The First Stone

There was no more time to worry about it. The watch ticked the last seconds away. Deirdre slipped a hand into her jacket pocket, then pushed through the door of the flat.

The sorcerer was killing Beltan.

It was hard to see. The flat was darkened, and only a few scraps of light filtered around Deirdre into the living room, but her imagination filled in what her eyes could not discern.

The window was open, and the night air billowed the white curtains like the garb of a ghost. Beltan was on his knees, his head thrown back, the cords of his neck standing out. One hand clutched at his chest. The other gripped a small glass vial filled with dark fluid. The sorcerer stood above him, clad all in black, a smile frozen on the serene gold face. One hand reached toward Beltan. The sorcerer’s fingers curled together, and Beltan jerked as a spasm passed through him.

Fear stabbed into Deirdre’s chest, as if it was her heart the sorcerer was stopping with a spell. And if she didn’t act quickly, in a moment it would be. She pulled two objects from her pocket–and fumbled them in sweaty hands. They fell to the floor: the radio, as well as something sleek and silvery.

A squawk emanated from the radio. Before Deirdre could move, Anders’s voice crackled out of it. “Is that you, Deirdre? Are you in position yet? I can’t see anything in the flat; it’s too dark in there.”

The sorcerer hissed, and the gold mask swung in Deirdre’s direction. Beltan drew in a gasping breath, but he still couldn’t move; the sorcerer had not lowered its hand. And it had another. It stretched its left hand toward Deirdre’s chest.

There was no time to think. Deirdre dived to the floor, grabbing the things lying there. She punched a button on the radio.

“Now, Anders!” she shouted. And with her free hand she gripped the other object and flicked a switch.

A beam of white‑blue light pierced the darkness of the flat, slicing crazily through the shadows. Deirdre threw down the radio and gripped the flashlight in both hands, angling the beam upward. It struck the sorcerer’s gold mask, and the Scirathi staggered back, dazzled by the sudden light. Beltan started to struggle to his feet.

Again the sorcerer thrust a hand toward the blond man, and Beltan grunted, falling back to his knees. The other hand pointed at Deirdre, and she gasped as pain crackled through her. She couldn’t breathe; the flashlight started to slip from her hands.

Something hissed through the open window, and there was a soft thunk. The sorcerer took a step back, and a soft exhalation of air passed through the mouth slit of its mask. Then the Scirathi slumped to the floor.

Although he had been under the spell of the sorcerer longer, Beltan was the first to recover. As he knelt above her, Deirdre could see his green eyes glowing faintly in the dark. He helped her sit up, and a ragged breath rushed into her lungs.

“Are you all right?” he said, his voice hoarse.

She nodded. Her heart had resumed something like a normal cadence in her chest. The sorcerer’s spell had not done as much harm as she would have thought. “How is he?”

Beltan moved to a dark lump that sprawled on the floor. “He’s not moving, but I think he’s still conscious.”

Good. The drug was working exactly as it was supposed to. She had feared Scirathi physiology might be different, but it wasn’t. For all their powers, they were still men.

Deirdre groped for the flashlight, then crawled on hands and knees to Beltan. She trained the light down, onto the crumpled form of the sorcerer. Its body twitched, and gurgling sounds emanated from behind the mask. A silver dart protruded from the center of its chest.

“The mask,” Beltan said. “Take it off. He’s powerless without it.”

Deirdre hesitated, then with trembling hands gripped the edge of the gold mask, pulled it off, and handed it to Beltan.

The sorcerer was not a man after all. The face was a blasted landscape of scar tissue, crudely stitched wounds, and oozing scabs. The ears were gone, and the nose reduced to two pits above the featureless slit of the mouth. However, the bone structure–plain to see–was fine, even delicate. This sorcerer was a woman.

Or had been once. Now her face was a ruin from which all traces of humanity had been cut away with the blade of a knife. Only the sorcerer’s eyes were recognizable as something human. They gazed at Deirdre with hatred. And with fear.

“It looks like everything went off without a hitch,” said a cheerful, if breathless, voice behind them.

Both Deirdre and Beltan glared at Anders as he stepped into the flat.

“Or not,” he said, grin fading as he shut the door.

It hadn’t taken him long to get here from his position in the hotel across the street. He had been stationed on the third floor with the dart gun, waiting for Deirdre to shine the light on their target. Once he got off his shot, he must have run here to the flat. Good. That meant he wouldn’t have had time to communicate with anyone else.

Anders knelt beside them. “Gads, that’s a nasty sight.” He looked up from the sorcerer. “Are you both all right?”

“We’re alive, if that’s what you mean,” Beltan said, his voice still ragged.

“Let’s talk to her,” Deirdre said.

Anders reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a syringe. He handed it to Deirdre. She took off the cap, flicked the syringe to remove the bubbles, then inserted the needle into the sorcerer’s throat.

“This will relax the muscles around your larynx. You’ll be able to talk, but that’s all.”

Anders started to reach for the dart embedded in the Scirathi’s chest, but Beltan grabbed his hand.

“No, leave the dart in place. We do not want her to bleed.”

Anders swallowed. “Good point, mate.”

“Blood,” hissed a voice like a serpent’s. It was the sorcerer. The slit of her mouth twitched. “Give me the blood. . . .”

“Never,” Beltan growled. He made sure the glass vial was stopped tightly, then slipped it into his pocket.

The mysterious Philosopher had been right; Beltan had indeed possessed something that would tempt a sorcerer. That morning, they had used alcohol to wash the blood from the bandage Beltan had kept from Travis’s arm. Most of the alcohol had evaporated, leaving only the residual fluid in the vial. It amounted to only a few drops of blood, no more, but it was enough. The moment Beltan had opened the vial in the flat, the sorcerer had appeared, drawn out of hiding by the scent of such power.

“I think it’s time you answered a few questions, friend,” Anders said.

Deirdre gave him a sharp look. Was he trying to take over the questioning, to keep them from learning everything they might?

“I’ll do this,” she said. Anders gave her a surprised look, but before he could protest she bent over the sorcerer.

“Where is the arch you stole from Crete?”

The sorcerer made a gurgling sound low in her throat.

“I know you can understand me. You just spoke English a moment ago. Now answer me.”

The gurgling became words. “I will tell you nothing.”

She was wrong about that. The drug on the dart had been a potent mixture, one intended not only to paralyze the body but soften the mind, to make it pliant and cooperative.

“Where is the arch you stole from Crete?” Deirdre repeated. “If you tell us, we’ll give you a drop of the blood. His blood.”

Beltan gave her a sharp look, but she shook her head.

“I do not know,” the sorcerer hissed. “Now give me the blood of power! It will heal me.”

Deirdre made her voice hard. “You’re lying.”

The Scirathi muttered in a language she did not understand, then spoke again in English. “I do not know, I tell you. We gave it to them, and they took it. That is all.”

Anders raised an eyebrow, and Beltan let out a low grunt.

“They were working for someone else,” Deirdre said.

Beltan leaned over the sorcerer, gripping her shoulders. “Who did you give the arch to? Tell us!”

The drug had taken full effect by then. The sorcerer spoke rapidly, almost babbling, spittle trickling from her lipless mouth. “I do not know who they are. I do not care who they are. The arch means nothing to us now. We need a gate no longer. The worlds draw near. Soon the walls between them will come tumbling down, and we shall return. We shall take what should have been ours long ago. And both the worlds will tremble before the might of the Scirathi.”

Anders let out a low whistle. “That doesn’t exactly sound like cause for celebration.”

It didn’t. The sorcerer’s words sent a chill through Deirdre, even though she didn’t fully understand them. She decided to try a different tactic. “If you’re so powerful, why steal the arch for these others? Why do someone else’s bidding?”

“Knowledge.” The sorcerer writhed in Beltan’s grip. “They gave us knowledge we did not possess. We did not know she was here–we did not guess it. But they told us where to find him, and of the blood of the scarab that flows in him. We sought him out, to slay him so that he cannot stand in our way. But instead we found her. Like a perfect jewel she is, one beyond worth. We were dazzled, and so we took her. . . .”

“Nim!” Beltan roared. “Where is she? Where have you taken her?”

He shook the sorcerer–violently, so that her head flopped– and Deirdre gripped his arms, forcing him to stop. If he killed her, they would learn nothing.

The sorcerer let out a high, keening sound. At first Deirdre thought it was a sound of grief. Then she realized it was laughter.

“They have taken the child unto the Dark,” the sorcerer croaked. “After so long, all its secrets will be ours. She is the key that will open the way. . . .”

Deirdre bent over the sorcerer. “Nim is the key that will open the way to what?”

“Him . . .” The sorcerer’s head lolled back and forth, eyes fluttering shut. Her voice was nearly drowned in a wet gurgle. “The arch . . . blood so near . . . the seven cannot . . . be far.”

They were losing her. “The seven what?” Deirdre said, shaking the sorcerer herself in desperation.

“Sleep,” the sorcerer breathed in a faint exhalation. “Sleep . . .”

Her body shuddered once, then went still.

25.

The sun beat down on them like a molten fist. They had been in this place only minutes, and already Travis could feel his skin beginning to crisp. He used a hand to shade his eyes against the glare as he gazed up at the top of the sand dune.

“Can you see anything from up there?” The air parched his throat and lungs.

A dark form glided down the lee side of the dune toward him. “We are in Moringarth,” Vani said. “Of that much I am certain. We are not in the wasteland of the Morgolthi, so our circumstance is not as bad as it might be. But we are near its edge, I would guess, so it is not good either.”

The Morgolthi. Travis had heard tales of it among the Mournish. They called it the Hungering Land. Eons ago, it had been a land of prosperous city‑states, strung like glistening pearls along the River Emyr. The river was the lifeblood of ancient Amъn, carrying traders between the cities and bringing water to the fertile farmlands along its banks.

Then came the War of the Sorcerers, when the wielders of magic rose up against the god‑kings who ruled the city‑states and sought to usurp their place. War consumed city after city, and the river ran red with the blood of ten thousand sorcerers.

In the final conflagration, the land was shattered, and the course of the River Emyr was changed, so that its life‑giving waters flowed west to the sea, not east across Amъn, and the once lush land of city‑states became a sun‑blasted desert, a place of thirst and death.

Dead though it was, the Morgolthi had given birth in an unexpected way. Over time, the blood of sorcerers that had drenched the sand dried, became dust, blew into the air, and was carried by the wind to the lands of Al‑Amъn, where civilization had sprung up anew, and across the sea to Tarras and the other cities of southern Falengarth.

The dust was breathed in by thousands upon thousands of people, and power yet lingered in it, for when enough people had taken the dust into them, their collective hopes, and desires, and fears became manifest. So the gods of the Mystery Cults were born. . . .

There was a sharp but distant sound, like a far‑off gunshot.

“Travis!”

Only when pain crackled through his jaw did he realize Vani had slapped him.

He staggered back. “What was that for?”

“You did not respond to my words. You must guard yourself in this place. It is said the air of the Morgolthi is strangely sweet to a sorcerer, that it can intoxicate him like wine.”

“But I’m not a–”

Travis clenched his jaw shut as she gave him a piercing look. He tried to breathe more shallowly and not to think of the powdery traces of blood that must still swirl on the air in this place. “The sorcerer must have brought Nim here. Once it’s been opened, a gate has only one exit. That means we can’t be more than a few minutes behind them. Did you see their footprints from up there?”

“A few minutes is all the wind needs to scour the sand clear. We will not be able to track them that way.”

“So what do we do?”

“The sorcerer will go north, toward human habitation and water. It is his only choice to survive, and ours. We must do the same.”

“Great,” Travis said. “And which way exactly is north?” He turned around. Sand dunes undulated away from them in every direction.

Vani looked up at the sky. Sweat slicked her coppery skin, and she had unbuttoned the top of her leather jerkin. “The sun has risen in the time since we came through the gate. East lies in that direction, so this way is north. We must hope we are not far from a settlement. Come.”

She started along the trough between two dunes, keeping close to the lee side of the dune on their left, out of the worst of the wind. However, they were soon forced to abandon the path when it veered east, and instead they struggled up the windward side of a dune. Sand hissed through the air and made Travis think of the bodiless spirits of the morndari. They could pass through solid matter, and the sand seemed able to do the same. It dug into any bit of exposed skin, stung their eyes, filtered through their clothing, and worked its way deep into their ears and noses.

The sun ascended to the zenith, and heat radiated from the sand in waves. Travis sweated in his jeans and sweater–chosen for a misty London evening, not a blazing desert day–but he did not even think of shedding them, as they were his only protection from the wind and sun.

He and Vani did not speak. They kept their mouths clamped shut, breathing through their noses, trying to keep out the sand and conserve the moisture in their breath. Each time they crested a dune, Vani scanned the horizon, and Travis knew what she was looking for: the green smudge of an oasis and the white shapes of human habitations. All they saw were more dunes.

You really are an idiot, Travis told himself as he trudged after Vani. We don’t have food or water. We’re completely unprepared for this. You should have thought about what you were doing.

Only there hadn’t been time to think. He had leaped for the gate, not knowing what he was going to do on the other side, only knowing that jumping through that portal was his only chance to save Nim. He hadn’t expected Vani to follow, but he was grateful she had. He doubted he would survive five minutes in this desert without her.

Wouldn’t you, Travis?a dry voice spoke in his mind. It wasn’t Jack’s voice; it was his own. Only it was more sibilant, a coaxing hiss, like that of a serpent. Vani is right. You’re a sorcerer. And this land is their home. All you have to do is spill your blood–just a few drops–and they will come to you and do your bidding. The spirits. Those Who Thirst . . .

Only when he felt pain did he realize his fingernails were pressing into the skin of his forearm. He willed his hand away and instead thought about Beltan. It was possible he would never see the blond man again. But Beltan would have done the same in Travis’s place. He would have gone through the gate after Nim. How could he not? She was his daughter. Their daughter.

All the same, sorrow scoured at Travis’s heart. What was Beltan doing right now?

He’s trying to find a way to follow you, Travis. You know he is. He won’t let you go.

Three years ago, everything had seemed so muddled and confusing. His emotions had been a labyrinth, and he had stumbled through the maze, not knowing who–if anyone–waited for him at its end. Even during these last years in London, as happy as he had been, he had sometimes wondered if things might not have been different had she not left them. Then she stepped through the door of his and Beltan’s flat, and in that moment his wondering ceased.

Vani did not love him.

She hadloved him once, that much Travis did not doubt. He had held her in his arms, he had felt her body trembling, he had kissed her. And in those moments he had loved her back. However, he knew now their love had been a trick–one every bit as cruel as the ruse the Little People had played on Vani and Beltan. Only this was not a trick of fairies.

It was a trick of Fate.

Vani had loved Travis because she believed it was her destiny to love him; she had willed her love into being in an act of sheer faith. And he had loved her back because, confronted with such a ferocity of emotion, his only choice was either to drive her away or bring her close. He couldn’t cast her away, not when she needed love–real love–so badly and didn’t even know it.

However, while the T’hotcards spoke the truth, as so often happened when trying to interpret Fate, that truth misled her. The cards had said she was destined to bear a child byTravis, but not tohim, and that destiny had come to pass when she gave birth to Nim. Yet perhaps Fate was not so cruel after all, because in the end Vani had indeed found love–a love that was true, not based on any trick or deceit.

Her love for Nim.

Travis had seen it shining in Vani’s eyes when she held her daughter. And he saw it now in the hard set of her jaw as she marched up and down the endless dunes. He quickened his pace–

–and nearly ran into Vani, who had come to a halt atop a dune.

“I see something.” She was looking, not ahead, but off to their left.

“What is it?” He tried to follow her gaze, but the sand made his eyes water. “Is it a settlement?”

Vani squinted. “I’m not certain. It is difficult to see. Perhaps it is–blessed Mother of Orъ!”

Travis screened his eyes with his fingers. There, on the horizon, a red‑brown wall rose into the sky. Was it the mud wall of a city?

No. The wall rose higher into the sky, sending out swirling tendrils toward the sun.

“This is ill fate,” Vani said. “It is a blood tempest.”

“What’s a blood tempest?” Travis said, raising his voice over the howl of the wind.

“A storm that blows out of the heart of the Morgolthi. To be caught in one is certain death. We must run. Now!”

Vani grabbed his arm, pulling him down the lee side of the dune. He lost his footing on the slick sand and went tumbling down the slope. At the bottom he rolled to a stop, then pushed himself up to his knees, spitting out a mouthful of sand.

A strong hand jerked him to his feet. “Keep running!” Vani shouted.

The wall of the tempest loomed above them, its rusty surface roiling like a violent sea. Even as Travis watched, it blotted out the sun, casting the world into ruddy twilight.

Vani pulled his arm so hard he heard his shoulder pop. He stumbled after her in a headlong run.

“It’s coming too fast!” His throat was raw; he tasted metal. “We can’t outrun it!”

“We do not have to,” Vani shouted back. “A blood tempest is long and narrow in shape. Think of it as a serpent striking. We have only to flee to the side, to get out of its path, and we will be safe.”

As the wall of the storm advanced from the south, they ran east. At first the wind seemed to lessen in its ferocity, and Travis began to think they had a chance. Then they reached the top of a slope, and he turned and watched as dune after dune was enveloped by clouds of boiling red dust. A gritty blast struck him, and sand hissed all around.

The hissing phased into whispering words.

Lie down. Let the sand cover you as a blanket. You are weary–so weary of your burdens. Lie down. . . .

The voices were soothing. The howl of the wind faded, and all he heard were the gentle whispers.

Lie down and go to sleep. . . .

Travis sighed. He felt warm and safe, like a child in his bed. It was time to shut his eyes.

“Get up!” This voice was different than the voices in the wind: harsher, and full of anger. “Do not give up on me, Travis Wilder. Not now!”

Something grabbed him, jerking him up, and only then did he realize he had been laying face‑first in the sand. He rolled over with a groan. Vani knelt over him. Above, the sky churned, and sick yellow lightning flickered between the red clouds.

“Voices,” he croaked. It was hard to speak; his mouth was full of dust. “I heard voices.”

Vani pulled him to his feet. “They are sand spirits–the voices of dead sorcerers from long ago. They want you to die, for your blood to soak into the sand, then dry to dust and be drawn up into the storm, feeding it. You must not listen to them!”

He nodded. It was too hard to speak.

“Come. We are still on the edge of the blood tempest, or we would already be dead. We can make it.”

They careened down the side of the slope, then ran through the gap between a pair of high dunes. Wind buffeted them from all sides, and it was so dark it was impossible to tell which way they were going. Fear gripped Travis. Perhaps they were running into the path of the storm, not out of it. The voices began to whisper again in his ears.

There–up ahead. It was hard to be sure, but for a moment he thought he glimpsed a faint patch of light, as if the clouds of sand were thinner. He staggered toward it, but his feet caught on something, tripping him, and he fell down on top of a soft lump.

It was Vani. She wasn’t moving. Her nose and mouth were caked with dust. He tried to clear it away, to help her breathe. Only he couldn’t breathe himself. There was no air left, only sand and dust. Only the dried blood of sorcerers, more than three thousand years dead, whose power and malice had given birth to the tempest when chance winds in the desert brought enough of the red‑brown powder together. The voices hissed again in his ears.

Travis! Can you hear me? I know you’re out there. . . .

This voice seemed different than the others. There was no hate in it, and it was . . . familiar to him. He tried to call out in answer, but dust choked his throat. It was no use. He slumped over Vani, letting the sand cover them both.

A sound roused him from his stupor. Was it a shout? Somehow he lifted his head and looked up. He could just make it out amid the swirling sand: a figure shrouded in a black robe. Was this one of the sorcerers, then, come to take his blood?

The dark figure reached out a hand.

“Be dead!” intoned a commanding voice.

Then there was only silence.

26.

After a long time, Travis heard voices again. The voices fluttered about him in the dark, as soft as the murmur of moth wings.

Travis . . .

A light shone in the darkness, a light as green and gold as sun through leaves.

You can wake up now. You’re safe. I’m here with you. . . .

Travis opened his eyes. A face hovered over him. A beautiful, dusty, worried face he knew and loved.

“Grace,” he croaked.

She smiled and brushed his hair from his brow. “Welcome back, Travis.” She lifted his head and helped him drink water from a clay cup. It was cool and sweet. He tried to gulp it. “Slow, now. We need to get fluids back into you gradually.”

Grace set down the cup, and with her help Travis managed to sit up in the cot. They were in some kind of low dwelling. Its walls were made of whitewashed mud, their corners rounded. The door was covered with a heavy cloth; the sound of sand hissed outside.

“Where’s Vani?” His voice was still raspy, but better after the water.

“I am here,” the T’golsaid, drawing close to the bed. Her hair was white with dust, and it made her look old and weary.

He leaned his head back against the wall. “What happened to us? I remember the sand tempest, and I remember finding you on the ground. Then I heard the voices. They told me to sleep.”

“They were sand spirits,” a man’s voice said.

Travis looked up. He had not seen the other standing in the corner of the hut; his black garb blended with the shadows. But now the man stepped forward, into the gold circle of light cast by an oil lamp. His dark hair was long and shaggy, as was his beard, which grew high up his cheeks. The skin of his forehead was deeply tanned. Only his dark eyes looked familiar. They still glinted with sharp intelligence. But there was something else in them now–a hot light, like that of a fever.

“Hello, Hadrian,” Travis said.

Farr brushed the words aside as if they were beyond introductions. Or as if the name no longer applied. Red tattoos coiled across the palm of his hand. “The sand spirits were trying to take you, and had Grace not sensed your presence, they would have succeeded. As it was, I feared I had found you too late. I commanded the spirits to be what they were–to be dead– only when the storm cleared and I saw you lying on the ground, I assumed you were both dead as well.”

Grace pressed a moist cloth to his brow. “But you’re not. You’re here, Travis. You’re really here. I found you.”

There was much to understand. Had Farr really been able to command the spirits in the sand tempest? If so, he was a powerful dervish indeed. Travis felt a pang of jealousy.

What an impudent upstart, Jack Graystone’s voice sounded in his mind. He’s done nothing but ride along on your coattails. Surely you’re a more powerful sorcerer than he is, Travis. And you’re quite a good wizard as well. Why, you should wave your hand and–

No, this wasn’t a competition. Besides, Farr had had three years to learn secrets and delve into magics Travis had never even wanted to know about.

“Thank you for finding us,” he said to Farr, then he looked at Grace. “And you, too. I’m glad you were able to sense our life threads. But what are you doing here in the first place? Why were you looking for me? And how did you know I’d be here?” He frowned. “Come to think of it, where exactly is here, anyway?”

Grace smiled. “You’re in the village of Hadassa, on the southern edges of Al‑Amъn, on the continent of Moringarth.” She touched his cheek. “You’re on Eldh, Travis.”

“Nim,” he croaked. That was why he had come to Eldh–to save Nim. Fear renewed his strength in a way the water had not. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed to stand.

And immediately sat back down.

“Careful, Travis,” Grace said, hands on his shoulders, steadying him. “You’re still very weak.”

“Vani is standing up,” he said, feeling more than a little ashamed of himself. The room spun in a lazy circle around him. “And before everything went black, I found her lying on the ground.”

Farr looked at Vani. “After I dismissed the sand spirits, she was able to help me carry you back here. I believe the T’golhave training that can help them resist mind‑altering effects, such as those of a sand tempest.”

“I was deep in meditation when you came upon me, Travis, forging a wall around my mind so that I could shut out the voices of the spirits. I believed our only chance of survival was for me to retain my own will.” She cast a look at Farr. “It was fortunate I was wrong.”

“Being caught on the edge of a sand tempest is dangerous for anyone,” Farr said. “But it’s especially perilous for a sorcerer. The spirits were focused, not on Vani, but on you and your blood, Travis.”

Travis clenched his right hand. “So you know about that.”

Grace sat on the cot next to him and covered his hand with her own. “I told him everything.”

“Then I’d say it’s his turn.”

“I will tell you anything you wish to know,” Farr said.

Travis nodded, but he doubted that was possible. Even Farr couldn’t know everything. Like where Nim was, and how they were going to get her back.

A silence settled over the hut, and only then did Travis realize that the wind was no longer hissing outside.

“The storm has passed,” Farr said, pulling back the cloth covering the door to let a shaft of hot light into the hut.

Grace took a step toward him. “Does the village look all right?”

“You need not fear for these people. They have weathered far more sand tempests than I have. They know how to set the proper wards, and to keep their doors and windows shut. Besides, I believe the worst of the storm passed to the west of the village.”

“And was that your doing?” Grace said.

Farr did not answer. He moved away from the door, and a man stepped through. Travis laughed in surprise and delight.

Master Larad glared at him, a sour expression on his scarred face. “Does something amuse you, Master Wilder?”

“Yes, very much,” he said, far more glad that he might have guessed at the unexpected sight of the Runelord. Maybe it was just that it was good to know that the wizards in this hut now outnumbered the sorcerers two to one.

No, they don’t, Travis. You’re a sorcerer as well as a wizard. Besides, Master Larad has never exactly been on your side.

However, even when it appeared otherwise, the sardonic Runelord had always been on the side of good, and that was more than enough for Travis. This time, when he stood up, he managed to stay standing, and he moved to Larad, gripping his hand. He was grinning, and even Larad–never one for sentiment–could not conceal the hint of a smile.

“Why didn’t you tell me Larad had come with you?” Travis said, glancing at Grace.

“I thought it would be a fun surprise.”

Larad gave her a sharp look. No doubt the Runelord was not used to being considered in any way fun. “The storm has ceased. And Master Wilder has been successfully retrieved. It is time we talked.”

Travis felt stronger in both body and spirit as they gathered around a table, drank maddok, ate dried figs, and spoke of their respective journeys to this place. Travis couldn’t help but think this was probably one of the oddest parties this–or any village–had ever seen: a witch, an assassin, a dervish, and two wizards.

They listened first as Grace described her and Larad’s journey south. Over the last month they had traveled to the southern tip of Falengarth, then had sailed across the Summer Sea, to Al‑Amъn, and with three T’golas guards had taken camels into the desert, to this village.

When she was done, Travis shivered. “It’s on Earth, too–the rift in the sky. Scientists are calling it Variance X. They know it lies just outside the solar system, but they have no idea what it is or why it’s growing.”

“It’s the end of everything,” Grace said. “That’s what Sfithrisir said. The end of all possibility.”

“It’s only just now visible to the naked eye on Earth,” Travis said. “It sounds like it’s bigger here.”

Grace nodded. “Just like the moon is bigger than on Earth, and the stars brighter. I think the heavens are closer here on Eldh. The rift must be closer, too.” She reached across the table, touching his hand. “Only the Last Rune can stop it. That’s what the dragon said.”

Travis didn’t understand that part. “You mean the rune Eldh?”

She shook her head. “That was the last rune spoken at the end of the world. Sfithrisir said that only the last rune spoken at the end of everything can heal the rift.”

“And did he maybe happen to mention what it was?”

“The dragon said you’d know what the Last Rune was. That’s why I came here to find you.” She squeezed his hand, her expression troubled. “Only you have no idea what the Last Rune is, do you?”

He sighed, then shook his head.

“It does not matter,” Larad said. “Dragons can only speak the truth. You willfind the Last Rune.” However, the Runelord’s eyes were not as certain as his words.

Farr turned his dark gaze on Travis. “If you didn’t come here to look for the Last Rune, then why have you come to Eldh?”

“To find my daughter, Nim,” Vani said before Travis could reply.

Travis took a sip of maddok, gathering his thoughts, then did his best to recount everything that had happened during their last hours on Earth. When he spoke of Deirdre and their conversation at the Charterhouse, Farr got up and paced, as if excited or agitated. Finally, Travis described how the gate crackled open and hands reached through, snatching Nim. He and Vani had managed to follow, but not Beltan. His throat grew tight, and he could no longer speak. Vani was gazing at her hands.

Oh, Travis. . . .

Grace’s voice spoke in his mind. He felt her love, and her sorrow, enfold him like an embrace.

“It’s all right,” he said aloud. “We’re going to get Nim back. That’s why we came here.”

And I will return to Beltan, he added silently.

He felt Grace’s resolve flowing into him. Yes, you will.

Farr stopped his pacing. “Do you know why the Scirathi captured your daughter?” he said to Vani.

“I was not certain before. All I knew was that powerful lines of fate gather around her. But now we suspect it is her blood they want. They seek to use it as a key. Nor do we believe it was a coincidence that the sorcerers have pursued her even as Morindu the Dark has been found.”

“I imagine you’re right,” Farr said. “The Scirathi are remarkably single‑minded. At any given time, they will pursue only one goal, so that all their powers are focused on it. Right now that goal is Morindu. Somehow your daughter must be a part of their plans.”

“I think we figured that much out,” Travis said dryly.

Vani turned her gold eyes toward Farr. “I believe it is time we heard your tale, Seeker.”

“Seeker,” he said with a husky laugh. “I haven’t been called that in a long time.”

He fell silent, and Travis began to think that was all Farr was going to tell them. At last he spoke in a low voice.

“It began with the man in black.”

Travis shivered despite the stifling air.

“I found him in Istanbul,” Farr said. “Or rather, he found me, for I doubt I would have come upon him had he not wished it. He wore the black robe of an imam, and his skin was dark rather than pale, but all the same I knew at once who he was. I had read your descriptions of him many times over, Travis.”

“Brother Cy.”

“Yes.”

Travis should have known that was how Farr had gotten to Eldh. But why had the Old God–who seemed to favor the garb of a holy man no matter what land he was in–transported Farr here?

“I wasn’t even certain why I had gone to Istanbul,” Farr went on. “I had investigated rumors of an otherworldly portal there once. I had never found any evidence of a door, but I always felt there were a few leads that I had not followed as fully as I might have, so I took the Orient Express from Paris. However, I never had the chance to perform any research, for he found me almost the moment I stepped off the train.

“He told me to meet him the following evening beneath the dome of the Hagia Sophia, then vanished. I went to my hotel, phoned Deirdre and left her a message, spent a sleepless night, then went to the museum to meet him, hardly expecting him to be there. Only he was, along with the other two–the girl and the blind woman. I knew it was them, though they were robed and veiled.”

“Samanda and Mirrim,” Grace murmured. “What happened then?”

The dervish shook his head. “The imam–Brother Cy–said he could show me the way to what I searched for. I said I didn’t know what that was, but the girl said that was a lie. And she was right, because I hadgone to Istanbul looking for something. I was looking for a door to Eldh. I wanted to stop searching for those who had traveled to other worlds and instead go there myself.

“The blind woman whispered something in my ear, something that made no sense to me, then suddenly they were gone. I thought that was it, that nothing else was going to happen. In despair, I left the Hagia Sophia. Only when I stepped out of the door, I found myself not on a street in Istanbul, but rather standing among ruined stone columns in the middle of a desert. The sun was blazing, and I had no water. There was no sign of a doorway behind me. Vultures circled above, and I laughed bitterly, because I had finally gotten what I wanted–I had traveled to another world. And I was going to die there.” Farr sighed. “Only then . . .”

“Then what?” Travis said, fascinated, even envious. He remembered what it was like to first come to Eldh.

“Then I was found,” Farr said.

For the next hour, they listened as Farr told them what had befallen him during his last three years on Eldh–although Travis was certain the former Seeker was not telling them everything. In the ruins he was found by a dervish, much as Travis had been found by Falken in the Winter Wood the first time he journeyed to Eldh. In both cases, Brother Cy had chosen their destinations with care.

The ruins where the dervish discovered him turned out to be all that was left of Usyr, once the greatest city of ancient Amъn, and now little more than a few heaps of stone that jutted out of the desert like the bones of giants. The old dervish had come to Usyr to find secrets of sorcery. Instead he had found death. While opening a box of scrolls, he had sprung an ancient trap, releasing a cloud of poisonous dust, and even as he stumbled upon Farr he was dying.

You must take them,the dervish had said, giving the scrolls to Farr. All my life I have searched for them. I have sacrificed everything to seek them out: my home, my people, my blood.

The scrolls had been filled with writing Farr could not understand. What are they?

They are a story, the dervish said. The story of the birthing of all the worlds. Those that are, and those that are not.

All night Farr huddled in the ruins with the dervish, listening to the old man speak. He told Farr everything that had happened to him in his years as a dervish, everything he had forsaken and everything he had learned. Then, as the horizon turned from gray to white, the old man fell silent; he was dead.

As the sun rose, Farr took the dervish’s bag of food, his waterskins, and the scrolls, then donned the old man’s black serafi. He set out on foot, in the direction from which the dervish said he had come.

For three days Farr walked through the desert, beneath the blazing sun, avoiding scorpions, vipers, and sandstorms, until his water was gone. Another day he walked, but still there was no sign of a village. The vultures began to circle again; death drew near. At last Farr fell to his knees, ready to die. Only then he remembered there was one other thing he had taken from the dervish: his knife.

Farr cut his arm, let his blood spill upon the sand, and called the morndarito him, just as the dervish had described.

“I didn’t really think they would come,” Farr said, the words quiet. “Even after all that had happened, after all I had seen, I don’t think I truly believed in magic. Only then they did come, just as the old man had said.” His eyes went distant, and he touched his left arm. “At first I was nearly intoxicated, and they drank deeply of my blood, drawing it from me with terrible force. Then fear sharpened my mind, and I commanded the spirits to lead me to water. To my amazement, they did.

“They carved a line in the sand, and I stumbled along it before the winds could blow it away. It turned out I was very close to a village. It was just on the other side of a ridge. However, if I had kept on in the direction I had been walking, I would have passed it and never known. I managed to stumble into the village, and I fell down next to the oasis and drank as the spirits buzzed away.”

Vani studied Farr with a look of grudging respect. “Only one in a hundred has any talent for sorcery. And only one in a thousand might call the morndariand command them successfully on the first try. It is fate you came here, for you were born to this. And yet . . .” A knife appeared in her hands.

“Are you going to kill me?” Farr said. He made no attempt to move away from her.

The T’golran a finger along the edge of the knife. “To be a dervish is anathema. The working of blood sorcery is forbidden by my people.”

“I am not one of the Mournish.”

Vani sheathed the knife. Only then did Travis realize he had been holding his breath. He glanced at Grace; her eyes were locked on Farr. Larad watched with cool interest.

“You are right about one thing,” Farr said, sitting down at the table again. “To be a dervish is to be an outcast. I learned that at the village I first came to. The people came for me, throwing stones at me, driving me from the village. Luckily, I had had time to refill my waterskins, and this time there was a road to follow, leading to a larger city. Once there, I made sure to hide my black serafiand dress in the garb of common folk.”

“You’re not hiding your robe now,” Travis said.

“One can only hide what one truly is for so long. I believe you understand that well, Travis Wilder.”

“So you really are a dervish,” Grace said softly.

Now the expression on his face became one of wonder. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. At first I thought I was still being a Seeker. And what Seeker wouldn’t want to understand the origin of all the worlds? I began to study the scrolls I had taken from the old dervish, and to research how I might read them. But the course of my studies kept leading me back to ancient Amъn. And to sorcery.”

“Was it only that?” Vani said. “Was it only research, as you say? Or was it not that you enjoyed summoning the spirits and wished to do it again?” Her gaze moved down to his arms.

Farr pulled down the sleeves of his serafi, but not before they all saw the fine scars that crisscrossed his skin.

“So have you ever learned what was in the scrolls?” Grace said after a long moment.

Farr shook his head. “I have learned some of the ancient tongue of Amъn, but not enough to translate the scrolls fully. They are written in a peculiar script–used only, I believe, by a secret cabal of sorcerers long ago. It is possible that some among the Mournish might be able to read more of the scrolls than I have, but I wouldn’t exactly expect a friendly reception if I were to go to them.”

He cast a glance at Vani. The T’golsaid nothing.

“What I have been able to read is intriguing,” Farr went on, and he seemed more like a scholar or researcher now, speaking with growing excitement. “Of course, it’s all heavily coded in metaphor. It reads like a myth–though like all myths, I think there is truth at its heart. The scrolls describe how in the beginning there was nothing. Then the nothing, quite spontaneously, spawned two twins. The twins were opposites in every way: one light and giving, the other dark and consuming. From the moment they were born, the twins were separated and kept apart, and each built many cities beholden to him. However, the scrolls speak of a time when the twins will come together again. When they do, they will war, and all that both of them created will be destroyed. Even the very nothingness that spawned them will be annihilated. All of existence will be like an empty cup, only with no chance of ever being filled again.”

The story made Travis sick. “It’s just like what you said about the rift, Grace. It’s the end of everything.”

Larad leaned on his elbows, his fingertips pressed together. “Do the scrolls speak of how the twins might be prevented from warring?”

“Not in any passages that I have been able to decipher.”

Travis stood up. He had heard enough. “We can worry about what’s in the scrolls later. Right now we have to find Nim. The sorcerers will be taking her to Morindu, won’t they?” Vani nodded. He turned his gaze on Farr. “And you know the way, don’t you?”

Farr hesitated. “I believe I do. There has been an increasing number of tremors in Moringarth in recent months. Many ruins, previously buried and lost, have been uncovered. Not long ago, while investigating the rumors of just such a ruin, I came upon a Scirathi. He had crawled out of the deep desert and was nearly dead. I think he was hallucinating and thought I was one of his kind, for he clutched at my robe and babbled that he had seen a spire of black stone jutting up out of the sand. He told me where he had seen it, but before he could tell me more, a band of his ilk attacked, and I was forced to flee.”

“A black spire,” Vani breathed, her gold eyes gleaming. “Of all the cities of ancient Amъn, only Morindu was built of black stone.”

“That is why I believe what the sorcerer said was true: that after all these eons, Morindu has at last been found.”

“What happened to this sorcerer?” Larad asked.

“I can only believe the Scirathi retrieved him, and that they learned what I did from him, and perhaps more.”

Vani clenched a fist. “You should have slain him.”

Farr glared at her, and Travis stepped between the two. They didn’t have time for arguments. “You can fight about this later. The Scirathi know where Morindu is, and that means right now they’re taking Nim to it. The storm is over–there’s no more reason to wait here. We have to go.”

Grace stood beside him. “I’m going with you.”

He gave her a grateful look. She took his hand and gripped it tightly.

Vani turned away from Farr, a look of shame on her face. “Travis is right. Nothing matters now save for finding my daughter.”

“What of the rift?” Master Larad said, rising from his chair. “I journeyed here with Queen Grace because I wished to speak to you about the weakening of rune magic, Master Wilder. I believe it might be related to the rift, as well as to the Last Rune. If we answer one mystery, we may answer the other as well.”

Seldom in his life had Travis felt certain about what to do. At that moment, he did. Nim was more important than everything else. Even the world. All the worlds.

“We can talk about it on the way,” he said.

27.

They made ready to leave the village of Hadassa as evening drew near.

“It’s best if we journey into the desert by night,” Farr said as they let the camels drink their fill from the village’s oasis. “The moon is almost full. We will have more than enough light, and it will be far cooler than traveling by day.”

The T’golAvhir crossed lean arms, his bronze eyes on the former Seeker. “The heat is not the only danger in the Morgolthi.”

“No, but it’s the only danger we can hope to easily avoid,” Farr said. He turned his back on the assassin. “I will be on the south edge of the village. I want to see if I can spot any storms while there is still light. Meet me there when you are ready.” He walked away among the white huts, his dark serafigusting behind him.

“Well, it’s nice to see he’s as cuddly as ever,” Travis said.

Grace followed Farr with her gaze. “He’s only doing his job. He’s promised to take us to Morindu.”

“And the brooding helps with that how?”

“I’m going to go get my things,” Grace said, and headed toward one of the huts.

Travis sighed and turned his attention back to the four camels, amazed at how much the animals could drink. A thought occurred to him. He approached Avhir. Of the three T’golwho had accompanied Grace south, the tall man seemed the most talkative–which wasn’t saying much.

“We’ve packed water for ourselves,” he said to Avhir, “but where will the camels get water?”

“Nowhere. I do not imagine the beasts will survive this journey. I can only hope they will bear us close to our destination before they perish.”

His words shocked Travis. “This isn’t right. We can’t kill them for nothing.”

“So you believe this journey is for nothing?”

Travis clenched his jaw. They both knew the answer to that question. “Maybe we could go on foot.”

Avhir shook his head. “You cannot travel as fast on foot as T’gol, and time is against us. The sorcerers are already on the move.”

Travis couldn’t disagree. However, he doubted that saving Nim was the assassin’s sole reason for hurrying.

They want to find Morindu the Dark. They’ve been searching for it for three thousand years. Now it’s been found, and they think I’m going to raise it from the sands that bury it.

And was he? Travis didn’t know. If that was what it took to save Nim, he would find a way to do it. Otherwise, Morindu the Dark could stay buried for countless eons more for all he cared.

“Do not pity the beasts, Sai’el Travis.” Avhir stroked the neck of one of the camels as it used its long tongue to draw water into its mouth. “After all, you do not pity the animal whose flesh you eat. Instead, be grateful for their sacrifice and accept it.”

These words were scant comfort. Travis started to move away, then paused. “So how are we going to get back? If the camels don’t survive, how will we leave Morindu?”

“You and the dervish are great sorcerers. Once the power of Morindu is at your disposal, there will be little either of you cannot do.”

Travis stared at him; the assassin’s eyes shone in the gloom.

“Come,” Avhir said. “The camels are ready. It is time to go.”

They set out as the enormous Eldhish moon rose above the horizon, flooding the desert with white light so that the dunes seemed made of snow rather than sand. Of the four T’gol, only Vani and Avhir were in view, and even they were difficult to see, skimming over the sand like shadows. Travis could only assume the other two were up ahead, scouting.

The camels moved at a languid but unceasing pace, keeping to the troughs between the dunes, and the huts of the village quickly vanished from sight. Just as when she rode a horse, Grace looked assured and regal atop her camel, clad in a flowing white serafi, as if she had done this all her life. Even Farr did not seem so at ease as she though he was clearly a practiced rider.

Travis, in contrast, bounced in the hard, square saddle that perched on the hump of his mount, his black serafiflapping around him. The camel paced with an odd gait that rolled from side to side, and he felt like an egg sitting on a tray balancing on the top of a mountain. In an earthquake. The sand was shockingly far below him, but at least it would provide a soft landing if–or more likely, when–he took a tumble.

Besides, Travis could take consolation in the fact that he wasn’t having nearly as hard a time as Master Larad. The Runelord’s scarred face was pasty in the moonlight, and evinced a greenish cast.

“Up and down, back and forth,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “Cannot this wretched beast stop rocking? By Olrig, this is worse than being on the sea. Steady, now. Steady!”

Travis made a poor attempt to stifle his laughter. He had planned to speak to Larad once they set out; the Runelord had wanted to talk about the rift. However, Travis decided it could wait. Besides, he had other matters on his mind.

Once the power of Morindu is at your disposal, there will be little either of you cannot do. . . .

Travis’s laughter died. What had Avhir meant by those words?

You know what he meant. Morindu was an entire city of sorcerers–the most powerful sorcerers that ever lived. Who knows what knowledge is buried in there, what secrets, what artifacts?

He found himself gazing to his left. Did Farr know what was buried in Morindu? Is that why he was helping them? Not to get Nim back, or to stop the Scirathi in their quest for power, but rather to claim those secrets, that power, for himself?

Travis studied the former Seeker, as if the moonlight might reveal secrets that daylight had not. Before they had set out, Farr had cleaned himself up. He had shaved his beard and trimmed his hair, and except for the black serafihe looked like the man Travis remembered: darkly handsome, compelling, but dangerous as well, like the haunted protagonist of a noir film. Then Travis looked past Farr and saw that his was not the only gaze locked on the former Seeker.

He waited until they began to wind around the base of a curving ridge of sand, then–with far more tugs on the reins than he would have thought necessary–brought his camel close to Grace’s.

“Can we trust him?” he said in a low voice.

Grace gave him a startled glance, then her gaze moved ahead, to where Farr rode.

He seems di ferent, Travis said in his mind. He knew she– and only she– could hear him.

Heis di ferent, Grace’s voice–her presence–spoke in his mind. Sareth said that working blood sorcery changes a man, and that’s why we shouldn’t trust him. But I don’t think we have a choice.

Travis licked his lips; they already felt dry and cracked. “He fell in love with you, Grace, when he was watching you as a Seeker. Deirdre told me about it.”

“I know,” Grace said. “At least, I think I did.”

“And do you love him?”

She smiled: a sorrowful expression. In Malachor, I would think about him sometimes. I would wonder what I might say if I saw him again, what it might be like if he was near. But I didn’t believe it would ever happen. That made it safe to think about him. Only this feels . . .

Dangerous, he said in his mind.

She shook her head. Whatever I feel for him isn’t important. The only thing that’s important is finding Nim. I’m no expert when it comes to feelings, but there’s one thing I am certain of: I love you, Travis, and I love Beltan. And we will find your daughter.

“Thank you,” he managed to croak.

“Don’t worry about him, Travis,” Grace said, speaking aloud now. “If Hadrian tries to do something, she’ll know about it.” She nodded toward a shadow that flitted just behind Farr’s camel.

Travis sighed. We don’t love each other anymore, Vani and I.

I know.

He felt Grace’s reply as much as heard it, and it was enough; she understood. And even though he didn’t love Vani, he knew he could trust her. Vani had spent the last three years doing everything she could to protect Nim. She was not going to stop.

They rode in silence after that. Travis concentrated on breathing through his nostrils, to preserve the moisture in his breath. And to keep himself from breathing too deeply. He had not forgotten Vani’s warning; the air of the Morgolthi was intoxicating to sorcerers. This place was dangerous because it could make himdangerous.

The moon soared to its zenith, then began to descend. The dunes rose and fell like ghostly waves, and the rocking of the camel caused Travis to drift into a kind of waking sleep. From time to time he saw a shadow slink down the lee side of one of the dunes, or flit by on the edge of vision, and he knew one of the T’golwas close. They were keeping watch, and if there were any perils in the desert, the assassins skillfully led the party around them.

Travis jerked in the saddle. They had come to a stop. He looked up and saw the last sliver of the moon just vanishing behind a ridge.

“We will stop here,” Avhir said.

They made camp in a hollow beneath the lee side of a dune. Travis clambered down from his camel, limbs stiff and aching. He noticed Grace shivering, fetched a blanket from one of the packs, and wrapped it around her shoulders. The desert night had grown cold, though Travis didn’t really feel it. These days, his blood was always hot.

Once the sun crested the horizon, the need for blankets evaporated, and in minutes the air began to shimmer with heat. The T’golerected a simple shelter by tying the blankets to wood staves pounded into the sand. The tent offered a small patch of shade, and as the blankets were woven with desert colors, it offered concealment as well.

Not that Travis could imagine there was anyone who might detect them. As far as he could see, there was only desert. No trace of any living thing–plant, animal, or person–broke the monotony of sand and sky.

They spent the day dozing as best they could beneath the cover of the shelter, though even in the shade the heat was oppressive, and any sleep led to fitful dreams from which they woke sweating, with heads throbbing. Travis considered speaking to Master Larad as a way to pass the time, but his mouth was too dry for conversation, and he had already drunk his ration of water for the morning. Besides, the Runelord was curled up on a small carpet and lay so still that Travis began to worry about him.

He’s fine, Grace spoke in Travis’s mind, touching his arm. At least mostly. He’s still feeling seasick from last night’s camel ride. Or sandsick, I suppose. I gave him a simple that’s helping him keep down some food and water. He just needs to rest.

Travis nodded, glad Grace was keeping an eye on Larad, then tried to rest himself. He could speak to the Runelord later.

Throughout the day, the T’golmoved in and out of the shelter, appearing and vanishing like the shadows in Travis’s half dreams. He saw more of them than he had at night; even the assassins needed rest. In addition to Avhir, there was Rafid–a compact man with a harsh, brooding face–and Kylees, a dark‑skinned woman who would have been lovely if she smiled. She didn’t.

Travis did not speak to the T’gol, though he often felt their eyes–bronze, copper, and gold–upon him. Also, Rafid seemed often to glower at Farr, though the dervish appeared not to notice.

At last the sun sank toward the western dunes. The T’goldismantled the shelter and lashed the packs to the camels.

“You’ve got a cut on your hand,” Grace said to one of the assassins. It was the woman Kylees.

“It is nothing,” the T’golsaid, starting to pull away, but Grace caught her hand with surprising speed and turned it over.

“The wound is small,” Grace said in her brisk doctor’s voice. “However, there’s some swelling. It could be infected.”

“I said it is nothing. There was a sand scorpion in my hut in the village yesterday. I was foolish enough to be slow in smashing it with my hand, giving it time to sting me. However, their poison is weak, and I bled it out with my knife.”

“Good. Then it should heal well. But let me give you an ointment–”

“I do not need your petty northern magics,” Kylees said, pulling her hand back and stalking from the camp.

“Proud much?” Travis said, watching the assassin walk away.

Grace sighed. “I think I embarrassed her. She shouldn’t have let that scorpion sting her. T’goldon’t like to make mistakes.”

“Only sometimes they do,” Travis said, his gaze moving to Vani.

Grace took his arm. “Come on. I think your rear end has a date with a camel.”

They set out again as dusk stole over the desert. As before, the night zephyrs soon died down, and the silence of the desert was broken only by the groan of sand settling: an eerie sound that made Travis think of distant voices moaning in pain.

Master Larad appeared to have grown somewhat accustomed to the gait of his camel. He looked only moderately nauseous, and Travis decided to see if talking might take his mind off his discomfort. With some effort, he managed to get his camel close to the Runelord’s.

“So what was so important that you traveled hundreds of leagues, crossed the ocean, and rode a camel just to tell me?”

Larad grimaced. “If I had known what the journey would be like, perhaps I would have rethought undertaking it.” His grimace became a bitter smile. “But is that not always the way, Master Wilder? The foolish blithely go where the wise dare not venture. So here I am.”

“And?”

“And magic is failing, Master Wilder,” Larad said, his eyes glinting in the light of the full moon. “Both runic magic and the magic of the Weirding, which is spun by witches.”

Travis let out a breath. “Grace told me. But I think I knew it before I even came to Eldh. Magic is always weak on Earth, but the last few runes I spoke there seemed to keep going awry, even though they should have been simple.”

“The runestones are crumbling,” Larad went on. “As are all bound runes. Do you understand what that means?”

Of course he did. How could he not? He was the one who had broken it, then bound it again.

“Eldh,” Travis said softly. “It’s a bound rune.”

“Yes, it is. And if the power of runes continues to weaken, soon there will be nothing to hold that rune together.”

Travis clutched the reins in numb hands. “Did you tell Grace this?”

“Her Majesty’s thoughts have been focused on the rift in the sky, and on finding you. I saw no need to add to the knowledge that already weighs upon her.”

“She believes I can stop the rift,” Travis said, sighing.

The scars that crisscrossed Larad’s face were silver in the moonlight. “So the dragon said, and dragons can only speak truth. You have the ability to discover the Last Rune, Master Wilder, and to wield it. But there is one thing Queen Grace does not realize.”

To Travis it was as clear as the moon. “The end of magic. If runes no longer work properly, how can I speak the Last Rune? Or bind it?” He was sweating despite the chill air. “But maybe there’s still time. Magic hasn’t stopped working, not completely.”

“Yet it grows weaker each day, and you tell me that for you even simple spells go awry. What of greater magics? Have you tried any powerful runespells of late? Perhaps they cannot be worked anymore. Perhaps time has already run out. I journeyed here to tell you that. And to bring you these.”

He reached inside his robe and drew out an object: a small iron box, carved with runes.

Travis gave him a startled look. “You brought the Imsari with you?”

“Magic is weakening, but the Great Stones can amplify the power of a runespell many times over. I thought you might need them in order to speak the Last Rune.”

Larad held out the box. Travis started to reach for it; his hand ached to hold the Imsari, to feel them pulse against his palm.

By force of will, he pulled his hand back. There was already too much temptation to use power in this place. “You keep them for now,” he said, the words hoarse.

Larad gave him a quizzical look, then shrugged and tucked the box back inside his robe.

They rode in silence after that. As the camel paced, Travis rubbed his right hand, feeling the tingle of the rune of runes on his palm. It was quiescent now, but if he spoke a rune it would flare to life.

Or would it? Magic was growing weaker, and Travis hadn’t tried speaking a rune of significant power in over three years. What if he tried and couldn’t?

Why not find out, Travis?Jack’s voice spoke in his mind. How aboutLir ? The rune of light can be used to work wondrous magics. It’s always been one of my favorites. We shall all speak it with you in chorus, and create a midnight sun blazing in the sky!

A thousand voices murmured in Travis’s mind; he moistened his lips, preparing to speak the rune.

“By Olrig!” Larad swore, gazing upward, his camel coming to a halt.

The camel Farr rode halted as well. “So it is true, then.”

Travis pulled on the reins, managing to bring his camel to a stop beside Grace’s. He followed her gaze toward the sky. The moon had set, and the stars were brilliant against the heavens–

–except for a jagged gash in the south where there were no stars. Only darkness, grinning like a black mouth.

“It’s another rift,” Grace said, her voice quavering.

So the rift wasn’t a single tear in the fabric of the heavens. Instead, that fabric was full of holes. How long did they have before it unraveled completely?

Before Travis could speak his thoughts, the night coalesced into a lithe shape: Vani.

“We must seek shelter,” she said. “A blood tempest comes.”

28.

A keening rose on the air as they guided their camels after the shadowy shapes of the T’gol. Dust whirled on the air, and Travis fastened a cloth tight over his nose and mouth. Farr did the same.

One of the T’golglided down the slope of a dune. It was hard to see in the murk, but Travis recognized the short, compact shape of Rafid.

“The blood tempest comes quickly!” Rafid shouted above the growl of the wind. “We will not be able to outrun it. It is almost as if it is drawn to us.” He cast a dark glance at Farr.

Farr ignored the look. “We have to find shelter now.”

Only there was none. The surrounding dunes were low with wide, wind‑scoured flats between them. Already the air was thick with blowing sand. The stars winked out in the sky.

Kylees stepped out of a swirl of sand. “Quickly, this way– there is a high dune ahead. It may offer some shelter. We must take the A’narai. Leave behind the weak if we must.”

Vani moved past her. “We leave no one.”

Kylees glared at Vani, then turned away.

The wind had risen to a howl, and sand buffeted them from all sides. The T’golused cloths to cover the faces of the camels, then each assassin took the reins of one of the beasts, leading them on. Travis huddled close to his camel’s neck, holding on with all his strength. He could not see three feet ahead of him; if the wind knocked him down, he would be lost.

They had not gone far when the voices began.

Lie down, hissed the wind. Let the sand cover you. . . .

Before he realized what was happening, Travis was slipping out of the saddle; his fingers had let go of the camel’s neck. He groped but could not regain his grip.

Strong hands caught him, pushing him back.

“Do not listen to the voices!”

His eyes stung and watered; he could not make her out, but he knew her touch. Vani. He thought he saw a shadow circle around to the front of the camel, then the beast began moving again.

Travis wrapped his arms around the camel’s neck and shut his eyes. The voices continued to hiss in his ears; he clenched his teeth, trying to shut them out. However, that only seemed to make the storm angrier. The wind clawed at him from all sides, shrieking in his ears.

Let go! Lie down! Your blood will join ours!

He was so weary; his arms ached to let go. The wind scoured at his being, wearing it away like a stone. It was no use. He could not resist. . . .

Just as Travis let go of the camel’s neck, the force of the wind lessened, and the shrill voices receded, growing fainter. He tumbled to the ground, then sat up and coughed sand out of his lungs. In the faint light he saw Vani crouching before him.

“Are you–?”

He gripped her hand. “The voices are more distant now.” She nodded, then vanished. A moment later Grace appeared out of a swirl of sand, collapsing next to Travis, followed by Master Larad. Farr stumbled into view and crouched beside them. His face was a mask of dust, and his eyes were hazed with pain. So even Farr had not been able to resist the power of the voices with ease. For some reason Travis felt a grim note of satisfaction.

They were out of the worst of the wind now. In the gloom Travis made out steep slopes rising around them on three sides.

“Where are we?” he called over the wind.

“I don’t know,” Farr shouted. “I have never seen a dune shaped like this. But the high slopes are protecting us.”

“We are still in danger,” Vani said, reappearing from a cloud of sand, along with the other T’gol. “We are in the center of the blood tempest now. If the winds shift and blow from the north, we will die. And even if the winds do not shift, we may not yet survive. Cover yourselves!”

They huddled beneath blankets at the base of one of the slopes as the storm raged around them. Time no longer had meaning. There was only the keening of the wind, and the hiss of sand, and the murmur of voices. Travis curled up next to Grace beneath the blanket as a weight slowly pressed down on him. . . .

The quiet was so sudden and complete it was deafening, making Travis’s ears ring. He tried to sit up, but he couldn’t move. It was as if strong arms held him, pinning his body in place. His lungs could barely expand to draw in a scant breath. Next to him, Grace made a small sound of pain. He tried to reach for her but could not.

“They’re here!” called out a voice, though it was muffled, distant.

There was a scrabbling sound, then all at once the crushing weight vanished. With a rasp of sand the blanket that had covered him and Grace was torn aside.

Air rushed into Travis’s lungs. He blinked against the white light, then made out two dark silhouettes above him: Larad and Farr. Larad took Travis’s hand, pulling him out of the drift of sand, while Farr helped Grace to stand. She was coughing violently, but she waved her hand, indicating she was all right.

“We could see no trace of you,” Larad said. “It was as if the sand had swallowed you. But Kylees told us to dig here, that we would find you. I don’t know how she knew.”

Travis looked back. Part of the dune had collapsed, covering the place where he and Grace had huddled beneath the blanket with a mound of sand. Above, a row of tall, slender shapes jutted out of the top of the dune, exposed by the winds of the storm. At first Travis wondered if they were trees. Then he realized what they were: stone columns, their tops broken off so that they looked like a row of teeth.

“What is this place?” he croaked.

Farr gazed around them, his dark eyes narrowing. “Somewhere we should not be.”

It was not a natural dune that had sheltered them from the storm. Sand had covered it, but the tempest had scoured much of that sand away, revealing the columns and walls of pitted, buff‑colored stone. In one place the remains of a broad stairway plunged down into the sand.

Grace turned around. “It looks like a temple.”

“Or perhaps a palace,” Farr said, shaking sand from his black robe. “This might be the ruins of Golbrora, or perhaps one of the royal villas near Xalas. It is difficult to say. Those cities have been lost for eons, and their precise locations can only be guessed at.”

Travis moved toward a rectangular block of stone that was half‑exposed by the sand. The stone was large, its narrowest edge as wide as the span of his arms, and there were carvings on it, though they were too worn to be made out. Perhaps if he brushed away some of the remaining dust . . .

Fingers closed around his wrist, halting him.

“Do not touch anything,” Farr said, his eyes locked on Travis. “We are deep in the Morgolthi now. There’s no telling what ancient magics yet remain.”

Travis pulled his hand back. “Isn’t that why you’re a dervish now? To look for things like this? For ancient magics?”

Farr turned his back. “It’s time to make camp. Let’s find the T’gol.”

The T’golfound them first. The assassins had explored the ruins, but they had not discovered anything that warned of immediate danger, and so had decided it was safe to stay in the ruins for the day. Not that they had much choice. Although it was still morning, the day was already blistering, and there was no sign of any other shelter.

Rafid drew close to Farr. “Do not go exploring among the ruins, dervish. I will be watching you.”

The former Seeker’s expression was unreadable. “And who will be watching you?”

The T’golspat on the sand, then turned and stalked away, vanishing like a mirage.

“He fears magic,” Farr said. “It will be his death.”

Vani gave him a sharp look. “Let’s set up a shelter.”

They used blankets to create a makeshift canopy in the corner of a half‑crumbled wall and huddled in the scant shade. As the hours passed, they sipped a little water from their skins and ate some dried fruit, though Travis could hardly gag it down. He did not feel hungry.

He must have fallen into a fitful daze, for he woke with a start and sat up. His mouth was parched, and dried sweat crusted his skin. The sun was sinking toward the horizon, and the shadows of the stone columns stretched across the sand. In another hour, it would be time to start traveling again.

Grace was curled up on a rug next to him, asleep. Larad lay nearby, and beyond him was Farr. Their eyes were closed, their breathing shallow but steady. Travis gazed around. The camels huddled in the scant shade of the wall, heads drooping. There was no sign of the T’gol. No doubt they were keeping watch.

Travis picked up the waterskin, took a sip, then sealed it, careful not to spill a drop. He started to lie back down, then halted.

His eyes focused on the block of stone he had drawn close to earlier. It was canted at an angle in the sand, so that one end was completely buried. How big was it? There was no way to know how far it went into the sand. The block was a different color than the rest of the ruins, a nearly pure white. The low angle of the evening light cast shadows in the carvings on the stone so that he could almost make them out, only he was too far away. . . .

Before he thought about what he was doing, Travis was walking toward the stone.

I’m just going to look at the carvings, he told himself. I’m not going to touch it, so I’m not doing anything wrong.

All the same, he moved quietly, and he cast several glances back over his shoulder to be sure the others were still asleep.

He halted beside the stone. Its top was smooth, though here and there dark flecks, like the remains of black paint, were embedded in its porous surface. The carvings on the sides were easier to discern in the angled light of the sun, though they meant nothing to Travis. They were long and sinuous, forming interlocking patterns. It occurred to him that if Grace was right, if this really had been a temple once, then the stone must be some kind of altar.

Travis licked his cracked and blistered lips, and the metallic taste of blood spread over his tongue. He was sweating, and a rushing noise sounded in his ears, along with a low susurration like a whispering voice, though it did not speak in words. At least not human words. All the same, Travis understood. The voice wanted him to touch the stone. His fingers stretched toward the stone’s surface. . . .

A shout broke the spell.

Travis snatched his hand back. Beneath the shelter, Grace and Larad sat up, eyes wide. Farr sprang to his feet, glaring at Travis.

The shout came again, from the other side of the mound of sand from which the columns jutted. Travis started running. The others followed, but he was closer. He ran around the edge of the mound, to the other side of the row of columns.

The storm had exhumed a section of a stone wall from the mound. Set into the wall, beneath a massive lintel, was a stone door, shut. One of the T’golstood in front of the door: Rafid. His face, always before stern and hard, was now pale with fear. He struggled as if trying to get away from the door, the muscles of his compact body straining beneath black leather, only something was holding him in place. Then Travis saw what it was. There was a hole in the center of the door, about as large as a splayed hand. Rafid’s arm was stuck in the hole, up to the elbow.

The T’gol’s body jerked, and his arm was drawn several more inches into the hole. He shouted again.

“What’s going on?” Grace said, panting as she halted next to Travis. Farr and Larad were right behind her.

“Idiot!” Farr said, clenching a fist. “He should have known. I thought T’golwere trained better than that.”

Rafid opened his mouth, making a dry, weak sound. By then his arm was completely consumed by the hole, his shoulder against the stone door. His skin, once bronze, was ash gray.

Larad started forward. “We must help him.”

Farr grabbed the Runelord’s shoulder. “You can’t help him. Not now. Not unless you know the rune of death.”

Travis didn’t care what Farr said. They had to do something. He started moving; Grace was with him. However, before they could go three steps, the air blurred, and Vani was there before them.

“Do not go near him!”

They stumbled backward, colliding with one another. Ahead, a patch of air shimmered like a mirage, then Avhir appeared, gripping a curved scimitar. The tall assassin swung the blade, lopping off Rafid’s arm at the shoulder. Vani pulled the man back, away from the door; no blood pumped from the stump of his arm. Rafid stared at the other T’gol, opening his mouth as if to speak something. He shuddered once.

Then his body crumbled into dust.

The wind snatched the dust, blowing it away in gritty swirls. Avhir threw Rafid’s empty black leathers to the sand, his bronze eyes hard. Vani stalked toward them. Travis and Grace ran after, Larad behind.

“Stay away from the door!” Farr shouted, but they ignored him.

Just as they reached the assassins, Kylees appeared. “What has happened?” she said, staring at Rafid’s crumpled leathers.

Avhir uncoiled long legs, standing. “I am not certain. I had posted Rafid at this wall to keep watch to the east. I came when I heard his shout. He was–”

Something black and sinuous shot from the hole in the door, wrapping itself around Avhir’s neck, hissing. With a quick motion the T’goldived into a roll, disentangling himself and flinging the thing to the ground as he stood back up.

It was a serpent, pure black except for its eyes and flicking tongue, which were bloodred. The viper bared curved fangs, its neck flaring. Moving so fast it was a shadowy blur, it struck again at Avhir.

The T’golwas faster. He swung his scimitar, cleaving the viper in two. It vanished in a puff of black smoke.

“Beware!” Kylees called out.

Another viper writhed out of the hole, and another. They kept coming faster than Travis could count, pouring down the surface of the wall like dark water until the sand was black with them. The vipers slithered forward, hissing, puffing out their necks, baring fangs that dripped venom.

Avhir lashed out with his scimitar, and two more vipers vanished in puffs of acrid smoke. However, more replaced them. Travis grabbed Grace’s hand and started to back away, but the serpents had already wriggled across the sand, circling around them. The T’golkicked at the vipers, flung them away, and hacked at them with weapons until black smoke choked the air, all the while dodging their hissing strikes. But there were too many of them. Sooner or later, one of the T’golwould move too slowly, and fangs would sink into flesh, injecting venom. The assassins formed a circle around Grace and Travis; the vipers closed in.

“Dust!” a voice shouted.

Farr stood a dozen paces away, holding up his left hand. Blood rained down from his palm, but it vanished before it hit the sand. The air buzzed and shimmered, as if filled with insects too small to be seen save for the glint of sunlight on wings.

As if drawn to him, the vipers slithered toward Farr; sweat poured down his brow. He thrust his hand forward.

“Dust!” he shouted again.

Each of the vipers exploded in a black puff. For a moment sight and breath were impossible. Then a gust of wind snatched the foul smoke, carrying it away and clearing the air.

Travis rubbed his stinging eyes. There was no trace left of the serpents. Farr was hastily binding a cloth around his hand, staunching the flow of blood. The buzzing faded to silence; the morndariwere gone.

Farr gave the three T’gola disgusted look, then approached the stone door, careful not to touch it.

“What is it?” Travis said, his throat burning from the smoke.

“It is a blood trap.” Farr looked at Grace. “You’re right. This was a temple, and I know now these are the ruins of Golbrora, whose sorcerer‑priests held the black viper sacred. Blood traps were set to keep thieves from stealing the temple’s treasure. A thief who reached into the hole to try to unlock the door found himself trapped, held in place while his blood was drained.”

“And the vipers?” Larad said, raising an eyebrow.

“They were meant to take care of any companions the thief might have had. It was difficult–my spell was weak–but I destroyed them.”

Travis felt the blood surging in his veins, and his hands twitched into fists. Despite his claim that his spell was weak, Farr seemed smug, even arrogant. But Travis could have dispelled the vipers, and by spilling less blood than Farr. He was sure of it.

Stop it, Travis. This isn’t a contest. Hadrian has studied these things, and you haven’t. And be grateful he has, or all of you would have ended up like Rafid.

Grace knelt, touching Rafid’s leathers. “I don’t understand. Why did he try to open the door?”

“Voices,” Travis said, remembering the whispers he had heard as he approached the altar. “He heard voices.”

Farr nodded. “It is as I said. He feared magic, and so was compelled by it.”

“He was weak not to resist,” Kylees said, her words harsh. She turned her back and walked away. Avhir cast his bronze gaze on the empty leathers, then followed after her.

“Come,” Vani said, touching Grace’s shoulder. “The day is nearly done.”

Travis cast one last glance at the door, not even daring to wonder what lay on the other side. Had Rafid really been weak? Travis doubted it. One did not survive for thirteen years in the Silent Fortress by being weak.

It could just as easily have been you who stuck a hand in that hole, Travis, not Rafid.

Only it hadn’t been; that fate wasn’t his. Travis clamped his hands under his arms and trudged after the others just as the sun touched the western horizon, staining the ruins of Golbrora crimson.

29.

The camels paced over the silver dunes, silent as wraiths in the moonlight.

Grace huddled inside a blanket as the camel’s hump rose and fell beneath her. The day’s sweat had dried to a crust on her skin, and now she was shivering. Once night fell, the desert had quickly surrendered its heat to the cloudless sky. Stars glittered like cold gems above–but not in the rift, which was as dark as the vipers that had slithered from the stone door in the ruins of Golbrora. Only the rift wasn’t something that could be fought with blood sorcery, not like the serpents. It wasn’t anything at all.

How can you fight nothing, Grace?

It seemed impossible, but she wouldn’t let herself believe that. Their only hope was for Travis to find the Last Rune, wherever–whatever–it was. But first they had to find Nim.

And maybe this is how it’s meant to be, Grace. Sfithrisir said Travis would lead you to the Last Rune, and dragons can’t lie. Well, this could be how he does it–by going after Nim.

It didn’t make much sense, but maybe Fate didn’t have to. Or maybe it was something else altogether that had drawn them to this place. Something simpler–and far stronger–than mere Fate. Maybe it was love.

And what do you know about love, Grace?

A lot more than she used to. She had learned so much since coming to Eldh: how to be a witch, a warrior, and a queen. But more amazing than any of those things, she had learned that her heart, however damaged, could still hold love.

Her gaze drifted to a dark form riding just ahead of her. Hadrian Farr. As often happened when she gazed at him, her pulse quickened, though she didn’t quite understand what it meant. She could catalog all of the symptoms–shortness of breath, elevated blood pressure, a ringing in the ears–but she couldn’t diagnose the disease. What was it that looking at him did to her?

Grace didn’t know. Only that it made her feel frightened, and excited, and strangely free. It was like what she had felt at the last feast in Gravenfist Keep, when she had realized that Malachor didn’t really need her anymore.

It was like letting go.

“Is something the matter, Grace?”

Her pulse spiked in alarm. Hadrian had slowed his camel, and now he rode close to her. His dark eyes glittered in the moonlight, studying her; he must have noticed her staring.

“I was just wondering,” she said and cleared her throat, trying to think of something she could possibly say to him. Then, to her surprise, she did. “I was just wondering what Sister Mirrim told you in the Hagia Sophia, in Istanbul. You said she whispered something to you there, something important, but you never said what it was.”

Farr turned his gaze forward, into the night. “She said she knew the answer to the mystery.”

“What mystery?”

“That’s exactly what I asked her. What mystery did she mean? And she said. . . .” His voice trailed off. Grace wondered if was going to answer at all. Then he drew in a breath. “She said the mystery was for me to determine, but the answer was ‘the catalyst does not change.’ ”

Grace couldn’t help a wry smile. “That sounds like something one of them would say, all right. Suitably cryptic.”

He gave her a sharp look. “Do you know what it means?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea. Maybe you should ask Travis about it. He’s spoken with the three of them a lot more than I have–Cy, Mirrim, and Samanda.”

Farr’s gaze moved past Grace, toward where Travis and Larad rode. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Why?” Grace said, her heart rate quickening again, only for a different reason this time.

“He doesn’t trust me.”

Grace licked her cracked lips, but this time her attempt to find something to say failed.

“What about you, Grace Beckett?” He was looking at her again, his dark eyes unreadable. “Do you trust me?”

“I want to.”

Farr nodded. “You might regret that in the end.”

He flicked the reins of his camel, and the beast quickened its stride, distancing itself from Grace’s mount. She stared after him. Her pulse was no longer rapid; instead, it seemed her heart did not beat at all.

They rode all that night, hid from the sun during the heat of the day, then pressed on again as darkness fell. Nothing assailed them, yet Grace felt her fear growing with each passing league. Was the Morgolthi drawing them on, waiting until they were deep within it to swallow them?

Just before dawn they halted at a dead oasis. It must have been beautiful once. No more. What had once been a sizable pool fed by a spring was only a shallow depression caked with salt and littered with the bleached bones of antelope and jackals. Trees circled the oasis, reaching out of the sun‑baked ground like skeletal hands from a grave. Their branches bore no leaves, only thorns.

Grace’s camel lowered itself to its knees, and she half climbed, half fell from the saddle, her legs and back aching. The beast bowed its head, eyelids drooping; a yellow crust of dried spittle framed its mouth. Travis, Larad, and Farr dismounted as the air shimmered and the T’golappeared.

“The camels grow weak,” Avhir said, stroking the neck of one of the animals. He turned his bronze eyes toward Farr. “They cannot go on much longer. One more journey is all they have left in them.”

“It will be enough,” Farr said. He sat with his back against one of the trees, covered his face with the hood of his robe, and did not move.

Travis drew close to Grace. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible,” he said under his breath, “but Farr is starting to make Master Larad look like Mr. Congeniality.”

“He’s just tired,” Grace said. “Like all of us.”

Travis gave her a questioning look, but she moved away, to the scant shade beneath a clump of dead trees, and sat down. She had been avoiding talking to Travis. Because if she did, she would have to tell him what Farr said to her two nights before.

You might regret that in the end. . . .

Were Travis’s suspicions right? Was Farr taking them to Morindu for his own ends–out of his own desire for power? Maybe. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was taking them there, that he was helping them find Nim. And, once they were there, if he did anything that put Nim in danger, Grace would . . .

She didn’t finish that thought. Instead, she took out her leather flask and drank a little water. It was hot, and tasted sour, but all the same she had to will herself not to guzzle it. The flask was already less than half‑full, and there was no hope of finding water there.

Grace lay down on a blanket, shut her eyes, and soon fell asleep. However, it was a fitful repose, haunted by dreams in which the dead trees began to move, their wood creaking with a dry sound like laughter. She tried to run, but the trees grabbed her, holding her tight in their branches, as thorns drove deep into her flesh. . . .

She sat up. Master Larad knelt beside her.

“What’s happening?”

“It’s time to eat something, Your Majesty.”

Grace pushed sweat‑tangled hair from her face. She had slept longer than she intended; the sun was already halfway to the western horizon.

“I was having a nightmare,” she said.

“I know. We were all having nightmares, Your Majesty. This is an evil place. Death lingers here.” Larad tilted his head. “And something else.”

Grace looked up at the dead trees arching over her. “It’s hatred. This place hates life. I can feel it.”

“Come.” Larad held out a hand, helping her to her feet.

They joined Travis and Farr beneath a larger clump of dead trees. Grace wished they could get away from the trees, but they offered the only shade, and the day was still hot. Vani and Avhir were there, but Kylees was nowhere in view.

“She is scouting,” Vani said. “To the south of here, the land is riddled with pockets of slipsand. To step in one is certain death. We must find a way around.”

“I already told you,” Farr said, his face dark with anger, “there is no way around. We have to go through.”

Avhir let out a snort. “If you try it, you will be swallowed before you walk five steps. The slipsand will fill your lungs and suffocate you, if it does not first crush your body as you are dragged down into its depths. We must go around.”

“We don’t have time for that,” Farr growled. “I spoke with the dying sorcerer, and he told me about this place. The region of slipsand stretches on for leagues to both the east and west. The camels are nearly dead, and it would take us days to go around on foot, even weeks. We’ll die, too, before we can do that. We have to go through.”

“How?” Travis said.

“The sorcerer told me the region of slipsand is no more than half a league across from north to south. If we continue south, we can pass over it quickly. The burial site of Morindu lies not far beyond.”

Avhir’s eyes narrowed. “I will repeat Sai’el Travis’s question. How can we go through even half a league of slipsand without perishing?”

Farr licked blistered lips. “The spirits can guide us through. As you said, the slipsand lies in pockets, with stable areas between. All we have to do is make our way around the pockets without stepping in them.”

“You cannot tell slipsand from normal sand by looking at it,” Vani said. Her words were not combative, not like Avhir’s; they were merely a statement of fact.

“That’s where the morndarican help us. The sorcerer told me the spirits guided him through the slipsand. I can summon them and bid them to do the same for us.”

“Can you?” Master Larad said, his scarred face turned toward Farr. “I confess, I know little of blood sorcery, but I watched you in the ruins of Golbrora. You had to command the morndaritwice before they would obey you and destroy the vipers. The powers of sorcery are weakening, just like rune magic, and the magic Queen Grace wields.”

The former Seeker said nothing; his silence was answer enough.

Avhir stood. “It is still two hours until sunset. We will think about what has been said, then decide.”

Farr opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak the air shimmered and Avhir was gone. Those who remained beneath the trees made a frugal meal of dried figs and a little water. Grace chewed without relish. Everything tasted like sand, even the water.

“Maybe it’s good,” Travis said, drawing spirals in the sand with a stick. “Maybe it’s good that magic is weakening.”

“How so?” Larad said, raising a jagged eyebrow.

“Because if the sorcerers get to Morindu before us, maybe there won’t be anything left for them to find.”

Grace hugged her knees to her chest. Despite the heat, she felt chilled, as if with fever. “What willwe find if we get there?”

She glanced at Vani and Farr. However, before either could speak, the air rippled, unfolded, and Avhir was there.

Vani leaped to her feet. “What is it?”

“I cannot find Kylees,” Avhir said, his voice sharper than usual.

“Where did you last see her?”

“Just south of here, near the edge of the slipsand. She was attempting to see if a route could be found through the area, as the dervish suggested.” He shot Farr an accusatory look; Farr said nothing.

“She has not returned here,” Vani said. “We must continue to look for her.”

She started to move, but Travis gripped her arm, halting her. “Wait. Maybe there’s a better way.” He turned his gray eyes toward Grace. “Can you sense her nearby?”

“I’ll try.”

Grace shut her eyes and reached out with the Touch. It should have been simple; she had done it a thousand times. Instead, the threads of the Weirding tangled in her imagined hands. She tried to tease them apart, only they were so thin– like wisps of gossamer. If she pulled too hard they would tear. Carefully, she cast her net wider. . . .

“I sensed something,” she gasped, eyes opening.

Vani moved close. “Was it Kylees?”

She held a hand to her forehead. What had she glimpsed? It was life, it had to be; the threads of the Weirding had coiled around it. Only something about it hadn’t seemed right.

“I’m not sure. I think so, but–”

“Where?” Avhir said. “Where did you sense her?”

Grace pointed south and west. “That way.”

Vani and Avhir were already moving. Grace, Travis, Larad, and Farr hurried after them, but they could not keep up with the assassins. The T’golvanished over a low rise.

“What was it, Grace?” Travis said, panting as they ran. “What did you see?”

“Hurry,” was all she said.

To their right, the sun sank toward the horizon, spilling bloodred light over the sand. Sweating, their breath ragged, the four reached the top of the rise. They saw a lone, dark figure below, standing on the edge of a vast plain of sand. Vani and Avhir bounded down the slope like black leopards. Grace and the others followed. As they drew near, Grace saw that the lone figure was indeed Kylees, and that Vani and Avhir had halted a half dozen paces from her.

“Stop!” Vani said, holding out a hand. “There is a pocket of slipsand just ahead.”

Grace stumbled to a halt alongside Travis, Larad, and Farr. Strangely, Kylees’s back was turned to them, her shoulders hunched. She was shaking. What was wrong?

Avhir edged forward a step. “Kylees, what has happened?”

She did not answer.

“If you come directly toward me, you will avoid the slipsand.” Avhir held out a hand. “Come!”

A spasm passed through Kylees’s body, then she turned around. The T’gol’s eyes were dull as stones, and her pretty face was puffy and bloated. Her right hand twitched at her side. Grace saw that the small cut on her hand was red and crusted, oozing fluid. Was Kylees sick, suffering from an infection? She could have blood poisoning.

Vani moved forward, probing the sand carefully with her boots. “What has happened to you, Kylees? Tell us.”

For a moment a light of recognition flickered in Kylees’s gold eyes. “Flee,” she croaked. Another spasm, more violent than the last, passed through her.

Then her skin split open.

It happened swiftly. Kylees’s skin slipped away from her body, falling to the sand along with her black leathers, as if both had been mere garments. Left in her place was a thing that was human in shape, but only vaguely. It had no nose, mouth, or hair; twin points of light burned where its eyes should have been. It was dark, its surface glossy and smooth, but not hard like onyx. Instead, its skin moved and rippled like dark water.

Only it wasn’t water. As the thing moved, it left crimson footprints behind it on the sand, as well as a jumbled pile of bones.

“A blood golem!” Vani hissed, leaping back, pulling Avhir with her. “Do not let it near you!”

Grace stared, at once horrified and fascinated. Blood. The thing was made of blood. And not only Kylees’s.

Its volume is too large to be made up of the blood of only a single person, she thought, her scientific curiosity operating despite her terror. It has to contain the blood of several people.

“Do not come closer!” Avhir shouted, brandishing his scimitar, but the blood golem continued to advance, moving with a silky fluidity that was familiar to Grace. So this was the shadow that had followed her on her journey south. She had thought they had left it behind when they crossed the sea, but she had been wrong. Only how had it followed them?

The cut on Kylees’s hand, her doctor’s voice spoke in her mind. There was a sailor on the ship who also had a cut. The blood golem must enter its victims through an open wound and travel inside them.

These rational thoughts vanished, replaced by primal fear, as the blood golem lashed out with an arm. Vani sprang back, but the golem’s arm extended, stretching into a long pseudopod. It snaked through the air, reaching for the T’gol.

Avhir swung his scimitar, cutting the pseudopod in two. One end snapped back toward the blood golem, causing the surface of its body to ripple. The other end rained to the sand, wetting it with crimson.

So the thing could be harmed. They could destroy it–as long as it was not able to draw more blood into itself. They couldn’t let it touch them. Even as Grace realized that, the blood golem’s arm re‑formed and lashed out toward her. At the same moment its other arm shot toward Travis.

Avhir spun, slashing through one of the tentacles with his scimitar. However, the other snapped out of reach, then struck like a whip, coiling around him. Avhir cried out, falling to his knees, but the sound was muffled as the pseudopod forced itself into his mouth, his nose. The T’golwent rigid, back arching, the scimitar slipping from his hands.

Vani materialized out of thin air, kicking at the tentacle with a boot. The pseudopod burst apart in a spray of scarlet. Avhir gripped his scimitar and lurched back to his feet.

“Keep striking at it!” he called out, his face stained with red. “If it loses enough blood, it will not be able to hold its form.”

He was right. Each time the golem shot out another pseudopod, he and Vani hacked at it, and more blood soaked into the sand. The thing began to move more slowly, and its surface rippled constantly.

“We must help them,” Farr said, drawing a dagger from his serafi.

However, there was no need. Vani and Avhir had continued to kick and hack at the blood golem, and now blood oozed from it, drunk greedily by the sand. Pseudopods reached out from its body but were just as quickly reabsorbed. Vani aimed a kick at the center of its form, while Avhir slashed with his scimitar, separating its head from its body.

Like a water balloon pricked with a pin, the blood golem burst apart in a crimson spray, covering the two T’gol. The dark fluid pooled on the ground for a moment, then the sand gobbled it.

30.

“I don’t like this,” Farr said, kneeling beside the crimson stain on the sand. “That was too easy.”

“Not for Kylees,” Vani said, using a cloth to wipe blood from her face, her hands, her leathers. It was black and smelled foul.

Larad moved closer to Grace. “Surely this was what was following us on our journey south, Your Majesty.”

Grace only nodded; she could find no words.

Travis circled around the remains of the golem, careful not to get too close. “How was this thing created?”

Farr stood; his fingers were wet and dark. “Only the Scirathi have such skill. A blood golem is created using the blood of a sorcerer. One must give his life in order for the golem to come into being. His blood is animated by sorcery while it still flows in his veins, and the golem bursts forth. From then on, the golem must periodically take more blood into itself in order to maintain its form and strength.”

“You know much about the forbidden craft of the Scirathi,” Avhir said, wiping blood from his face.

Farr did not look at the T’gol.

At last Grace found her voice. “How was it able to follow me all the way here? And why?”

“Why it was following you, I’m not certain,” Farr said, regarding Grace. “As for how, there is only one way a blood golem could track you all this way. A drop of your blood must have been incorporated into its being. Once that was done, it could follow you by the scent of your blood.”

Bile rose in Grace’s throat; she forced herself to swallow. “That doesn’t make sense. How could one of the Scirathi have gotten a drop of my–oh!”

So much had happened the night of the feast, and it was such a small thing. She had completely forgotten it. However, now the memory came back to her with perfect clarity. Quickly, in trembling words, she described the old servingwoman she had collided with in a corridor of Gravenfist Keep–how the other had dropped a ball of yarn, and how Grace had bent to pick it up, and was pricked by a needle. Grace never saw the other’s face. All she had seen was a hand, reaching out to accept the ball of yarn. At the time she had thought it wrinkled with age. However, the light was dim. The hand could just have easily been covered with scars.

Larad stroked the dark stubble on his chin. “That explains how the Scirathi gained a drop of your blood, Your Majesty. Yet it still does not tell us why the Scirathi wished to follow you.”

“It was me.”

They turned to look at Travis. His gray eyes were haunted.

“They knew you would come in search of me, Grace.” He reached out and took her hands; his own hands were so hot she could hardly bear their touch, but she didn’t pull back. “The Scirathi were hunting me on Earth. They want me for something. Or maybe they just want me dead. Either way, the Scirathi were using you to find me.”

Grace shook her head. She wanted to weep, but her eyes could produce no tears.

“He’s right,” Farr said, wiping his hands on his black robe. “It is the only answer that makes sense.”

Travis let go of her hands. “You’ve got to go, Grace. All of you. You have to get out of–”

A scream rose on the air, coming from the other side of the low ridge. It was a terrible sound, shrill and wet: a sound of animal pain. More screams joined it, then all were cut short.

Grace turned around, heart thudding. “What was that?”

“It was the camels,” Avhir said, unsheathing his scimitar again.

Larad caught the sleeve of Grace’s serafi. “Master Wilder is right, Your Majesty. We must go.”

“It is too late,” Vani said. “They are here.”

A half dozen figures appeared at the top of the ridge, their black robes stark against the coppery sky. Sorcerers.

Vani and Avhir stalked forward, hands and weapons ready, as the Scirathi descended the slope. Grace, Travis, and Larad pressed close to one another, but Farr stood a short distance away. A dagger appeared in his right hand, poised over his arm, ready to draw blood.

“Why are they coming so slowly?” Larad said, his words hoarse. “Would they not rather make quick work of us?”

The sorcerers seemed almost to shuffle down the slope, making no effort to guard themselves. Grace shut her eyes, spinning out a thread. The Weirding was growing weaker, but maybe she could still use the Touch to probe them, to learn something of what they intended to do. She cast her strand out across the desert. . . .

Her eyes flew open. “They’re not alive!”

There was no time for the T’golto respond to her words; the sorcerers had shambled within striking range, tattered robes fluttering, stretching withered arms toward the assassins. Their gold masks gleamed in the light of the setting sun, expressionless, serene. Avhir struck first, his scimitar glittering as it hewed off the hand of one of the sorcerers.

Sand poured from the stump of the sorcerer’s wrist instead of blood.

For a moment the T’golstopped, staring, but the sorcerers continued to close in. Vani launched a kick. There was a crunching sound of bones shattering, and one of the Scirathi flew back a dozen feet. The sorcerer fell to the ground–then got up and began to shuffle forward again. At the same moment Avhir slit the throat of another Scirathi. As with the first, no blood spilled from the wound. Instead, copper‑colored sand rained to the ground.

“Stop!” Farr called out. “You must not wound them!”

Grace wondered what he meant. The Scirathi were corpses– animated husks, nothing more. Wounding them would not kill them because they were already dead, but surely it could not cause harm either.

She was wrong. Avhir either did not hear or did not heed Farr’s words. He made a flicking motion with his wrists, and the scimitar flashed, lopping off the head of one of the Scirathi. The sorcerer’s body toppled, and ruddy sand poured from the stump of the neck, falling onto the desert floor.

The ground began to churn. Red sand swirled with gold. Then, like a waterspout on the sea, a pillar rose up from the ground, building upon itself until it was as tall as Avhir. The sand coalesced, forming a solid shape with thick arms, column‑like legs, and a featureless head set upon bulky shoulders.

Avhir swore in the tongue of the Mournish, then swung his scimitar again. The blade passed through the sand creature’s body, but without apparent effect. Sand gave way around the blade, then coalesced again. The thing struck out with a heavy arm. Avhir grunted, flying through the air, then hit the ground and rolled a dozen feet.

The thing started to shamble forward, toward Grace, Travis, and Larad, but Vani interposed herself. She leaped into the air, hanging there so long she seemed to defy gravity, launching a flurry of punches and kicks at the sand creature. The thing stumbled back as its head exploded in a spray of grit–

–then started forward again as more sand rose up from the ground, becoming part of its form. A new, bulbous head thrust up from between its shoulders.

Another creature was already forming from the patch of sand where the headless Scirathi had died, and red powder continued to pour from the neck of the sorcerer that was wounded. Its body slumped to the ground, an empty shell, and the desert sand roiled beneath it as yet another sand creature started to coalesce.

“How do we fight these things?” Vani called out to Farr, leaping aside as the first sand creature struck at her.

“You can’t,” Farr shouted back. “You cannot wound them, or strike off a limb. They have only to draw more sand into themselves.”

“What about the slipsand?” Avhir called, springing back to his feet. “Might we lure them into it?”

“Sand is sand. It cannot harm them–not when they are made of it. Whatever you do, do not slay another sorcerer!”

That was easier said than done. The four remaining sorcerers threw themselves at the T’gol, withered limbs flailing. Avhir cast aside his scimitar, and Vani ceased striking at them. However, the shriveled bodies of the sorcerers were fragile. Vani tried only to brush one aside and its skin tore beneath her hands like old parchment as red‑brown dust spilled out. The dust fell to the ground, and the desert sand began to swirl.

There were three of the sand creatures now, and unlike the sorcerers they seemed uninterested in the T’gol, only striking if the assassins got in their way. Instead, they kept moving toward Grace, Travis, and Larad. The three backed away, trying to keep the T’golbetween them and the sand creatures.

“Grace, can you do anything?” Travis said, gripping her arm.

She fought for breath. “They’re not alive–the sorcerers or the sand creatures. No threads spin around them. Even if there wasn’t something the matter with the Weirding, I would have no power over them.”

“What about conjuring a wind? You’ve done that before.”

“I can’t,” she said, hating how worthless the words were, but the Weirding was too weak, and there was so little life here in the desert.

Travis nodded, his eyes sad but not accusing; he didn’t blame her. He glanced at Larad. “Do you know the rune for sand?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, there aren’t many deserts in the north,” the Runelord said, his words sardonic as ever despite the fear in his eyes. “I do not know the rune for sand, but the rune for dirt is Khath.”

“Speak it with me,” Travis said.

Together the two Runelords chanted the rune. Grace felt magic shimmer on the air, but it abruptly faded. Larad pulled something from his robe: a small iron box. He opened it, and three orbs shimmered in his hand, one white, one gray‑green, and the other blazing crimson. The Imsari–Larad had brought them with him.

Travis and Larad chanted the rune again, and the Stones flared. However, it was no use. Either it was the wrong rune they spoke, or rune magic had no power over these things born of blood sorcery. The sand creatures kept coming.

Avhir tried to dodge one of the sorcerers, but as he sprang aside it dived at him, and his boot caught its jaw. The sorcerer’s mandible flew away from its skull, and red powder poured from its gaping mouth. The others had also managed to harm themselves by flailing at the T’gol. Their wounds were small, but dust flowed from them. Now there were five of the sand creatures, and in several spots the sand was pushing itself up into pillars, forming more.

“What do these fiends want?” Larad said, staggering back. He thrust the box with the Imsari back inside his robe.

The sand creatures kept advancing. Vani and Avhir combined their attacks on one of the creatures. They rained blows and kicks upon it, pummeling the creature down into the sand. Grace felt a spark of hope, but it was extinguished as the ground churned, and the sand creature began to re‑form. Grace, Travis, and Larad were forced to back up another step.

Grace’s foot sank deep into the sand. A hundred invisible hands seemed to pull at her, dragging her foot down. There was a moaning sound deep in the ground. She would have gone under in a second if Travis and Larad hadn’t grabbed her arms, pulling her back.

“Slipsand,” Larad said, glancing over his shoulder at the flat expanse behind them. “We can’t go any farther.”

Nor could they go forward. The T’golstood between them and the sand creatures, battling furiously, their arms and legs blurring. Sand filled the air as heads and torsos exploded under the fury of the assassins. However, the sand creatures continually re‑formed themselves, and already the T’golwere beginning to slow down. Sweat poured down Vani’s brow; Avhir’s breath came in ragged gasps. They could not keep this up.

A low chant sounded, and Grace looked up to see Farr’s dagger flash in the light of the dying sun. Blood spilled from a gash in his arm, and a buzzing filled the air like a swarm of unseen insects. The buzzing swarmed around one of the sand creatures. The thing stood still for a moment, as if frozen, then ruptured in a cascade of sand. This time it did not coalesce again. Farr had destroyed it.

Grace glanced at the former Seeker. He had fallen to his knees, and his face was gray. She reached out with the Touch and at once saw that he had lost a large amount of blood. If he lost any more, he could go into shock. All the same Farr gripped the dagger and, moving weakly, began to lengthen the gash in his arm.

No!Grace spun the words over the Weirding. You can’t afford to lose more blood.

She felt his surprise, and he looked at her. Then, faint but clear, she heard his reply. There is no other way. . . .

Grace wouldn’t believe that. “Travis, you’re a sorcerer. Can you do what Hadrian just did?”

Travis didn’t answer. He gazed at the sand creatures, less than ten paces away. The T’golwere losing ground. There were seven of the creatures by then–no, eight. Avhir fell to his knees. Vani jerked him back up. Only it didn’t matter. Even the T’golcould not win this fight. They would fall, and Farr would die from loss of blood. In moments it would be over.

Larad gripped Travis’s shoulders, shaking him. “Rune magic is no use against them. But you are a sorcerer, Master Wilder. You can do something!”

“Yes,” Travis murmured. “It’s the only way. It’s me these things want. Once I’m gone, they’ll go, too.”

Grace stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

There was a fey light in his eyes; he touched her cheek. “Don’t worry, Grace. You’ll bring me back. I know you will.”

Vani let out a cry of pain. Two of the sand creatures had flanked her, and they were crushing her between them. Avhir staggered, trying to defend himself and failing as three of the creatures pummeled him with fists of sand. Beyond, Farr sprawled on the ground, motionless, a dark stain spreading out from his arm. Three of the sand creatures broke through the line of the assassins. They shambled forward, arms out before them.

Travis drew in a breath. “I believe in you, Grace.”

Then he took a step backward.

Instantly, the slipsand gave way beneath his boots. One moment he was there, gazing at her with his gray eyes, and the next he was gone. There was a low moan as the sand shifted. It poured back into the hole where he had vanished, filling it, and in the space of a heartbeat all traces of it, and of Travis, were gone.

The sand creatures hesitated, as if uncertain what to do, and the T’goltook the chance to free themselves.

“No!” Grace screamed, flinging herself to the ground. She would have been sucked into the slipsand herself but for Larad’s hands pulling her back. She reached out with the Touch, probing deep into the sand, willing the magic to work. All was dark. She groped, searching blindly, flinging her spirit after him. There–she felt a glimmer of life. It was him, it had to be. . . .

The glimmer of light went dark.

“No!” Grace shouted again, but it was no use.

Master Larad pulled her away from the edge of the slipsand. Through her tears she barely saw the sand creatures collapse into heaps of motionless dust; she hardly noticed as the T’golapproached, or as Farr slowly pulled himself up from the ground. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

Travis was dead.

PART THREE

MARIUS

31.

It was early when Deirdre reached the Charterhouse. Behind the reception counter, Madeleine’s chair was empty, the computer screen blank. Only a single fluorescent light flickered overhead.

Eschewing the elevator, Deirdre headed down a shadowed corridor, descended a flight of stairs to the basement, and made her way to the door of her office. It was locked; he wasn’t there yet. That had been her hope, and the reason she had left her flat before dawn. She needed time to think before he showed up, time to decide what to do.

Time to figure out whose side Anders was really on.

The office was dim–only a faint gray illumination oozed through the office’s one small window–but she left the overhead lights off. Her head hurt, and her stomach churned, and like a sick animal she wanted nothing except to curl up in a safe, dark spot.

But you’re not safe here, Deirdre. Not if you’re right.

She switched on the desk lamp, squinting against even that modest glare. The throbbing in her head rose a notch in magnitude, and belatedly she realized she should have picked up some coffee on the way. Now she would have to wait until Anders showed up.

That’s nice, Deirdre. You can’t convince yourself he’s not a traitor, but you’re still willing to let him fix you a cup of co fee. If he was smart, he’d put rat poison in it and get you out of the way.

Like he got the sorcerer out of the way?

She reached into the pocket of her leather jacket and pulled out an empty syringe. It was the syringe Anders had used the previous night on the sorcerer. The drug had been intended to both allow and compel the sorcerer to speak; instead it had killed her.

Deirdre rolled the syringe back and forth on the desk. She shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Maybe Scirathi physiology was dissimilar to human physiology after all. Maybe the woman sorcerer had suffered an allergic reaction, going into anaphylactic shock.

Or maybe Anders had given her the wrong dose on purpose.

One way or another, Deirdre would find out. Last night, a special Seeker task team had been dispatched to Beltan’s and Travis’s flat, and at that moment the sorcerer’s body rested in a refrigerated drawer in a laboratory beneath the Charterhouse. An autopsy would be done, and tests performed. The cause of death would be determined, along with the levels of the drugs in the sorcerer’s blood. Once the report came back, she would know whether Anders had deliberately killed the Scirathi. But that would take a few days. What should she do in the meantime?

Keep working, Deirdre. It’ll get your mind off things. Besides, Beltan isn’t about to rest. He’s going to continue looking for the arch.

Only where was it? The Scirathi had stolen the arch from Crete, but not for themselves. Instead, they had given it to someone else–someone who, in exchange, had led them to Travis Wilder. But who was it? Who had hired the sorcerers to steal the arch, and why?

Maybe going over everything that had happened would help her understand. Deirdre opened her computer and started to type, writing a report of their operation last night while the details were still fresh in her mind. When that was done, she pulled a digital voice recorder from her pocket. She had carried it on her last night to record their conversation with the sorcerer. At the touch of a button words emanated from the recorder, spoken in a dry, hissing voice. Deirdre’s fingers trembled on the keyboard as she transcribed the conversation.

There wasn’t much. She typed the final words. The arch . . . blood so near . . . the seven cannot . . . be far.

Her own voice came then: louder, desperate. The seven what?

A long pause, then one last sibilant whisper. Sleep . . . sleep . . .

That was all. Deirdre stopped typing and switched off the recorder. She clicked the SAVE button on her computer, then leaned back, rubbing her temples. There were so many questions she had wanted to ask the sorcerer. Only the sorcerer had died, and Deirdre doubted they would capture another. The Scirathi would be more wary than ever now. And if Anders was working for them, he was bound to warn them of another ambush. Or was Anders allied not with the Scirathi, but with the same people for whom the sorcerers had stolen the arch?

Stop it, Deirdre. You don’t know Anders is working for anyone except the Seekers. You need a lot more evidence before you can say for sure he’s a traitor.

Or before she could say for sure that he wasn’t. Sighing, she picked up the copy of the Timesshe had bought out of habit from a newsstand outside the Tube station. She needed to give her mind a break.

In which case she shouldn’t have read the paper. The news was more troubling than ever. Variance X continued to expand; it was now over twice the diameter of the moon as seen from Earth. And it was no longer the only blot in the sky. Another anomaly had appeared, visible from the southern hemisphere and growing at a rapid rate. Like the first, astronomers had determined it to be outside the solar system, a bit more than twice as distant from the sun as Pluto.

There was bad news here on Earth as well. Violent earthquakes had struck Turkey again, dormant volcanoes in South America were erupting, typhoons were flooding much of India, and another hurricane was battering the east coast of the United States. With all that was going on, it was no surprise the world stock markets were crashing.

All the same, people kept going on with their lives. That morning, the Tube station had been filled with the usual throng of weekday commuters and tourists dragging crying children. It was the same as any day–at least if one didn’t look closely.

But Deirdre hadlooked closely, and what she had seen disturbed her. The commuters had stared with blank faces, not bothering to read the newspapers they held in their hands. The tourists had seemed deaf to the shrieks of their children, trudging as if on a death march rather than a vacation. There was no joy, no urgency in their expressions or actions. Not even annoyance or anger as people jostled into one another, or a train’s doors shut before someone could climb aboard.

Deirdre had watched a man standing, staring, his briefcase hanging open and papers swirling about the platform. She picked up some of the papers, but before she could give them back to him he dropped the briefcase and walked over to a group of Mouthers in the center of the platform. One of them put a white sheet around his shoulders, draping it over his business suit. Another gave him a sign to hold. I Have Been Eaten, it read.

Maybe people weren’t going about their normal lives. Maybe, instead, they had already given up. For what was there to fear from the dark blots in the sky when one was already defeated–already consumed?

Deirdre sighed. She had read enough of the news. She folded the paper to toss it in the trash bin.

A small white envelope fell from between two sections of the paper, landing on her desk.

She stared for several seconds, then set down the newspaper and picked up the envelope. Her name was written on the front in elegant script. Hands shaking, she opened the envelope and unfolded the single crisp sheet of notepaper within. It bore a message written in the same elegant hand as on the front of the envelope.

You are closer than you think to the answers you seek. However, you have forgotten something–a mystery from before this mystery began. It is time to remember it now. And to find an answer, don’t forget that it is always best to go directly to the source.

That was all. Deirdre turned the notepaper over, but there was no more writing, and no signature. What did it mean? What mystery had she forgotten about? She had no idea. However, there was one thing she did know: The note was from her mysterious Philosopher. Only how had he gotten it inside the newspaper?

Deirdre thought back. It had been dark still, and she had hardly looked at the attendant at the newsstand when she handed him a pound coin and took the newspaper. She remembered he had been tall, wrapped in an overcoat, a hat shadowing his face . . .

A chill coursed up her spine. It had been he. It had to be. Her hand had brushed his, and she hadn’t even known it. She bent her head over the note to read it again.

The overhead lights switched on, and another gasp escaped her.

“You shouldn’t read in the dark, mate,” said a cheery, gravelly voice. “You’ll ruin your eyes.”

“Anders,” she said, breathless.

As usual, he was dressed in a sleek designer suit. His hair looked freshly bleached, and as he set a paper cup on her desk she noticed that his fingernails were perfectly buffed and trimmed.

How can he be a spy, Deirdre? Clearly he spends all of his free time grooming.

Despite her dread, the thought actually made her laugh, but she swallowed it, and it came out more as a gagging sound.

“Are you all right, mate?”

Deirdre answered with the truth. There was no reason not to. “Not exactly. I just got this in my morning paper.” She handed him the note, then took a deep, restorative swig of the coffee.

When he finished reading the note, Anders let out a low whistle. “Crikey, you were right next to him this time. He’s been taking bigger and bigger risks to communicate with you. Seems to me like he’s getting a little edgy. Things must be desperate for him.”

Deirdre hadn’t thought of that, but Anders was probably right. As usual, he had seen things in a way she hadn’t. And that was why she hated being suspicious of him. She needed Anders–she needed his sharp wit and his absurd good cheer and his coffee.

Only you can’t have them, Deirdre. Not if you can’t trust him.

But maybe she could; maybe there was still a chance. If he would answer one question for her, then she would know for certain that he was still on her side.

“Anders,” she said, and cleared her throat. “Anders, there’s something I’ve been wondering. And it’s important to me. Very important. I need you to answer a question.”

He shrugged his big shoulders. “You got it, partner. Anything.”

She met his vivid blue eyes. “Why do you still carry a hand‑gun? I’ve never received any orders regarding it, but I know Nakamura is aware you still have it and hasn’t done anything about it. Why?”

For a moment he didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on hers. Hope surged in her chest.

Then he winked at her and grinned. “Not that old chestnut again,” he said, his voice big and affectionately mocking. “I swear, you’re like a dog with a bone, mate. Only there’s no meat left on this one. Like you said, Nakamura knows all about it. Now, how’s your coffee?”

The hope burned to ash in her chest. She clutched the paper cup. “Great,” she said, and she took a sip, though she didn’t taste it.

Beltan showed up at the door then, and Deirdre was grateful for his interruption. Deirdre offered the blond man a sip of her coffee, and he slugged it down in one long gulp, returning the cup and the last dregs to her with a sheepish look.

“You seem raring to go this morning,” Anders observed.

“We spoke to one of the Scirathi like you said we should,” Beltan answered, looking at Deirdre. “Now it’s time to get the keystone and use it to lure the thieves who stole the arch.”

Deirdre wished Beltan hadn’t drunk all the coffee. She could have used a sip to gather herself. “You heard what the sorcerer said. The Scirathi don’t have the arch.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Beltan’s green eyes were overly bright. “Whoever it is the Scirathi were working for, surely they will be lured out of hiding when we dangle the keystone before them. Else they might send more Scirathi to fetch it for them. Either way, the thieves will lead us to their hiding place.”

Deirdre wanted to tell him that it was too risky, that they didn’t know enough yet about those whom the Scirathi were allied with. However, she knew by the set of his jaw that Beltan was going to get the keystone if he had to tear up the Charterhouse with his bare hands. She opened her mouth, unsure what she was going to say.

“Good morning!” said a voice every bit as cheerful as Anders’s, only higher‑pitched and far more grating.

“Hello, Eustace,” Anders said with a wave.

The diminutive apprentice bounded into the office. He grinned at Deirdre, then looked up at Beltan with an expression of awe. “Do you think . . . do you think maybe I could touch him?”

“Only if you want to lose a hand,” Deirdre said, noticing the look of annoyance on the big warrior’s face. She stepped in front of Eustace just in case the young man tried to make a dash for it. “So what’s going on?”

The apprentice managed to tear his gaze away from Beltan. “Sasha told me to give you this.” He handed a manila envelope to Deirdre.

She took it, wondering what it might be, but set it on her desk. Now was not the time to open it.

“So how do you like Earth?” Eustace said to Beltan once Deirdre stepped out of the way.

Beltan didn’t answer.

“Can you understand me?” Eustace spoke the words slowly and loudly, with exaggerated enunciation.

Beltan snorted, then looked at Deirdre. “Is he simple?”

Before Deirdre could reply to that, a knock sounded at the door. They all looked up to see a middle‑aged man standing in the open doorway. He was balding, and his mustache was as crooked as his bow tie. A threadbare cardigan sweater and thick glasses lent him a professorial air.

“Paul,” Deirdre said with a sigh of relief. “What can I help you with?”

Paul Jacoby hurried into the room, his small eyes excited behind his glasses. He held a folder in his hands. “I have something for you, Deirdre. It’s not much, but I was able to–”

“Sorry, mate,” Anders said, laying a hand on Eustace’s shoulder. “This is where you step out.”

Eustace let out a groan. “I’m never going to be a higher Echelon.”

“Not with that attitude,” Anders said. “Now off you go.”

Anders gave him a firm push, and Eustace scooted out the door. Deirdre shut it behind him.

“So, is everyone in the room cleared to see this?” Jacoby said to Deirdre, patting the folder.

“Yes,” Deirdre said, forcing herself not to glance at Anders. “What have you got?”

Jacoby headed to the table in the center of the office. He opened the folder and spread out several photographs and diagrams. “As I said, it isn’t much. However, a few of the symbols on the stone arch are identical to those on the clay tablet you gave me a photo of several years ago. In addition, I ran several diachronic analyses on the computer, and the results suggest that some characters in Linear A could possibly be derived from characters in the language on the arch. On the assumption these derivations are accurate, I can tentatively make some attributions for symbols in the sample you gave me.”

Deirdre’s head buzzed. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I was able to translate a few of the words on the arch.”

They gathered close around the table.

“Here we go,” Jacoby said, holding up one of the photos of the arch. “These characters signify sun. This means distance, or journey.” He picked up another photo. “I can’t make out most of these, but this word appears on the clay tablet– blood–and this group of characters almost certainly signifies death. Although what the symbol placed in front of it means, I don’t know. It might alter the meaning of the word.”

“Is that all?” Anders said.

“No, there’s more.” Jacoby picked up another photo, clearly quite excited. A sequence of symbols was circled in red marker. “I was able to translate an entire phrase here–assuming the results of my diachronic analysis were accurate, of course. It reads, the flame and the awe.”

That was it; Jacoby had been able to translate nothing more, though he intended to keep working.

“Absolutely fascinating, isn’t it?” Jacoby said, gathering his papers. “We always thought Linear A was one of the oldest writing systems known. However, it appears the language on the arch is even earlier.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “You’ll let me know if you discover any more samples of this earlier writing, won’t you?”

“Of course, Paul,” Deirdre said. “Thank you so much for all your work on this.” She tried to sound sincere, but after Jacoby left she couldn’t help letting out a sigh.

“Not quite what you hoped for, was it, mate?”

She sat at her desk, gazing at the copies Jacoby had left for her. “I’m not sure what I was hoping for.”

“I’m hoping for some breakfast,” Beltan said. “Then it’s time to get the keystone.”

“Come on, mate,” Anders said, taking Beltan’s elbow. “I’ll help you with that first one at least. You coming, Deirdre?”

She gave them a wan smile. “You eat something for me.”

Once the two men had left, she bent her head over the photos of the stone arch. However, the symbols were meaningless to her. She shuffled the photos around, looking at the words Jacoby had written in red marker.

Sun. Journey. Blood. Death. Those were easy enough to interpret. The builders of the arch had come from the deserts of Eldh’s southern continent, and they had been sorcerers, workers in blood and death. But they knew all this already. Deirdre looked at the other photo and the words Jacoby had written on it. For a moment she simply stared.

Then she leaped up from the chair. Flame and awe.Jacoby had chosen those words for his translation. But he could just as easily have chosen synonyms, couldn’t he? Words that meant the same thing . . .

“Fire and wonder,” she murmured.

She sifted through the papers, then found it: the note from the Philosopher. He said she had forgotten something, a mystery from before this mystery.

“Think, Deirdre,” she said through clenched teeth. “Think.”

What had she been researching before she learned about Thomas Atwater, and the tavern, and the keystone? What had she been searching for before he first contacted her? The last pieces of the puzzle rearranged themselves in her mind. Slowly, she sank into the chair.

Fire and wonder. That was the first search phrase she had entered into the computer after receiving Echelon 7 clearance. The strange god‑child Samanda had spoken those words to her once. The search had brought up a single file, one that was deleted from the system at the exact moment her search had discovered it.

In the strange days that followed, leading up to the assault on the Steel Cathedral in Denver, she had forgotten all about the mystery of the missing computer file. But he had told her to remember, and now she had. Only what did it mean? It couldn’t be a coincidence that those same two words were inscribed on the arch. Whatever was in that missing file, it was related to the stone gate.

Deirdre opened a file drawer and pawed through her notes. It took her a minute, then she found it: a computer printout from that night’s session, three years earlier. Her eyes scanned down the page. And there it was.

Search completed.

1 match(es) located:

/albion/archive/case999‑1/mla1684a.arch

She had performed searches on that case number three years ago, and nothing had come up. What about the file name itself? Did it hint at what the file contained? Maybe. What the letters mlastood for, Deirdre couldn’t guess. However, the .archsuffix suggested this was an archive file, and 1684had to refer to a year.

Deirdre opened her computer and brought up a search window. “Display a summary of all major cases and events recorded in the annals of the Seekers for the year 1684,” she muttered the query as she typed it.

She hit the ENTER key, and seconds later a glowing green list appeared on her screen. It only took a moment before she saw the entry that mattered.

7 August 1684. Seeker agent Marius Lucius Albrecht dies, aged 29.

Deirdre leaned back, staring at the screen. The initials– mla–could only refer to him, to Marius Lucius Albrecht: the legendary Seeker who was expelled from the order for falling in love with Alis Faraday, the woman he had been ordered to observe. In the years that followed, Albrecht redeemed himself and was admitted again to the order, becoming perhaps the greatest Seeker ever before his untimely death at the age of twenty‑nine.

The file, mla1684a.arch, had to be an archive of his final papers or reports. Whatever the file contained, clearly someone didn’t want her to read it, as they had deleted the file before she could access it. Or perhaps an automatic guard had been set up around the file: a program designed to delete the file the moment anyone tried to open it.

Either way, there was one thing she did know: He had first made contact with her just after her search located the file. The Philosopher who had been helping her. Now the note he had given her had reminded her of this old mystery. For some reason, her mysterious helper wanted to point her in the direction of Marius Lucius Albrecht.

But why was Marius Lucius Albrecht important? She was still missing that piece of the puzzle. Like every Seeker, she had studied the history of all the cases he had worked on. They were fascinating–the result of a brilliant mind and a superb researcher–but none of them had anything to do with the keystone or the tavern or the arch on Crete.

None of the ones you read at least, Deirdre. But maybe you haven’t read everything of Albrecht’s. I’ll bet you no Seeker has seen what’s in that file that was deleted, at least not in recent history.

She wished Farr were there. He had studied Albrecht’s career in greater depth than any Seeker she knew. Indeed, many in the order had considered him to be a modern‑day Albrecht. He was as dazzling an investigator, and his rise in the order as meteoric. And, like Albrecht, Farr had even fallen in love with the woman he had been ordered to watch: Dr. Grace Beckett. However, Farr hadn’t been cast out of the order; he had quit of his own accord. And something told Deirdre he was never coming back. She was on her own in this one.

So what do you do, Deirdre? You can’t get at that deleted file, not even with Echelon 7 clearance.

She gripped her yellowed bear claw necklace, centering herself. She needed to treat it like any other investigation–which meant starting by gathering all the information she could concerning Marius Lucius Albrecht. She pulled her computer toward her and began typing.

The wall clock ticked away the hours as she worked. Anders and Beltan didn’t return from their quest for breakfast, but Deirdre only noted that in passing. She called up every file in the system that concerned Marius Lucius Albrecht. Searching the documents for the terms keystoneand tavernrevealed nothing of import, as she had guessed, and soon she found herself focusing on a summary of Albrecht’s life.

By the time she finished, she knew what she had to do. She leaned back from her computer, rubbing her aching neck, as Anders stepped into the office.

“Looks like you’ve been hard at work, mate.”

She shut her computer. “I’ve just been doing some cross‑referencing on the terms Paul Jacoby translated on the arch.” She hated how easily the lie slipped off her tongue.

“Sounds good. Any luck?”

“Zero,” she said with a sigh. “So where’s Sir Give‑Me‑the‑Keystone‑Now‑Or‑Else?”

“Beltan? He’s in the parlor taking a lie‑down. I actually convinced him to leave the keystone scheme alone for today.”

Deirdre sat up straight. “How did you manage that?”

“I used my preternatural powers of persuasion,” he said, then winked. “All right, the truth is I managed to get a large number of bloody Marys into him at breakfast. He’s conked out at the moment.”

Anders got Beltan drunk? Maybe it wasn’t the subtlest way to derail Beltan’s enthusiasm for tracking down those who possessed the arch, but Deirdre had to admit it was effective. And she was glad Anders had managed the feat. The nameless Philosopher had said it wasn’t time to go after the arch, that if they did they would perish. Besides, there was somewhere else she needed to go.

“He’s going to be angry when he wakes up,” she said.

“And he’s going to have one bugger of a hangover to boot. I had the bartender double the vodka in each of his drinks.”

Deirdre gave her partner a sharp look. Why exactly had he gotten Beltan drunk? Was he trying to prevent them from going after the arch?

“I’m going to put on a pot of coffee,” he said, taking off his coat. “Want some, mate?” He turned his broad back as he worked at the counter.

“Sure,” she said. She couldn’t stand doubting him. She couldn’t stand believing he was a traitor. But did she really know for certain he was? He wasn’t telling her the truth about the gun, yes. But she had no hard proof that he–

Her gaze locked on the corner of a manila envelope sticking out from underneath her computer. It was the envelope Eustace had brought earlier, the one from Sasha. Deirdre pulled it free, opened the flap, and slid the contents into her hand.

It was a photograph. The photo was pixilated, and slightly blurred, but clear enough to make out the scene. It had been shot through a door that was cracked open an inch. The room beyond was this one, her office. Half of Deirdre’s desk was in view. A figure bent over it, going through the papers on her desk.

It was Anders.

“Here we go,” Anders said.

Deirdre wadded up the photo and tucked it into the pocket of her jacket, which hung on the back of her chair. Anders turned around, smiling, two cups in hand. She took one. It was blistering hot, but she squeezed her hands around it, letting the pain clear her head.

“So, now that our good sir knight is sleeping it off,” Anders said, “what are you going to do with the rest of the day?”

Deirdre gave him her cheeriest grin. “I’m going to go home and take the afternoon off.”

32.

Two hours later Deirdre sat on a train, watching as the English countryside blurred past the window. She glanced down at the note in her hands. To find an answer, don’t forget that it is always best to go directly to the source. . . .

She had taken that advice. To learn about Marius Lucius Albrecht, she was going to the source–to Scotland, where he had spent his first nineteen years before joining the Seekers. There was a manor house in Midlothian, not far from Edinburgh, where–according to the history she had read–he had spent many formative years as the adopted ward of a nobleman. The manor was now some sort of private museum.

This is ridiculous, Deirdre. You can’t believe you’re actually going to find something at the manor. And what will Anders and Beltan do when they discover you’re not really relaxing at your flat like you said?

Only she did expect to find something. The nameless Philosopher’s clues had never led her astray before.

Well, there’s a first time for everything. Why has he been helping you, Deirdre? What if he’s just using you for some purpose of his own?

She was certain he was. Surely he had not been helping her out of charity, or to advance her career. He wanted her to find something, only he couldn’t tell her directly what it was; for some reason it wasn’t safe, or he wasn’t able to do so. And as for Anders and Beltan–well, she could worry about what to tell them when she got back to London. If she ever spoke to Anders again, that was.

She stuffed the note into her jacket pocket and pulled out the photograph. Sasha had said not to trust Anders, and she was right. She must have snapped the photo with her digital camera, catching Anders in the act of riffling through Deirdre’s desk. What had he been hoping to find among her papers?

It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he had been spying on her. Later, she would thank Sasha for sending her the photo. At the moment she had to get to Scotland before Anders discovered she was gone. Because whatever it was the mysterious Philosopher wanted her to discover, she was certain the people Anders worked for wanted just as much to keep it secret.

It was still light out when she exited the train station in Edinburgh. In the summer, so far north in the world, the sun lingered late. The castle loomed on its crag above her, stark against the silver sky. Carrying her satchel, she walked down Princes Street to her hotel.

She checked in, leaving orders for an early wake‑up call and a taxi. If she could have, she would have gone to the manor directly, but according to the scant information she had found about it, it was unlikely anyone would be there at such a late hour.

The night passed slowly. Deirdre didn’t sleep, and she kept expecting to hear a knock at the door and Anders’s angry voice. She heard nothing until the phone rang, causing her to leap out of bed. Trembling, she picked up the phone. A computerized voice wished her a pleasant morning. It was time to go.

Deirdre dressed, choked down half a pastry from the tray that had been left outside her door, then went downstairs to find the taxi waiting for her. She gave directions to the manor, and agreed to the exorbitant fee the driver promised to charge her for taking her so far outside the city. As the taxi sped down Princes Street, she leaned back against the seat and willed herself not to glance out the rear window, to see if anyone was following.

It took less than an hour of winding along narrow roads to reach the manor. After traveling half a mile down a single‑track lane, the taxi stopped in front of a set of iron gates. Deirdre got out. The gray sky hung low, and it was misting; moisture beaded on her leather jacket.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to wait for you, miss?” the taxi driver said, leaning out the window.

“No, thank you. You can go.”

“Suit yourself.”

The taxi turned around, then rolled away down the lane and out of sight. Deirdre approached the gate. Beyond, two stately rows of elms bordered a driveway that curved away into the mist. The manor was not in view. Nor were any other people.

Deirdre looked around and saw a sign on the gate, as well as a black box that bore a speaker and a red button with the word CALL stenciled above it. The sign read: MADSTONE HALL. And below that, in smaller type: PRIVATE MUSEUM–VIEWINGS BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.

Maybe she shouldn’t have sent the taxi away after all. She hesitated, then pushed the button on the box.

“Hello?” she said, leaning forward.

Silence. Then, just when she was about to push the button again, a woman’s voice crackled out of the speaker. “Yes?”

Deirdre pressed the button again. “I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Deirdre Falling Hawk, and I–”

“Oh, yes,” the tinny voice came from the speaker. “We’ve been expecting you. Please come up to the manor directly. You can use the front door.”

There was a buzzing noise, then with a metallic grating one of the gates swung open. Deirdre gazed around, then slipped through the gate and walked up the driveway.

Once she rounded the corner she saw the manor. It was beautiful: a long, three‑story structure of gray stone, with tall windows, and handsome columns framing the entryway. Gardens surrounded the manor on all sides, wild and vivid green against the gray air.

There was a single car next to the carriage house. Deirdre passed it and walked up stone steps, to the front door of the manor. It opened before she could knock. On the other side was an older woman, past sixty, and quite small. Her white hair was short and neatly coiffed, and she wore a well‑tailored skirt suit of gray wool.

“You must be Miss Falling Hawk,” she said with a warm smile. Her eyes were bright blue behind moon‑shaped spectacles.

Deirdre was too dumbfounded to do anything but nod.

“Well, then, come out of the mist,” the woman said, gesturing for Deirdre to enter. “I’m Eleanor Tate. I’m one of the docents here at Madstone Hall. Would you like a cup of tea? It’s a chilly day out there.”

Deirdre followed her into the front hall. It was grand and dim, obviously well kept but shabby from age. A sweeping staircase rose up to the second floor, while halls led off to either side.

“Thank you,” Deirdre said. “Tea would be wonderful.”

“I thought you might like some,” Eleanor said, taking Deirdre’s jacket and hanging it on a rack, “So I brought a thermos with me. I can’t brew it here, as Madstone Hall itself isn’t wired for electricity, though we do have power in the carriage house.”

No electricity. That explained why it was so dim.

“I’m surprised you’ve come today,” Eleanor went on, apparently content to carry on the conversation without any help from Deirdre. “Usually historians stay away on dreary days like this, as it’s hard to see anything. But then, we haven’t had many researchers at all lately. I don’t think the consortium likes having them poking about. You’re quite lucky to be allowed in. And they tell me you’re to have the run of the place, which is quite unheard of. You must stand very high in their regard.”

Deirdre shook her head. “In whose regard?”

“Why the consortium, of course. They own Madstone Hall, and they’ve kept it private all these years, rather than turning it into a public museum. Their goal is to preserve it just as it was in the late seventeenth century. As you’ll see, very little has been changed since then. There’s no plumbing, so if you need to use the loo, you’ll have to go out back to the portable. All the furniture is original, and the paintings on the walls, and everything else you’ll see. The only work we’ve done over the years is what we must: repairing the roof, and replacing broken windows, and airing the place out, of course, so everything doesn’t mold. It’s marvelous to see something as it was so long ago. I’m the third in my family to be a docent here, and so it is for the other caretakers. It’s as though Madstone Hall belongs to our families. Or rather, I should say, as if our families belong to it.”

As she spoke, Eleanor had opened a stainless‑steel thermos, filled a chipped teacup, and handed it to Deirdre. The tea was sweet and fragrant with lemon.

“Thank you,” Deirdre said, trying to take all of this in.

“You’re quite welcome.” Eleanor took an overcoat from the coatrack and pulled it on. “Now, I’m sure you have a great deal of research to do, so I’ll leave you alone. Do try not to disturb anything as you work. But of course, the consortium told you all about that, so you know what to do. I live just a half mile away, in the white house at the start of the lane–you would have passed it on your way in. If you need anything, my telephone number is by the phone in the carriage house. You’ll find tin lanterns and matches on the table by the stairs. Do be careful with them. And please be sure to shut the door if you leave. And watch the fifth step–it’s loose. Good day, Miss Falling Hawk.”

Eleanor whisked herself out the door, shutting it behind her. Deirdre stood, staring, as she heard a car door open and shut. The sound of an engine roared to life, then faded. She was alone. Alone in the manor where Marius Lucius Albrecht had lived before he joined the Seekers, and where nothing had been altered since.

How was it she had never heard of this place? The history of Albrecht she had read had mentioned Madstone Hall only in passing. Yet surely this manor was a treasure trove of information about the famous Seeker. And clearly the Philosophers knew about it. It had to be hisdoing that she had been granted entrance. All of this had the mark of her unnamed helper on it.

“So what is it you want me to find here?” she said, looking around.

Dim faces gazed at her out of the shadows: portraits adorning the walls. She moved to the table by the stairs and, with some effort, lit one of the lanterns. Gold light seeped out, not so much pushing back the dimness as making it deeper, more mysterious.

She ascended the stairs–careful to avoid the fifth step– holding the lantern up to each of the portraits. Nameless men, women, and children–all dressed in the finery of lords and ladies–gazed back at her.

At the top of the stairs was a full‑length portrait. It showed a man dressed in black. His dark hair tumbled over his shoulders, framing a bearded face that was grim rather than handsome, yet compelling. She raised the lantern higher. The figure’s eyes seemed to reflect the gold light; they had been painted with gilt rather than pigment of blue or brown.

Deirdre explored the upper levels, though she did little besides peek into each room. They were mostly bedchambers and sitting rooms, places where the manor’s noble residents and guests would have spent their private time. The top floor contained more austere accommodations–for the manor’s servants, no doubt.

She headed back downstairs and one by one explored the grand front hall, the dining room, the cavernous kitchen, and a large parlor that offered spectacular views of a distant ridge, now mantled in clouds. Everywhere she went she saw tarnished candelabras, Louis XIV chairs, and Chinese porcelain.

This place is remarkable, Deirdre. Museums or collectors would pay a fortune for some of these pieces.

Only they had rested there for centuries, just where they had been left. According to the history she had read, Marius Lucius Albrecht had lived in Madstone Hall until about 1674, and Eleanor had said nothing had been altered here since the late seventeenth century.

Which means everything is as it was about the time Albrecht left.Deirdre felt a spark of growing excitement. In fact, it’s possible that no one else lived in this manor after he left it.

Again she wondered why the Seekers seemed not to know about this place. Surely this manor held vast amounts of information that could shed light on Albrecht, the greatest Seeker in the history of the order. Why wouldn’t the Philosophers want the Seekers to know about it?

Maybe for the same reason someone deleted that file when you found it, Deirdre.

She opened a door at the end of the front hall, then stared in wonder at the room beyond. Shelves lined the walls, filled with leather‑bound books. A sword hung above the fireplace, gleaming dully in the lanternlight. There was a large globe in one corner, and a claw‑footed desk dominated the center of the room.

Deirdre moved to the desk, then drew in a breath. Ink stained the felt blotter–the ghosts of letters written long ago. Something near one corner of the blotter attracted her eye: a symbol drawn in dark lines.

It was a hand holding three flames.

Gripping the lantern to keep from dropping it, Deirdre circled around the desk. Unlike the faded ink stains, the symbol was crisp and black; it had been made recently. But by whom? By Eleanor? She didn’t seem the type to go about the manor idly doodling on furniture. And what would she know about the Seekers?

Deirdre bent down. On the right side of the desk, just beneath the sigil, was a drawer. She reached out, then hesitated. She wasn’t supposed to disturb anything. Or was she? Maybe it was precisely to disturb things that she had been brought there. She opened the drawer.

It was empty. At least she thought so. She couldn’t see the back of it; there wasn’t enough light. She stuck a hand in the drawer, groping toward the back.

Her fingers closed around something hard and cool. She pulled her hand out. On her palm was a silver key, blackened by tarnish.

Deirdre’s neck tingled. She walked around the library, searching. It didn’t take long. Tucked in a corner near the globe was a small cabinet of dark wood. The cabinet had two doors. One bore a keyhole. Deirdre set down the lantern. Her hand was trembling so hard it took her several tries to fit the key in the lock. She turned it, expecting it not to work. But there was a click, and the cabinet door swung open.

She crouched. In the cabinet were two shelves. One was lined with books. Deirdre ran a finger over their well‑worn spines, certain it would be fascinating to read them, but also certain that was not why she was there. On the other shelf was a wooden box. She took it, carried it to the desk, and set it down. Dust swirled up. She held her breath a moment, letting the dust settle, then opened the lid.

There were three things in the box. One was a glass vial, empty. Its stopper was made of gold wrought into the delicate shape of a spider. The other two objects were books. One was small, its leather cover battered, its pages so dry they started to crumble when she tried to open the book. Hastily, she set it down.

The other book was larger. Its cover was smooth and new, and its pages white, cut into a clean, mass‑manufactured edge. This was no antique book. It was a journal such as could be bought in any present‑day stationery shop. Deirdre opened it to the first page.

A wave of dizziness came over her, forcing her to sit in the desk chair. In the dim light of the lantern, her eyes scanned the first lines.

You should not read this. Because if you do–if you learn the secrets contained within this journal, if you come to see the Philosophers for what they truly are–then I will have doomed you just as surely as I doomed her over three hundred years ago. They will condemn you, they will hunt you with all their powers, and they will destroy you.

Yet I beg of you, in the name of Hermes, keep reading.

“Great Spirit,” Deirdre murmured, her hands shaking so badly she had to set the journal down.

It was not just the words themselves that stunned her. It was the smooth, elegant hand they were written in. She didn’t need to reach into her pocket, to pull out the handwritten note she had received from him yesterday, to know that the handwriting was identical. He had written this journal–and just recently, by the look of it–this nameless Philosopher who had been helping her.

Only he wasn’t nameless, not anymore. Because the moment she read those first lines, she had known at last who he was, who it was who had been guiding her all this time, advising her, leading her to this very place.

“You’re Marius,” she murmured to the shadows, as if he was listening. “You’re Marius Lucius Albrecht. Somehow you’re still alive. You didn’t die in 1684. You became a Philosopher. That was what was in that file; that was why the Philosophers deleted it. They didn’t want me to learn the truth.”

Only he did. But why?

Deirdre held the answer to that question here in her hands. The daylight was failing outside the high windows; a storm must be coming. She moved the lantern closer, adjusted the wick to brighten the gold light, then opened the journal and bent over it.

You should not read this. Because if you do–if you learn the secrets contained within this journal, if you come to see the Philosophers for what they truly are–then I will have doomed you just as surely as I doomed her over three hundred years ago. They will condemn you, they will hunt you with all their powers, and they will destroy you.

Yet I beg of you, in the name of Hermes, keep reading.

Forgive me the recklessness of these words, for I must write them in haste. It is ironic, for a being who is immortal, that I should have so little time in which to fill these pages, but they will soon turn their eyes in my direction. Unlike the ones they seek to understand, they do not sleep and have always kept watch on me. From the very beginning they have doubted my intentions, even as they transformed me into one of their own and brought me into their order.

But then, is it not safer to keep the wolf where you can see him? Except I know now it is the lamb I am to play in this bit of mummery, and for good or ill it is nearly at an end. Would that I could use a computer to set down these words more quickly, but they monitor all such devices, and perhaps it is just as well that I compose this on paper with an old‑fashioned quill pen. It reminds me of a time long past. Of my time.

I did not seek to become immortal–that is the first thing you should know. On the contrary, when he first found me, life had no worth to me whatsoever, and at the ripe old age of fourteen I was doing everything I could to throw mine away. It was spring, in the year 1668, and Edinburgh was just beginning to stink.

In that era, Edinburgh was one of the most densely populated cities in all of Europe, for the entire citizenry–compelled by fear of the English–had crammed itself within the confines of the city’s stone walls. They had come seeking protection. What they found instead were filth and poverty, disease and death.

In Greyfriars graveyard, along the Cowgate below St. Giles, layers of corpses were stacked with barely a layer of soil between them, so that after a hard Scottish rain limbs would jut out of the ground like tree roots. The living fared little better. With no room to build out because of the constricting embrace of the city’s walls, the people of Edinburgh built up instead. Wooden tenements sprouted from the tops of stone buildings like fungi encouraged by the damp air. They were wretched structures, drafty in winter, stifling in summer, and rat‑infested at all times, with narrow windows that opened only to allow the foul contents of a chamber pot to be thrown onto the street– and any unwary passersby–below.

The tenements were always catching fire, or falling down entirely, taking their unlucky occupants with them, and thereby contributing to the population of Greyfriars. However, unwholesome and unsafe as they were, the folk who dwelled in those structures were not the city’s poorest by any means. For there was one other direction in this crowded city in which to build–and that was down.

There is no telling when the excavations beneath Edinburgh began. Perhaps, in the gray time before the dawn of history, primitive men used crude tools to hew at the volcanic crag where the city would be built in a later age, carving out chambers in which to practice secret, blood‑drenched rites. By the time I came to know them, the delvings were ancient and vast, and they were filled with a darkness that was far more than a mere absence of light. If fair maidens like Hope and Joy had ever stumbled into that place by mistake, then they had been ravaged and left for dead.

While the warrens beneath Edinburgh were the only home I knew as a child, I was not born in them. Nor would my mother ever tell me how she had come to that place.

“That’s a dark tale, James, and it’s already dark as Hell down here,” she would mutter. “Do not ask me of it again.”

However, even as a small boy, I had a way of getting others to tell me their secrets. Over the years I prodded and probed, and when she was tired or ill or drunk–all of which happened often enough–my mother would let things slip, so that in time I pieced together the story myself.

It was a simple enough tale. Throughout her youth she lived with her father: a former sailor who owned a shop on Candlemaker Row. Who her own mother was, she did not know. People along the Row claimed that, when her father returned from his last voyage at sea, he had carried a baby in his arms, swaddled in a fine silver cloth. He said the girl’s name was Rose, and that was all he ever said when anyone asked where the child had come from.

When Rose was seventeen, her father perished of the fever that had swept Edinburgh that winter. One of his cousins inherited the shop, and as the man was not inclined to charity, Rose was forced to manage for herself. Thinking herself fortunate, she took a position as maid in the house of a well‑respected judge. However, neither her status as maid nor the judge’s respectability lasted long. Though I can recall her only as a hunched and withered thing, others told me that my mother was beautiful in her youth, with raven hair and sea‑green eyes. Barely a year after her arrival at the judge’s household, she gave birth to a son with striking gold hair–a match to the master’s own glided locks.

His adultery revealed, the judge promptly repented his sins and proclaimed he had been placed under a spell by the lovely young maid. No one doubted him. Rather than find herself on Grassmarket Street hanging by her neck for witchcraft, Rose fled into the sewers with her infant son and found her way into the labyrinth beneath the city.

The warrens were populated by beggars, whores, thieves, and murderers who preyed as often upon those dwelling below as those living above. What Rose did to ensure the survival of her and her baby, I will never know. That knowledge even I could never pry from my mother. She would cackle with laughter when I asked her about her first days in the dark, then weep and pull at her snarled hair. I grew weary of her muttering and moaning, and as I grew older I ceased asking.

One morning–I was about ten, I suppose, though I did not know it at the time–I nudged her shoulder to wake her, and she did not move. This was in the cramped niche where we made our home: a hollow barely large enough for us both to curl up in, carved into the wall of a tunnel that, if you followed it upward, led all the way to a drain in Covenant Close.

I gave her a hard shove and yelled at her, but still she did not move, and I knew by her coldness that she was not simply in one of her drunken stupors. For a time I stared at her, listening to distant, wicked laughter echoing down the passage. Finally I rummaged in our niche and found the last bit of bread we possessed. I sat cross‑legged and ate both my share and hers, and after that I looted the body.

There wasn’t much on her. A single halfpence, a small knife with a worn bone handle, and–tucked inside her filthy dress– a carefully folded piece of cloth. It was the size of a kerchief, and exceedingly fine, shimmering like silver in the gloom. The cloth was unsoiled, and even my dirty fingers left no mark on it.

The laughter drew closer. The sound was crude–a man’s laughter. Others joined in.

I wadded up the cloth and shoved it inside my shirt, then tucked the knife and halfpence into the pocket of my breeches. Often men would poke their heads into our little niche while we were there, looking to steal from us, or worse. My mother would brandish the knife, driving them back. Except it was the light in her eyes that kept them at bay more than the blade. They would spark green in the blackness, and even I would be afraid of her. The men would snarl and curse. Witch, they’d call her, and Jezebel. But they would leave us alone.

A woman’s scream echoed up the tunnel, drowned out by the sound of rude jeers. That would keep them occupied, at least for a short while. I crawled through the niche’s opening and lowered myself down to the floor of the tunnel, making no noise. Red light flickered from down the passage, and shadows writhed there. I turned and ran up the tunnel as fast as my short legs would take me.

“Hey, there!” a rough voice shouted behind me. “I see you, little rat. Come back here!”

The heavy sound of boots thumped behind me, and I heard the grunting of breath, but I didn’t look back. I kept my head down, pumping my arms, and rounded a bend in the tunnel. Just ahead was a crack in the wall. It was barely more than two hands wide, but I was such a skinny little thing that I slithered through, quick as a snake.

A hand shot in after me, clamping around my ankle.

“Now I got you,” said a man’s voice, thick and slurred from whiskey. “No need to wait my turn. There’s nothing they can do with a lady I can’t do with you. Now come back here, little rat.”

Another hand pawed up my leg. I kicked back with my bare foot, contacting something soft and fleshy, mashing it beneath my heel. By the wet cry of pain I guessed it was his nose. The hands let go.

Free of his grasp, I wriggled up the passage, which had been carved into the stone not by human hands but by the action of flowing water long ago. There were many such ways, connecting with the crypts and passages that had been hewn beneath the foundations of the city, and like all the children who dwelled down there–the ones who survived, at any rate–I had explored many of them. I knew that crack connected to a drain that spilled out on Grassmarket Street, in the shadow of the castle.

However, it had been at least a year since I had last used that particular passage, and I had grown. Bony as I was, I came to a bend where my chest became wedged. Panic gripped me, and I feared I would have to shimmy back down. Or worse yet, that I was stuck, and that some smaller child in years to come would find my bones and take the knife and coin and silver cloth even as I had taken them from the corpse of my mother.

I strained with all the might in my skinny limbs, bracing my feet against either side of the crack. Stone sliced though my shirt and bit into my chest, drawing blood, and the fluid acted as a lubricant. My body popped through the narrows and tumbled down the crack into a larger way–a clay pipe slicked with water and mold. Out of control, I slid down the pipe toward a circle of gray light that rapidly dilated before me. I shot through the hole, landing on hard stones, wet with slime like a newborn baby. Air rushed into my lungs, hard and shuddering, as if they had never drawn a breath before.

I looked up, squinting against the sullen daylight, which seemed inordinately bright to my dark‑adjusted eyes. When was the last time my mother had brought me up to the surface? I could not remember. People walked by, but no one paid me more heed than they would a rat that had just crawled from the sewer. I touched my chest, wincing, and my hand came away red with blood. It hurt, but I had suffered worse. I was alive, and indeed I was like an infant again, wet with ichor, birthed from the canal of the drain, with an entire new life before me.

It was not, as I would come to learn, the last time in my existence I would be reborn.

I spent that first morning on the surface lurking in the stairs and walled closes along the Grassmarket. Horses trotted down the muddy street, pulling glossy carriages; trinkets of gold and silver shone behind shop windows. Though tempted to venture closer, I kept to the shadows, watching as folk in fine clothes passed by, conscious of the soiled rags that clad my own raw‑boned form. This world was strange to me, and though it seemed fair compared to the labyrinth below, I sensed it was every bit as perilous.

As the day wore on I grew bolder and crept up the steep curve of Candlemaker Row, passing–unbeknownst to me at the time–the shop where my mother had spent her childhood. It was the rich smells of roasted meat and tobacco, drifting from the pubs that lined High Street, which lured me upwards.

The afternoon was drawing on toward evening, but it was June and still light. I skulked along alleys like the numerous stray dogs, obeying the instinct to keep out of sight. Finally, as dusk stole through the city, I ducked into a courtyard tucked among tall buildings–a place I would later come to know as Advocate’s Close, and a good bet for picking a rich man’s pocket.

Stairs led down to a door in which a small window glowed with the warmest yellow light I had ever seen. It was the back entrance to one of the pubs that faced High Street. The door opened, and more light spilled out, along with raucous laughter. A woman with frowsy hair and an ample bosom emptied the contents of a bucket on the cobbles.

“Here ’tis, ye whelps,” she called. “Coom an’ take it away fer me.” She stepped inside and shut the door.

Several dogs slunk from the shadows toward the heap of slop. I was faster. I leaped forward, snarling as I brandished the knife I had stolen from my mother, and to my surprise the dogs slunk back, tails between their legs. I grabbed as many of the choicest bones as I could, then ran across the close, leaving the rest for the curs.

I climbed atop a wall, then ate. The bones were legs of lambs pulled from a soup pot, and there was little meat left on them, meant as they were for the dogs, but to me they comprised a succulent feast. I ate, smacking my lips, enjoying the feel of gristle against my teeth and gums. I cracked the bones against the wall and sucked the marrow out.

Finally I was done. The dogs were fled. Above, the last gray light was fading from the sky. It was time to find a place to curl up and hide for the night–time to go back below the city. I wiped my greasy hands on my shirt, and as I did I felt a lump within.

I pulled it out. It was the silver cloth I had taken from my mother. My shirt was stained with blood, yet the silver cloth remained as clean as before. I held it up, marveling at the silken feel. It seemed to catch the twilight, shimmering in the gloom.

“Hey, you up there!”

I knew at once there was nowhere to run. The back entrance by which I had entered the close was now barred with an iron gate. Someone must have locked it as dusk fell, and in the rapture of gnawing on the bones I had failed to notice. There were several other doors lining the close, but I was certain all would be locked, save perhaps the back door to the pub. However, I dared not try that way. One big hand on my scrawny neck, and my flight would be in vain.

The only other way out of the close was by the main archway that led out onto High Street. Two men stood in that archway.

“Where did you get that?” one of the men said, pointing at the silver cloth.

He was corpulent, his jowls spilling out of a lace‑collared shirt. His velvet coat was just as rich, sewn with brass buttons, and at first I supposed him some sort of lord. When I did not answer him, he turned to his companion. “This will take just a moment.”

The other remained silent. He was tall, a dark cloak draping his broad shoulders and his face shadowed by the wide brim of a hat.

The gentleman marched forward. “I daresay that kerchief is too fine for the likes of you, boy,” he said, his breath wheezing, as if he had walked up a long flight of steps rather than just across the close. “Where did you steal it?”

“It’s mine,” I said. “My mother gave it to me.” It was not exactly the truth, but close enough to it.

“Liar,” the man spat, and before I could move he snatched the cloth from my hands. A new emotion cut through my fear: anger.

He pawed at the cloth with thick fingers. “This is fine indeed. I’d warrant you pilfered it from some noble lady. It’s malefactors like you that are ruining this city. I’m a barrister for the king’s court. I’ll have you hauled up to the castle and thrown in the dungeon.”

I started to push myself off the wall, but then the other–the tall, shadowy one–stepped closer. He raised a gloved hand.

“Let him go, Brody,” he said, and I froze. His voice was deep and resonant, and for some reason it sent a shiver up my spine. “Let us go inside.” He gestured to the back door of the pub. “I would see to our business.”

Although the other spoke to the barrister, Brody, I felt certain it was me he was watching, even though I could not see his face.

Brody glanced back at his companion, and I knew this was my chance. I leaped down from the wall and snatched the cloth from the barrister’s hand. He moved faster than I would have guessed for one so large, whirling around and grabbing for me. I let out a snarl and glared at him. He stumbled back, his face pale in the gloom, and I knew at that moment my eyes flashed green just like my mother’s.

Clutching the cloth to my chest, I ran for the archway. I was forced to pass so close to the barrister’s companion that I brushed against his black cloak–the fabric was heavy and soft–but he did not stop me.

I pounded barefoot over the stones of High Street, dodging horses, coaches, and people, expecting a hue and cry to rise up behind me at any moment, but it did not. I careened around a corner onto Candlemaker Row, then ran on, down toward the Cowgate and the fringes of the old city. I had left the throngs behind; there were no people to observe me as I scrambled up a stone wall, then dropped down the other side.

The noises of the city receded. A hush closed around me. Pale stones shone in the dimness.

This was Greyfriars cemetery–though at the time I did not know its name, only that it was a graveyard and that it suited me. The living would not bother me there, and I feared them far more than I did the dead. I moved deeper into the cemetery, shivering as the sweat brought on by my flight evaporated. Even in summer, nights in Edinburgh were cool.

I suppose I surprised the grave robber as much as he surprised me. I came from around a large headstone topped with a Celtic cross, and there he was, hunched over his work, muttering to himself as he pried at the door of a mausoleum with a pickaxe. He had already broken away a corner of the stone door.

Startled, I let out a gasp. The grave robber dropped the pick and turned around, his eyes like saucers in the gloom.

“Mother Mary, save me!” he said, clutching a marble column, his face a mask of dirt and fear.

I reached out a hand and tried to tell him it was all right, that I wouldn’t hurt him, but he let out a strangled cry and turned around to flee. As he did, his cloak caught on a hawthorn bush. He jerked free of the garment, then ran away through the graveyard.

I suppose he thought I was a ghost, pale as I was, scabbed with blood and dressed in rags, and that I had risen from the grave to punish him. Quite the opposite, I was grateful for his actions, as now I had discovered where I could spend the night.

I retrieved the cloak from the bush, then squeezed through the gap the grave robber had made–too small for a man, but perfect for a thin boy. Only the faintest light followed me into the mausoleum. There was a musty smell, from the rats that had long ago built a nest in a corner, but the odor was faint and old. Crypts lined the marble walls; one of them was open and empty, awaiting a body.

I gave it mine. Bruised, aching, and tired beyond imagining–yet strangely pleased for a reason I couldn’t quite name– I wrapped myself in the robber’s cloak and lay down inside the cold crypt. The stone seemed to me the softest feather bed, and there I slept like a corpse, born and dead in the very same day.

Perhaps it was from dwelling among the dead for so long that I came to care so little for the worth of my own life.

Over the course of those next few years, I slept many nights inside the mausoleum, and in time I came to think of its denizens as my family. I could read a little; my mother had taught me, writing with bits of charcoal on the walls of our niche in rare, peaceful times. Thus I was able to make out some of the inscriptions on the marble crypts.

There was Lord John Gilroy, surely a fatherly figure, stern of face, and demanding of obedience, but kindly in quiet moments. Old Lady Gilroy had lived a generation earlier, to the ripe age of ninety‑two, and so she became my imagined grand‑mother, comforting me when all seemed cold and bleak. Then there was little Jennie Gilroy–deceased at the tender age of nine, according to the writing on her crypt–a little sister whom I would fiercely protect, and in whom I could confide when I was lonely and afraid. Sometimes when I lay down inside the crypt to sleep, I would drape the robber’s cloak over me like a burial shroud, then fold my hands together on my breast and pretend I was dead as they were, and at peace.

Only I was neither. And like some restless and unholy spirit, I would rise from the crypt each day and slip out of the mausoleum to prey upon the world of living men.

I had no name besides that which my mother had given to me–James–for my bastard‑making father the judge had not deigned to lend me his appellation. Nor did it matter. One made one’s own name on the streets of Edinburgh, and I came to be known among the people who dwelled there, in the gutters and in the shadows, as Jimmie Golden–for my fair locks, which were the only inheritance my father had granted me.

Early on I learned that my hair–thick, yellow as wheat, and curling about my thin shoulders–was my greatest asset. Though my clothes were invariably grimy, I kept my golden locks as clean as I could, dunking my head in one of the city’s fountains even on the coldest days and using my fingers to comb through the ringlets. I knew they fancied it–the gentle ladies who fretted over me.

I would stand along High Street, positioning myself in a shaft of sun so that the light would shine upon my hair. As a fine carriage passed by, perhaps on its way from the castle down through Canongate to the palace of Holyrood, I would affect a look at once placid and forlorn–a beatific expression I had copied from cherubs painted inside St. Giles cathedral, which I had seen once when I sneaked in through the doors.

Most of the coaches would clatter on by, but eventually, if I waited long enough, a carriage would stop and a lady would emerge. Sometimes she was young and fresh‑faced, dressed in a gown sewn with ribbons, at other times older and motherly. Either way, while I gazed up with plaintive eyes, the lady would cluck her tongue and fuss over me. She would murmur that she had never seen hair so gold, and how I had the face of an angel, and that surely God had touched this poor, wretched orphan.

Quickly enough, a man–sometimes her husband, sometimes her attendant–would leap from the carriage and race after the lady, gently but forcibly pulling her away from me. The lady would protest, the man would give me an angry look, then he’d pull several coins from his purse, toss them at my feet, and tell me in gruff tones to be off. Not needing to be told twice, I’d snatch up the coins and run.

The men were red‑faced and hard‑eyed–I felt no qualms taking their money–but I liked the ladies, especially the younger ones. They smelled like flowers, their voices as gentle as the calling of doves. I liked that they could imagine God had touched me, even though I knew it wasn’t true.

“It’s the devil in ye, Jimmie, not our Lord, that’s for certain,” Deacon Moody said to me as often as the pretty ladies spoke otherwise, and with greater conviction in his voice.

I could find Deacon Moody almost any day, fair or foul, along the Grassmarket, the hem of his black robe dragging in the muck, speaking the gospel to all who would listen to him, and taking any alms–coin, food, or preferably ale–where it was given. No one seemed to know for sure if Moody had been a real deacon once, but a few times I heard it whispered he indeed had been one, only that he had committed some heinous act, and was ejected from the Church years ago.

Whatever the truth, the folk who lived on Edinburgh’s streets–and in the dark ways below–often came to Deacon Moody, asking him to speak a rite of marriage, or to baptize a newborn babe, or to grant forgiveness when the supplicant feared death drew nigh, for the doors of the city’s churches were closed to folk such as they. Nor did Moody ask for any recompense for these acts, much as he sought handouts at other times, and that was what made me think the stories about him were true.

“Where are you off to, lad?” Deacon Moody said to me one autumn evening as he caught me dashing through the Grassmarket. For nearly four years I had been living on the streets of the city by day and dying by night in Greyfriars cemetery.

“Nowhere,” I said.

It was true enough. It wasn’t where I was running to that concerned me, but rather where I was running from: a stair that linked the Grassmarket to High Street, where I had just lifted a man’s purse. I didn’t usually resort to such brazen thievery, but the purse had been full and heavy, dangling from the man’s belt like a ripe fruit ready to be plucked.