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 alclass="underline" 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.”