But minutes were all they needed. Like insects, the dark specks of the Scirathi swarmed up the side of a dune a half mile ahead, then vanished over the crest.
“Did you see Nim?” Vani shouted. “Do they have her?” She coursed across the sand like a black gazelle, Avhir at her heels.
“I cannot be sure,” Avhir called back. “I saw one carrying something on its back–a small bundle–but what it was I cannot say.”
“We must go faster. They must not enter Morindu before we reach them.”
The two T’golquickened their pace, speeding like arrows over the sand. Travis and the others could not keep up.
“The sand,” Larad hissed, his scarred face twisting in a grimace. “By Olrig, it burns right through the soles of my boots.”
Farr shoved the Runelord on the back. “Keep moving. It’s only going to get worse. If we don’t get off the sand soon, we’ll be roasted alive.”
They started up the slope of the dune. The T’golwere already halfway to the crest.
Go, Vani, Travis thought. Go as fast as you can. Save her.
Next to him, Grace stumbled. She would have gone rolling down the slope, but he caught her in time, hauling her back to her feet.
“The sun . . . I don’t think . . . I can’t do this, Travis.” Her face was pale except for two bright spots of color on her cheeks.
“Yes, you can, Grace.” Speaking was too hard; his mouth was dry as leather. Instead, he spoke in his mind, knowing she would hear. You didn’t leave me underneath the slipsand, and I’m not going to leave you out here. Hold on to my thread.
But even if I can, that would drain your . . .
Do it!
He sensed her presence draw close to his. There was a flash in his mind of green‑gold light melding with gold‑silver. Then he felt it: his life force draining from him, pouring into Grace. She gasped, and her eyes fluttered open. They were brilliant: emeralds flecked with gold dust.
Travis staggered, then steadied himself. It didn’t matter that some of the essence of his own life was now flowing into Grace; he had more than enough to spare. Since the moment he had awakened, after dying in the slipsand, he had felt power burning in him. He was sweating, but not from the heat rising up from the sand. Instead, the heat came from inside him, as if there were a molten sun in his chest mirroring the one in the sky. No mundane heat could harm him now; he was certain of that.
However, that was not true for the others. Farr had lost too much blood, and Larad was accustomed to cool northern climes. Both slumped to their knees.
Grace, you have to connect to Larad’s thread, and Farr’s as well. Bridge their strands to mine, give them some of my power. They won’t make it if you don’t.
He sensed Grace’s understanding, then a moment later he felt it rush from him: hot, gold power. Farr’s back arched, and Larad clutched a hand to his chest, then both were on their feet again.
“Come on!” Travis called, and they ran with new swiftness up the side of the dune. The T’golhad already vanished over the crest.
“That spell,” Larad said, voice hoarse, as they climbed. “I feel as if I could run for days, even in this heat. What did you do to give us strength, Your Majesty?”
Grace didn’t answer, and Travis felt Farr’s eyes on him.
They kept climbing, and after several more minutes they reached the crest of the dune. Travis halted, and the fire in his veins receded under a flood of cold fear. Below stretched a lifeless, wind‑scoured plain. Like a beckoning finger, a spire jutted up from the plain. The spire was forged of onyx stone, polished so smooth it glistened as if wet. Perhaps thirty feet of the tower was visible, but its proportions suggested that many times that height lay beneath the sand. As for the rest of the lost city of Morindu, there was no trace.
Vani and Avhir were still running, now halfway between the foot of the dune and the spire. A dozen figures clustered like black beetles next to the tower. Travis caught several glints of gold.
Larad shaded his eyes with a hand. “What are the sorcerers doing?”
“Trying to get in,” Farr said through clenched teeth.
Even as he spoke, a darker circle appeared against the dark wall of the tower: a doorway. The Scirathi streamed into the spire. The T’golhad moved with impossible speed; they had nearly closed the gap.
Only they were too late. The last of the sorcerers vanished inside the tower. There was a puff of black smoke, and the opening vanished. Seconds later came a low sound, like thunder that quickly faded. The T’golthrew themselves against the wall of the spire and bounced off like pebbles. Travis grabbed Grace’s hand and went half‑running, half‑sliding down the lee side of the dune.
By the time they reached the spire, they found the T’golalready working to clear the doorway. But Travis saw it was no use. The doorway was a perfect circle as wide across as his splayed arms, its edges so sharp they looked as if they had been carved into the wall with a knife–one that passed through stone as if it were cheese. The top of the circle had collapsed, and a pile of rubble filled the doorway. The rubble was half‑melted, fused into a solid mass. The T’golpried at the stones, but neither Vani’s fingers nor Avhir’s scimitar could loosen them. Around the doorway the walls were perfectly smooth, without crack or crevice, as if the tower had not been built from individual stones, but was instead molded from a single mass.
“You cannot gain entrance to Morindu with hands or blades,” Farr said. “Physical objects are useless.”
Vani whirled around, stalking toward the dervish, eyes molten. “Then use your magic to open the way!”
Farr stood his ground. “Even if I had blood enough, I could not open this door. The walls of Morindu were bound with wards and spells fashioned by Orъ’s sorcerer‑priests. Legend holds that the stones were laved with the blood of the god‑king himself.” His eyes narrowed as he gazed at Vani. “But you know that, Princess of Morindu.” The words were soft rather than mocking; all the same, Vani turned away.
Travis drew close to the tower. Heat blazed within him, so hot that the air radiating up from the sand felt cool in comparison. The wall of the tower gleamed with a faint iridescence, like an oil slick on black water.
“So how did the Scirathi open the doorway?” Larad said, studying the edges of the portal.
Grace pushed her damp hair from her brow. “Nim. She was the key.” She glanced at Vani. “But how?”
Vani shook her head, her face tight with anguish. “All I know is that my daughter’s blood is powerful, and that lines of fate weave strangely around her.”
“That’s it,” Farr said, his dark eyes going distant. “That’s why the sorcerers wanted her. She’s a nexus.”
The others stared at him.
“A nexus?” Vani said, frowning.
Farr’s gaze snapped back into focus. “I should have realized it right away from everything you told me, Vani. Only a nexus is such a rare thing, almost mythical. I never . . .” He shook his head. “But it’s the only answer. That’s why lines of fate are drawn to her and tangle in her presence.”