by Mark Anthony
As the wall of the storm advanced from the south, they ran east. At first the wind seemed to lessen in its ferocity, and Travis began to think they had a chance. Then they reached the top of a slope, and he turned and watched as dune after dune was enveloped by clouds of boiling red dust. A gritty blast struck him, and sand hissed all around.
The hissing phased into whispering words.
Lie down. Let the sand cover you as a blanket. You are weary–so weary of your burdens. Lie down. . . .
The voices were soothing. The howl of the wind faded, and all he heard were the gentle whispers.
Lie down and go to sleep. . . .
Travis sighed. He felt warm and safe, like a child in his bed. It was time to shut his eyes.
“Get up!” This voice was different than the voices in the wind: harsher, and full of anger. “Do not give up on me, Travis Wilder. Not now!”
Something grabbed him, jerking him up, and only then did he realize he had been laying face‑first in the sand. He rolled over with a groan. Vani knelt over him. Above, the sky churned, and sick yellow lightning flickered between the red clouds.
“Voices,” he croaked. It was hard to speak; his mouth was full of dust. “I heard voices.”
Vani pulled him to his feet. “They are sand spirits–the voices of dead sorcerers from long ago. They want you to die, for your blood to soak into the sand, then dry to dust and be drawn up into the storm, feeding it. You must not listen to them!”
He nodded. It was too hard to speak.
“Come. We are still on the edge of the blood tempest, or we would already be dead. We can make it.”
They careened down the side of the slope, then ran through the gap between a pair of high dunes. Wind buffeted them from all sides, and it was so dark it was impossible to tell which way they were going. Fear gripped Travis. Perhaps they were running into the path of the storm, not out of it. The voices began to whisper again in his ears.
There–up ahead. It was hard to be sure, but for a moment he thought he glimpsed a faint patch of light, as if the clouds of sand were thinner. He staggered toward it, but his feet caught on something, tripping him, and he fell down on top of a soft lump.
It was Vani. She wasn’t moving. Her nose and mouth were caked with dust. He tried to clear it away, to help her breathe. Only he couldn’t breathe himself. There was no air left, only sand and dust. Only the dried blood of sorcerers, more than three thousand years dead, whose power and malice had given birth to the tempest when chance winds in the desert brought enough of the red‑brown powder together. The voices hissed again in his ears.
Travis! Can you hear me? I know you’re out there. . . .
This voice seemed different than the others. There was no hate in it, and it was . . . familiar to him. He tried to call out in answer, but dust choked his throat. It was no use. He slumped over Vani, letting the sand cover them both.
A sound roused him from his stupor. Was it a shout? Somehow he lifted his head and looked up. He could just make it out amid the swirling sand: a figure shrouded in a black robe. Was this one of the sorcerers, then, come to take his blood?
The dark figure reached out a hand.
“Be dead!” intoned a commanding voice.
Then there was only silence.
26.
After a long time, Travis heard voices again. The voices fluttered about him in the dark, as soft as the murmur of moth wings.
Travis . . .
A light shone in the darkness, a light as green and gold as sun through leaves.
You can wake up now. You’re safe. I’m here with you. . . .
Travis opened his eyes. A face hovered over him. A beautiful, dusty, worried face he knew and loved.
“Grace,” he croaked.
She smiled and brushed his hair from his brow. “Welcome back, Travis.” She lifted his head and helped him drink water from a clay cup. It was cool and sweet. He tried to gulp it. “Slow, now. We need to get fluids back into you gradually.”
Grace set down the cup, and with her help Travis managed to sit up in the cot. They were in some kind of low dwelling. Its walls were made of whitewashed mud, their corners rounded. The door was covered with a heavy cloth; the sound of sand hissed outside.
“Where’s Vani?” His voice was still raspy, but better after the water.
“I am here,” the T’golsaid, drawing close to the bed. Her hair was white with dust, and it made her look old and weary.
He leaned his head back against the wall. “What happened to us? I remember the sand tempest, and I remember finding you on the ground. Then I heard the voices. They told me to sleep.”
“They were sand spirits,” a man’s voice said.
Travis looked up. He had not seen the other standing in the corner of the hut; his black garb blended with the shadows. But now the man stepped forward, into the gold circle of light cast by an oil lamp. His dark hair was long and shaggy, as was his beard, which grew high up his cheeks. The skin of his forehead was deeply tanned. Only his dark eyes looked familiar. They still glinted with sharp intelligence. But there was something else in them now–a hot light, like that of a fever.
“Hello, Hadrian,” Travis said.
Farr brushed the words aside as if they were beyond introductions. Or as if the name no longer applied. Red tattoos coiled across the palm of his hand. “The sand spirits were trying to take you, and had Grace not sensed your presence, they would have succeeded. As it was, I feared I had found you too late. I commanded the spirits to be what they were–to be dead– only when the storm cleared and I saw you lying on the ground, I assumed you were both dead as well.”
Grace pressed a moist cloth to his brow. “But you’re not. You’re here, Travis. You’re really here. I found you.”
There was much to understand. Had Farr really been able to command the spirits in the sand tempest? If so, he was a powerful dervish indeed. Travis felt a pang of jealousy.
What an impudent upstart, Jack Graystone’s voice sounded in his mind. He’s done nothing but ride along on your coattails. Surely you’re a more powerful sorcerer than he is, Travis. And you’re quite a good wizard as well. Why, you should wave your hand and–
No, this wasn’t a competition. Besides, Farr had had three years to learn secrets and delve into magics Travis had never even wanted to know about.
“Thank you for finding us,” he said to Farr, then he looked at Grace. “And you, too. I’m glad you were able to sense our life threads. But what are you doing here in the first place? Why were you looking for me? And how did you know I’d be here?” He frowned. “Come to think of it, where exactly is here, anyway?”
Grace smiled. “You’re in the village of Hadassa, on the southern edges of Al‑Amъn, on the continent of Moringarth.” She touched his cheek. “You’re on Eldh, Travis.”
“Nim,” he croaked. That was why he had come to Eldh–to save Nim. Fear renewed his strength in a way the water had not. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed to stand.
And immediately sat back down.
“Careful, Travis,” Grace said, hands on his shoulders, steadying him. “You’re still very weak.”
“Vani is standing up,” he said, feeling more than a little ashamed of himself. The room spun in a lazy circle around him. “And before everything went black, I found her lying on the ground.”
Farr looked at Vani. “After I dismissed the sand spirits, she was able to help me carry you back here. I believe the T’golhave training that can help them resist mind‑altering effects, such as those of a sand tempest.”
“I was deep in meditation when you came upon me, Travis, forging a wall around my mind so that I could shut out the voices of the spirits. I believed our only chance of survival was for me to retain my own will.” She cast a look at Farr. “It was fortunate I was wrong.”
“Being caught on the edge of a sand tempest is dangerous for anyone,” Farr said. “But it’s especially perilous for a sorcerer. The spirits were focused,
not on Vani, but on you and your blood, Travis.”
Travis clenched his right hand. “So you know about that.”
Grace sat on the cot next to him and covered his hand with her own. “I told him everything.”
“Then I’d say it’s his turn.”
“I will tell you anything you wish to know,” Farr said.
Travis nodded, but he doubted that was possible. Even Farr couldn’t know everything. Like where Nim was, and how they were going to get her back.
A silence settled over the hut, and only then did Travis realize that the wind was no longer hissing outside.
“The storm has passed,” Farr said, pulling back the cloth covering the door to let a shaft of hot light into the hut.
Grace took a step toward him. “Does the village look all right?”
“You need not fear for these people. They have weathered far more sand tempests than I have. They know how to set the proper wards, and to keep their doors and windows shut. Besides, I believe the worst of the storm passed to the west of the village.”
“And was that your doing?” Grace said.
Farr did not answer. He moved away from the door, and a man stepped through. Travis laughed in surprise and delight.
Master Larad glared at him, a sour expression on his scarred face. “Does something amuse you, Master Wilder?”
“Yes, very much,” he said, far more glad that he might have guessed at the unexpected sight of the Runelord. Maybe it was just that it was good to know that the wizards in this hut now outnumbered the sorcerers two to one.
No, they don’t, Travis. You’re a sorcerer as well as a wizard. Besides, Master Larad has never exactly been on your side.
However, even when it appeared otherwise, the sardonic Runelord had always been on the side of good, and that was more than enough for Travis. This time, when he stood up, he managed to stay standing, and he moved to Larad, gripping his hand. He was grinning, and even Larad–never one for sentiment–could not conceal the hint of a smile.
“Why didn’t you tell me Larad had come with you?” Travis said, glancing at Grace.
“I thought it would be a fun surprise.”
Larad gave her a sharp look. No doubt the Runelord was not used to being considered in any way fun. “The storm has ceased. And Master Wilder has been successfully retrieved. It is time we talked.”
Travis felt stronger in both body and spirit as they gathered around a table, drank maddok, ate dried figs, and spoke of their respective journeys to this place. Travis couldn’t help but think this was probably one of the oddest parties this–or any village–had ever seen: a witch, an assassin, a dervish, and two wizards.
They listened first as Grace described her and Larad’s journey south. Over the last month they had traveled to the southern tip of Falengarth, then had sailed across the Summer Sea, to Al‑Amъn, and with three T’golas guards had taken camels into the desert, to this village.
When she was done, Travis shivered. “It’s on Earth, too–the rift in the sky. Scientists are calling it Variance X. They know it lies just outside the solar system, but they have no idea what it is or why it’s growing.”
“It’s the end of everything,” Grace said. “That’s what Sfithrisir said. The end of all possibility.”
“It’s only just now visible to the naked eye on Earth,” Travis said. “It sounds like it’s bigger here.”
Grace nodded. “Just like the moon is bigger than on Earth, and the stars brighter. I think the heavens are closer here on Eldh. The rift must be closer, too.” She reached across the table, touching his hand. “Only the Last Rune can stop it. That’s what the dragon said.”
Travis didn’t understand that part. “You mean the rune Eldh?”
She shook her head. “That was the last rune spoken at the end of the world. Sfithrisir said that only the last rune spoken at the end of everything can heal the rift.”
“And did he maybe happen to mention what it was?”
“The dragon said you’d know what the Last Rune was. That’s why I came here to find you.” She squeezed his hand, her expression troubled. “Only you have no idea what the Last Rune is, do you?”
He sighed, then shook his head.
“It does not matter,” Larad said. “Dragons can only speak the truth. You willfind the Last Rune.” However, the Runelord’s eyes were not as certain as his words.
Farr turned his dark gaze on Travis. “If you didn’t come here to look for the Last Rune, then why have you come to Eldh?”
“To find my daughter, Nim,” Vani said before Travis could reply.
Travis took a sip of maddok, gathering his thoughts, then did his best to recount everything that had happened during their last hours on Earth. When he spoke of Deirdre and their conversation at the Charterhouse, Farr got up and paced, as if excited or agitated. Finally, Travis described how the gate crackled open and hands reached through, snatching Nim. He and Vani had managed to follow, but not Beltan. His throat grew tight, and he could no longer speak. Vani was gazing at her hands.
Oh, Travis. . . .
Grace’s voice spoke in his mind. He felt her love, and her sorrow, enfold him like an embrace.
“It’s all right,” he said aloud. “We’re going to get Nim back. That’s why we came here.”
And I will return to Beltan, he added silently.
He felt Grace’s resolve flowing into him. Yes, you will.
Farr stopped his pacing. “Do you know why the Scirathi captured your daughter?” he said to Vani.
“I was not certain before. All I knew was that powerful lines of fate gather around her. But now we suspect it is her blood they want. They seek to use it as a key. Nor do we believe it was a coincidence that the sorcerers have pursued her even as Morindu the Dark has been found.”
“I imagine you’re right,” Farr said. “The Scirathi are remarkably single‑minded. At any given time, they will pursue only one goal, so that all their powers are focused on it. Right now that goal is Morindu. Somehow your daughter must be a part of their plans.”
“I think we figured that much out,” Travis said dryly.
Vani turned her gold eyes toward Farr. “I believe it is time we heard your tale, Seeker.”
“Seeker,” he said with a husky laugh. “I haven’t been called that in a long time.”
He fell silent, and Travis began to think that was all Farr was going to tell them. At last he spoke in a low voice.
“It began with the man in black.”
Travis shivered despite the stifling air.
“I found him in Istanbul,” Farr said. “Or rather, he found me, for I doubt I would have come upon him had he not wished it. He wore the black robe of an imam, and his skin was dark rather than pale, but all the same I knew at once who he was. I had read your descriptions of him many times over, Travis.”
“Brother Cy.”
“Yes.”
Travis should have known that was how Farr had gotten to Eldh. But why had the Old God–who seemed to favor the garb of a holy man no matter what land he was in–transported Farr here?
“I wasn’t even certain why I had gone to Istanbul,” Farr went on. “I had investigated rumors of an otherworldly portal there once. I had never found any evidence of a door, but I always felt there were a few leads that I had not followed as fully as I might have, so I took the Orient Express from Paris. However, I never had the chance to perform any research, for he found me almost the moment I stepped off the train.
“He told me to meet him the following evening beneath the dome of the Hagia Sophia, then vanished. I went to my hotel, phoned Deirdre and left her a message, spent a sleepless night, then went to the museum to meet him, hardly expecting him to be there. Only he was, along with the other two–the girl and the blind woman. I knew it was them, though they were robed and veiled.”
“Samanda and Mirrim,” Grace murmured. “What happened then?”
The dervish shook his head. “The imam–Brother Cy–said
he could show me the way to what I searched for. I said I didn’t know what that was, but the girl said that was a lie. And she was right, because I hadgone to Istanbul looking for something. I was looking for a door to Eldh. I wanted to stop searching for those who had traveled to other worlds and instead go there myself.
“The blind woman whispered something in my ear, something that made no sense to me, then suddenly they were gone. I thought that was it, that nothing else was going to happen. In despair, I left the Hagia Sophia. Only when I stepped out of the door, I found myself not on a street in Istanbul, but rather standing among ruined stone columns in the middle of a desert. The sun was blazing, and I had no water. There was no sign of a doorway behind me. Vultures circled above, and I laughed bitterly, because I had finally gotten what I wanted–I had traveled to another world. And I was going to die there.” Farr sighed. “Only then . . .”
“Then what?” Travis said, fascinated, even envious. He remembered what it was like to first come to Eldh.
“Then I was found,” Farr said.
For the next hour, they listened as Farr told them what had befallen him during his last three years on Eldh–although Travis was certain the former Seeker was not telling them everything. In the ruins he was found by a dervish, much as Travis had been found by Falken in the Winter Wood the first time he journeyed to Eldh. In both cases, Brother Cy had chosen their destinations with care.
The ruins where the dervish discovered him turned out to be all that was left of Usyr, once the greatest city of ancient Amъn, and now little more than a few heaps of stone that jutted out of the desert like the bones of giants. The old dervish had come to Usyr to find secrets of sorcery. Instead he had found death. While opening a box of scrolls, he had sprung an ancient trap, releasing a cloud of poisonous dust, and even as he stumbled upon Farr he was dying.
You must take them,the dervish had said, giving the scrolls to Farr. All my life I have searched for them. I have sacrificed everything to seek them out: my home, my people, my blood.
The scrolls had been filled with writing Farr could not understand. What are they?
They are a story, the dervish said. The story of the birthing of all the worlds. Those that are, and those that are not.