The First Stone

Travis shuddered as his eyes passed over the next series of symbols. Orъ sat in his tent while his wife, Ti’an, made thirteen cuts in his body. Then he made a calling such as he had never done before, and thirteen of the morndaricame to him–spirits more powerful than any that had ever been summoned before or since. Normally a sorcerer staunched the flow of blood once the spirits came, lest they drain him to death, but Orъ bid the spirits enter his veins. Greedy for his blood, they did. Then, once they were within him, Ti’an poured hot lead on his wounds, sealing them.

The symbols showed a stick figure writhing in pain. Then, in the next panel, the stick figure stood tall, lines of power radiating from it. It held out a hand, and a vast army was swallowed by the desert.

There was more in the next panel–symbols that made Travis’s head swim to gaze at–but he skipped them for the moment, turning so that he saw a later point in the story. Morindu loomed above the desert now, dark and powerful. Orъ sat on his throne, shackled to it with chains, asleep, while seven stick figures drank from him, careful to seal the wounds again after they did.

Travis’s eyes kept moving across the wall. The story was almost over. An army like a sea flowed toward Morindu. Among the army were dots that radiated circles of power. Demons. The people of Morindu fled the city, escaping into the desert.

But not the Seven. Droplets fell from their arms, and a circle appeared in the air. A gate. Beyond was sea and stone. Then the Seven drank one last time from Orъ, and when they were finished he was no longer a living man, asleep on the throne. He was a mummy, dead.

A figure holding a curved knife approached the Seven, jagged bolts of fury shooting from her eyes. Ti’an. Only before she could slay them, the Seven stepped through the gate, leaving only Orъ and Ti’an. The last panel showed the city sinking beneath the sands of the desert as the army was crushed under the churning sands.

There the story ended.

Grace stepped onto the dais next to Travis. “So they drained him.” She gazed at the desiccated mummy. “The Scirathi thought they would find Orъ’s blood here, but the Seven took it all, then escaped through a gate, leaving Ti’an. All this time she’s been trapped here with his corpse, made immortal by his blood.”

Travis hadn’t realized he had been speaking aloud as he read the story, but all the same he must have.

“If the Seven escaped, where did they go?” Larad said.

It was Farr who answered. “Earth. Look at the way the gate is drawn. It is like a tunnel through a great darkness. That must be the Void. Which means the Seven went to Earth.”

“Can we go now, Mother?” Nim said.

Vani stood. She had covered Ti’an’s body with a cloth. “Yes, daughter. There is nothing left for us here.”

“And where will we go?” Master Larad said. “There is water in this city, but we have no camels. We need to find the Last Rune, Master Wilder. But I don’t know how we’ll do that now. Not before the end comes. I doubt we’ll find it lying around here.”

Larad was right, the end was close. But the answer wasthere, Travis was sure of it. Only he couldn’t quite grasp it.

“What about the rest of the story?” Farr said, pointing to a large section of the wall. “You skipped all this. What did it say?”

Yes, that was where the answer was. Travis licked his lips. “When the thirteen morndarientered him, Orъ understood the truth. The truth about the origin of the world. Of all the worlds.”

Grace touched his shoulder. “You mean like the story of the twins?”

“Yes, the twins.” Travis drew in a deep breath, then read the symbols he had skipped, speaking as he did, describing what Orъ had understood as the thirteen entered him.

“It’s like Farr’s story. For an eternity, there was only nothing. Then, suddenly, the nothing gave birth to two things, two entities–one of being, and the other of . . .” Travis struggled for a word. “. . . of unbeing. Earth and Eldh, they were worlds of being. And there were more. Hundreds of them, millions. But there was only one world of unbeing, and that was the Void. It was like a sea between the other worlds, bridging them, binding them together.”

He was no longer aware of talking now. Instead, he was seeing it, understanding it without words, even as Orъ had three thousand years before when the morndarientered him, becoming one with him.

It was all in perfect equilibrium, the worlds of being balanced by the Void. Or at least it was meantto be perfect. Only it wasn’t. For from the very beginning, there was something wrong.

Travis studied the symbols. A deep line was carved into the wall. On one side of the line were myriad small specks, as well as thirteen larger dots that emanated concentric lines of power. On the other side of the line were three circles.

No, not circles. Stones.

Travis could almost see it as it had happened. A mistake was made in the creation of the worlds and the Void. Somehow, in the chaos of those first moments of formation, fragments of unbeing were caught on the wrong side of the line. They found themselves drawn in and captured by the force of one of the worlds of being. The world Eldh. There, in a later age, those fragments of unbeing became known as the morndari, or Those Who Thirst.

Still striving for balance, for perfection, the multiverse spontaneously attempted to heal itself. Fragments of primordial being were sent to Eldh to counteract the morndari, to cancel them out and remove the flaw, so that the worlds of being would be perfect like the Void. These fragments of primordial matter were the Imsari.

Although they became known as the Great Stones after the dwarf Alcendifar found them and wrought into them the power of the runes Gelth, Krond, and Sinfath, the Imsari were not truly things of stone. They were something older, deeper–pieces of the very first stuff of being that sprang out of the nothingness. If they were to be called Stones, then this thing they came from was the First Stone. It was the first pebble tossed into an ocean to create a continent. It was the very beginning of everything.

The thirteen most powerful morndariwere similar, but opposite. They were fragments of the most primordial substance of unbeing. When the Imsari came in contact with the morndari, they would cancel one another out, returning to the nothingness that once spawned them. Thus the balance would be restored and the instability healed.

Only it didn’t happen that way.

In the south, on the continent of Moringarth, the thirteen most powerful morndariwere dazzled by blood and were trapped within Orъ, merging with him so completely they could never be released again. And in the north, on the continent of Falengarth, where the Imsari fell, the three Great Stones were changed by the craft of Alcendifar, then were seized by the forces of the Pale King, and finally were scattered across the world, and even beyond, to the world that drifted closest to Eldh in the sea of the Void. To the world Earth.

Thus history conspired to keep the Imsari and the morndarifrom uniting as intended. And so the instability grew. Slowly at first. And then, as the end drew nearer, more swiftly.

The final symbols showed gashes opening in the fabric of creation. The line grew blurred, then vanished. And after that . . . nothing at all. Or less than nothing, for this was an emptiness that could never give birth, that never had given birth, that was without possibility. Without hope.

Travis stopped reading. He was dimly aware of his own voice fading to silence.

“She wasn’t trying to kill the Seven,” Vani said.

He turned. The T’golstood over Ti’an’s covered form. She looked at him, and sorrow shone in her gold eyes.

“I think you’re right. I think she helped them open the gate.” Travis studied the symbols. Fury sparked in her eyes as the Seven stepped through the gate–fury for the army that approached Morindu. “I think she knew it was crucial that Orъ’s blood be guarded, protected, so that one day it could be used to heal the rifts in creation.”

Only she was mad in the end. Eons of dwelling here alone, deep beneath the desert, with only her husband’s mummy as companion, had destroyed her mind. She had wanted only to kill the intruders, to use them, to get her husband back.

I’m sorry, Travis said silently, gazing at her still form.

“What about the other morndari?” Grace said. She had been studying the symbols on the wall, and now she turned around, her expression sharp with curiosity. “If the thirteen that entered Orъ were part of the primordial stuff of unbeing, what were the other morndari?”

Travis glanced again at the symbols. There was so much he could understand, but it was hard to put it into words. “The thirteen were part of the stuff that first came into being. Or into unbeing, I mean. And in turn, that substance–”

“That first substance caused all the rest of unbeing, the Void, to precipitate out of the nothingness,” Grace said, nodding. “I understand now. It was like a chain reaction. The same would have been true of the worlds of being. The First Stone appeared out of nothingness, then it caused everything else to come into being.”

Despite all that had happened, Travis grinned. That scientific mind of hers.

“So the lesser morndarion Eldh are similar to those that dwell in the Void between worlds,” Farr said, touching his arm, perhaps unconsciously tracing the scars there. “They were not so powerful that their presence on Eldh caused a great instability.”

“More than that, they were balanced, too,” Travis said. He studied the drawing. If he looked close, around the shapes of the three Great Stones, he could see tiny flecks etched into the wall. “Smaller grains of the First Stone were sent to Eldh along with the Imsari–enough to balance out the other morndari. Only they . . . they were taken in by . . .” Again he struggled to describe what had happened.

It was Larad who gave the thought voice. “Runes. They became runes, didn’t they?” The Runelord didn’t wait for an answer. He paced, his gray robe swishing. “There was no Worldsmith, not in the very beginning, not in the first iteration of Eldh. It was the very flecks of the First Stone that brought it into being, trapping the morndarieven as they tried to counter them. Each fleck became a thing, a rune–sea or sky or stone– and was bound into it. The same was true for the Old Gods, and the Little People, and the dragons. There are runes for all of them.”

“Even Sia,” Grace said, wonder on her face now. “There’s a rune for Sia, isn’t there?” She shook her head. “But if morndaribrought blood sorcery into the world, and the flecks of the Great Stone brought rune magic, where did witch magic come from?”

Larad stroked his chin. “Granted, I know little about the magic of witches, even less than Master Graedin. But from what we have recently learned, I imagine the Weirding was an effect of the creation of Eldh. We know from our studies that witchcraft is related to runes. So runes created the world, and–”

“And then the world created witchcraft,” Grace said, tucking her blond hair behind her ears, as if it was in the way of her thinking. “Life gave rise to the Weirding. Just as the blood of the sorcerers, once it was dispersed through the world, gave rise to the New Gods.”

Larad nodded. “It would seem so.”

Travis should have felt amazement at all this. It was as if a curtain had been lifted, revealing mysteries that had existed since the beginning of time. However, his mind hummed, and it was hard to concentrate on what the others were saying.

What does it matter if we know how everything began if it’s all going to be snu fed out of existence? Magic is almost gone. Everything that bound the world together, and what the world itself brought to life, is fading.

Only the Imsari still functioned, and the blood of Orъ–the very oldest of things. But how long did they have until even these things ceased? And when they did, any chance of healing the rifts would vanish.

“There are a few symbols here I do not believe you translated, Travis.”

Farr’s voice jerked Travis out of his thoughts. Farr stood close to the wall, gesturing to a group of symbols contained within an oval shape, like a cartouche. They were the only symbols carved into the wall that Travis didn’t completely understand. He supposed they had not been part of Orъ’s own knowledge. Instead, they must have represented the thoughts of Ti’an, or perhaps the thoughts of the Seven Fateless Ones. The symbols showed the Three coming in contact with the Seven, and jagged rays of power shooting outward. Only there was something else, something between the Three and the Seven. Travis didn’t understand what the symbol meant. It looked like a triangle and nothing more.

“I think those symbols show how the Imsari and the Seven A’naraineed to be brought together,” Travis said. “Only I don’t understand what that third symbol means.”

Or did he? The buzzing in his mind grew louder. He gripped the bone talisman–the one given to him so long ago by Grisla–that hung at his neck, thinking. It seemed he should know what the third symbol was. Could it somehow be related to the Last Rune? The dragon Sfithrisir had said it was the Last Rune that would heal the rifts. Surely that meant bringing the Seven in contact with the Imsari. But Travis didn’t know any rune that was denoted by a simple triangle. Maybe Larad . . .

No. When he glanced in that direction, the Runelord shook his head. He didn’t know what the symbol meant either.

Maybe it didn’t matter. The Imsari were here on Eldh, and the Seven were somewhere on Earth. There was no way to get to them, to bring them together. . . .

By Olrig, Travis, that’s not true!Jack’s voice said in his mind. You’ve quite forgotten. There is a way.

Hope surged in Travis. The answer was here after all. He reached into his serafiand drew out a silver coin.

The others gazed at him, startled, but Farr nodded, drawing out his own coin. Yes, he understood.

“You want to take the Imsari to Earth,” the former Seeker said. It was not a question. “You want to find the Seven of Orъ, to heal the rifts.”

Yes, Travis tried to say. However, the word was lost in a clap of thunder. Beneath their feet, the floor gave a violent lurch. Larad stumbled against Grace, and both fell sprawling. Nim clutched Vani as the T’golbraced her feet. Farr gripped the wall for support, and Travis fell to his knees. Like a candle being snuffed out, the glowing crystal high above went dark, plunging the room into stifling shadow. Travis, with his preternatural eyes, still possessed dim vision, but he could see the others flailing blindly.

“What’s happening?” Grace called out.

Before anyone could answer, the air burst asunder as a circle of blue fire crackled into being on the center of the dais, just behind the golden throne, a window rimmed by sapphire lightning.

It was a gate.

43.

Deirdre paced across the white floor of the hospital’s waiting area, willing herself not to glance at the clock on the wall. How long had it been since the nurse had come to tell her he was out of surgery? She wasn’t sure, but in the meantime night had fallen outside the windows, and the waiting area had steadily cleared out until she and Beltan were alone.

At the moment, the blond man’s rangy form lay sprawled across a bank of plastic chairs. He was snoring. The day’s activities–a mad dash from London to Edinburgh, the struggle at the manor, the ambulance ride to the hospital–had exhausted him more than the warrior in him would willingly admit. Every time Deirdre had told him to get some rest, he had steadfastly refused. However, a short while ago she had gone to get them some coffee. When she returned, he had been out cold.

His face was peaceful in sleep; gone were the lines of worry that had creased his brow ever since Travis, Vani, and Nim fell through the gate. A butterfly bandage covered the gash on his cheek though it hardly seemed necessary. Already the wound had scabbed over; it was healing rapidly.

You should rest as well, Deirdre, a calm voice spoke within her. Her Wise Self. Much work lies ahead. You will need strength to face it.

Only she couldn’t sleep, not now, not when she knew what was going to happen tomorrow in a warehouse south of London. As soon as she could, she would go there. But first she had to see him, to see with her own eyes that he would live.

If you had just listened to your instincts, Deirdre–if you hadtrusted Anders as your heart wanted to–he wouldn’t have been shot, and Marius would still be alive. This is all your fault.

No. That was her Shadow Self speaking now, and she wouldn’t listen to its bitter voice. It would not help her do what she had to. Besides, Anders and Beltan had made their own decisions. She had not asked them to follow her from London.

Although she should have known–perhaps, deep down, didknow–that they would. Only she hadn’t believed they would be working in tandem. She had thought Anders a traitor, and had assumed he would follow her to stop her. Instead it had been just the opposite. He had been trying to protect her. Just like he had been doing for the last three years.

Again she thought about what would have happened if Anders and Beltan hadn’t shown up at the manor. Marius would still be dead, and so would she. No one would know what the Philosophers really were, or what they really desired. And what they were going to do tomorrow. Only she wasalive, and she did know, and she had Anders to thank for that.

Why didn’t he tell me the truth about who he was?

But she knew the answer. If Nakamura had told her he was assigning her a full‑time security guard, she would have rebelled. So Nakamura had tricked her, assigning Anders as her new partner. As it was, early on, Deirdre had suspected the truth, but eventually convinced herself to believe Anders. Once again, her instincts had been right, and she hadn’t listened to them. But maybe it wasn’t her brain that had gotten in the way. Maybe it had been her heart. She had wanted to believe Anders, and so she had. Only all this time he had been lying to her, and even though he had been doing it to protect her, that didn’t change the fact that he had been dishonest.

What about you, Deirdre? You haven’t exactly kept up your vow to tell him everything.

And that was why she couldn’t be angry with him. Nakamura, however, was another matter. Sasha had been a traitor, but she had been right about one thing: the Seekers did keep secrets. All this time, Nakamura had been deceiving her. But why? Why was it so important to protect her that he was willing to lie to her to do it?

Maybe she knew the answer to that. Hadrian Farr was gone. She was the only Seeker left who had direct connections to Travis Wilder and Grace Beckett, one of the most important–if not themost important–case in the history of the Seekers. He was hardly going to put a prize like that at risk.

Or was it more than that? Why was protecting you so important, Deirdre? What does Nakamura really know?

Somehow she didn’t believe he had been in direct contact with Marius. Then again, Nakamura had given Deirdre the assignments that Marius had wanted her to have, so maybe there was some connection after all. Whatever Nakamura knew, it was enough to make him want to keep her safe. Even now, he was still doing it.

When the ambulance arrived at the manor, she had expected police cars to come with it. They hadn’t. The ambulance had been from a private company. They did their work efficiently, stabilizing Anders and loading him into the ambulance, but made no move to call the police, even when they discovered the three dead bodies: Marius, Sasha, and Eustace. Nor did they ask Deirdre any questions.

It was the same at the hospital. Normally a gunshot wound should involve the police, but no officers were called in, and no one asked Deirdre anything except if Deirdre knew whether Anders was taking any medications or had any existing medical conditions. She and Beltan had been shown to the waiting area. A short while later, a telegram had come for her. It was from Nakamura.

Do not leave the hospital. Do not speak to the police. More instructions to follow.

So the Seekers were taking care of everything. They had connections Deirdre couldn’t even guess at. Somehow, at least for the moment, they had been able to keep all of this a private matter. And whether it was because they were too distracted to either know or care what Nakamura had done for her, or because they feared they would reveal themselves, the Philosophers had not interfered

So far, at least. But though Sasha and Eustace were dead, Deirdre didn’t dare let herself believe the Philosophers would not soon learn what had transpired at the manor. And while she was glad for Nakamura’s help, his orders meant nothing to her now. She was not going to stay here and wait for the Philosophers to come get her.

Deirdre sat back down and shut the lid of her notebook computer, which rested on a chair. An hour ago, to help pass the time, she had logged onto the Seekers’ systems. She had reviewed the results of Paul Jacoby’s linguistic analysis of the writing on the arch. And she had called up the toxicology report for the syringe Anders had used on the sorcerer. According to the lab results, the syringe had contained the expected drug; Anders had not caused the death of the sorcerer in Beltan and Travis’s flat.

I sure wish you had known that earlier today, she told herself with a grimace as she shoved the computer into her briefcase.

She glanced at the clock, forgetting to will herself not to, and saw that it was after eleven. It was too late to catch either a train or a flight back to London tonight; they would have to wait until morning. Would that give them enough time? The seven crates were scheduled to arrive from Crete tomorrow, but she didn’t know at what time. She could only hope that she would beat them to London.

Go to them for me, Marius had told her just before he died. Go to . . . the Sleeping Ones.

Deirdre would go. How could she not? A Philosopher himself had asked her with his dying breath. Only it was more than that. It was the discovery of the Sleeping Ones that had caused the Seekers to come into being. To see the Seven was to see the beginning of the Order. And to see beings from another world. Whatever she thought of the Seekers now, she had not lost that desire to find and encounter the otherworldly.

And what will you do once you get to London, Deirdre? Stroll past the Philosophers and whisk away the Sleeping Ones so they can do whatever they’re supposed to do? What do you think you can possibly accomplish if you go to London?

She didn’t know. However, Marius had believed the Seven had been waiting all these millennia for some sort of transformation. And the writing on the arch suggested it had something to do with perihelion.

When the twins draw near, all shall come to nothing unless hope changes everything. . . .

But what hope did they have? Deirdre had no idea what sort of transformation the Seven sought, or what catalyst would allow it to occur. Again and again, as she paced in the waiting area, she had hummed the song under her breath: Fire and Wonder. She felt so close to knowing what the song was about, but the meaning was like a butterfly fluttering around her: lovely, beckoning, and always out of reach.

All the same, she was certain the song held a clue to the nature of the catalyst. Marius had suspected that was the case, and her own intuition–which she was listening to for a change– told her the same. If she thought about it enough, it would come to her. She started to sing the song again in a low voice. . . .

“Excuse me, miss.”

Deirdre gripped her bear claw necklace and stood up as a nurse approached. The nurse was middle‑aged, her dark hair caught in a neat bun, a clipboard in her hand. Deirdre felt her throat go dry.

“Your friend is out of recovery,” the nurse said. “They’ve moved him to critical care. You’re allowed to go in and see him if you’d like, but only for a few minutes. He’s very tired, and still groggy from the anesthesia.”

Deirdre followed after the nurse, leaving Beltan asleep on the chairs. They moved through a pair of double doors and down a corridor. The nurse gestured to a stainless‑steel door. Deirdre gathered her will, then stepped inside.

The soft whir of machines filled the air, along with the sharp scent of antiseptic. She took a step into the room, and a shock jolted through her. She was used to Anders’s large, room‑filling presence. The man crumpled on the hospital bed looked strangely small.

“Hey there, mate,” croaked a weary voice.

More emotions than she could name filled Deirdre: joy, relief, anguish, sorrow, and a dozen others. They had propped him up in the bed. A sheet covered him from the waist down, and his upper body was bare save for a large bandage wrapped around his barrel chest. IV needles had been inserted in each of his arms. He looked older than she remembered; the fluorescent light made his hair gray rather than blond. However, he managed a faint smile, and a hint of the usual twinkle glinted in his blue eyes.

“Never thought I’d see you again, partner,” he said, the words hoarse. “Never thought I’d see anything again, for that matter.”

Deirdre tried to speak but couldn’t. She gripped his hand. His fingers tightened around hers, stronger than she would have guessed.

“Now, now, Deirdre. There’s no need to cry. Turns out I’m going to be just fine. Though it’s got the doctors baffled, to say the least. I gather the bullet put a nick in some important artery. They keep saying I should have bled to death in the time it took the ambulance to get there. Only I didn’t.”

Deirdre couldn’t help smiling. “You’re full of surprises. Mate.”

He grinned, and though a bit shaky, the expression was as impish as ever. “Sorry about that.” His grin faded. “I know you’ll probably never believe me, but I didn’t like lying to you. I always wanted to tell you the truth, but Nakamura wouldn’t let me.”

Her own smile faded. “I believe you.”

A grimace crossed his face. Pain from his wound? “Aw, mate,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

She laid her right hand on his brow while her left kept a grip on his hand. In three years, she had hardly touched him. It felt good now to be connected. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I knew deep down I could trust you, and I let Sasha convince me I couldn’t.”

“It wasn’t your fault. Turns out Sasha had a lot of help in the matter. I never did quite trust her, though I couldn’t ever put my finger on just why. She always seemed to know a little too much, maybe. But Eustace–I thought the kid was true‑blue.”

“They fooled us both,” Deirdre said.

“Yeah, they did at that. But you stopped them.”

She shook her head. “No, Beltan did. And you did. But Marius . . .”

“He’s gone, isn’t he?”

Deirdre could only nod.

Anders’s blue eyes were thoughtful. “I have to say, I would have liked to have gotten to meet him. Crikey, a real Philosopher.”

“They’re not what you think,” Deirdre said, her voice going hard.

“I know. Not everything you do, I’m sure. But I think Nakamura had started to suspect something fishy was going on with the Philosophers, that not all of them were getting along so well. He’s been a Seeker long enough to notice when things started to change, and I think he was beginning to get conflicting orders from them. He assigned me to guard you because he had a feeling you were involved, though he didn’t know how exactly.” Again Anders grinned. “Turns out he was right. But it was important for him to make everyone believe I was just your new partner, yourself included. He didn’t want the Philosophers to know he had assigned you a bodyguard, for fear he might get their ire up.”

So Deirdre wasn’t the only one with good instincts. Nakamura had gotten the sense that there was some conflict among the Philosophers, and the orders Marius kept giving him had made Nakamura believe Deirdre was involved. All the while he had possessed the good sense to appear neutral and unaware of the truth, even while assigning a guard to Deirdre without the Philosophers knowing it.

Deirdre wondered what else Nakamura knew, but before she could ask Anders the nurse tapped on the window, giving Deirdre a stern look. She started to pull away.

Anders gripped her, holding her down.

“You’re going after them, aren’t you? The Philosophers.”

She nodded. “The seven sarcophagi are being delivered to London tomorrow. They’re going to open the gate.”

“Take me with you.” His eyes gleamed with fevered light. “I want to help with the battle.”

She bent over him. “You havehelped with the battle. Without you, there wouldn’t be a chance at all. Now it’s time to rest.”

Deirdre’s face drew close to his, and a warmth encapsulated her: nourishing, healing. Her lips nearly brushed against his, then she moved and pressed them to his forehead in a gentle kiss.

“Come back to me, mate.” Tears rolled from the corner of his eyes. “Promise me you will.”

Deirdre let go of his hand. “Good‑bye, Anders.”

She walked past the whispering machines and left the room. For a moment she stood outside the door, gripping her bear claw necklace. The warmth that had enfolded her had been replaced by a cruel chill. Then she took a deep breath and headed down the corridor, back to the waiting area. Beltan was sitting on one of the orange chairs. He stood as she drew near, a questioning look on his face.

“Let’s go to London,” she said.

44.

Six hours later, Deirdre and Beltan caught the first train of the morning out of Edinburgh.

Traveling by plane would have gotten them to London an hour or two faster; logic dictated that they should have headed to the airport. Instead, after they left their hotel, she and Beltan had walked up Princes Street in the gray predawn light to the train station beneath the National Gallery. Maybe it was her instincts again, or maybe it was simply a desire to stay grounded, connected with the Earth, but somehow going by rail seemed right.

She could only hope that was true, that they would reach London before the shipment from Crete arrived.

“I think we should have gotten more coffee,” Beltan said as they settled into their seats on the train. He crumpled the paper cup they had bought at a shop in the station.

Deirdre gripped her own cup. It was still full and too hot to drink. “There’ll be a cart. You can buy more.”

The blond man looked around expectantly, and Deirdre didn’t bother to tell him the cart wouldn’t come along until after the train was under way; watching for it would keep him occupied.

Beltan looked freshly awake that morning, his green eyes bright and eager. He had removed the bandage from his cheek; the wound was no more than a thin scab now, as if he had gotten it a week ago.

It’s the fairy blood in him. It’s what causes him to recover so quickly.

Deirdre wished she had a little fairy blood herself. She had not slept last night. Not that she hadn’t craved to; she was more weary than she could ever remember being in her life. But such peace as sleep brought was for other people, other times. She had sat at the desk in her hotel room, reading through Marius’s journal–which she had taken from the manor–a second time, and a third.

Just as surely as the fairy blood had changed Beltan, the journal–and the knowledge contained in its pages–had changed Deirdre. After reading it, she would never–could never–be the same person again. But who would she be, she had wondered, sitting alone in the hotel room? Instead of countless possibilities fluttering through her mind, she saw nothing. Nothing at all. The answer to that question would have to wait until what lay ahead of her was done, for good or for ill.

She had spent the last hour in her room softly singing the song Fire and Wonderover and over. As before, she felt close to understanding what it meant, and she found herself wishing she had her lute, for her mind always seemed to work better when the instrument was in her hands. However, at that moment her lute was in her flat in London, and as close as she was to reaching understanding, it might as well have been a thousand miles away; she didn’t know what the song meant.

As the time to leave the hotel drew near, she had found herself staring at the phone. Finally she had picked it up and dialed the number of the hospital. Before it could start to ring on the other end, she hung up. Anders was going to live; that was all she needed to know.

There was a low rumbling as the train rolled into motion. Deirdre watched as the platform slipped past. A large group of people in white sheets stood on the platform, holding signs as they always did. Only the signs no longer contained words or dark spots. Instead they were completely black. Eaten.

The window next to Deirdre went dark for a moment. Then the train emerged into the drizzly morning. The world was still here–for now.

“So, do you have a plan for when we get to London?” Beltan said, his voice low.

“I’m working on it,” she said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. Despite staying awake all night, she still had no idea what they were going to do when they got to London.

“The Philosophers can be killed, we know that now.”

“I know.”

“I won’t try to keep from harming them if they get in our way, Deirdre.” A fey light shone in Beltan’s eyes. “They sent the Scirathi after Travis. They nearly killed him, and Nim as well. I don’t care if they’re immortal. To me, their lives are forfeit.”

Gone was the cheerful blond man who liked food, beer, woefully bad jokes, and looking at handsome young men passing by on the street. Over the last several years, Deirdre had let herself forget what Beltan really was, but at that moment she remembered. He was a man of war. And he knew who his enemy was.

“Ah,” Beltan said with a pleased look. “Here’s that cart.”

It looked as if the attendant was heading toward the front of the train, but Beltan stuck out a big, booted foot, bringing the cart to a lurching halt. The attendant–a pasty young man– looked ready to protest, then quickly swallowed his words after one look at Beltan.

“Coffee, please,” the blond man said. “And one of those sticky buns. No, better make it two.”

The attendant complied, then pushed the cart up the aisle so quickly the wheels rattled.

Beltan was about to start in on the second sticky roll when he gave Deirdre a guilty look. “You didn’t want one, did you?”

She shook her head. Food, like sleep, was something she couldn’t conceive of just then. While he ate, she took a sip of her coffee–it had finally cooled to a subthermonuclear temperature–then pulled out a plastic bag of things she had purchased at the shop in the train station. There was gum, a candy bar she could give to Beltan later if he started getting fussy, a pack of tissues, and a paperback book she had plucked at the last minute off a rack of best sellers next to the clerk’s counter.

It was a popular science book entitled Fall From Grace: How the End of Perfection Created the Beginning of the Universe. The book was by Sara Voorhees, the astrophysicist who, in the article in the Times, had suggested that the rifts in the cosmos might be a symptom of the beginning of the end of the universe. By the date inside the cover, the book had been published a few years ago. Voorhees’s recent comments must have renewed its popularity enough to land it back on the best seller list.

Deirdre had grabbed the book on impulse. It wasn’t chance that the gate had come to light on Crete at the same time the rifts had appeared; both were related to the approaching perihelion between Earth and Eldh. And Marius had believed that, whatever transformation it was the Seven sought, it had to do with perihelion as well. So maybe there was a connection between the rifts and what it was the Seven wanted. If so, anything she could learn about the rifts would help her.

The city slipped away outside the window, replaced by the gray‑green blur of the borderlands. Deirdre sipped her coffee, opened the book, and began to read.

Nearly four hours later, Deirdre shut the book and leaned back, resting her aching head against the back of the seat. Outside the window, the rolling hills of lowland Scotland had been replaced by the row houses and industrial buildings of the outskirts of London.

She glanced to her left. Beltan was asleep. Two crumpled coffee cups were jammed into the seat pocket in front of him. Another, empty, was held in his hand. Crumbs dusted his cable‑knit sweater. She decided not to wake him; it would be a few more minutes before they reached Paddington Station, and it was best to let him sleep. He was going to need his strength for what lay ahead. Shewas going to need it. Besides, she needed a few minutes to think about everything she had just read.

Although the book was well written, Voorhees’s technical background in astrophysics had been apparent on every page, and Deirdre had been hard‑pressed to understand a fraction of Fall From Grace. All the same, some of the things she had read had resonated–especially the discussion of virtual particle pairs.

As far as Deirdre was able to understand, the basic fabric of the universe was not made of some concrete substance. Instead, the universe was founded on nothing at all. Its most basic substrate was a vacuum devoid of any kind of matter. But in that very nothingness was stored the endless potential for everything else.

The vacuum contained infinite energy because it contained infinite possibility: At any one moment, anything might come of it. And, in fact, it did. As physicists had discovered, the vacuum was constantly spawning pairs of virtual particles: one of matter, one of antimatter. The particles would exist for a fraction of a moment, then they would collide, annihilate one another, and vanish.

It was like starting with a featureless plain and using a shovel to dig. The result was both a pile of dirt as well as a hole: matter and antimatter. Infinite holes could be dug in the plain, but all you had to do was put the dirt back in one of the holes and it was gone. The virtual particle pairs were the same. Every moment, at every point in space, countless pairs popped out of the nothing and were reabsorbed an instant later; the fact that they existed so briefly was what made them virtual.

Only here was the tricky part: Sometimes the virtual particles could become real particles. For example, when a virtual particle pair appeared on the edge of a black hole, one of the particles might be drawn into the black hole’s gravity well while the other escaped. Thus the two particles would never collide and cancel one another out. And there were other situations in which the particles could become real.

One was the beginning of the universe. According to Voorhees, in the beginning, the universe was perfect. It was completely symmetrical, devoid of all features. Then, somehow, that symmetry was broken, and everything fell out of the vacuum like candy out of a piсata. Matter and antimatter–in the form of tiny particles, quarks and antiquarks–would have gone whizzing around in all directions.

There should have been the same number of quarks and antiquarks; they should have all collided, exactly canceling each other out and restoring the nothingness to its state of perfection. Only that didn’t happen. Somehow, in our universe, the number of quarks slightly outnumbered the number of antiquarks. The result, after all the canceling and colliding was done, was a surplus amount of matter. And that was the stuff of which stars and galaxies and planets were made.

What had caused this imbalance, this asymmetry, in the number of quarks and antiquarks, no one knew for sure. But one thing was certain: If not for this fundamental flaw, the universe as we know it would not exist. It was only the breaking of perfection that caused the universe to come into being.

It was, in the beginning, a fall from grace.

After that, Voorhees described in detail the conditions in the early universe, and by then Deirdre’s head was throbbing too much to make sense of it. However, there were a couple of passages, late in the book, that Deirdre read and reread despite her headache. One was a passing reference Voorhees made when touching again on the subject of virtual particle pairs.

Almost always, Voorhees wrote, such virtual particles are tiny quarks, the smallest building blocks of matter. However, there’s no rule that says the particles have to be small. Far larger particles could just as easily spring into being, say a particle pair made up of an elephant and an antielephant. It’s not that these scenarios are impossible; they’re just enormously unlikely. So unlikely, in fact, that we’ll almost certainly never observe such an instance. That doesn’t mean such cases haven’t happened and won’t again. However, if a pair of enormous virtual particles did spring into being, it’s a fair bet we’d never know it, as in such a situation vacuum genesis would likely occur: A new universe would form in a bubble around the particles, concealing them from our view.

At that point, Deirdre had been forced to consult the index, and to go back to the section on vacuum genesis. It was one of the most difficult topics in the book, but also one of the most fascinating. According to Voorhees, various disturbances might cause a bubble to form in the primordial vacuum. Within the bubble, the symmetry of nothingness is broken, and all sorts of stuff falls out of the vacuum, creating a universe. That’s how our own universe might have formed. And countless other universes might have formed in similar fashion. They could exist as bubbles within the vacuum of our own universe, and we’d never even know they were there. And there would be no need for the laws of physics to operate the same way in different bubble universes; each one might have its own logic.

It was a wondrous notion: all these bubbles floating in the dark sea of nothing, like crystalline balls with galaxies inside. But there was a troubling side as well, Voorhees warned.

For if two of these bubbles were to collide, she wrote, the result would be the catastrophic destruction of both.

Deirdre had to admit, Voorhees seemed to enjoy predicting ominous outcomes. Then again, she could very well be right. Was that what perihelion meant? Were two bubbles drawing close even now? The copy of the TimesDeirdre had picked up at the station described how the rifts continued to grow at a fantastic pace. They were enormous now, each covering over 20 percent of the night sky.

And yet the trains were still running. When Deirdre glanced out her window, she saw people trudging along the sidewalks and cars jamming the streets. The end of the world was coming. At least that was how it looked. So why weren’t people panicking? Why weren’t there looting and riots?

A throng of people in white holding black signs flashed by her window, and she understood. They’ve already surrendered. That’s why they aren’t rioting. Why panic when there’s no hope? You either keep going on, keep going through the motions. Or you give up.

But she hadn’t given up. Not yet.

Deirdre set down the paper and picked up the book. Again she had the feeling that she was close to understanding. But understanding what? What did astrophysics have to do with alchemy and catalysts? If she could just find the link between them . . .

The train rattled as it began to slow. Ash‑colored buildings blurred by, then were replaced by darkness as the train entered a tunnel. They were nearing the station. She touched Beltan’s shoulder, waking him, and nearly lost her arm as he grabbed her wrist in an iron‑hard hand. Only after a moment did he blink, realizing who she was, and let her go.

Never wake a sleeping warrior, Deirdre thought, wincing as she rubbed her wrist.

The train rattled to a stop.

“I’m hungry,” Beltan said.

Deirdre handed him the candy bar. “Come on.”

They exited the train with the crowd of business travelers and wended their way across the platform, up and out of the station.

“Are we going to take the Tube?” Beltan said, tossing the empty candy wrapper into a trash bin.

Maybe the people of the world weren’t panicking, but now that she was here in London, Deirdre felt her own panic rising. “No, there isn’t time.”

They took a cab instead, dashing in front of a businessman and climbing inside. As the taxi pulled away from the curb, Deirdre waved at the businessman, who was giving them a rude gesture.

“Where to?” the cab driver asked in a musical Punjab accent.

Deirdre pulled the scrap of paper from her pocket and gave him the address. The cab rolled away from the station, winding through the cramped streets of London.

Beltan let out a snort. “I drive much faster than this. We should have taken my cab.”

Deirdre didn’t reply. She was just as glad the cab wasn’t racing; this was her last chance to think, to decide what to do. However, by the time the taxi rolled to a stop in a blue‑collar neighborhood south of the Thames, she still didn’t have a plan. She paid the driver, then watched as the cab drove away, leaving them in front of a strip of red brick storefronts.

“This is Brixton,” Beltan said, looking around at the grimy, half rundown, half newly‑gentrified street. “I take fares here sometimes. Isn’t this where–?”

“Where Greenfellow’s Tavern was,” Deirdre said, her throat dry. In her pocket, she clenched the scrap of paper Marius had given her. She had known the moment she glanced at it that the address was the same. The Philosophers must have built a new building on the site where Surrender Dorothy had burned.

Deirdre started walking; at her instructions, the cab had dropped them off a few blocks away.

“So what are we going to do?” Beltan said, easily keeping pace with his long legs.

“We’re going to get in there and stop the Philosophers from doing whatever it is they’re doing,” Deirdre said, surprised at the steel in her voice.

Beltan bared his teeth in a grin. “Now that sounds like a plan.”

Despite the dread in her stomach, Deirdre grinned back. A moment ago she had felt so tired she could have lain down in the gutter; now she felt awake, and freshly alive.

“Let’s go meet the Philosophers,” she said.

45.

They walked a block down the street, and Deirdre caught sight of the building. It looked like a bank or a courthouse, with a facade of imposing columns and a frieze above the cornices wrought with Greek heroes, gods in chariots, and goddesses. Although brand‑new, the building had been stained to match the more weathered architecture around it. No one was going in or out; the tall front doors were shut.

“This way,” Deirdre said, ducking down an alley.

She imagined all approaches would be watched, but there was no sense in walking up to the front door and knocking. At least not until they had gotten a closer look. They picked their way down the alley, ducking behind overflowing Dumpsters and into dim alcoves for cover. Then Deirdre caught a glimpse of the back of the building, and fear jabbed at her.

Ahead, a large moving truck blocked the alley. A ramp reached from its cargo hold to the loading dock on the back of the building. The steel doors on the loading dock were shut, but the truck’s rear door was still open. Its cargo hold was empty.

She opened her mouth to tell Beltan they were too late, but before she could speak he clamped a big hand over her mouth and pulled her into the shadows behind a stack of empty boxes. Deirdre stared at him with wide eyes. He shook his head, indicating she shouldn’t speak, then held up two fingers and mouthed a word. Guards.

Deirdre nodded, and he let her go. She peered around the boxes. A moment later, two thick‑shouldered men, clad in black, appeared from behind the truck. One spoke something she couldn’t make out into a walkie‑talkie. The other held a gun. So the Philosophers did indeed have minions other than the Seekers.

The guards walked up the steps onto the loading dock and surveyed the alley. The one with the radio held it up and spoke something–it might have been, All’s clear–then the pair descended back to the pavement and continued on their round. They were only a few feet from the crates when they turned and started back toward the loading dock.

It happened so quickly it was almost over before Deirdre realized what was happening. Beltan shot out from behind the crates, swift and silent as a panther. A single blow to the back of the head, and the man with the radio crumpled to the pavement without a sound.

The other guard started to let out a shout as he turned around, but the sound was muffled as Beltan’s fist smashed against his jaw. The guard tried to bring up his gun, but Beltan slammed his arm back down, and Deirdre heard the distinct crunchof bones breaking. The gun fell to the ground and skittered across the pavement.

Beltan’s other hand came up, so that he gripped the man’s head on either side. He made a twisting motion. Again came a loud crunch. The guard slumped into a heap next to the first.

The green light in Beltan’s eyes dimmed. He was breathing hard, and he was grinning. Deirdre willed herself to look away. She knew the two men on the pavement weren’t simply unconscious. They were dead.

And you would be, too, Deirdre, if they had seen you.

She took a deep breath, then moved forward and picked up the gun. Beltan was already heading for the loading dock.

Deirdre hurried after him, and they moved up the steps to the steel doors. She glanced over her shoulder. There was no sign yet of additional guards. But how often was the one with the radio supposed to check in? She couldn’t believe the Philosophers kept just a single pair of guards.

Beltan gripped the handle on one of the doors. It wasn’t locked. He opened it just far enough for them to slip through. Beltan went first, and Deirdre followed, trying to keep a firm grip on the gun. It felt hot and slick in her hand; she wished she hadn’t picked it up.

Bands of fluorescent light alternated with shadow. They were in some kind of storeroom. Bare ventilation tubes ran in all directions. Scattered on the floor were packing materials, crowbars, and long wooden crates. Deirdre didn’t need to count to know there were seven of them. Beltan pointed. Ahead was an open door, and beyond a dim corridor. He started toward it, and Deirdre followed, gripping the gun.

This time it was the guard who saw them first. He had been standing a short way inside the open door. When he saw them, he swore and started to raise the radio.

“Don’t move,” Deirdre hissed as loudly as she dared, pointing the gun at him.

The guard hesitated, then his eyes narrowed, and he punched the button on the radio, opening his mouth to speak.

Deirdre willed herself to shoot, but she couldn’t do it. However, the guard’s hesitation had been enough to allow Beltan to get close. He swiped at the radio, knocking it out of the guard’s hand, then swung his other fist, punching the man in the throat.

The guard fell to the floor, making a gurgling sound. Beltan stepped over him, then gestured for Deirdre to follow. By the time she stepped over the guard, he was no longer moving. She tightened her grip on the gun and followed Beltan.

They halted when they heard voices.

The voices were low, chanting something Deirdre couldn’t quite understand. She knew how to speak Latin; that wasn’t it. She exchanged a look with Beltan. He jerked his head, and they crept as quietly as they could along the corridor. It ended in another door, open like the last. They slipped through and found themselves on a mezzanine that ringed a circular room. Both the mezzanine and the room below were constructed of polished marble. Above was a gilded dome.

The mezzanine was littered with boxes, some open, some closed. Ancient urns, still wrapped in clear packing material, stood on pedestals, next to weathered stone statues half draped in tarps. Inside the nearest open box, Deirdre saw various artifacts–clay tablets, bronze bowls, and stone jars–nestled on a bed of packing foam.

She supposed these artifacts had all come from the secret chamber beneath Knossos. The Philosophers must have ordered their servants to remove everything before the archaeologists who came to investigate the arch stumbled upon the chamber. Fascinating as they were, her gaze lingered on the objects only for a moment.

A pair of staircases descended from the mezzanine, down to the level below. Unlike the clutter on the higher level, the main floor was precisely arranged. Spaced around the perimeter of the chamber were seven long, low shapes, each one draped with a black cloth. Another object stood on a dais directly beneath the center of the dome.

It was an arch of stone.

The chanting grew louder. Now that Deirdre could hear it more clearly, the chanting sounded more like ancient Greek, only it was a form Deirdre wasn’t familiar with. A soft, golden glow filtered from the dome above, and in the light she could make out the slender steel frame that held the arch upright, as well as the angular carvings that marked the stones. Unlike the other stones of the arch, the keystone in the center was worn and pitted, its surface stained a dark brown.

Standing in a circle around the arch were hooded figures in black robes. Their chanting continued, uninterrupted. Beltan and Deirdre edged forward to get a better view of what was happening below.

One of the statues moved, stepping in front of them.

“And who do we have here?” purred a woman’s voice. Gold eyes glinted behind the dark web of a veil.

Shock coursed through Deirdre, short‑circuiting her nervous system so that she could not move. What she had taken for a statue draped in black cloth had in truth been a woman in a robe.

You’re an idiot, Deirdre. Can’t you count?Gathered around the arch below were not six robed figures, but five.

Unlike Deirdre, shock had not immobilized Beltan. He sprang forward and reached out to grab the woman.

Her gold eyes flashed, and Beltan toppled to the floor, arms still outstretched. Now it was he who was a statue. Deirdre stared at him. He had sensed the presence of the guards. Why hadn’t he sensed her in the shadows?

She has her own magic, Deirdre. . . .

“Phoebe,” she murmured.

She caught the glint of a smile behind the veil. “So you’ve read Marius’s little book, I see.”

Deirdre could hardly feel shock anymore. “You knew about it?”

“We know everything, child. We’re the Philosophers.” She lifted her hand in an elegant, indulgent gesture. “Must I explain it all to you? I thought you were supposed to be so very clever.”

The chanting had ceased. “What’s going on up there?” a man’s voice called out.

“It’s our little investigator and her companion,” Phoebe called back without taking her gold eyes off Deirdre. “They’ve arrived just as we expected them to.”

It was perilous to speak, all Deirdre’s instincts told her that, but she couldn’t stop herself. “Maybe you need better guards.”

“Nonsense. They performed their duty perfectly. Each possessed a pulse monitor that emitted a constant signal as long as their hearts continued to beat. I was alerted the moment they died.”

Deirdre winced, wishing Beltan had been able to use more restraint.

Phoebe moved a step closer. “We learned long ago not to place our reliance on weak and fallible mortals. We use them, yes, but we do not depend upon them. I knew it would be best if I dealt with Marius’s little tools myself.”

“But if you’d read his journal, if you knew what Marius intended to do, then why–?”

“Didn’t we stop him?” Phoebe’s voice was a croon of pleasure. “It’s simple, child. It was better to let Marius believe his little plan had a chance of succeeding. He always believed he was better than us; that was his hubris. And that made it all too easy to defeat him. As you saw yourself in Scotland. We knew eventually he would show himself to you. And once he was out in the open, our servant easily removed him.”

A sudden fierceness burned away the cold grip of Deirdre’s fear. The woman before her was immortal, yes, but not invulnerable. As Beltan had said, she could be killed. “You didn’t defeat Marius.” Deirdre pointed the gun at Phoebe. “I’m here.”

Again those gold eyes flashed. Deirdre felt as if her hand had been frozen in a block of ice. The gun clattered to the floor.

Phoebe clucked her tongue. “You didn’t really think you could stop us, did you, child? Marius really did fill your head with notions.”

The words were scathing, but Deirdre only grinned. Her arm was numb, and she felt weak and shaky, but she wasn’t completely immobilized, not like Beltan.

“You can’t do it again,” she said. “Your little trick. You’re not as strong as Marius, are you? I bet none of you are.”

Angry mutters rose from below. Deirdre could feel the eyes of the others gazing up out of their shadowy hoods.

“Be done with her, Phoebe!” the man who had spoken earlier called out.

“Silence, Arthur,” Phoebe snapped over her shoulder. “I told you I would take care of this annoyance as I did the other, the one those filthy sorcerers wanted.”

The desperation in these words emboldened Deirdre. “You can’t stop me.”

A hissing sound escaped from the veil. “In that, my precious little Seeker, you are quite wrong.”

Phoebe bent, picked up the gun, and fired.

A clap of thunder sounded in Deirdre’s ears, and she felt as if she had been pushed by an invisible hand. She stumbled back, against the wall, and glanced down. There was a small hole near the right shoulder of her leather jacket. There was no pain; the numbness had crept up her arm, into her chest. Then, with her left hand, she opened her jacket.

Blood spilled down her shirt.

“Oh,” Deirdre said, and slumped to her knees.

“This case is closed, Seeker,” Phoebe said, and pointed the gun at Deirdre’s head.

Again came a rumbling sound. Only it was different this time: lower, deeper, a moan rising from below. In moments it built to a stentorian roar. The floor shook beneath Deirdre. One of the statues toppled over, smashing an urn. Phoebe stumbled back against the railing of the mezzanine. The gun flew from her hand, falling to the chamber below.

The floor continued to shake. Above, a crack snaked across the surface of the dome. The light flickered. It took Deirdre’s astonished brain an instant to realize what was happening.

It’s an earthquake. An earthquake in London.

But that was impossible. There was no active fault line beneath London. Unless . . .

The fault line is here, Deirdre.Her mind was strangely clear. It’s centered around them–the Seven. Perihelion is close now. Very close . . .

“Phoebe!” another man’s voice shouted from below. “Get down here now. We must open the way!”

Below, one of the men had pushed back his hood. His gold eyes shone in an ageless face.

“I have to finish with this one first, Gabriel!” Phoebe called out.

“There’s no time for that,” the man called back. “It comes sooner than we believed. If we want to escape this world before it’s too late, we must complete the spell now.”

Phoebe gave Deirdre one last hateful glance. “You’ll bleed to death soon enough. Perhaps it’s fitting that you watch as we achieve perfect immortality.” She descended a staircase to the chamber below, joining the others around the arch. The man, Gabriel, raised his hood.

The building no longer shook; the earthquake had ended. Deirdre still felt no pain. She crawled forward, using her left hand for support. Only dimly did she notice the blood smearing the marble beneath her. She passed Beltan’s prone form. It seemed his green eyes followed her motion, but that couldn’t be.

She reached the top of the stairs. Although crystalline, her gaze seemed strangely fractured, so that what she saw below were fragments only. Here, one of the hooded figures pulled back the cloth that covered one of the long shapes around the perimeter of the room. It was a sarcophagus of black stone, its lid gone. Within lay a man with lustrous gold skin and jet‑black hair, clad only in a linen kilt. His eyes were shut, his arms folded over his naked chest. On his brow was a circlet of gold and a bloodred jewel shaped like a spider.

In another shard of sight, Deirdre watched as one of the black‑robed figures bent over another sarcophagus, knife in hand. The blade flashed, and blood flowed from the Sleeping One’s arm, spilling into a golden bowl.

More knives flashed and six figures walked toward the stone arch, each bearing a bowl of blood, and one of them–the sole woman among them–carrying two.

Deirdre tried to move down the stairs–she had to stop them–but she couldn’t stand; her legs wouldn’t work right. The chanting rose again on the air, echoing up into the dome. The robed figures closed in around the arch. Seven golden bowls tilted, blood spilled.

The blood vanished.

Blue fire enveloped the stones.

46.

“ Lir!” a commanding voice intoned.

Silver radiance flickered into existence, pushing back the darkness that filled the throne room. Master Larad stood at the center of the light. Sinfathisar shimmered in his hands.

Grace’s eyes adjusted to the new illumination. The floor had stopped shaking beneath her, and she managed to gain her feet, though she was still trembling herself.

“Was that an earthquake?” she called out over the groan of settling stone.

“More than that, I think,” Farr said, standing up and untangling his serafi. “Perihelion must nearly be here.”

Grace looked up. The crystal that had channeled beams of sunlight from the outer chamber into the throne room had gone dark. Had the sun ceased shining? If so, then surely Farr was right.

“Look,” Vani said. The T’golstood nearby, holding Nim. Grace followed her gaze. On the dais, the gate still crackled like a door rimmed with sapphire lightning. Grace saw dark‑robed figures moving beyond, and many glints of gold.

“Who are they?” she said, half in wonder, half in dread. “Are they Scirathi?” She couldn’t see masks in the shadowed recesses of their hoods.

Travis was the closest to the dais. “I don’t know who they are,” he said, his voice hard, “but I’d bet the Great Stones those are the Seven of Orъ.”

Past the robed figures, Grace made out several long, rectangular shapes. They were stone sarcophagi. The gate seemed to be positioned slightly higher than the room on the other side, as if there–just like here–it stood on some sort of dais. Grace could just see inside one of the sarcophagi, glimpsing the gold‑skinned man who lay there, eyes shut as if asleep.

A sheen of sweat sprang out on Grace’s flesh. If those were the Fateless Ones, then the room on the other side of the gate was on . . .

“Earth,” she said. “It’s Earth on the other side.”

But where on Earth? And who were the black‑robed ones if they were not Scirathi?

“We’ve got to go through the gate,” Travis said. “Larad, bring the Great Stones. I think Farr’s right. Perihelion is almost here. We’ve got to bring the Stones in contact with the Seven.”

Yes, that was it, Grace thought, her cool doctor’s logic superseding the fevered chaos in her brain. She considered the knowledge they had gained from the symbols on the walls of the throne room. The universe had a fatal disease, of which the rifts were a symptom, and the only way to cure the patient was to reverse the imbalance that had caused the affliction in the first place. The Imsari had to be joined with the blood of the Seven.

Only what does that have to do with the Last Rune, Grace?Sfithrisir said only the Last Rune could heal the rifts.

Larad stared at the gate, wonder on his scarred face, then he was moving. Travis was already bounding up the steps of the dais.

“We must not allow ourselves to be separated,” Vani said, springing forward with Nim in her arms.

Farr followed after the T’gol, but Grace hesitated. Just a short while ago, for a few moments, she had returned to Earth by means of Farr’s silver coin. When they jumped into the abyss, there had been no time to consider where to direct the coin to take them; there had been only a split second to think of a place they both knew, they both could envision. One had flashed into Grace’s mind; with their hands clasped together, she had managed to transmit it to Farr over the last scraps of the Weirding. And that was where they had gone.

The Beckett‑Strange Home for Children.

They two of them had stood there beneath the blue Colorado sky for only a few seconds. Grace had stared at the burnt‑out ruin, unable to move or speak. The wind had hissed through dry witchgrass. This was where it had all begun. This was where she had first learned what it meant to be wounded. . . .

And where she had first learned the power of healing.

With that thought, the fear, the dread, and the sorrow within her evaporated. It hadn’t been a mistake to come to this place. Instead, it had reminded her of who she really was. Not a queen, not a witch, and not an heir to prophecy, but simply–finally–a healer. She had taken the silver coin from Farr, and with a thought they had returned to Eldh, to the bridge outside the throne room.

Grace left hesitation behind and raced after the others toward the dais. For a moment she had been terrified that if she stepped through the gate to Earth, she might never return to Eldh–to her fortress and her people. But it didn’t matter; she knew that now.

Grace had never meant to return to them in the first place.

She willed her legs to move faster. Travis had reached the top of the dais. He drew close to the throne.

A hand reached through the gate, groping.

Travis skidded to a halt short of the gate. The hand reached toward him, slender fingers extended. A woman’s hand. Several of the robed figures were clustered close to the gate, just on the other side. At their fore was the woman, a veil concealing her face rather than a hood. She was reaching through the gate. For Travis?

No. Her hand moved past him, toward the throne. The woman’s fingertips just brushed the arm of the golden chair.

Travis took another step toward the gate. The woman snatched her hand back through the blue‑rimmed portal, and while Grace couldn’t hear it, she was sure the other had gasped in surprise. The woman had just seen Travis. But why hadn’t she and the others seen him before?

This room is dim, Grace, and the room on their side is much brighter. It’s like being in a brightly lit house and looking out a window into the night; you can’t see anything.

The woman threw her veil back. Her face was too sharp to be lovely, but it was regal, commanding. Blond hair was pulled back in a severe knot. Her eyes were gold as coins.

Those eyes had widened, and her mouth was a silent circle of surprise. She stumbled back, away from the gate, along with the others in black robes.

“Who are those people?” Larad called out.

“I don’t care,” Travis called back. “Now, Larad.”

And he jumped through the gate.

“Father!” Nim cried, reaching out a small hand.

But Vani was already moving, leaping through the gate a fraction of a second after Larad. Farr went next; Grace was the last. She did not hesitate, did not look back over her shoulder as she passed into the circle of blue fire.

She braced herself for the cold of the Void, and for a fall through darkness. Instead she felt a tingling sensation, like the touch of leaves brushing past her skin, and a moment later she was through, standing beside the others on a dais beneath a golden dome, in a building that, classical as its design was, bore countless, immediately detectable signs–from the electric lights glowing around the perimeter of the room to the switches on the walls and the muted whir of a ventilation system–that it had been built by modern, Earth hands.

Grace glanced back. Behind her, supported by thin arcs of steel, was an archway of stone blocks carved with angular symbols. Strands of blue energy coiled around the stones. Beyond she could just make out the dim outlines of the throne room in Morindu. Why hadn’t they fallen through the Void?

Because the worlds are close now, Grace. Very close.

She turned from the gate, facing the six figures in black robes. Their hoods were pushed back now, like the woman’s veil, and the faces of the five men–all as sharp and ageless as the woman’s–bore looks of mingled astonishment and fear. The woman’s look of shock, however, had changed to another expression: narrow‑eyed rage.

“How can this be?” She pointed a finger at Travis. “How can you be here? We made certain you would not get in our way.”

Travis cocked his head, a puzzled look on his face. Then, slowly, he nodded, and Grace knew he had understood something, something the rest of them had not. She wished she could speak to him over the Weirding. Standing there, close to the gate, and the Imsari, and the Seven of Orъ–who slept in their sarcophagi around the perimeter of the chamber–it almost felt as if she could sense the Weirding’s glimmering strands. But they were too faint, too fragile to grasp.

“Haven’t you read the reports?” Travis said. “I have a way of getting around.”

Never, in all they had been through together, had Grace been afraid of Travis, but she was at that moment. He wore a grin like a jackal’s, and in the golden light his skin seemed hot and metallic, like that of the beings in the sarcophagi. He stalked to the edge of the dais. The woman and the black‑robed men all took a step back.

“You,” Vani said, and she was almost as fearsome as Travis, her gold eyes blazing. She held Nim tight in one arm, and with her free hand pointed at the woman. “You sent the Scirathi after us. You told them where to find my daughter.”

The woman’s hand darted inside her robe. She said nothing. The five men exchanged uncomfortable looks.

“You aren’t Scirathi,” Farr said, eyes narrowing. “So why were they working for you. Who are you?”

“What?” the woman said, her voice mocking now. “The great Seeker Hadrian Farr doesn’t know the answer when it’s right in front of his face? Your reputation must have been overly inflated in the reports we received.” She inclined her head toward Travis. “He knows who we are. Though I confess, I do not know how he can. All the same, he does. Go on, Mr. Wilder. Tell them.”

Travis opened his mouth, but before he could speak, another voice answered. “They’re the Philosophers, Hadrian! We can’t let them go through the gate.”

The voice was weak, ragged, but it echoed around the dome. Grace turned. To her right, a staircase led up to a mezzanine that ringed the chamber. A dark‑haired woman stood halfway down the staircase, hunched over the rail. Behind her, a streak of red smeared the white marble steps.

The woman on the staircase was Deirdre Falling Hawk.

Everyone in the chamber stared, silenced by shock. Farr actually staggered, a hand to his chest. Joy shone on Travis’s face. However, after a second the joy flickered and vanished; he had seen the trail of blood on the stairs. The Philosophers, too, appeared surprised to see Deirdre standing there.

“Why aren’t you dead?” the woman snapped, her tone what a rich woman might use with a servant who had not performed some task swiftly enough.

Deirdre gave a pained smile. “I’m fine, thanks for asking.” She limped down several more steps. “The woman is Phoebe. She’s their leader, Hadrian. Stop her.”

Farr’s eyes were on the bloody stairs. “Deirdre, you’re–”

The sound of booted feet against marble rang out. A trio of men in black uniforms rushed through a doorway into the room. They held guns in their hands.

The gold‑eyed woman, Phoebe, smiled. “Now this distraction will be removed.” She glanced at the security guards. “Dispose of these intruders. Use whatever force is required.”

The guards–all of them large, thick‑necked men–leveled their weapons at the interlopers. “Walk forward slowly,” one of them said. “Come one at a time with your hands out in front of you.”

Travis was still grinning like a jackal. “That’s funny.” He glanced at Master Larad. “I’m thinking the rune of iron.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Larad said, and held Sinfathisar before him.

“Whatever that is, put it down or we’ll shoot!” The guard targeted Larad with the gun.

“No,” Travis said. “You won’t.”

“ Dur!” Larad shouted.

The three men cried out as the guns flew from their hands, arced across the room, and struck the far wall. The weapons fell to the floor as shapeless lumps of metal. The guards staggered back, clutching stinging hands.

Grace staggered herself. For a moment, as Larad spoke the rune and the Stone flashed in his hands, she had heard a rushing noise, and she had glimpsed silvery threads all around her. It was the Weirding. She reached out to Touch it. However, even as the Stone faded, so did the shimmering strands around her.

“Now, Vani!” Travis shouted. He was already moving toward the guards. Farr was on his heels.

“Take Nim,” Vani said, pressing the girl into Grace’s arms. “Protect her.”

Before Grace could speak, Vani’s form blurred, and she was gone. A moment later she reappeared in midair above the guard closest to the door. Her boot flew out, contacting his skull, and he toppled to the floor as she landed without sound next to him. The other guards tried to back away from her, toward the center of room, but Travis and Farr were between them and the dais, cutting off their retreat.

Two more guards appeared at the door. Again Vani’s form seemed to blur as she attacked them. Travis and Farr grappled with the other two guards. However, Grace saw this only dimly, as if through a shimmering veil.

Once again, the silvery threads of the Weirding shone around her. She reveled in the sensation of life. How she had missed the Touch! She let her consciousness follow the glittering web.

The threads ended at the edge of the chamber.

What was going on? The Weirding had returned, but only here in this room; Grace could not follow it beyond.

Think, Grace.

The silver web had momentarily reappeared when Larad had invoked the power of the Imsari. In a way that made sense; the power of the Weirding sprang ultimately from the runes that had brought Eldh and everything on it into being. But why was she seeing the Weirding again now?

“I’m afraid, Aunt Grace,” Nim said, tightening her arms around Grace’s neck.

The silvery threads grew brighter.

Grace clutched the girl. Contacting Nim was what allowed her to see the Weirding. Only how could that be? Her mind fought to comprehend. The Imsari were part of the First Stone. Like the thirteen morndarithat entered Orъ, they were the most primordial of magics; they were the first enchantments, and the last to remain while all other faded. It made sense that the Imsari helped her see the Weirding. But why did Nim do the same?

Grace didn’t know, but she was not going to waste this chance. The Weirding could fade again in an instant.

Deirdre?she called out, sending her presence along the shimmering threads.

Across the chamber, near the door, Travis, Farr, and Vani were still struggling with the security guards. The men had learned to keep away from Vani, but Travis and Farr kept herding them back within the T’gol’s reach. The Philosophers had retreated, standing near several of the sarcophagi where the gold‑skinned beings still slept.

“Stop them!” Phoebe shouted, her voice shrill, hands clenched into fists.

Grace didn’t know much about the Philosophers, other than that they were the mysterious leaders of the Seekers. One thing was certain. Whatever power they possessed, they did not like to do their own dirty work.

Deirdre, Grace called again. Can you hear me?

Then she saw a thread that flickered with jade and fiery crimson. Grace brought her own strand close. Astonishment streamed across the thread. On the staircase, Deirdre gripped the railing.

Is that you, Grace? How–?

I’m speaking to you over the Weirding. It seems to still work, at least as long as I hold on to Nim.

She felt amazement and wonder vibrate along the thread. And pain. Grace probed, letting her consciousness reach deep into Deirdre’s body, surveying the damage, making a diagnosis.

It wasn’t good. Deirdre had been shot in the right shoulder, and the bullet had nicked her subclavian artery. She had lost a lot of blood. That she wasn’t already dead was a wonder. Something seemed to have slowed her metabolism. But time was running out. Deirdre was already going into shock; Grace could sense her organs shutting down. Now that she could use the Weirding, Grace might be able to stave off organ failure for a short while and keep Deirdre’s heart beating. But only if she could touch Deirdre. And even magic wouldn’t help if Deirdre didn’t get a blood transfusion–soon.

Deirdre, we have to get you to a hospital.

That’s not important right now. All that matters is the Sleeping Ones.

You mean the Seven of Orъ?

Yes, the beings in the sarcophagi, came Deirdre’s reply. Despite her weakened state, her voice was clear over the Weirding, as if speaking this way was utterly natural to her. They seek some sort of transformation. I don’t know what it is, but it’s important. I think it has to do with the rifts in the cosmos.

These words filled Grace with amazement; clearly Deirdre had learned much since Travis had left her and journeyed to Eldh.

You’re right, Grace spoke in return. We’ve learned that the Seven have to come in contact with the Imsari, to heal the imbalance that’s tearing the worlds apart. Only . . .

She thought of the drawing that showed the Stones and the Seven coming together, and the mysterious triangle symbol between them.

Only there’s something we don’t know yet. There’s a key– something that’s needed to allow the Imsari and themorndari to unite. I think it has to do with the Last Rune.

The Last Rune?

Words were too slow. Grace gathered up everything she had learned, everything that had happened since Sfithrisir alighted atop Gravenfist Keep, and sent it in a single, glittering pulse along the Weirding.

She could sense Deirdre reeling. Grace knew it had been too much to assimilate all at once, that it would take Deirdre time to sort out everything that had been transmitted to her.

The Seeker was faster than Grace had thought. It’s the catalyst, Deirdre’s voice came across the Weirding. Something that

can link the Sleeping Ones and Great Stones. The transformation the Seven seek can’t take place without it.

Excitement flared in Grace’s chest. Hadn’t Sister Mirrim said something to Farr about a catalyst? Do you know what this catalyst is?

She felt frustration, confusion in return.

No, I don’t, came Deirdre’s reply. Only . . .

Only what?

I’m not sure, Grace. I’m so close to the answer, only I can’t . . . I can’t quite reach it, and . . .

Deirdre had descended the last few steps, and she sank to her knees. Blood spattered the white marble floor. Deirdre’s face was like marble itself. Grace had to do something. She thought about it only a moment, then she connected Deirdre’s thread to her own.

Grace gasped as she felt her own life force rushing out, flooding into Deirdre, sustaining the Seeker. Across the room, Deirdre’s eyes fluttered, and her back arched. At the same time, thoughts, feelings, and knowledge hummed back along the thread, into Grace. In an instant, Grace understood everything.

Before too much of her own life force drained from her, Grace broke the connection. She had done all she could with magic; she had stabilized Deirdre, but the Seeker had to have more blood or she would die.

Grace . . . ?

Oh, Deirdre,Grace said inwardly. She had seen it all, had felt it all: Deirdre’s quest to unravel the mystery of the arch, only to discover the truth behind everything. The Seekers were a lie. For over four centuries, the Philosophers had desired only to get to Eldh, to learn the secret of true immortality. The Philosopher Marius Lucius Albrecht had tried to stop them, and he was dead. Deirdre’s partner Anders was in a hospital. And Beltan . . .

Grace searched among the threads. There–she saw one brighter than the others, tinged with emerald. It was Beltan. He was lying on the floor in the shadows of the mezzanine. He was motionless, but he was still alive, still strong. The woman, Phoebe, had placed him in some kind of stasis. However, Grace could already sense Beltan trying to break out of it. He was struggling against the hold on him, and he was winning.

Grace couldn’t help a sharp smile. Drugs, poisons, magic– even Galtish ale–none of them affected Beltan as severely or for as long as they did other human beings. It wasn’t just because of the fairy blood in his veins. When he was still a boy, his mother, the witch Elire, had made him drink draughts she brewed in order to increase his tolerance to such toxins. Had Elire possessed some shard of the Sight? Had she known that he would need such resistance more than once in his life? Grace didn’t know, but she was grateful all the same.

Come on, Beltan. You can do it. You can break her spell.

She could not hear his voice, but she felt his will, his strength. He was breaking free. . . .

“No!” a woman shrieked.

Grace’s hold on the Weirding snapped, and her eyes opened. Across the room, Vani stepped back as the last of the security guards fell to the floor. Travis and Farr stood nearby, both breathing hard. Travis’s skin was glowing like that of the golden beings who slumbered in the sarcophagi. Blood trickled from Farr’s lip, but he appeared otherwise unhurt.

“So much for your guards,” one of the men said, giving Phoebe a sour look.

“Stop your sniveling, Arthur,” she snapped. “I see, as always, I will have to take care of this myself.” She bent down and picked something up off the floor.

It was a gun. She pointed it at Travis.

“I believe your wizard is too tired to pull one of his little tricks again,” she said.

Grace glanced at Larad. He gripped Sinfathisar, and he was muttering under his breath, but the Stone remained quiescent in his hand. Vani was too far away. The T’golwould not be able to close the distance in the moment it took Phoebe to pull the trigger. She took aim at Travis’s heart.

“You don’t understand,” Travis said.

Phoebe’s eyes flashed. A less arrogant person would have simply shot him, but it was clear she could not let such a challenge go unanswered.

“I am a Philosopher. I understand all.”

Travis laughed, and her face blanched with rage. “No,” he said, taking a step closer. “You understand nothing. You’re ignorant thieves, that’s all.”

“Stop!” she said, shaking the gun at him. “I do not need to listen to your ravings. There is nothing you know we do not.”

Travis shrugged. “Suit yourself. Then again, I’ve been to the otherworld, to Eldh, a half dozen times. And isn’t that where you’re trying to go? If you want, I can tell you all about the Sleeping Ones–who they are, why they’re here, and what they want.”

One of the black‑robed men took a step toward Phoebe, a hungry look on his bearded face. “He knows something, Phoebe, and he seems inclined to tell us. Why not talk to him before we kill him? What harm can it do? Even if he’s mad, as you say, he might know something useful.”

Phoebe did not look as if she appreciated the opinion. Her eyes became slits, then she nodded. “Very well, Gabriel. We’ll humor you, though I think it’s a waste of time.” She waved the gun at Travis. “Go on. Tell us what you think is so terribly important. And be swift. The gate will not stay open indefinitely, and I do not want to waste more of the blood of the Sleeping Ones to open it again.”

Travis moved toward one of the sarcophagi, gazing at the figure inside. Phoebe trailed him with the gun.

“They’re nothing to you,” Travis said softly. He looked up at Phoebe. “They’re something to be used, a means to an end, that’s all. I suppose you think they can give you true immortality.”

Phoebe tightened her fingers around the gun. “They can and they will. We know that what granted them eternal perfection is in that room, on the other side of that gate. And we will have it.”

“That’s not what they came here for.” Travis bent over the Sleeping One, as if speaking to the golden man. “That’s not why they came to Earth, to give their blood to the likes of you. They’ve been waiting. Waiting for a time when the two worlds would draw close, when they would have a chance to do what they knew they had to do.”

“And what, pray tell, is that?”

“They intend to heal the world. All the worlds. The rifts in the sky are the beginning of the end. Don’t you see? You can’t escape them by going to Eldh. The rifts are there, too. If the Seven don’t unite with those Stones my wizard friend is holding, then it’s over. For Earth. For Eldh. For everything.”

The black‑robed men exchanged startled looks. For a moment, even Phoebe’s visage seemed clouded by doubt. Then her expression grew hard once more.

“By unite, you mean consume, don’t you? What you propose would destroy the Sleeping Ones, wouldn’t it?”

Travis shrugged. “It might. I don’t know. But if the union doesn’t happen, there will be no Earth, there will be no Eldh. There will be nothing at all.”

The bearded man, Gabriel, gasped, and some of the others muttered among themselves. However, they all looked to Phoebe. Her lips curled in a sneer.

“You lie. You want the blood of the Sleeping Ones for yourself, and you tell us these fantasies to trick us. But it won’t work.”

Before Travis could speak, she leveled the gun at him. Grace reached out with the Touch. Phoebe’s thread was a brilliant gold. If Grace could take hold of it, she might be able to stop Phoebe from–

There was a deafening crack!of thunder. Grace staggered back. For a dazed moment she wondered if Phoebe had fired and missed, if the bullet had struck Grace instead, knocking her back.

The thunder grew into a roar. A crack snaked across the marble floor. Phoebe stumbled into the other Philosophers, the gun flying from her hands. Travis lurched against Vani and Farr, and Larad fell to his knees. Sinfathisar spilled out of his hands, rolling away from him, skittering across the heaving floor toward Grace.

Again came a crack!

“No!” cried a shrill voice.

Grace managed to look up. On the dais, the stone arch vibrated and twisted, a wishbone gripped by two angry hands. With a sound like a piano wire breaking, one of the supporting steel bands snapped, then another, and another. The blue fire flickered and winked out. The image of the throne room on the other side vanished.

With a groan, the arch collapsed into a heap of rubble.

47.

Deirdre felt light.

The green‑gold power that had rushed into her through Grace’s life strand buoyed her like the helium in a balloon. The pain in her shoulder had faded, and her breath came easily. When the floor stopped shaking, she was one of the first to regain her feet. Beneath her boots, the marble was stained red.

You’re bleeding to death, Deirdre. You can’t feel this good. It’s impossible.

Only she did feel good. Whatever Grace had done to her, it had made her feel awake, alive. Her mind was a flawless crystal, reflecting everything around her in its facets. Across the room, Vani was helping Farr to his feet, while Travis had pulled himself up using one of the sarcophagi. When he fell, Master Larad had struck his head on one of the steps of the dais. Blood oozed from his scalp, and pain etched the scarred mosaic of his face. He clutched a small iron box in his hand.

“The Stone of Twilight!” the Runelord shouted.

Deirdre saw it. The gray‑green orb had rolled across the floor and stopped a few feet from where Grace knelt, Nim clutched in her arms. Grace started to reach out a hand, then hesitated; from what Deirdre knew, it was perilous for anyone save a Runelord to touch a Stone.

“So much for your gate,” Travis said, stepping over a crack in the floor, eyes on the heap of rubble on the dais.

Phoebe flicked her veil over her shoulders. “The gate can be easily reassembled. The same will not be said for you once we are finished with you. Kill them for what they’ve done!”

The remaining Philosophers were untangling themselves from their robes. One of them gave the gold‑eyed woman a startled look. “Are you serious, Phoebe? You mean do it ourselves?”

She glared at him. “For once in four centuries, stop being a worm, Arthur. Yes, I mean do it ourselves. Use your knife!”

From her gown, she pulled out the curved dagger she had used to draw blood from the Sleeping Ones. The men took out their own daggers. Arthur fumbled his, nearly dropping it. But others–like the bearded one, Gabriel–held their weapons firmly. Vani and Farr were the closest to the Philosophers. The T’golstarted to spring into motion.

Phoebe’s gold eyes flashed. Vani ceased moving in midair and toppled to the floor, rigid as a sculpture of black stone. Hadrian remained standing, but he was motionless as well, his eyes staring blindly. Travis gave the two a startled glance, then returned his gaze to Phoebe. He took a step back.

Deirdre, Grace’s voice sounded in her mind, what has she done to them?

It’s a spell, Deirdre spun the words back, surprised how easy it was to do so. It’s the same one she cast on Beltan. I don’t know how to break it.She thought about what she had learned from Grace. Though if all magic is gone except that closest to the source, then she must have drunk the blood of the Sleeping Ones recently. Otherwise, I don’t think she would have been able to cast the spell at all. Either way, she won’t be able to do it again for a while. It weakens her, and it takes time for her to recover.

What about the other Philosophers? Can they do the same?

Deirdre glanced at the gold‑eyed men. Their eyes shifted between Travis and Phoebe.

I don’t think so. She directed the words toward Grace. If they could cast the same spell, they would have done it already. I don’t think they’re as strong as she is.

Or as strong as Marius had been, or his master before him. Either might have been the leader of the Philosophers. Only neither had wanted what the others craved–true, eternal immortality–and so it was Phoebe who had become their queen.

“Take him!” Phoebe said, pointing her dagger at Travis.

The men hesitated, then started forward, blades before them.

“ Dur!” Travis shouted.

However, magic was all but gone. Without the Imsari in hand, the rune was powerless. Travis cast a look at Larad. The Runelord fumbled with the box. But he was too far away to get the Stones to Travis, and too weary to speak runes himself. Both Deirdre and Grace were on the opposite side of the room. Neither could reach him in time, even if they had the power to stop five men. Except maybe they did.

Deirdre, help me. . . .

Grace had already come to the same conclusion. Travis edged past the motionless forms of Vani and Hadrian.

“Run, Father!” Nim cried, but he couldn’t. The Philosophers had him cornered against a column that supported the mezzanine above.

Deirdre shut her eyes, concentrating. I don’t know what to do, Grace.

I’ll show you how. Weave the threads, like this. . . .

Understanding flowed across the web of the Weirding. Of course–it was so simple. Deirdre grasped the silvery threads in imaginary hands, braiding them into knots.

Deirdre opened her eyes in time to see two of the Philosophers drop their knives and fall to the floor, limbs flopping against the marble like fish on dry land.

Phoebe shot Grace and Deirdre a poisonous look. Then she searched the floor with her gaze. She was looking for the gun she had dropped, Deirdre was sure of it. The remaining Philosophers closed in around Travis; his gray eyes flicked left and right, but he could not escape. The man Gabriel raised his dagger.

Again, Deirdre! Weave with me!

Deirdre reached out to grasp the shining threads–

–and her hands touched nothing. The shimmering web vanished.

“Nim!” a voice cried. “No!”

Deirdre opened her eyes. It was Grace who had shouted. She reached forward, trying to catch Nim, but she was too slow. The girl had wriggled free of her grasp and was running forward.

“Father needs the Stone,” the girl said. She crouched, the hem of her gold shift brushing the floor, and closed her fingers around Sinfathisar.

Deirdre held her breath, waiting for something terrible to happen, for green‑gray energy to engulf Nim.

It didn’t. The girl stood, holding the stone. “Father!” She started to run across the room. Grace scrambled after her, and Deirdre followed, feeling so light that her boots hardly touched the floor.

“Now!” Phoebe said. “Do it!”

Hands reached out, gripping Travis, holding him tight. Gabriel’s knife flashed, descending. Nim screamed–

–and the room changed. The air rippled like the surface of a pond disturbed by a pebble. The domed room with the mezzanine and the ruined gate vanished, replaced by a space that Deirdre–from the thoughts and memories Grace had granted her–recognized as the throne room in Morindu the Dark. Deirdre and Grace halted. The Philosophers snapped their heads up. Phoebe stared at the mummified figure on the dais.

Nim screamed again, and another series of ripples radiated through the air. The throne room was gone. They were back in the domed chamber on Earth.

A roar sounded, reverberating off the dome. Something launched itself from the edge of the mezzanine, landing like a great cat behind Gabriel. Big hands grabbed the Philosopher by the scruff of the neck, hurling him back, away from Travis.

“Get away from him!” the blond man growled, his eyes flashing green. He moved stiffly, but he was still faster and stronger than the Philosophers. He grabbed another one of them– Arthur–and tossed him across the room. The Philosopher landed, wailing, not far from Phoebe’s feet. The other retreated.

“Beltan,” Travis said, his voice thick with wonder. He touched the blond man’s cheek.

“What’s happening, Travis?” Beltan said, confusion in his green eyes.

Before Travis could answer, Nim rushed toward them. “Father!” she called out. “And Father!”

Again the air wavered, blurred, resolved, and they were back in the throne room of Morindu. Then Deirdre blinked, and it was Earth again. The change kept recurring every few seconds. Morindu. London. Eldh. Earth. A sharp scent, like lightning, permeated the air.

“It’s perihelion,” Travis said, turning around in a slow circle. “It’s here. . . .”

As he spoke, waves of distortion rippled through the air– suddenly they were in Morindu again–and this time Deirdre saw from where the ripples radiated. It was Nim. The girl had stopped, still clutching the Stone, and was staring all around, mouth open. She was the center of the effect.

She was the nexus.

Something shimmered in Deirdre’s subconscious, some understanding that had lain too deep for her to reach. Only now her mind was so clear she could almost see it. . . .

“Great Hermes!” a man’s voice shouted.

Deirdre shook her head, clearing her vision. Not far from her, Grace gasped. In each of the sarcophagi, a gold‑skinned figure sat upright. Their eyes were open, and they were not gold, but rather black as onyx. In slow, perfect unison, the Seven climbed from their sarcophagi.

Nim let out a soft cry, and the air rippled again. The domed building on Earth now. The girl reached up, but her fingers could not grasp the Stone of Twilight. It had plucked itself from her hands, and it hovered in midair above her.

The iron box in Larad’s hands gave a jerk. He fumbled with the lid and opened it. The other two Stones shot out, white‑blue and crimson, rising into the air, and drifting toward Sinfathisar.

The knowledge that Grace had imparted to Deirdre melded with her own experiences, and the result was a new amalgam of understanding. Yes–that was why the two worlds had been drawing closer and closer over the centuries; that was why perihelion was destined to come.

It was the Imsari and the Sleeping Ones. Their purpose was to be joined together, to heal the imbalance in the universes, and for eons they had pulled at one another, bringing the two worlds they resided on closer and closer together.

Now, at last, perihelion was upon them. The Seven approached the center of the chamber, where the three Stones bobbed. Their golden faces were ageless and serene as death masks from the tomb of an Egyptian pharaoh.

“Stop them!” Phoebe called, voice rising into a shriek. “Their blood is ours!”

But the other Philosophers retreated, letting the Seven pass by. The air rippled, and they were on Morindu. More ripples, and it was London again. Still the effect was centered on Nim. The Stones hovered just above her. The girl was gazing all around. Travis started toward her, but Phoebe sprang in front of him, brandishing her knife.

“It’s the child, isn’t it? She’s doing this. She’s making everything . . . change.”

Travis tried to pass her, but she thrust with the dagger, and he was forced to leap back. As he did, the talisman he wore around his neck slipped from his serafi. The piece of white bone caught Deirdre’s eye. It was marked with three parallel lines.

Three lines . . .

A humming tone sounded in Deirdre’s mind, like the vibration of a quartz crystal. She knew. She knew what the catalyst was.

I understand, Marius. I understand the song. It’s about endings, and beginnings, too, and how sometimes they can be the same thing. It’s about how, no matter what happens, when all is said and done, there’s always still possibility. After fire and wonder, we end where we began. . . .

Again Deirdre glanced at the talisman Travis wore. The lines were etched in parallel onto the piece of bone. However, they could just have easily been connected end to end, in the shape of a triangle, like the symbol Grace and Travis had seen on the wall of the throne room. Years ago, Travis had told Deirdre the name of the rune carved on the talisman.

It was Nim.

Hope.

The Seven golden figures closed in on the girl. The three Stones still hovered above her.

“It’s Nim!” Deirdre called out. “She’s the catalyst.”

She felt Beltan’s and Travis’s startled gazes on her. Beltan tried to swipe the dagger from Phoebe’s hand, but he still moved stiffly, and she was nimbler than the other Philosophers. She darted past him, then grabbed Nim, holding the dagger above the girl.

“Stop!”

The Sleeping Ones seemed to understand her. They ceased moving a few steps from Nim, their faces still serene, expressionless. Travis and Beltan lunged forward, but Phoebe glared at them.

She did not have the power to cast her spell, not fully, but there was still some malice in her gaze. Both Travis and Beltan staggered back, and Deirdre knew a chill like that in her own arm had touched them. However, in the time it took Phoebe to work her magic, Grace had closed the distance. She reached for the dagger.

Deirdre didn’t will herself to run forward. Instead, she seemed to float over the floor. She was so light, so empty, like a bauble of spun glass. The air continued to ripple, so quickly now that with each blink of the eye the world seemed to change. London. Morindu. Again, and again, until the two blurred together, becoming one. . . .

Phoebe slashed with the dagger. A line of red appeared on Grace’s arm. Grace staggered back, outside the circle of the Seven. Phoebe’s lips curled in a smile. Nim gazed up, her face a white oval. The dagger flashed, then sank deep into flesh.

“Oh,” Deirdre said softly.

Phoebe stepped back, a look of annoyance on her face. Nim’s cheeks were streaked with tears, but she made no sound. Deirdre smiled down at the girl, to tell her not to cry. Then she saw it: The hilt of the dagger jutted from Deirdre’s stomach. Nim hesitated, then reached out and touched Deirdre’s hand.

Deirdre saw it at once: the shimmering web of the Weirding. She could see–no, could feel–Travis and Beltan staring, shock on their faces. Not far away, Larad was regaining his feet. And Hadrian and Vani, though still in stasis, were unhurt.

I wish I could talk to you Hadrian. You finally did it–you had a Class Zero Encounter.

But so had she, Deirdre supposed. The room around them was still a blur, changing so quickly that it was both London and Morindu, both Earth and Eldh, at once.

Oh, Deirdre, Grace’s voice sounded in her mind, trembling with sorrow.

I see, Grace.A feeling of exhilaration filled Deirdre. The Stones hovered before her. The Seven golden figures stepped forward. I see everything.

Grace’s voice hummed over the shimmering threads. You would have made a good witch, Deirdre.

Thank you, Deirdre wanted to say.

Only then the Seven took another step, closing the circle. She was aware of Phoebe trying to push them back, to break the circle, but Grace stuck out a foot, tripping her, and Phoebe went down, her black veil tangling around her.

Nim tried to pull her hand free, but Deirdre held her tight. Don’t be afraid, she tried to murmur. The catalyst doesn’t change. That’s what Sister Mirrim told Hadrian.

She didn’t know if she spoke, or if she sent the words along the Weirding, but either way Nim stopped struggling and stood still. The Seven reached out gold hands, laying them against the girl. The three Stones descended, alighting on Nim’s outstretched hands.

The melded vision of Earth and Eldh vanished, replaced by darkness–pure, flawless darkness, stretching into eternity. It was like the primordial vacuum, the empty space that constantly spawned pairs of virtual particles. It was the nothingness in whose very emptiness lay coiled the potential for everything. It was the silence before the word, the slumber before the dream.

It was hope.

With her last thought, Deirdre Falling Hawk sent everything she saw, everything she sensed and understood, in a pulse along the Weirding, toward the green‑gold strand she knew belonged to Grace.

It’s so beautiful!

Then she gazed into ancient black eyes, and the nothingness that had brought her into being claimed her once again.

48.

Travis was cold. So terribly cold.

He was a planet, spinning alone out in space. The sun he had been bound to had vanished. Its light and life‑giving warmth were gone, and there was nothing to hold him down, nothing to keep him from spinning off into the dark, endless Void alone. . . .

“Travis?” a voice murmured. “Travis, can you hear me?”

The voice was warm and familiar, like the memory of the sun. In the darkness, two lights appeared. They were stars, each as green as a summer forest. He let the stars pull him in with their gravity.

“Please, Travis. I know you’re still in there. Talk to me.”

The stars grew brighter, closer. Only they weren’t stars, he realized. They were eyes.

Grace Beckett’s eyes.

A shuddering breath rushed into him, and Travis sat up.

“Grace?”

She was kneeling beside him, along with Beltan. Vani, Nim, Larad, and Hadrian Farr stood close by. Beyond them, the dim air flickered, as if lit by a lamp swinging on a chain.

Grace smiled, a look of relief on her face. “There you are, my friend.”

Beltan gripped his hand. “You scared me. I thought after all this that . . . I thought you weren’t going to . . .” The blond man pressed his lips together and shook his head.

Sorrow pierced Travis’s heart. Why was Beltan so sad? Travis tried to think back, to remember what had happened. It was hard. He felt thin and hollow, like a candy wrapper with nothing good left inside. Only that wasn’t completely true. He still felt good when he looked at Beltan, and Grace, and Nim. They all looked well and whole, though Grace did have a small cut on her arm.

“What happened?” he said. For some reason, he couldn’t stop shivering.

“There’s no magic,” Farr said. His face was haggard, haunted, but there was a note of wonder in his voice. “It’s gone. The Imsari and the morndariwere what brought it into being in the first place. When the Stones and the Seven came in contact, when they eliminated one another, magic ceased to be. We feared you would share their fate.”

Travis frowned at him. “Share whose fate?”

Farr stepped aside and gestured to something on the floor. It was a heap of black cloth–a robe. Shriveled hands jutted from the sleeves of the robe, skeletal fingers curving like claws. A black veil half concealed a skull stretched with withered skin.

It was Phoebe.

Travis started to stand. He was still shaking, and would have fallen, but Grace and Beltan helped him. Beyond Phoebe, he saw the other five on the floor. All of them were dried mummies.

“The Philosophers,” Travis said, the words a croak.

Farr stood above the mummy that had been Phoebe. “It was magic that sustained their lives all these centuries. Drinking the blood of the Seven gave them the gift of immortality. Once the Seven were no more, that gift was taken away.”

Travis swallowed hard. “And you thought . . . you thought the same had happened to me.”

“We didn’t know,” Grace said. “Orъ’s blood hadn’t extended your life, at least not yet, but it hadchanged you. You collapsed at the same moment the Philosophers did, and we feared the worst.”

Beltan touched his cheek. “Only you’re all right, aren’t you?”

Again, Travis shivered. It felt as if there was a hole in him where something had been excised, something rich and warm and golden. And something else was missing as well–a familiar presence.

Jack?he spoke in his mind. Jack are you there?

There was no answer. And there never would be again. Travis touched his right hand, but for the first time in five years he didn’t feel the familiar itch beneath the skin of his palm, the faint tingle of the hidden rune.

“Travis?” Beltan’s green eyes were worried.

Travis breathed. “Yes. I’m fine.” He smiled, laying his hand over Beltan’s, pressing it against his cheek. “I’m more than fine.”

Already a new warmth was filling the hole inside Travis. And while it was not so golden and fiery as Orъ’s blood, or as shimmering as rune magic, it was every bit as powerful in its own way. And as long as Beltan was at his side, it would never fade.

“Now that he is awake, we must make our decisions,” Vani said, hands on her hips. “Time grows short.”

Travis shook his head. What was she talking about? A note of alarm cut through his confusion.

“Where’s Deirdre?”

“She’s gone,” Farr said simply.

Travis staggered, leaning against Beltan. For a moment he felt disbelief. Then memory returned. Phoebe had chilled him with a glance, as well as Beltan. Travis had watched, unable to move, as the circle of the Seven closed in around Nim and the Imsari.

And Deirdre.

The last thing he remembered was an orb of brilliant silver‑gold light encapsulating both Nim and Deirdre. The final image he could recall was of the light beginning to dim, and of a single, tiny figure standing in its midst, like a chick inside an egg lit from behind. There had been no taller figure standing beside the little one.

“Gone,” Travis repeated the word, as if it was unfamiliar to him.

Grace gripped his hand. “She was happy, Travis.” A tear slid down her cheek. “I felt her, right before . . . right before she was gone. She was so happy. She understood everything. She knew that–”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Larad said with an uncomfortable look. “But I don’t think we have time for that now.” He gestured behind them.

Travis turned around, and he tried to understand what he was seeing. “Where are we? On Earth or Eldh?

“Both, for the moment,” Farr said. “But perihelion is drawing to a close. The worlds are beginning to drift apart.”

Travis understood. It had seemed the shadows in the room were shifting. But that wasn’t it at all. It was the room itself that was shifting. The chamber in London and the throne room on Eldh were no longer blurred as one. Instead they were discrete, separate. First one flickered into view, then the other.

However, even as Travis watched, the area affected in this way shrank inward. It was limited to the center of the chamber, to the area around the dais. The rest of the chamber was solidly, unwaveringly the room in London. Again the air flickered, and the area around the dais became part of the throne room in Morindu. Orъ’s mummy still sat shackled to his throne. A few moments later the air seemed to wrinkle, and the throne was gone, replaced by the jumbled heap of stones that had been the gate.

Farr took a step toward the dais, his black serafiswishing. “I don’t think we have much longer. We have to decide which side to remain on before perihelion ends.”

His words stunned Travis. Decide? How could he possibly decide between two worlds? Before, when he had returned to Earth, there had always been the possibility that he would return to Eldh. Only this time there would be no chance of that.

“Perihelion won’t come again, will it?”

Farr shook his head. “It was the pull of the Imsari and the Seven that brought the worlds close together. They will never draw near again. And nor will gates function, now that magic is no more.”

“I suppose these aren’t worth anything anymore,” Travis said, pulling the silver coin from his serafi.

Grace smiled. “It’s still worth something, Travis.”

True. But it couldn’t take them between worlds, could it? Travis’s heart ached. He didn’t want to say good‑bye. Not so suddenly. Not forever.

The air in the center of the room rippled. The nexus between the two worlds shuddered, then shrank until it was no larger than the dais. One moment it was Morindu, the next London.

“I’ve made my choice,” Farr said, moving onto the dais. “I intend to stay in Morindu.”

“But sorcery doesn’t work anymore,” Travis said.

A smile flickered across Farr’s handsome face. “It was never about magic, Travis Wilder. That’s not why I searched for other worlds. It was for knowledge. For wonder. All of Morindu the Dark remains to be explored. Who knows what secrets remain to be discovered? I cannot throw away the chance to learn things no other living person knows. Deirdre would have understood.”

Travis sighed. Yes, she would have. But Deirdre knew more than any of them now.

Master Larad moved to the dais, standing next to Farr. “As interested as I am in learning about another world–this Earth on which you spent so much of your life, Your Majesty–Eldh is my home, and I cannot imagine not spending the rest of my years there.” He gave a sardonic smile. “Though the problem of getting out of the desert and returning to Malachor may require all of those years to solve.”

Farr grinned. “I imagine we’ll be able to solve that one, Master Larad. Camels aren’t the only way through the desert.”

Like the iris of an eye contracting, the circle above the dais shrank inward another fraction. The nexus was already not much larger than a door. They were almost out of time.

“What do you think, Beltan?” Travis said. “Which world do you want to be on?” Travis tried to sound noncommittal, even though he knew, without doubt, that he wanted to stay on Earth. Eldh was a world of beauty and wonder. But it wasn’t his home. It never had been.

“I want to be on planet Travis,” Beltan said solemnly. “My world is wherever you are.”

“Are you sure?” Travis said, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time. Could he really expect Beltan to spend the rest of his life on another world?

“I’m sure,” Beltan said, taking Travis’s hand.

Doubt vanished, and Travis grinned. “I guess we’ve done pretty well here on Earth. I think we’ll stay, if that’s all right.”

Beltan kissed him. It was.

Reluctantly, Travis pulled away. Now came two farewells he didn’t think he could bear. Only, somehow, he had to. He knelt before Nim. The girl had not said anything since he had awakened. Did she understand what was happening?

She did.

“I want to stay with you, Father!” she said, throwing her small arms around Travis’s neck. “And with Father!”

Travis hugged her tight. “I know, sweetheart. I wish you could stay with us, too. But your place is with your mother.”

“I do not believe that is so.”

Travis looked up, too stunned to speak. Nim turned around, tears staining her cheeks, her eyes wide.

“Mother?”

Vani knelt before her. “My brave daughter.” She brushed a dark curl from Nim’s face. “I love you. You must never forget that.”

“I won’t,” Nim said.

Vani bent, kissed Nim’s brow, and stood.

“I took her from you once,” she said, gazing at Travis, then at Beltan. “I cannot do so a second time.”

“You’re serious,” Travis said, finally managing to speak.

Vani nodded. “ T’goldo not customarily have children. So in Nim, I have known a joy I never believed I would know in my life. Nothing will ever change that. However, I belong in Morindu. It is my heritage, and my fate. I would . . . I would go with Hadrian Farr.”

She gave the former Seeker a glance that was suddenly tentative, almost shy. Farr gave her an astonished look in return. Then the hint of a smile touched his lips.

Beltan stepped forward. “Vani, you’ll never see Nim again.”

“I know.” The T’golmoved to the dais, standing next to Farr and Larad. “But it must be so. Perhaps someday Morindu will be a living city again, but that day is long off. Right now it is still dead. And a dead city, however full of wonders, is no place for a living child.” A tear slid down her cheek. “Love her, Beltan. Give her every joy you possibly can.”

Beltan nodded, laying his big hands on Nim’s small shoulders. She turned and buried her small face against his legs.

Bittersweet joy filled Travis. He would not have to say good‑bye to Nim. Only there was another farewell he dreaded, and there was no putting it off.

“Your Majesty,” Larad called out. “You must hurry.”

Travis moved to Grace. He opened his mouth, but how could he put into words what he was feeling? Beltan was his partner, his soul mate, but Grace was his best friend. More than that. She was part of him.

“I’m going to . . . I’m going to miss your voice,” he said, and didn’t even try not to weep.

Grace brushed a tear from his cheek. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “That’s what telephones are for.”

He could only stare at her.

“I’m staying on Earth,” she said.

Beltan let out a great laugh. Even Nim turned around and clapped her hands together.

“But what about . . . ?” He glanced at Hadrian Farr.

“I’m not his case subject to watch anymore. And I think Fate has something else in mind for him. For both of us.” She glanced at Vani, then she looked at Travis again and smiled. “By the way, you still haven’t said if it’s okay if I stay here.”

It was too much. Joy and sorrow and love all melded into a single, shining emotion inside Travis, igniting like a new sun.

“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “It’s okay.”

Grace turned and waved at the figures on the dais. “Give my love to Melia and Falken and everyone. And remember what I said about holding an election, Master Larad. Tell them it was my last order. And tell them I cast my vote for you!”

Larad held up his hand in a gesture of farewell. Vani’s gaze was locked on Nim. Farr opened his mouth to say something.

There was one final flicker, and the three of them disappeared. As if a door had been shut, the image of the throne room in Morindu vanished. The nexus was gone.

“Good‑bye,” Travis whispered.

He felt Grace’s hand slip inside his. He gripped it tight.

Beltan picked Nim up, holding her in his arms. “Are you going to be all right?” he said, his expression solemn.

The girl seemed to think about it, then nodded. “I’ll be sad some. A lot at first. But that’s okay, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said, holding her tight. “It is.”

She rested her head on his shoulder.

Travis took a step forward, toward the place where Deirdre had vanished. He would never look into her smoky jade eyes again, would never hear the soft tones of her mandolin.

“I wish I’d gotten to say good‑bye to her,” he said. “I wish I could have told her how much I cared about her.”

“She knew,” Grace said behind him. “I was with her, in that final moment. She knew everything, Travis. She sent it to me over the last strands of the Weirding. I wish . . . I wish I could describe what it was she saw.”

Travis turned around. “Try.”

He could see Grace struggle for words. “She sensed . . . Deirdre sensed how happy they were–the Sleeping Ones and the Imsari. They wantedto come together. They wanted to balance one another out. It was their whole purpose. But the Seven had known they needed the right catalyst for the union to work. The Imsari and the morndarihad both been changed by their history on Eldh. Alcendifar the dwarf changed the Great Stones with his craft, and the thirteen morndariwere changed by their union with Orъ. Those imperfections would have kept their union from being complete without a catalyst.”

Travis looked back at Beltan and Nim. “Why Nim? Why was she the catalyst?”

“Vani was descended from Orъ,” Grace said. “And there was fairy blood in Beltan. Northern and southern magic were melded together in Nim. I think it was that blending that helped the Seven and the Imsari to come in contact, to unite despite the way they’d been changed.”

“What about Travis then?” Beltan said. “Couldn’t he have been a catalyst?”

Grace rubbed her chin. “Both rune magic and sorcery are in him– werein him. But he wasn’t born with them inside him. Nim was. I think that made her a more perfect catalyst.”

Beltan tossed Nim into the air. She let out a shriek of laughter, and he caught her. “She’s perfect, all right.”

“The Little People must have known,” Travis said, looking at Beltan and Nim.

The sound of distant sirens drifted through the door. The earthquakes brought on by perihelion would have caused some damage. Travis hoped it hadn’t been severe.

Grace touched his arm. “Are you all right?”

He looked down at his hands. Again he felt the hole inside him. But it was all right. He had spent most of his life not being magic. He didn’t think it would be too hard to get used to being normal again. Who knew? He might actually kind of like it.

“Nim really was the Last Rune,” he said. “There are no more runes. Magic’s gone.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Grace said. “Only . . .” She cocked her head, as if listening to a distant sound.

“What is it?” Beltan said, giving her a sharp look. “Do you feel something?”

Grace smiled and shook her head.

“Just hope,” she said.

49.

On another world, in a castle with seven towers, Aryn rested a hand on her full stomach and felt a strong kick deep within.

Teravian turned away from the window of their bedchamber, wonder on his face. “I can see stars, Aryn. All the stars.”

She tried to reach out with the Touch, to sense the small life inside her, but there was nothing to grasp, no trace of the Weirding. It was gone. Completely gone. But it didn’t matter. Aryn didn’t need magic to know the baby was whole and healthy; she knew it with her heart.

“Do you want to feel your daughter kick?” she asked.

Teravian grinned. “You mean my son.”

And the young king knelt before his queen, laying his hands atop hers as new life stirred beneath.

EPILOGUE

CASTLE CITY

The shiny green pickup truck blew into town with the first evening gale of October.

It pulled off the highway on a bare patch of gravel, not far from a peeling billboard, just down the road from the burnt ruin of a clapboard building. Doors opened, and four people got out. There was a man with red‑brown hair, and another man, tall and rangy, who walked with a lanky stride. After them came a woman who was beautiful and regal, even dressed in jeans and a baggy sweater. With her came a girl who looked to be five or six, with hair as dark as shadows dancing on the wind.

The four joined hands, and together they walked toward a flat patch of ground where, once upon a time, a parti‑colored circus tent had stood. It had taken them longer than they had expected to come to this place. But then, at first, they hadn’t even known this was where they were going.

London–and much of the world–had been in something of a state of chaos for a few weeks as damage from the earthquakes, hurricanes, and typhoons was repaired. However, none of the disasters had been as bad as they might have been, as bad as some experts had feared they were going to get; the tremors in London had been localized to the area in and around Brixton. And, as suddenly as they had begun, the storms and eruptions ceased. People had been so relieved that they hadn’t even noticed at first that something else had gone as well: the rifts in the sky.

Astronomers and physicists were still speculating about what the rifts were. No doubt studying the data various telescopes had collected would keep the scientists occupied for years to come. However, most people forgot about the rifts soon enough, as people tended to do when something strange departed and the normalcy of everyday life resumed. The Mouthers took off their white sheets and put down their signs. People were ready to go on with their lives. They were ready to hope again.

True, there was the occasional story of someone who had claimed to have seen green forests in the desert and mountains in the middle of the ocean just before the rifts vanished, but those stories were relegated to the tabloids, and were soon replaced by the usual celebrity scandals and UFO sightings.

Once London was back to normal, and a decision to go west was reached–or rather, maybe, a call was heard–there were still arrangements to be made. The flat in Mayfair was sold. Calls were made across the sea, and new accommodations procured with the help of old friends Mitchell and Davis Burke‑Favor. Then the day arrived. They flew toward the sunset, then picked up the new truck they had bought (for some reason, it had to be green) and let the mountains call them upward.

Now the wind swirled, kicking up a dust devil right where the main pole of the big top would have stood.

“What do you think happened to them?” Grace said, glad for her thick sweater. Clouds scudded past the tops of the mountains. “To Cy and Mirrim and Samanda, I mean?”

“I think they went back to Eldh when the rune of sky was broken,” Travis said, his breath ghosting on the air. “I think they returned to the Twilight Realm with the other Old Gods.”

Grace nodded. She believed the same. “I’m glad we stopped here. I just wanted to say thanks to Cy, and to the others. We never would have gone to Eldh without them.”

Travis glanced at Beltan. “A lot of things wouldn’t have happened without them.”

Beltan gave him a solemn look. Then, suddenly, the blond man grinned.

“Can we head into Castle City now? I want to see the new house. And I’m getting hungry.” He picked up the girl. “How about you, Nim? Are you hungry?”

“Yes!” she said, clapping her hands.

“That’s my daughter. Get in the truck, then.”

Beltan urged her on with a gentle push. She ran toward the pickup. Beltan gave Travis a quick kiss, then hurried after the girl. Grace sighed, watching the two run, the girl taking three strides for every one of the blond man’s.

“He’s a wonderful father,” she said. “Nim is lucky.”

“So am I,” Travis said. “I love him so much sometimes I almost can’t believe it’s possible.”

She smiled at him. “But it is.”

His gray eyes were thoughtful. “What about you, Grace? Will you ever find someone to love?”

Grace breathed in the cold air. On the journey through the desert, she had discovered she didn’t love Hadrian Farr. But in learning that, she had learned she couldlove. And she did. She looked at Travis, then let her gaze follow Beltan and Nim. Despite the chill, a warmth filled her.

“I already have found someone,” she murmured. “Some‑ones.”

Travis watched her a moment, then he nodded. “So you have,” he said. “So you have.”

They walked back to the pickup, following Beltan and Nim. It was only after a moment that Grace realized Travis was singing in a low voice.

“We live our lives a circle,

And wander where we can.

Then after fire and wonder

We end where we began. . . .”

A chill gust caught the words, carrying them away. The four of them reached the truck. Grace climbed in and Nim scrambled onto her lap. Beltan slid behind the wheel, and Travis closed the passenger door. In the valley below, a collection of lights twinkled in the deepening dusk.

“All right, Beltan,” Travis said. “Take us home.”

The pickup pulled onto the highway, and the wind rattled through the witchgrass, blowing away across the mountains to places unknown.