcelain face that was sharper than before, but no less kind. She seemed complete: a woman, queen, and witch in the full of her power. Even her withered right arm, so small and delicately twisted, was a part of the whole.

Teravian had changed as well. Although he would never be brawny like his father, King Boreas, his lean frame had filled out, and he no longer hunched his broad shoulders. He wore a black beard now, like his father had, and when he bared his teeth in a grin, he reminded Grace of bullish King Boreas indeed–so much so that she felt a pang of grief in her chest. However, when he grew serious and thoughtful, which was far more often, it was his mother, Queen Ivalaine, who was reflected in the young king’s visage.

“What I hope,” Aryn said, shifting in the chair and grimacing, “is that this baby comes soon.”

“It will,” Teravian said.

She glared at him. “You can’t know that.”

“Actually, I can,” he said, his voice growing testy. “I have the Sight, remember?”

“No, you don’t. I could be ready to explode, and you wouldn’t know it, because the Sight isn’t working anymore. Is it, Lirith?”

The dark‑haired witch took a step back. “I believe I’ll stay out of this one, sister.”

Grace didn’t dare demonstrate her mirth, but inwardly she laughed. Although Aryn and Teravian had found true love, that didn’t mean they had entirely forgotten how to argue. In fact, they seemed to remember quite well. Fortunately, their quarrel was interrupted as Taneth began to cry.

Master Larad held the baby out at arm’s length, a distasteful expression on his face. “I think it wants something.”

“Perhaps to be held like a child rather than a sack of grain,” Lirith said, hurrying over to the Runelord.

“I do not believe giving it to me was a wise idea,” Larad said. “I have no talent for comforting children.”

“It doesn’t take talent, Master Larad,” Lirith said. “Only knowledge. Surely a scholar such as you is not afraid to learn something new.”

The Runelord glowered at her, but he did not disagree.

“Here, place your arm under him for support, and let his head rest in the crook of your elbow. And keep him close against you. Babies want to feel they are safe and loved. There now.”

Taneth had stopped fussing, and his eyes drifted shut. The corners of Larad’s mouth twitched in the hint of a smile, then he looked up and glared at the others. They all studiously turned their attention elsewhere. However, when Grace stole a glance a few minutes later, she saw Larad in the corner rocking Taneth with awkward but gentle motions.

All the next day, they spoke not of the rift and the weakening of magic, but of mundane things–babies, and weaving blankets, and the day‑to‑day drudgery of running a kingdom– which, with the help of much wine come evening, soon led to mirth.

However, they were all sober the next morning when Grace and Larad set out from Calavere–along with Lirith and Taneth. Aryn’s cheeks were dry, but by the redness of her eyes Grace knew she had been weeping.

I want to go with you, sisters, Aryn’s voice quavered across the threads of the Weirding.

And we want you to come, Lirith spun back, but you know you must stay. They both need you.

Aryn sighed, touching her belly with her left hand, and leaned her head against Teravian’s shoulder.

“Do you have everything you need for the journey?” the young king asked.

“We do,” Grace said. Glumly was once again laden with supplies, and looking forlorn as usual. “Thank you.”

Master Larad and the knights already sat astride their mounts. Lirith climbed into the saddle of her horse, and Grace handed Taneth up to her. She nestled the baby in a linen sling, so that he was held securely against her breast. It was time for Lirith and Taneth to return to their people; Sareth was waiting.

Grace embraced Aryn and Teravian, kissing them both and climbing onto Shandis before she could begin weeping herself.

Teravian’s face was grave, and tears shone in Aryn’s blue eyes. But all she said was, “Give Travis our love.”

The journey south was strangely pleasant. Grace was glad to no longer be the only woman in the party; Lirith’s company was a rare gift, and it was wonderful to finally meet little Taneth. The weather was fine and sunny, and as they rode through familiar lands they eschewed inns, instead camping in copses or dells, or more than once in the shaded enclosure of a talathrin, an old Tarrasian Way Circle.

The Way Circles were always built around a spring next to which grew alasai, or green scepter–an herb good for removing the taint from meat, and whose clean, sharp scent was a balm to the lungs. When she drank from the spring in a talathrin, Grace always remembered to sprinkle a few drops for Naimi, goddess of travelers, as Melia had taught her to do. Nor did she worry about the shadow that had been following them when she laid down to sleep. There was no magic in the Way Circles, but a goodness abided in them; nothing would harm them there.

Although they traveled from sunrise until late afternoon each day, it took a fortnight to reach Tarras. Grace let out a breath of wonder when she glimpsed the ancient city rising up from the azure waters of the Summer Sea in seven circles of white stone. People went about their business as they had for a thousand years. But why shouldn’t they? Magic was practiced by northern barbarians, not the civilized people of Tarras. And the rift was not visible there, so far south in the world. It had been many days since Grace had seen it last, low in the northern sky.

As they rode close to Tarras, Grace thought it would be good to go into the city, to ascend to the First Circle, and pay a visit to Emperor Ephesian–her cousin many times removed. However, there was no time for catching up with old acquaintances. They rode past without stopping.

Now, each day they journeyed, the air grew a little warmer, becoming gold and honey‑sweet with the perfume of unfamiliar flowers. They followed the coastline, riding along a road lined with a green‑gold colonnade of ithaya, or sunleaf, trees. Below, the ocean crashed against white cliffs while gulls wheeled above.

At last they could go no farther; they had reached the southernmost tip of Falengarth. As twilight fell–nearly a full month since they had set out from Gravenfist Keep–they ascended a bluff above the sea, passed through a grove of ithayatrees, and rode into a circle of painted wagons shaped like animals both ordinary and fantastic.

Before they even dismounted, Sareth was there. He caught Lirith and Taneth in his arms, pulling them down to him, and embracing them with ferocious strength. Nor was Grace forgotten, for after he finally released Lirith, Grace found herself hugging the Mournish man. She breathed in his spicy, familiar scent, and only then realized how much she had missed him and his deep, bell‑like laugh.

The Mournish gathered around the travelers, leading them into the circle of light while music and the rich scents of cooking wafted on the air. Women in colorful garb approached Brael and the other knights, placing circlets of flowers around their necks, and even Master Larad was treated to a warm welcome. Perhaps warmer than the Runelord might have cared for. He was obviously flustered as three young women slipped necklaces of flowers over his head, and he looked as if he was about to speak stern words of reproach, only then a fit of sneezing took him, and he sat down hard on a stump. The women laughed and clapped their hands.

For a time, Grace let herself forget why she had journeyed there. She sat on a log on the edge of the firelight, eating nuts and drinking smoky wine, and swaying in time to wild music as many of the Mournish men and women whirled about the bonfire in a dance, scarves, jewelry, and smiles all flashing. Sparks rose up to the sky, and as Grace followed them upward she saw a point of crimson light. Tira’s star was not low to the southern horizon as it was in the north, but instead high in the sky.

“I love you,” Grace murmured like a prayer. Maybe it was at that, for the little red‑haired girl was a goddess now, and the center of the world’s newest Mystery Cult.

And perhaps its last as well. Grace’s gaze moved northward. She could not see it, but she knew the rift was still there, and still growing.

The wind rustled through the leaves of the ithayatrees, and only then did Grace realize that the music had stopped. She lowered her gaze and was startled to see that the bonfire had burned low, and that the Mournish were gone. How long had she been gazing at the sky?

“Come, Grace,” Sareth said, kneeling before her. “My al‑Mama is waiting for you.”

She looked around. There was no one in view save Sareth and Larad. “Where did everyone go?”

“Lirith has taken Taneth to his bed, and your knights have been shown to theirs. Come.”

Grace and Larad followed Sareth to a wagon on the edge of the circle. It was shaped like a dragon, its sinuous outline blending with the night. Sareth opened the door and indicated they should climb the steps and enter.

The cramped interior of the wagon was lit by a single candle. In the dim light it took a moment to pick the woman out from the various bundles of cloth and dried herbs. She look like a bundle of rags and sticks herself. Sareth’s al‑Mama was far thinner than the last time they had met; her bones were prominent beneath skin as translucent and yellow as parchment. Grace didn’t need to probe along the Weirding to make her diagnosis. Jaundice. Liver failure.

“Yes, yes,” the old woman said testily. “I’m dying. And it’s about time. These old bones are long overdue for a rest. But that does not matter now. Come closer so these old eyes can see you.”

The old woman leaned forward as they approached. Though clouded with cataracts, her gold eyes were still bright. At last she nodded and sighed, leaning back on her pallet.

“So you have come, as has been fated. I am satisfied. You will find him, and you will help him reach it.”

Grace swallowed. “You mean Morindu.”

“Of course I mean Morindu!” the old woman snapped. “But who is this with you? I see a cloak of power about him, though its cloth is unraveling. A great wizard of the north, he is. Yet he is not the one. What role is his to play?”

“Can you not see in your cards?” Larad said, gesturing to a deck of worn T’hotcards scattered on a table.

“Bah!” the old woman spat. “The cards are useless now. The threads of Fate are all tangled. Nothing is clear. A darkness looms before us, and I know not what lies on the other side, if anything lies there at all. But this I do know.” She pointed a thin finger at Grace. “You will find him, and you will lead him to his destiny. I have summoned ones to help you on the journey. That is all I can do. As for the rest . . .” She lowered her hand and heaved a rattling sigh. “It is up to Sai’el Travis.”

Grace wanted to ask her more–how she was supposed to find Travis, what she should tell him when she did, and what they needed to do.

“Go,” the old woman said, her voice a sullen croak. “I wished only to look upon you, and now it is done. I will not see the end of this, but now I know that an end indeed draws nigh. Go, and leave me to my own end.”

Grace met Larad’s eyes, and the two of them stepped from the wagon. They found Sareth standing near the remains of the bonfire.

“She’s dying,” Grace said.

Sareth nodded, his coppery eyes reflecting the glow of the embers. “So she has told us many times. Only this time it is true.”

Grace touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be.” Despite the sadness in his voice, he smiled. “Hers has been a long and wondrous life. And perhaps it is better this way. Perhaps it is better if she does not see . . .”

Grace tightened her grip on his shoulder. “We’ll find him, Sareth. We’ll find Travis.”

“I know you will. But there is one thing you do not know. At this time, my sister Vani is on Travis Wilder’s world, on Earth. Even now she searches for him.”

Hope surged in Grace’s chest. She started to ask Sareth how this could be, but Larad sucked in a breath.

“We are not alone.”

Even as he spoke, three dark forms parted from the darkness beneath the ithayatrees. Grace went cold. Had the shadow followed them there, bringing others like it?

No, these shadows moved not with strange fluidity, but rather with feline stealth. Even as they stepped into the starlight, Grace knew what they were. Two of them were men, one a woman. Intricate tattoos coiled up their necks, and each one’s left ear bore thirteen gold rings. All wore sleek black leather.

“ T’gol,” Grace whispered.

Larad gave her a startled look. “You mean assassins?”

“No that’s not what the word means,” Sareth said. “In our tongue, T’golmeans to protect. My al‑Mama summoned them from the Silent Fortress of Golgoru. They will accompany you on your journey.”

“Why?” Grace said.

One of the T’golmoved forward. He was tall and slender, his eyes the color of aged bronze. “It is for this that our kind has trained for a thousand years, Sai’ana Grace. Three of us were chosen for this highest honor. We will accompany you on your journey to the dervish, as well as to the ancient city of our people. We are yours to command.”

Three T’gol–three warriors all trained like Vani–following her orders? The thought stunned Grace, even as it renewed her will.

“We leave at dawn,” she said.

“We will be ready.” The T’golmade a sharp gesture with his hand, then he and the others melted away into the shadows.

18.

Grace, Master Larad, and the three T’golleft the circle of the Mournish caravan before dawn. Only Sareth and Lirith rose in the gray light to see them off; the other wagons were dark, their doors and windows shut.

The Mournish man was clearly torn. Last night, he had started to speak as if he was going to accompany Grace on the journey. However, a stern look from Lirith had silenced those words.

“You have already done the work of the T’golonce, when you sought out the dervish,” Lirith murmured, bending over Taneth’s head. “This time the T’golhave come to do what is their rightful task. It is their duty to seek out Morindu the Dark.”

“And what of my duty?” Sareth had said in a low voice, his face bathed in the glow of the fire’s last coals. “I am descended of the royal line of Morindu. Should I not be there when the city comes to light once more?”

Her voice was hard. “If the royal line is truly so precious as you say it is, then it is your duty to protect it and stay with your son.”

Sareth had pressed his lips into a tight line, holding back any other words he might have said. And though his eyes were troubled, they were full of love as well. The Mournish man had won this argument once; now it was Lirith’s turn.

Sareth was not the only one who was upset at not continuing south with Grace. Earlier that morning, after they rose in the dark before first light, she had commanded Brael to ride back to Gravenfist Keep with the other knights. The gray‑bearded man was clearly upset.

“The southern continent is a queer and dangerous place, Your Majesty,” he had said, sputtering. “You cannot possibly think to go there alone. We are coming with you.”

“I won’t be alone. And you’re not coming with us. That’s an order, Sir Knight. I need you to tell Melia and Falken that we made it this far safely. And tell them we’ve learned Vani has already gone to find what we seek, to bring it back to us. They’ll know what the message means.”

The anger faded from Brael’s eyes, replaced by anguish. However, a knight could not disobey a direct order from his queen, and he gave a stiff nod. “May Vathris walk with you, Your Majesty.”

Grace hoped he did; she was going to need all the help she could get.

“It is nearly dawn,” spoke one of the T’gol–the tall man who moved like a dancer. His name was Avhir, Grace had learned. “We must leave now, Sai’ana Grace, if we are to reach the city of Kalos before nightfall.”

Already the eastern horizon was brightening, and below the cliffs the Summer Sea shone like a mirror of beaten copper.

Sareth touched Grace’s cheek with a warm, rough hand. “May Fasus, God of Winds, speed you on your journey, and back to us.”

Lirith handed Taneth to him, then moved forward to throw her arms around Grace. I cannot see the future, sister, she said, her voice humming along the threads of the Weirding. I cannot see if you will return to us.

Grace embraced the witch, concentrating on this moment so she would never forget it. Good‑bye, sister.

Lirith turned away, brushing her cheeks with her fingers, and took Taneth back, holding the baby tight against her.

Grace mounted Shandis, and as the knights were to take all of the horses with them back to Gravenfist, Larad awkwardly climbed into Glumly’s saddle. The T’golwould go on foot; they did not need mounts to move swiftly.

“Do not trust the dervish,” Sareth said. “You believe you know him, but you do not. The desert changes a man, as do the secrets one might discover there. He has called the morndarito him, he has worked blood sorcery, and he cannot possibly be the same as you knew him.”

Avhir gave Shandis a slap on the rump, and the mare started into a trot down the path that led from the Mournish circle, Larad’s mule following. Grace gazed back over her shoulder, and she thought she saw two dim figures beneath the ithayatrees waving farewell. Then the path began to descend the side of the bluff, and the figures were lost to sight.

“I want to thank you,” she said to Avhir, who walked beside Shandis. “For coming with me.”

He did not look at her. “There is no point in thanking me, Sai’ana Grace. We come because it is our fate.”

Grace smiled. “That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate it all the same.”

Either these words annoyed Avhir, or he did not know what to make of them, for he stalked away without replying and approached the other two T’gol. With some effort Grace had been able to learn their names. Kylees was a fine‑boned woman whose lovely face was marred by a persistent scowl, while Rafid was a compact man, as short and muscular as Avhir was tall and lithe.

Avhir spoke something in a low voice to the other T’gol. All three wore grim expressions. Grace sighed. Something told her she was going to have to rely on Master Larad for lively conversation on this trip.

All that day they traveled along the road that followed the sinuous line of the cliffs above the sea. Once the sun rose into the sky, the outlines of the T’golblurred, and they seemed to vanish. However, Grace knew they were still there. From time to time she could see a shimmering on the air, like that of a heat mirage, and if she looked at the ground, she would detect a faint shadow.

Despite her hope for a little conversation to pass the time, she spoke little to Master Larad as they rode. The Runelord seemed intent on studying the landscape, the trees, and the plants. All would be exotic to a man born and raised in the far north, and were no doubt intriguing to his inquisitive mind. Grace decided not to lament the silence. After all, she had other matters to mull over.

Do not trust the dervish . . . the desert changes a man . . .

What had Sareth meant by those words? Did he believe Hadrian Farr to be dangerous in some way?

All dervishes are dangerous, Grace. By definition. They’re people who’ve shunned the laws and ethics of their society in order to learn ancient secrets of sorcery. There’s no way you can trust someone like that. They’ve already shown they’re not beholden to anything. Anything except the quest for knowledge, for power.

Only Farr hadn’t given up the laws of his society. He wasn’t one of the Mournish; he was from Earth. And while she supposed it was possible Farr did crave power, she thought it more likely his thirst for knowledge had compelled him to become a dervish. Farr was a Seeker through and through; more than anything he wanted to learn, to comprehend mysteries no other person before him had. That wouldn’t change just because he somehow found a way to Eldh.

Or would it? He has worked blood sorcery, and he cannot possibly be the same as you knew him. . . .

Perhaps. But had she ever really known Hadrian Farr anyway? He had helped her, yes. First on that October night when all of this began, when he aided her escape from the ironheart detective at the police department, and again when she and Travis returned to Denver in a desperate attempt to save Beltan’s life. But while he had had files and photos and documents about her, she had nothing to tell her about Farr. Other than his eyes, she still could not picture him in her mind. He was like a vague silhouette, wreathed in cigarette smoke and lit from behind. What would she say to him when she saw him? She didn’t know. All the same, a thrill ran through her when she thought of seeing him again, of being close to him. Unconsciously, she urged Shandis into a swifter pace.

Late that afternoon, as they neared the port city of Kalos, one of the T’golreappeared; it was the woman, Kylees.

“Avhir has gone ahead to arrange passage on a ship,” the assassin said. She resembled Vani only in that she was lean in her black leathers, and her dark hair was closely cropped. She was smaller than Vani, even petite. Clad in one of the colorful dresses favored by young Mournish women, she would appear pretty and vulnerable. Grace had no doubt many large, strong, foolish men had thought the same thing. Just before their necks snapped.

“Is Rafid with Avhir?” Grace asked.

The T’golscowled. “Do you think I am not strong enough to protect you as well as Rafid or Avhir if your pursuer appears?”

That wasn’t what Grace had meant. She had only been trying to be polite.

“Keep close,” Kylees said, and moved swiftly down the road.

Grace did as instructed. She had told Avhir about the shadow that had followed them, and though they had seen no signs of pursuit, it was a good idea to stay vigilant.

They reached the city just as the sun melted into the sea. Kalos was situated on a narrow peninsula that formed the southern tip of the continent of Falengarth, and so was surrounded by water on three sides. On the east, tall cliffs formed a deep harbor, and this–along with the fact that the Summer Sea was narrower here than anywhere else–made Kalos a bustling city of traders, merchants, pilgrims, and other travelers. It was a good place to begin a journey. And to lose pursuit.

Avhir appeared as they rode through the city’s gates. “I have found a ship to bear us across the sea,” he said to Grace. “Tonight we will stay at a hostel in the Merchant’s Quarter. Try not to speak to anyone, but if you must, tell them you are the daughter of a northern spice trader and that you are here on an errand of business for him.”

That wasn’t going to be a problem. Grace didn’t plan on engaging in any idle chitchat with the locals. When they reached the hostel, they retired at once to their rooms and did not leave again until first light, when they set out for the shipyards. Though the sun had not yet risen, Kalos was already awake and bustling with activity. Grace bought dates from a smiling, toothless man, and she and Master Larad made a breakfast of them as they rode through the city.

They were nearly to the docks when Grace saw a man in a white robe surrounded by a crowd of people. She supposed he was a priest of one of the Mystery Cults, preaching to a group of followers. However, as she and Larad drew nearer, she saw that the man’s white robe was dirty and ragged, and that it did not bear a holy symbol of any of the New Gods. Instead, a blotch as black as old blood was painted on the center of robe, over his heart. The man was speaking, his voice chantlike, but the people gathered around him seemed not to listen; instead, they stared at the ground or into thin air with slack expressions. They were filthy, their faces darkened by flies.

“You!” the man said, his voice rising into a shout. He was pointing at Grace and Larad. “Do not think you can flee it on a ship! It does not matter where you go. The Mouth will eat you.”

Grace pulled on the reins, bringing Shandis to a halt. He was right. What did she think she was doing? There was no point in going south across the sea. Nothing she could do would change anything. She started to nudge Shandis toward the man in the dirty white robe.

“Come, Sai’ana Grace.” The air rippled, and Avhir was there, gripping Shandis’s bridle. “The ship is ready to sail.”

Grace blinked, and the torpor fell away from her, replaced by urgency. Yes, they had to go at once. She and Larad rode after Avhir as the T’golled the way into the dockyards.

The ship Avhir had arranged for their passage was a sleek two‑masted spice trader. It reminded her of the Fate Runner, the ship on which she had first journeyed to Tarras and which had carried her back north, only to founder and sink off the coast of Embarr after they were attacked by Onyx Knights. She thought about Captain Magard, and his rough, kindly humor. And the way he had died in the keep of Seawatch–the same keep where Lord Elwarrd had died rather than let his ironheart mother deliver Grace to the Pale King.

For a short while, Grace had almost believed she could love Elwarrd–if that was even something she was capable of. It was only now, as she thought of him for the first time in years, that she realized how much the handsome, dark‑eyed lord had reminded her of Hadrian Far. . . .

“Is something wrong, Your Majesty?” Larad asked as they dismounted at the end of the pier.

Yes, Grace suddenly realized, there was. “I forgot about Shandis and Glumly. What are we going to do with them? We can’t just leave them here.”

Larad looked as if he would be perfectly content to leave the mule behind, but Grace sighed, stroking both Glumly’s and Shandis’s muzzles. Fortunately, she had worried for nothing.

“I have hired a courier to return your mounts to the Mournish,” Avhir said, appearing out of thin air, and Grace was too grateful for his words to be annoyed at the way the T’golhad startled her.

“That was kind of you,” she said.

He waved the words aside with a long hand. “It was not done out of kindness. You must focus on your fate. Your mind must not be distracted by petty concerns such as the welfare of an animal.”

Grace didn’t care what he said. It feltlike kindness. She kissed Shandis’s flat face and tried not to cry. “Lirith will take good care of you,” she said, then she stepped back as a young man led the honey‑colored mare and the mule away.

They boarded the ship, and apparently they were the last cargo to be loaded, for almost at once the plank was pulled back, the lines thrown down, and the sails unfurled. The ship pulled away from the dock, speeding out into the harbor and toward open sea. Grace gripped the rail and faced into the wind, letting the spray moisten her face.

“Something is wrong with this ship,” Master Larad said behind her. “Terribly wrong.”

Grace turned around. The Runelord clutched one of the masts. His face was an unnatural and vivid shade of green.

“The floor is heaving as if it’s about to rend apart,” the Runelord gasped. “This cannot be right. We must abandon ship!”

Grace couldn’t help a laugh. “Not just yet, Master Larad. The rolling is perfectly normal. And it’s called a deck, not a floor.”

“Normal? You mean this is how it’s going to be for the entire passage?”

“No,” Grace said cheerfully. “Once we’re out of the harbor, the rolling will be much more pronounced.”

Larad stared at her, an expression of horror on his scarred face. Then he ran to one side of the deck and leaned over the rail. Grace didn’t know the rune for nausea, but it seemed Larad was quite familiar with it. Fortunately, she had packed some herbs in her luggage.

You’d better go brew him a simple, Grace.

She went in search of Avhir, to find out where her things had been stowed. The T’golfound her first.

“We have conducted a search of the entire ship, Sai’ana Grace,” the T’golsaid. Even in the bright morning light, it was hard to look at him, as if his body was a projection that was slightly out of focus. “There is no one on board save for ourselves and the crew.”

Grace nodded. It was impossible that someone could be on the ship and the T’golwould not find them. Even so, she had made her own inventory as they boarded the ship. She had used the Touch to seek out and locate the life thread of every living organism on the ship, down to the last rat. It had been exhausting work–the web of the Weirding had kept knotting and tangling in her fingers–but she had done it, and she knew Avhir was right. Whoever or whatever had been pursuing them, it was not on this ship.

“The passage to Al‑Amъn will take two days, Sai’ana Grace. I suggest you use that time to rest. I will show you to your quarters.”

She took Avhir up on his offer, but she did not stay in her tiny cabin belowdecks. Instead she fashioned a quick simple and went in search of Master Larad. On deck, the crewmen were lashing down ropes; they had given the ship full sail now that they had left the harbor behind.

“Excuse me,” she said to one of the sailors–a man with blond hair and a boyish face. “You haven’t seen a sick wizard around, have you?”

“No,” the sailor said.

He was tying a rope to a metal hook. As he worked, Grace noticed a rather nasty‑looking gash on his arm. It was fresh and had barely begun to scab over. He had probably gotten it while working the ropes; a loose line could crack like a whip.

She started to reach for him. “Would you like me to take a look at that cut? I’m a healer.”

“You’d best leave me be and go to your cabin,” he growled. “A woman has no business on a ship. It’s bad luck.”

Then he turned his back on her, grabbed a rope, and scrambled up into the rigging. So much for that sweet, boyish face. She started along the deck, continuing her search for Master Larad, and hoping her sea legs decided to show up soon.

She found the Runelord still leaning over the rail. With effort, she managed to get some of the simple down him, and then with the help of Kylees transferred him to his hammock in the main hold belowdecks. Grace had asked Rafid for help first, but he had scowled and stalked away. A moment later Kylees appeared.

“What’s wrong with Rafid?” Grace asked.

“He will not touch a sorcerer except to slay one,” Kylees said.

“Larad’s not a sorcerer. He’s a wizard.”

Kylees did not answer. Despite her small size, she looped Larad’s arm around her shoulder and hauled him to his feet.

Grace spent most of the voyage at Larad’s side, bathing his brow with a cool cloth and getting what herbs into him she could. Blessedly, the passage was short and the winds fairer than usual of late, and it was just after dawn two days later when they sailed into the harbor at Qaradas.

Master Larad’s condition improved almost immediately upon disembarking, though he remained pale and weak. Grace knew that speed was of the essence, but she wondered if it wouldn’t be better to wait a day in the city to let Larad recover his strength.

“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” the Runelord said, “I would rather ride at once. At the moment, I wish to get as far away from water as possible.”

“Then you shall get your wish,” Avhir said, appearing out of a swirl of dust. “The others have arranged camels and supplies for our journey. We will set out for Hadassa at once.”

Grace bit her tongue to keep from thanking the T’gol. She cast a glance at the ship–her last connection with the lands of the north–then followed Avhir and Larad through the gritty streets of Qaradas.

19.

The blond‑haired sailor walked along the pier, away from the docked ship.

“Where are you going, Madeth?” a rough voice called out. A group of his crew mates gathered near the end of the pier. “We’re off to find ourselves some wine and dancing women. I’ve heard that in Qaradas they wear nothing under all those fluttering scarves.”

The sailor called Madeth did not stop walking.

“Ah, forget him,” said another man. “He’s still a boy. He’d only get in our way.”

The sailors moved away down the dock. That was good. He could not allow himself to be seen.

Why?a part of him started to question. Why can’t I be seen? Where am I going?

However, those tremulous thoughts were quickly drowned out by a surge of hot blood in his brain. His legs pumped with mechanical efficiency, carrying him into the city. His eyes scanned back and forth until they found what they sought: the mouth of an alley between two white buildings. He moved into the alley, away from the hot eye of the sun, letting the dim coolness envelop him.

The alley was empty save for a dog that snarled at him. Its ribs were showing. He ignored the beast as he had the men. It was time.

He pulled away the rag he had bound around his arm two days ago. The wound beneath was puckered like an angry mouth. Pus oozed from beneath a crusted scab, and red lines spread out from the gash, snaking up his arm. He had gotten the cut while loading the ship, gouging his arm on an exposed nail while he hoisted crates on the dock at Kalos.

And then what happened?He tried to remember. He had cut himself, and then all at once everything went dark, as if a shadow had fallen over him. There was pain–far more pain than a simple cut on his arm should cause, coursing through his body. And then . . .

Oh, by all the gods, then–

Again blood sizzled in his brain, erasing the thoughts. With his free hand he dug under the scab, prying it loose, and pressed his fingers into the wound, opening it up and tearing it wider.

Blood gushed out, and Madeth screamed.

He staggered back against the wall. Dark red fluid poured down his arm, raining onto the ground and pooling there. The puddle grew larger, then the blood began to flow–not down the gutter–but upward, into the air. It gathered in on itself, rising up before Madeth, twisting and writhing like one of the water‑spouts he glimpsed from time to time on the open ocean. And which he would never glimpse again.

His heart ceased its work; there was nothing left for it to pump. The column of dark fluid undulated and took on a new shape: that of a man. Two hot sparks appeared in its face, glowing like eyes. They watched as the empty husk of the young sailor slumped to the ground. The dog’s snarling became a piteous whine as it backed deeper into the alley.

A glistening arm lashed out, reaching much farther than a normal man’s might, and the whining was cut short. The arm retracted, drawing the body of the dog closer, and in a moment its empty body lay crumpled next to that of the sailor.

The creature’s body rippled with pleasure. It re‑formed itself into a tight ball and rolled to the back of the alley, then let itself sink back into a puddle on the ground. This form took the least energy to maintain, and it was best to conserve; soon, it would need all its strength. It would rest while the hot eye glared down from the sky. Then, when darkness covered the world, the hunt would begin again. She was close. It could taste the nearness of her blood. It would pursue.

And when this over, when it had brought its creators to what they sought, it would drink her dry.

20.

Deirdre winced as a crash emanated from the other side of the paneled mahogany door. This was not going well. They had left Beltan alone in the parlor, hoping some rest might calm him. Instead, it seemed to have had the opposite effect. Another crash sounded. She tried to picture the parlor’s decor. There weren’t any Roman busts, Ming vases, or priceless medieval artifacts in there, were there?

Not anymore, she thought.

She looked up to see Anders hurrying down the corridor, a satchel in hand. Thank the Great Spirit, he was back.

“How is he?” Anders said in his gravelly voice. He had donned a fresh suit–one with two sleeves.

“Fabulous,” Deirdre said. “In a screaming, thrashing about, throwing things against the wall sort of way.”

“I figured as much,” the Seeker said. “Big warrior types never have tidy little emotional outbursts. He’s got to be pretty broken up.”

Something thudded against he wall, rattling it.

“Him and the parlor,” Deirdre said. But that wasn’t fair. Beltan was just displaying what all of them were feeling inside. The Scirathi had taken Nim. Travis and Vani had followed through the gate, but there was no way to know if they had succeeded, if they had managed to pursue the sorcerers to Eldh, or if they had been lost in the Void between the worlds. Beltan had just met his daughter. Now he might well have lost her forever, and his life mate as well. Given similar circumstances, Deirdre doubted her outburst would have been very tidy either.

“I brought some of his clothes from their flat,” Anders said, hefting the satchel. “Maybe a shower will help settle him down and clear his head. Let’s talk to him.”

Deirdre was doubtful, but it was worth a try. “You go first.”

Anders opened the door, then ducked as a coffee cup whizzed over his head, past Deirdre, and shattered against the wall of the corridor.

“Hey, now,” Anders muttered under his breath. “I hope that wasn’t aimed at me.”

“You’re the one who wanted to go in,” Deirdre said, and shoved him in the back, urging him forward.

No more projectiles hurtled their way as they entered the parlor and shut the door behind them. The destruction was not as bad as Deirdre had feared, and was largely limited to their coffee cups and saucers from the night before. She made a quick survey of the room. There was a large Grecian urn on a pedestal next to the fireplace, looking both priceless and fragile, but it was untouched.

The same could not be said for Beltan. He stood in the center of the room, hands empty and twitching, staring blankly. An ugly bruise darkened his right temple. She had never known what a proud warrior defeated looked like; she did now.

“Good morning, mate,” Anders said, his voice a touch too far on the cheery side. “I brought you some fresh clothes. I thought you might like to get cleaned up.”

Beltan said nothing. He did not look at them.

Deirdre gathered her courage, then moved to him, touching his arm. He was shaking.

“Beltan, please,” she said, trying to meet his eyes. “Talk to us.”

“Why?” the blond man said, his voice hoarse. “What can you say that will change anything? Travis is gone. He has left me.”

Anders set down the satchel. “He didn’t leave you, mate. He went after Nim. I’d say there’s a pretty big difference between the two.”

“And yet either way I am still here, without him,” Beltan said. “I am alone. It is hopeless.” He turned away from Deirdre, scrubbing his face with a hand, but not before she saw the tears that ran down his cheeks.

“Well, now,” Anders said, “that doesn’t sound very warrior‑like to me. I don’t think Vathris would approve of that kind of talk.”

“And what would you know of Vathris?” Beltan snarled over his shoulder.

Anders shrugged thick shoulders. “Not much, I confess. Just what you wrote in your reports for the Seekers.”

Beltan flinched. “It doesn’t matter what Vathris would think. There is nothing I can do.”

“You sound pretty sure. But maybe for a moment stop thinking about what you can and can’t do. Why don’t you tell me what you wantto do?”

“What do you think I want to do?” Beltan clenched his hands into fists, advancing on the Seeker. “I want to go after them. I want to find them and help them!”

Anders was grinning. “Now that sounds like a man of Vathris.”

Beltan blinked, and for a moment shock replaced anguish, then shame. “You are right. As long as I am alive, I must try to find a way to reach them.” He gave Anders a grudging look of respect. “You would make a good warrior, you know.”

Anders winked at him. “Been there, done that, mate. I’m the brains now, not the brawn.”

“Warriors can have brains.”

“I suppose they can at that,” Anders said wistfully.

They sat down at the same table where they had gathered last night. Deirdre called for Lewis, and the butler brought a plate of sandwiches as well as coffee and new cups. He cleared away the broken shards of china without batting an eye, then silently slipped from the parlor. To be a butler for the Seekers was to quickly learn not to ask questions.

“I feel strange,” Beltan said. “It’s like I’m made of water inside, not muscle and bone. I want to swing my sword, but there’s nothing to swing it at, and my hands are shaking so much I don’t even think I could hold it. What’s wrong with me?”

Despite feeling watery herself, Deirdre smiled. “Nothing’s wrong with you, Beltan. You’re afraid, that’s all. Welcome to the club. It’s how a lot of us feel a lot of the time.”

His jaw dropped. “And yet you still keep on going? You must be very brave. I don’t know if I am strong enough to do this.”

“Maybe a sandwich will help,” Anders said, taking one and pushing the plate toward Beltan.

“I doubt it,” the big man said, then took three sandwiches at once.

The food did seem to help. Beltan’s color grew better, and as they spoke a fierce light ignited in his eyes.

“You’re right,” he said around mouthfuls of food. “I know I have to do something, and I will. Only I don’t know what it is, or even how to find out. All I know is that somehow I’ve got to get to Eldh.”

“There might be a way,” Deirdre murmured.

Only when she saw both Beltan and Anders staring at her did she realize she had spoken the words aloud.

Anders leaned over the table. “All right, out with it. What’s going on in that crafty little noggin of yours?”

“There’s only one way to get to Eldh,” Deirdre said, “and that’s to use a gate.”

“Only there aren’t any gates,” Anders said. “You can bet those sorcerer baddies took their gate artifact with them when they went.”

“You’re forgetting about this.” Deirdre picked up the newspaper the mysterious Philosopher had sent last night.

“All right, so there’s another gate,” the Seeker said, confusion on his pitted face. “But the sorcerers have the arch, too.”

“No they don’t. Not all of it.” Deirdre couldn’t believe she was saying this. “The arch isn’t complete without the keystone, and right now it’s still in the vaults below this Charterhouse. If we could somehow get the arch . . .”

She couldn’t finish the sentence. They had gone to a great deal of trouble to steal it; surely they wouldn’t leave it unguarded. However, she had said enough. Beltan leaped to his feet.

“We must take the arch from the Scirathi!”

Anders raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s a bit of a bold plan, don’t you think?”

“It’s not a plan,” Deirdre said, doing her best to backpedal. “It’s just one possibility, that’s all. One very ridiculous, stupid, unlikely possibility.” However, it was too late; the damage had been done.

“It can work,” Beltan said. “It has to–it’s the only way.” He locked gazes with Deirdre. “Promise you’ll help me.”

Deirdre swallowed hard. “I don’t know . . .”

Beltan made a growling sound low in his throat. “You have to help me get that gate. I will not lose Travis. I will not!” His hands twitched, and he started for the Grecian urn.

Deirdre jumped up and stepped in front of the big man. For a moment she wasn’t so certain that was a good idea. No doubt, when tossed against a wall, she would make every bit as satisfying a smashing sound as the urn. He reached for her.

She grabbed his hand, holding it. “I promise, Beltan. On the Book, I swear it. Anders and I will help you find a way to get to Travis if it’s the last thing we do.”

And it very well might be. However, the words seemed to calm him. He returned to the table, and Deirdre let out a breath. Had she really just offered up her life to save an old vase? But she hadn’t promised they would try to take the arch back from the Scirathi, only that they would help Beltan find Travis.

Is there really a di ference between the two, Deirdre? You know there’s no other way to Eldh besides the archway.

“I don’t want to be the cloud that rains on the parade,” Anders said, taking a sip of his coffee, “but even assuming the Scirathi hand over the arch when we politely ask for it, and even assuming that keystone fits, how are we supposed to activate the gate? In case you’ve forgotten, that takes some extra special blood, which we just happen to be fresh out of.”

“Oh, that’s not a problem,” Beltan said. “I kept this.”

He pulled a dark, wadded‑up piece of cloth from his pocket. It was the sleeve of Anders’s suit coat, which Vani had used last night as a makeshift bandage. It was crusted with dried blood– Travis’s blood.

Anders let out a low whistle. “Warriors can have brains indeed.”

“Is anyone going to eat that last sandwich?” Beltan said, and reached for the plate before either of them could answer.

21.

An hour later, Deirdre sat at her desk in the basement office she shared with Anders. Beltan was all for making a raid on the Scirathi right away, but Anders had managed to convince the blond man to get some rest first. Besides, they had no idea where the Scirathi had taken the arch after they stole it from the site on Crete. It could be anywhere in the world.

Deirdre supposed she should rest, too. She hadn’t gotten a wink in twenty‑four hours, and sleep deprivation wasn’t generally part of the formula for successful research. However, she felt jittery and strangely alert. As foolish as her promise to Beltan was, she didn’t regret it; she wanted to help him find Travis. After all, Hadrian Farr had managed to find a way to Eldh. Why couldn’t she?

Is that what this is, Deirdre?asked a detached aspect of herself–the wise voice she didn’t always listen to but should, the shaman in her. Is it all just some competition with Hadrian Farr? He got to Eldh, so now you have to as well?

Before she could answer that, Anders set a steaming mug of coffee amid the stacks of papers on her desk.

“Nice way to include me in that little vow of yours, mate. How did it go?” He raised his husky voice into a falsetto. “ ‘Anders and I will help you find a way to get to Travis if it’s the last thing we do.’ ”

Deirdre winced. “Sorry about that. I didn’t have much time to think. I was protecting a very important urn.”

“It’s all right,” he said, sitting on the corner of her desk. “I want to help. Bloody hell, what red‑blooded Seeker wouldn’t want to? Opening up doors to other worlds . . . that’s what we’re all about. It’s what I signed on for. So let me know what I can do.”

Deirdre felt her dread recede. Even when things looked hopeless, Anders was incessantly cheery. Only it wasn’t annoying, now that she thought about it. Instead, it was heartening. . . .

“What is it, mate?”

She shook her head. “What is what?”

“Do I have a bit of sandwich on my face or something? You were looking at me funny just now.”

Horror flooded Deirdre. She must have been doing it again. Glowing. Quickly, she grabbed a random folder, opened it, and bent her head over the papers inside.

“There’s one thing that would be a big help,” she said. “See if you can get any images of the arch from newspaper and television sources. Our first step is to learn everything we can about the arch. If we do, we may find a clue that will tell us where the Scirathi have taken it.”

“Now that’s thinking like a Seeker, partner. I’ll get right on it.”

After Anders left, Deirdre cleared everything off her desk, then spent the next several hours welded to her notebook computer, typing and clicking as she called up every document related to the keystone, the Thomas Atwater case, Greenfellow’s Tavern, Surrender Dorothy, and Glinda. Once she had gathered all the printouts and photos, she shuffled them on her desk, moving them around like the pieces of a puzzle, trying to see if they fit together in a way she hadn’t seen before.

The DNA sequence of Glinda’s blood had been the clue that first led Deirdre to the keystone. A sample of dried blood had been collected from the keystone centuries ago, and it had just recently been sequenced in part of an ongoing effort to analyze all organic samples in the Seeker vaults before they deteriorated. The sequence from the blood on the keystone had been incomplete, but it had been enough to know it was statistically similar to the sequence of Glinda’s blood.

Knowing what Deirdre did now, that made sense. The keystone had been collected at a location that in modern times corresponded to the nightclub Surrender Dorothy with its half‑fairy denizens, like Glinda. And which, in the seventeenth century, had housed Greenfellow’s Tavern.

Only what was the link between Glinda and Thomas Atwater? That was a question Deirdre still couldn’t answer.

Atwater joined the Seekers as a young man in the year 1619, shortly after the order was founded. As a condition for acceptance to the Seekers, the Philosophers forbade him ever to return to Greenfellow’s Tavern, where he had worked before joining the Seekers. However, some years later, it was discovered that Atwater had returned to the tavern, though the Philosophers had never punished him for this clear violation of the Seventh Desideratum. Not long after that, Atwater died at the age of twenty‑nine, no doubt of one of the many diseases prevalent in that era. But what did he, and Greenfellow’s Tavern, have to do with the keystone?

Forget not the Sleeping Ones. In their blood lies the key.The words were inscribed on Glinda’s ring as well as on the keystone–although the keystone was so worn no one had ever been able to decipher the symbols. Deirdre only recognized them because she had studied the ring so closely. And even if the symbols hadn’t been worn with time, they still wouldn’t have been decipherable, because they weren’t written in any language known on Earth. After what they had seen on the television last night, she knew now that the symbols were written in an ancient language indigenous to the southern continent of the world Eldh.

The language of sorcerers.

Except the languageis known here, Deirdre. At least by one person.

She picked up the photograph the mysterious Philosopher had sent her: the photo of the clay tablet, which showed the inscription written in the same language as on the keystone as well as in Linear A. All of her searches for the tablet in the archives of the Seekers had come up empty. That meant this tablet had to be in hisprivate collection. Three years ago, Deirdre had given a copy of the photo to Paul Jacoby over in linguistics, and he had been able to translate the portion written in Linear A.

The linguistic connection between the keystone and Eldh was a new piece of the puzzle. Only it didn’t make the picture any clearer. The arch was a gate–a gate created by sorcerers. But why had they fashioned it? How had it ended up buried on Crete while the keystone came to rest at the site of Greenfellow’s Tavern? And who were the Sleeping Ones, and what was their blood the key to?

Deirdre stared at the documents and photos until her head ached, but all she came up with were more questions. By the time Anders returned that afternoon, she was staring at the wall like a zombie.

“Afternoon, partner,” Anders said, shrugging off his suit coat.

She didn’t answer.

“What’s the matter, mate? Cat got your tongue?”

“More like my brain,” she croaked. She took a deep breath, trying to clear her mind. Coffee. She needed coffee. Her eyes strayed toward the percolator.

“I’m on it,” Anders said before she could speak the word, grabbing the empty coffeepot.

Twenty minutes later she sat at the timeworn mahogany table that dominated the center of their office. Deirdre gripped her second mug of coffee and enjoyed the pleasant tingle as caffeine permeated her brain.

“So did you get them?” she asked Anders.

“Did he get what?” Beltan said from the doorway.

Deirdre glanced up and smiled. By his much improved appearance, the blond man had gotten a shower as well as some rest. His green eyes were clear, though his face was still grim.

Anders set another mug on the table, as well as a plate of shortbread cookies. Beltan took several of the cookies, crammed them in his mouth, and chased them down with a long swig of the scalding coffee.

“So what were you supposed to get?” he said, eyeing Anders.

“Photographs of the arch.” Anders had rolled up his shirtsleeves and had loosened his tie, which was as close to casual as Deirdre had ever seen him. “It turned out it wasn’t too hard. I’ve got a source at one of the satellite television companies. He dubbed a copy of the archaeology program to tape for me. I saved some stills from the tape, but they were a bit on the grainy side, so I took them down to the lab for computer enhancement. The techs said they’d have them done by–wait a minute. Here’s Eustace now.”

A speck of a man appeared in the doorway. Even sitting, Deirdre was nearly as tall as he. His thick shock of brown hair stood straight up–an effort to win him another inch, perhaps– and he wore wire‑rimmed glasses as well as an eager expression.

Eustace bounded into the office, holding a large manila envelope, and his blue eyes went wide behind his glasses. “Is that really him? The otherworldly traveler?” The apprentice didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he approached Beltan, who towered above him. “I can’t believe this is happening. I’m having my first Class One Encounter, and I’ve only been a Seeker for six months.” He thrust out a hand. “I’m terribly honored to meet you, sir. Is there something you can tell me–some bit of knowledge from another world you can impart?”

Beltan squinted down at the young Seeker. “The cookies are not for you.”

Deirdre could see Eustace silently repeating the words to himself, as if trying to fathom the wisdom they contained. And there waswisdom in them, because if given cause, Beltan might scoop the small Seeker up and crumple him into a ball like so much aluminum foil.

Luckily, Eustace appeared uninterested in the cookies. He kept gaping at Beltan with a look of awe.

Anders cleared his throat. “So what do you have for us, Eustace?”

The young man snapped back to his senses. “The techs in the lab told me to bring this to you right away.” He handed the envelope to Anders. “So what’s in it?”

Anders grinned. “None of your business. At least not until you’ve got Echelon 3 clearance. Which you’ll never get if you don’t keep at that research Nakamura assigned you. So scurry along now.”

Eustace cast one last glance at Beltan, then hurried from the room, shutting the door behind him.

“Let’s see those photos,” Deirdre said.

The lab had done a good job. Though still a bit grainy, most of the symbols were clear, incised into the stones of the arch with sharp, angular lines. When she was finished examining the photographs, she slipped them back into the envelope.

“So what are you going to do with those?” Anders asked.

She sealed the envelope with wax. “I’m going to send them to Paul Jacoby over in linguistics. He was able to translate the passage in Linear A on the clay tablet, and I know he’s been comparing it to the passage written in the language of the Scirathi. I’m going to see if he has enough information to decipher any of these symbols.”

Anders cleared his throat. “And you think we can trust him?”

“I don’t think we have a choice. We have to learn everything we can about the arch if we’re going to have any chance of using it.” She sighed. “That’s assuming, of course, that we ever find it. I don’t know how we’re going to manage that one.”

Beltan frowned at her. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not particularly.” She glanced at Anders.

“Don’t look at me, mate. I’m beginning to think I’m not the one with the brains here, after all.”

“You don’t have to be smart to think like a thief,” Beltan said, pacing lionlike alongside the table. “The Scirathi must want the arch for something important. Why else would they go to all the trouble of stealing it? However, it’s worthless to them if they don’t have the keystone. That means at some point they will have to come for it.”

“But the Scirathi can’t know the keystone is here,” Deirdre said, trying to follow his logic.

“They could be made to know.”

Anders let out a low whistle. “So you want to set a trap for them, to lure them with the keystone and nab them.”

“No,” Beltan said, his voice hard, “I want to let them capture the keystone. Once they have it, they will surely go to where the arch is located. All we have to do is follow them.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“I did not say it would be easy,” Beltan growled. “I imagine it will be anything but. Yet it is our only chance of getting to the arch.”

Anders looked queasy. “I suppose it is. All the same, I can’t imagine the Philosophers will let us take a priceless artifact from their collection and dangle it out there like a piece of bait.”

“They will, if you convince them to.”

“I don’t know, mate. . . .”

Beltan leaned on the table, green light flickering in his eyes. “You promised to help me.”

Deirdre knew she had to intervene before this came to blows. “It’s a good plan,” she said, standing up and touching Beltan’s shoulder. She felt the big man relax. “But we still need to learn what we can about the arch before we do this. If we’re going to follow the sorcerers back to where they’ve hidden the arch, then we have to be ready to act when we get there. We won’t get a second chance.”

Beltan grunted; he couldn’t disagree with that.

Anders gave her a grateful look. “There’s one thing about all this that doesn’t make sense. The Scirathi already had a gate, and they used it to kidnap Nim. So what do they need the arch for?”

Deirdre chewed her lip. She couldn’t answer that one. “The only ones who know the answer to that question are the Scirathi themselves.”

“Then why not ask one?” Beltan said.

Anders scowled at him. “This is no time for jokes, mate.”

“I’m not joking.”

By the look on his face, Deirdre knew he wasn’t. Anders stared at him, then suddenly grinned.

“I’m starting to like the way you think. Better to do something, however bonkers, than to sit around on your bum. Mind if I join you on your little hunt?”

Beltan nodded. “Your help would be welcome indeed.”

An alarm sounded in Deirdre’s skull. She gripped Beltan’s arm. “We don’t know how many Scirathi are still on Earth. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I can’t just wait here, Deirdre. I need something to do. And this can help us, you know it can.” His expression softened a fraction. “Don’t worry. We won’t take unnecessary risks.”

“Come on, mate,” Anders said, putting on his suit coat. “Let’s go see if we can nab ourselves a sorcerer.”

Once they had gone, Deirdre spent the remainder of the afternoon combing through the documents on her desk–ostensibly trying to find any clues she might have missed, but mostly trying not to think about Anders and Beltan, or what might be happening to them.

They’re big boys, Deirdre. They can take care of themselves.

Then why did she feel like she needed to run after them and protect them? Especially Anders. He was strong. He had a gun, and he was trained to use it. But he didn’t have experience facing enemies with magical powers, not like Beltan did. Except that wasn’t true; Anders had taken out the one sorcerer at the Tube station.

Deirdre rose and moved across the office. He had left the sorcerer’s gold mask on his desk. She picked it up, touching the bullet hole between the mask’s eye slits. What if that had been a lucky shot? Anders might not be so fortunate the next time he came face‑to‑face with a sorcerer. Or make that sorcerers. She went back to her desk, propped up the mask against a stack of papers so that its serene gold face seemed to gaze at her, and kept working as the wall clock ticked away the silent seconds.

The back of her neck tingled, and she looked up.

Sasha stood in the doorway, slender arms folded, leaning against the doorjamb.

Deirdre gasped. “How long have you been there?”

“Just a minute or two,” Sasha said, her red lips parting in a smile. “I was watching you.”

Deirdre scowled, now more annoyed than startled. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“I know. I’m a naughty girl. But you look so adorable when you’re working manically, I couldn’t resist.”

“I was probably picking my nose,” Deirdre said.

“If only. I would have snapped a picture.” Sasha gestured to the tiny digital camera that dangled from a silver chain around her neck. She wore it all the time these days, like a piece of jewelry, and was constantly catching people in compromising positions and displaying the resulting snapshots on her computer. “Do you mind if I come in?”

Before Deirdre could answer, Sasha sauntered languidly– she never merely walked–into the office. Today’s fashion included saffron slacks and a fluttery chartreuse top that made her look like an exotic bird. Her coffee‑with‑cream skin gave off a healthy glow despite the office’s fluorescent lights, which made Deirdre–who wasn’t exactly well acquainted with the sun these days–look like she had consumption.

After all their years working together, Deirdre still wasn’t entirely certain what Sasha did for the Seekers. She was an attachй to the Director of Operations, which meant these days she spent most of her time with Richard Nakamura. Although precisely what she did for Nakamura, Deirdre couldn’t say. All she knew was that, more than any other Seeker, Sasha seemed to have her finger on the pulse of the organization. Nothing seemed to happen that she didn’t know about first, or know more juicy details about than anybody else.

Probably because she’s always spying on people. And who knows? Maybe that’s her real job.

Deirdre wasn’t worried. Nothing she was doing here was clandestine. In fact, she had already begun to draft a preliminary report on the events of the last thirty‑six hours for Nakamura. Deirdre might as well give Sasha a copy since she was there. She opened the document on her computer and clicked PRINT.

“So what have we here?” Sasha said when Deirdre handed her the copy, still warm from the printer.

“A draft of a report I’m writing for Nakamura, to keep him apprised of what we’re doing.” Deirdre sat on the edge of her desk.

Sasha folded the papers without reading them. “That’s good of you, but it’s not necessary. You’re Echelon 7, Deirdre. You’ve got free rein on this mission–it’s under your complete control. There’s no need for you to submit a report until you deem the case is closed.”

Deirdre wasn’t sure whether those words were reassuring or not. It was good to know she wasn’t going to be second‑guessed all the time. On the other hand, she wasn’t entirely certain she knew what she was doing here. How did the Desiderata apply when the otherworldly being you had vowed not to interfere with also happened to be a dear friend you had vowed to help? It was hard to rely solely on one’s own judgment.

“Take the report to Nakamura anyway,” Deirdre said. “I don’t want there to be any secrets here.”

“Funny you should mention secrets,” Sasha purred. “That’s just what I came to talk to you about.”

Deirdre gripped her bear claw necklace. “What do you mean?”

Sasha glanced at the door, then drew in close, her expression no longer one of sly amusement, but rather solemn. “Do you remember how I once told you to keep your curiosity outside the Seekers, that it was better not to turn up stones left untouched?”

Deirdre felt a chill pass through her. She could only nod.

“Well, maybe it’s time to start turning up a few of those stones after all.”

“What are you talking about? What stones?”

Sasha picked up the gold mask and ran a long finger over it. “So this is one of the masks they wear. Those sorcerers you’ve written about in your reports. It’s so much more beautiful than I ever would have thought. Only it covers ugliness, doesn’t it? Ugliness and hate.”

None of this made any sense. Deirdre ran a hand through her close‑cropped hair. “Sasha, what is this really about?”

The other woman was silent for a time. Finally she spoke in a low voice. “The sorcerers aren’t the only organization that requires its members to wear masks, Deirdre. Sometimes the Seekers do, too. And you can’t always know what’s behind those masks. Sometimes it’s good. Sometimes they’re keeping secrets to protect you. And sometimes . . .”

Deirdre was sweating, but she felt cold. “What do you know, Sasha? If you know something, you have to tell me.”

Sasha shook her head. “All I know is that there are secrets. Things that most of us don’t know, that others don’t want us to know.”

“Secrets like what?”

Sasha set down the mask. “This was a mistake. I’ve told more than I should have. But I just wanted you to . . . you need to keep your eyes open, that’s all.” She started toward the door.

Deirdre stood up, her heart thudding in her chest. “Sasha, please. You’ve got to tell me what you’re talking about.”

Sasha hesitated, then glanced over her shoulder, her dark eyes unreadable. “Has Anders ever told you why he can carry a gun when no other Seeker is allowed to?”

Deirdre could only stare.

“Take care of yourself, honey,” Sasha said, then headed out the door, leaving Deirdre alone.

22.

It was late. Deirdre gazed out the window of her flat, watching as rain snaked in rivulets down the panes. She held a glass of scotch in her hand; she hadn’t taken a sip since she poured it two hours ago.

Has Anders ever told you why he can carry a gun when no other Seeker is allowed to?

Like uninvited guests, Sasha’s words from earlier that day slipped into her mind. Deirdre tried to ignore them. She didn’t know what Sasha was trying to do, but she wasn’t going to suspect Anders of wrongdoing. Not after he had saved her life– and the lives of others–multiple times. Not after she had vowed she was going to trust him.

But what if you’re being blind, Deirdre?

Was that her Wise Self speaking, the shaman in her who often saw things in a clearer light? Or was it her Shadow Self– her darker and more destructive side–that was speaking?

You’ve developed feelings for Anders–you can’t deny that you have. And what if that’s what he’s been counting on? The co fee, the flowers, the designer suits and expensive cologne– what if it’s all been part of a precise operation, one designed to charm you, and to distract you from things you would otherwise see. Great Spirit, no one can bethat cheerful all the time. It has to be an act.

No, she wouldn’t believe that. Anders was a good man. A true heart beat in that barrel chest of his, she was sure of it. Besides, if someone had wanted her to be seduced, surely they would have sent an agent more suave, more good‑looking than Anders to do the deed.

Or would they? Not if they were clever–not if they knew Deirdre well. She had fallen for a striking, mysterious man once–for Hadrian Farr–and she wouldn’t make that same mistake again. If Anders had been too slick or handsome, her guard would have gone up at once. Instead, Anders had infiltrated the barriers of her affections like a stealth jet, flying low and under the radar.

This is ridiculous, Deirdre.Now it was neither her Wise Self nor Shadow Self talking. It was just her plain old Angry and Afraid Self. Anders isn’t an airplane, he’s a person, and he hasn’t been keeping secrets from you. You know it.

Really? Or had her judgment been impaired by broad shoulders, a gravelly voice, and crinkly blue eyes? Because, much as she had done her best to ignore it these last three years, Sasha was right–there was one secret Anders kept from her. He still had never told her why he was allowed to carry a gun when no other Seeker had that privilege.

Not that she was entirely sorry that was the case. More than once he had used that gun to protect her and others. All the same, the fact that he did carry it nagged at her, now more than ever. He had told her his story–how he had worked security for the Seekers before becoming an agent, and how, since he had the proper training to use it, Nakamura was letting him keep the gun temporarily, until a final decision about it came down from the Philosophers.

But such a decision had never been made, at least not as far as Deirdre knew. So why did Anders carry a gun? Did he have special connections in the Seekers? That seemed absurd; Anders was still only a journeyman. However, the fact that a former security guard had been admitted to the organization at all was unusual. It could be there was more to Anders’s becoming a Seeker than was visible on the surface.

Deirdre sighed. Her head throbbed, and it was long past her bedtime. She could think about all of this tomorrow. She started to push herself up from the chair–then froze.

Something moved in the darkness outside the window.

She leaned forward, until her breath fogged on the glass panes. She had only glimpsed it for a second, but it had been a vaguely manlike shape, she was sure of it. Only it hadn’t been down below on the street. Instead, it had seemed to float in the night, directly outside the window.

There was a soft clickas the door of her flat closed shut. The glass of scotch tumbled to the floor. Heart pounding, Deirdre sprang out of the chair and whirled around.

There was no one there.

“Anders?” she called out. “Is that you?”

He had a key to her flat; he always took care of her house‑plants when she was away. But there was no answer. Not that she expected any. Whatever Sasha thought of him, Anders was a gentleman; he always knocked before entering. Besides, he had said he was going to stay at the Charterhouse that night to keep an eye on Beltan.

Earlier that evening, the two men had returned: wet, hungry, and more than a little grouchy from their mad hunt for a sorcerer. They had found no signs of the Scirathi in the city. Not that Deirdre had expected any different; it wasn’t as if sorcerers tended to hang out at the local coffee shop. Though maybe the blood bank would have been a more likely place to find them.

Despite their failure, Beltan’s resolve to find one of the Scirathi had not lessened, and Anders wanted to keep close to the blond man in case he decided to try continuing the search on his own. Deirdre had agreed; in his current frame of mind, it was best if Beltan wasn’t left alone.

And what about you, Deirdre? Are you alone right now?

She didn’t know what she had glimpsed in the window, but there was one thing she was certain of: Whatever it was, it hadn’t been outside her flat.

It was a reflection in the glass. A reflection from behind you. Someone was in here.

Whoever it had been was gone now. A thorough exploration of all the rooms of her flat–as well as the closets–confirmed her instincts. The intruder had fled. She headed back to the kitchen, thinking maybe she had better give another glass of scotch a try. Her hands shook as she tilted the bottle, and she slopped half the liquid onto the counter. She reached for the roll of paper towels.

A manila envelope lay on the countertop. She had not put it there.

Deirdre gulped down what scotch she had managed to get into the glass, then picked up the envelope. There was a lump inside it. She undid the string, opened the flap, and tilted the envelope. A small black cell phone slipped out. She drew in a deep breath, then picked up the phone and switched it on.

It rang.

She was so startled she nearly dropped it. She fumbled with the buttons, then held the phone to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Deirdre.”

She had known it would be he. Once before he had made contact with her in this fashion. All the same, a thrill ran through her at the sound of his rich, accentless voice.

“Who was just in my flat?” she said. “You or one of your minions?”

Laughter emanated from the phone. “Minions? What a marvelous word. It makes me feel like a villain just to say it. I really must try to have more minions.”

“So it was you.” Fear rippled through her, and excitement. He had been here, in her flat–her Philosopher. She moved to the window and peered out into the darkness and the rain. “Where are you?”

“Close, Deirdre.” His words were a murmur in her ear. “I am always close now. The worlds draw near. And so does the end.”

“The end of what?”

“Why, of everything.”

Deirdre sank down into the chair. She had to be smart, she had to think of the most important questions and ask them first. He wouldn’t stay on the phone long; he never did.

“Where is the arch?”

Again he laughed. “That’s why I like you, Deirdre. You always get right to the point.”

She bit her tongue. If she was silent, he would have to keep speaking. There was a dreadful pause in which she feared he had hung up. Then, once more, his rich voice emanated from the phone.

“It’s nearer than you might think. However, I’m not going to tell you where it is. Now is not the time to seek it out.”

“Why?” she said, unable to stop herself.

“Because if you do, you will die. So will the man from the otherworld, the knight Beltan. I cannot let that happen.”

This time it was he who paused. Deirdre had no choice but to say something or risk the conversation ending. “Beltan is determined to find the arch, and I can’t control him. Today he and Anders went looking for a sorcerer to question.”

“That’s an excellent idea. Do go have a chat with a sorcerer. That will help you see your next step is not to seek the gate. There are other mysteries that must be attended to first.”

Deirdre clutched the phone, as if that could keep him from hanging up. “But how can we find a sorcerer? We don’t even know if there are any left in London.”

“There are. Their work here is not done. Finding the girl, Nim, was simply a happy accident. An act of Fate, as they might say. It was not the reason they came to our world.”

“But where can we find one of the Scirathi?” she said, unable to keep the words from sounding as desperate as they were.

“That’s simple enough. The man Beltan possesses something the Scirathi crave, something that is sure to tempt them into the open. As for where to go–I think you already sense the answer to that. They know now what flows in Travis Wilder’s veins. They are keeping watch, just in case he returns.”

Deirdre thought maybe she understood, but she had to be certain. However, he spoke again before she could.

“By the way, your friend Sasha was right in what she said to you earlier today.”

“What?” It was the only word she could manage.

“You do not know what you think you know, Deirdre. That is the one thing–the only thing–of which you can be certain. Do not let yourself believe you can trust anyone other than yourself. Even within the Seekers, there are those who would work against you.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, her pulse thudding in her ears.

“Why do you think I always make contact with you in such a secretive manner? Contrary to what you might believe, it’s not for my amusement. I do it because there are those who, if they knew I had told you the things I have, would not hesitate to–” He paused; she could hear his breathing. “No, that’s not important now. All that matters is that you understand one thing: There is much you do not know, much you cannot even guess at. And there are those who will do anything to keep it that way.”

The phone was slick in Deirdre’s hand. “What should I do?”

“I can’t tell you that, Deirdre. But I will give you something to think about. The sorcerers used Travis Wilder’s blood, taken from the belly of the gorleththat attacked him, to power the gate artifact in their possession and abduct the girl.”

“We already know that.”

“Good. Now ask yourself this: How did the sorcerers know they could do that? How did they know that blood of power, blood that could fuel their gate, ran in Travis Wilder’s veins?”

Deirdre hardly heard his words. She could feel him starting to slip away. “Please, don’t go. There are so many questions, and I don’t have any idea how to get the answers.”

“That’s not true, Deirdre. You’re a resourceful woman. I have every faith you’ll find a way to get those answers of yours.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “And I think a time is coming when all questions will be answered. Perihelion approaches. This world and the otherworld draw nearer every day. It is not chance that the earthquake on Crete revealed the arch. Things long buried are now coming to light because they needto be found.”

“What do you mean?” Deirdre said, clutching the phone. “What things need to be found?”

But the only reply was the drone of a dial tone in her ear.

23.

It was well after ten o’clock by the time Deirdre straggled into the Charterhouse the next morning. She stopped at the front desk, picked up a pen fastened to a chain, and signed in on the clipboard. The receptionist, Madeleine, looked up from her computer, though her fingers continued to flay the keyboard.

“How good of you to join us today, Miss Falling Hawk,” she said, peering over moon‑shaped reading glasses.

Deirdre was not in the mood for irony. “You misspelled ‘Sincerely,’ ” she said, pointing at Madeleine’s computer screen.

The receptionist gave her a sour look, which Deirdre could at least appreciate for its honesty, then pushed her glasses up her nose and studied the screen. Deirdre made her way down the hall and descended a flight of stairs to her office.

Anders wasn’t there. She didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. With regard to the lack of coffee, it was certainly the former, but otherwise it could only be the latter. Surely he would have seen it on her face the moment she looked at him. Doubt.

She tossed the newspaper she had bought on her desk and slumped into the chair. There was a note neatly tucked under the blotter. She pulled it out. It was written in Anders’s cramped, precise hand.

Good morning, partner!

Beltan and I decided to get an early start. We’re o f to nose about the city. Back by noon. Shall we lunch at the M.E.?

Cheers!

–Anders

Deirdre winced. Gods, even when he wrote he sounded insanely chipper. She started to toss the note in the trash can, then stopped, folded it carefully, and tucked it back beneath the blotter.

She hated this. She hated the way she felt, and she hated what she was going to do. However, she had no choice. Once again she asked herself the question that had been eating at her.

How did the sorcerers here on Earth know about the blood of power that runs in Travis’s veins?

The only people who could possibly know that information were Travis’s closest companions. And any Seeker who had read the Wilder‑Beckett case files. Deirdre could not believe Beltan or Vani had informed the sorcerers. That meant there was only one other possibility.

There’s a traitor in the Seekers, and Sasha must know it–or at least suspect it. That’s why she was trying to warn you yesterday. Someone with access to the reports about Travis is in league with the sorcerers.

And, much as it turned her heart to ash to admit it, all the signs pointed to one person. He had read all the reports about Travis. He was capable of keeping secrets; the gun he carried proved that. And the night they were attacked by the Scirathi, he had shown up at the Tube station almost too miraculously.

Only that doesn’t make sense, Deirdre. If Anders was really working for the Scirathi, why did he save all of you that night?

For the same reason he brewed fabulous coffee and brought flowers to the office. To win their trust, their affection.

Think about it, Deirdre. No one actually saw him shoot that sorcerer he claimed he killed. You read his report. Even Eustace didn’t see it happen. A Scirathi could simply have given Anders one of their gold masks to use as a prop, to help back up his story.

The thought made her sick, but she couldn’t dismiss it. Her grandfather had always told her to trust her instincts. And all those instincts told her that Anders was concealing something.

So what was she going to do?

Keep him close, Deirdre. And don’t act as if anything’s changed. Whatever his work is, it isn’t done; otherwise, he wouldn’t still be playing this game. The longer you can make him believe you know nothing, the better your chances of figuring out what it is he’s up to.

Deirdre massaged her throbbing temples. She had spent all night going over these thoughts again and again. Right now she wanted to think about something–anything–else. She unfolded the copy of the Timesshe had bought and bent her head over it.

However, she found little solace in reading the paper. On the front page there was an article about the worldwide increase in violent natural phenomena over the last few months. Earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, hurricanes–all were happening with greater frequency than normal. The article discounted the common belief that the change in the Earth’s climate was a result of the celestial anomaly, and instead offered various theories about possible geologic and meteorological causes. However, Deirdre knew the article was wrong.

It’s perihelion. That’s what the Philosopher said. Eldh is drawing close, and somehow it’s a fecting Earth. It’s like the pull of gravity.

Only it wasn’t gravity, it was something else. But what then? Magic? All Deirdre knew was that it wasn’t chance that an earthquake had shaken Crete, revealing the stone arch.

And what about the dark spot in space? It can’t be chance that it’s appeared now as perihelion approaches.

According to a report she had seen on a morning TV news show, the anomaly was now visible to the naked eye in the northern hemisphere–at least to those who didn’t live in major cities. However, even if it hadn’t been cloudy the last several days, Deirdre doubted she would have been able to see it through the glare of London’s streetlights.

And maybe that explained why people in the city continued to go about their lives as if nothing had changed. That morning, Deirdre had taken the Tube with countless people trudging to their jobs, the expressions on their faces as dull as the leaden sky. On the streets, double‑decker buses ferried tired, trapped‑looking tourists to Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, and St. Paul’s. Ships oozed up and down the sluggish Thames. Yet surely, if people could see the dark spot in the sky, they would be panicking.

Or would they? Because even if they couldn’t see it through the London fog, people had to know it was there. Just as it had expanded in the sky, stories about Variance X had grown more prominent on television and in the newspaper. Reports about it were everywhere. Only no one seemed to be paying attention.

Except for the Mouthers. Deirdre had passed several of them that morning, standing on a corner outside the Blackfriars Tube station in their white sheets. Each member of the group had carried a sign that bore, not words, but instead a black circle scrawled on white cardboard. They did not accost passersby, but simply stared, their eyes as vacant as the circles on their signs.

Deirdre had ignored the Mouthers, as had everyone else passing by. No one ever looked at the people in white, or up at the sky. Or, it seemed, at the articles in the newspaper.

Maybe people are tired of hearing about disasters, Deirdre. Fires. Floods. Wars. Famines. Maybe there are too many troubles here on Earth to worry about something in the sky.

Maybe. But while others might be disinterested, Deirdre was anything but. Like the storms and earthquakes, Variance X had to be related to perihelion somehow. She leaned over the paper, scanning the article in the Times.

It began with a summary of what was known about the anomaly: how it had first been detected a few months ago, at a distance of about 10 billion miles from Earth–or fifteen hours as the light beam flies. At the time, the anomaly was dubbed Variance X by skeptical astronomers. The name was a joke. Over the years, various astronomers had put forth the theory that the solar system contained a dark, distant tenth planet– Planet X. Such a planet had never been found, and those who theorized it existed were generally regarded as pseudoscientists and crackpots.

However, no one was laughing now, for the joke soon ended as countless observatories around the world confirmed the existence of Variance X, as well as the fact that it was growing.

Some researchers speculated that the anomaly was indeed a tenth planet, surrounded by a cloud of black, icy comets, approaching the solar system on the short end of its elliptical orbit. Others suggested it was a disk of dark matter that until recently had been angled with respect to Earth so that it was invisible, like a dinner plate turned on edge. Now, as the disk rotated on its axis, it was coming into view, and blotting out Earth’s view of the stars beyond it. Others suggested Variance X was a cloud of light‑absorbing gas trailing a small, wandering black hole.

However, one researcher–an American astronomer who had recently accepted a position as a visiting professor at Oxford– had proposed a very different theory: that the dark blot was in fact an instability in the fabric of space‑time. So far, according to the newspaper article, most leading astronomers had rejected that theory.

Yet perhaps such an explanation is unthinkable, the article went on, not because it is impossible, but instead because theconsequences are so dire. If Variance X is a rip in space‑time– the cloth from which our universe is cut–what’s to stop it from unraveling? Nothing, says American astronomer Sara Voorhees. According to Voorhees, unless the instability that gave rise to it somehow corrects itself, the anomaly will keep expanding until the universe is torn apart in one final, violent blending of matter and antimatter that will leave nothing at all. It’s not difficult to see why that prospect has proven unpopular.

Feeling ill, Deirdre folded the paper and tossed it in the waste bin. What did it all mean? Maybe two different worlds were on a collision course. Maybe that was what perihelion meant. If so, then there was no hope for anyone on Earth or Eldh.

Except, the problem was, Deirdre didhave hope. She couldn’t wait quietly for the end of the world like the Mouthers; she had to do something. And she was going to. With a deep breath she rolled up her sleeves, turned on her computer, and got to work.

By the time Beltan and Anders showed up, she had a plan.

“What’s going on, mate?” Anders said, setting a tall paper cup on her desk. “You’ve got an extradetermined look about you today.”

She picked up the cup and took a sip. It was coffee: rich, bitter, and with just the perfect hint of cream. “Have you found a sorcerer yet?”

“No,” Beltan said, slumping into a chair next to her desk. “It’s like looking for something very small lost in an enormous pile of things that are also very small. Only not the same as the first thing.”

“You mean it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack,” Anders said.

Beltan frowned at him. “By Vathris, why would anyone look for a needle in a stack of hay?”

“It’s an expression. It means just what you said.”

“I’m talking about people, not needles. And how did it get in the hay? Did some mad seamstress put the needle there?”

“Never mind,” Anders growled. He shrugged off his suit coat and glanced at Deirdre. “As you can see, we haven’t exactly made a lot of progress in our hunt for a sorcerer.”

Muscles played beneath the skin of his forearms as he loosened his tie. Deirdre gulped the scalding‑hot coffee.

“Don’t worry,” she said, her throat burning. “I think I’ve got it figured out.”

“You’ve got what figured out?” Beltan said.

“How we’re going to catch a sorcerer.”

24.

They waited until nightfall. The Scirathi were more comfortable working under cover of darkness; that was one of the few things they had learned in their dealings with the sorcerers.

And what about Anders?Deirdre thought as they drove in a black sedan along Shaftesbury Avenue. What’s he learned about them?

She glanced at him as he drove. Would he betray her tonight? After all, if he was really working for the sorcerers, he couldn’t allow her to catch one of them. Except he had to, if he was going to keep up his act; he would have to go along with her plan.

As the lights of the city came on against the gathering dusk, Anders turned the wheel, guiding the car onto a narrow lane. Beltan’s and Travis’s flat was just ahead.

“We already checked out the flat,” Anders had said earlier that day, when she told him where they would go that evening. “Beltan and I sniffed all around his old neighborhood and didn’t see a thing. It wouldn’t surprise me if there’s a sorcerer lurking about there–returning to the scene of the crime and all that. But if so, he won’t come out to play.”

“He will if you make him want to,” Deirdre had said.

It was time. Anders brought the car to a halt two blocks away from the flat. Deirdre climbed out. Beltan unfolded his long frame from the backseat.

“I’m ready,” he said, one hand in the pocket of his jeans.

Deirdre touched his arm. “Make sure you’re seen.”

He nodded, then turned and took long strides down the sidewalk, vanishing into the gloom.

Anders leaned out the window of the car. “Is your radio working, mate?”

Deirdre held the device to her mouth to test it. She heard her voice emanate from inside the car. She gave him a thumbs‑up, then tucked the radio into her jacket pocket, alongside something else.

“Good luck,” Anders said, winking at her.

The car sped away down the lane. Deirdre didn’t like letting him go by himself, but she had no choice, not if this plan was going to work. Besides, it was too late for him to warn them. If one was keeping watch, then at that moment he was already observing Beltan open the door of the flat. Deirdre looked at her wristwatch, letting thirty more seconds pass. Then she started moving.

She walked quickly down the sidewalk and up the front steps of the building. If the Philosopher was right, it wouldn’t take long. She waited a few seconds in the lobby of the building, eyes on her watch. The plan called for Beltan to be alone in the flat for three minutes, not one second more. With thirty seconds to go, she started up the stairs.

Five seconds still remained when she reached the door of the flat. It was closed; no sounds emanated from the other side. She drew in a breath to steady herself. Was Anders in position? What if he wasn’t?