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.