Deirdre fumbled as she took the phone. Who could be calling her here? She hadn’t told anyone where she was going–not the Seekers, not even her partner Anders. However, as soon as she heard the rich, accentless voice emanating from the phone, she knew who it was.
“Turn on the television,” the nameless Philosopher said. “I think you’ll be interested in what you see.”
There was a click, and a dial tone replaced his voice. Deirdre set down the phone, her heart pounding.
“Who was it?” Travis said.
She licked her lips. “Where’s the remote control?”
A minute later, they gathered around the television. In quick words, Deirdre had described the message she had received on her computer just before Travis called and what he had said just now on the phone.
“You say this Philosopher friend of yours hasn’t contacted you in over three years.” Travis said. “I wonder why now?”
“Let’s find out,” Beltan said, and clicked a button on the remote.
The television glowed to life, displaying a scene of a blue ocean breaking against white rocks. The camera panned, focusing on weathered columns–what looked like the remains of an ancient Greek temple–rising toward an azure sky. A small graphic image in the corner of the screen advertised the name of the program: Archaeology Now!
“Wait a minute,” Beltan said. “I was watching this show hours ago. How can it still be on?”
He punched the remote, trying to change the channel, but it no longer seemed to function. The volume came up.
“I didn’t do that. What’s wrong with this thing?” Beltan banged the remote against the table.
Travis grabbed his arm, stopping him. “Listen,” he said.
Now the television showed a man dressed in khakis standing next to one of the columns. “–and which were opened by a recent earthquake here on the Mediterranean island of Crete,” he was saying. “Tonight, we’re taking our cameras and you into one of those caves, not far from the ancient palace of Knossos, to an excavation where Dr. Niko Karali is hoping to uncover evidence that could further our understanding of ancient Minoan culture, and perhaps provide new clues to an age‑old mystery: why the thriving Minoan civilization vanished almost overnight three thousand years ago. As always on our program, we have no idea what we’ll find, because everything you see is live. So let’s head–”
The sound cut out, and the video began to move rapidly.
“Don’t look at me,” Beltan said, pointing to the remote control, which sat on the coffee table.
Despite the announcer’s statement, Deirdre was certain this show was anything but live. It had been recorded earlier that night, and now it was being played back for their benefit. The video became a blur of images too fast for the eye to decipher. Then the video froze, and a single image filled the screen.
It was a stone arch, or part of one at least, set against rougher rock. A hand held a brush, clearing away dust and debris from one of the stones of the arch. Beneath the brush, Deirdre could just make out a series of angular marks.
She clapped a hand to her mouth at the same moment Travis swore.
“By the Blood,” Vani whispered, her gold eyes wide.
Beltan cast them an annoyed look. “Great. Am I the only one who doesn’t know what that writing says?” His expression grew thoughtful, and he rubbed his arm. “Although I feel like I should know.”
Deirdre gripped the silver ring on her right hand. The ring Glinda had given her. She didn’t need to look to know that the angular characters etched inside it were shaped just like those on the television screen.
Travis drew closer to the TV. “I’ve seen writing like that before.”
“It is the ancient writing of Amъn,” Vani said. “Few know it now. Even I cannot read what it says, though there are some among my clan who could. And there are others . . .”
“You mean sorcerers,” Travis said. “There was writing sort of like that on the stone box that one Scirathi created to hold the gate artifact.”
“Not sort of,” Vani said. “The writing is identical.”
All of them seemed to understand at once, as if a jolt of electricity had passed between them, carrying the knowledge.
“A gate,” Deirdre said. “That arch is a gate, isn’t it?”
Or part of one, anyway. She didn’t need to wait for the archaeologists to uncover the entire thing to know that they wouldn’t find the arch’s keystone–that it was missing.
Only it wasn’t missing. Deirdre knew exactly where it was: in the vaults of the Seekers. The Seekers had discovered it in the tavern that sat on the same spot that centuries later would house Surrender Dorothy. It was in researching Glinda’s ring that Deirdre had discovered the existence of the keystone, for the writing on the ring and the keystone were identical.
Travis pressed his hand against the television screen. “Maybe there is a way back,” he murmured.
Vani’s eyes shone, and Beltan gave her a dark look. However, before the blond man could speak, the sound of small feet broke the silence. Deirdre tore her gaze from the TV. A girl stood at the end of the sofa. Her hair was dark, but her skin was moon‑pale.
“You must be Deirdre,” the girl said, her words articulate, though mustcame out as muth.
“Nim,” Vani said, kneeling beside the girl. “What are you doing out here? You’re supposed to be in bed.”
Nim. Deirdre didn’t recognize the name. However, she knew who this girl was. It was Vani and Beltan’s daughter.
“I can’t sleep,” Nim said.
Vani brushed her hair from her face. “And why is that, beshala?”
“Because there’s a gold face outside my window,” the girl said yawning. “It keeps watching me.”
Vani held the girl tight. “It was a bad dream, dearest one. That was all.”
However, there was doubt in the T’gol’s eyes, and a terrible certainty that the girl hadn’t been dreaming came over Deirdre. Fear cleared her mind, and at last she understood what it was that had been troubling her all evening, what it was she had forgotten.
“Vani,” Deirdre said, her mouth dry. “You came to Earth to escape the Scirathi, right?”
“Yes,” the T’golsaid, clutching Nim to her. “Why do you ask?”
Sickness rose in Deirdre’s throat as she recalled the picture hehad sent her during their final conversation three years ago: an image of two figures in black robes slinking down an alley in a modern Earth city, their faces concealed behind masks. Gold masks.
Deirdre drew in a breath. “Because I think they’re already–”
Her voice was drowned out by the sudden sound of shattering glass.
8.
The bones would always be there.
Over the last three years, the grass of the vale had grown up around them, lush and dense, and had crept up the sides of the larger mounds, shrouding them in green. Just that spring, on the sides of those mounds, a tiny flower of the palest blue had begun to bloom in profusion. No one–not even the eldest of the witches, and the wisest in herb lore–had ever seen a flower like it before. And while no one was certain who had first used the name, soon everyone called the little flower arynesseth.
In the old language, the name meant Aryn’s Tears. Almost as soon as the name came into use, a story sprang up around it, growing as quickly as the grass in the vale. It was said, in the days after the Second War of the Stones, brave Queen Aryn of Calavan stood upon the wall of Gravenfist Keep, and there she let fly the ashes of the knight Sir Durge, who had been noble and true above all other men. The wind carried the ashes out into the vale of Shadowsdeep, and one could always know where they came to rest, for in those places the arynessethbloomed the thickest.