The First Stone

by Mark Anthony

  The other figure was a sorcerer. He held Nim in one arm, crushing her against his chest, his wrist clamped over her mouth. The sorcerer’s gold mask was dented, sitting crookedly on his face, and his black robe was torn. He took a limping step backward along the bridge.

  Vani surged toward the span, but Avhir caught her before she could step onto it.

  “Stop!”

  Vani gave him an anguished look but did not break free of his grasp. As Travis drew closer, he saw why. The sorcerer held a bronze dagger in his free hand. He brought it down, resting the point against Nim’s cheek. Her eyes went wide, and she squirmed in his arms. Such was her strength that the sorcerer stumbled, and one of his feet slipped off the edge of the narrow span. He stumbled, then managed to recover.

  “Nim, don’t move!” Vani shouted. At once Nim went limp in the sorcerer’s arm.

  Good girl, Travis thought. Good, brave girl, to be able to listen to her mother even now. There’s still a chance.

  However, what it was, Travis wasn’t certain. The sorcerer took another limping step back. He was halfway across the bridge. There was no way they could reach him before he had the time to use that dagger.

  What about a runespell, Travis? Jack’s voice suggested in his mind. Blast him off the bridge with a spell! Oh, dear. Wait a moment. . . .

  That was the problem. If Travis killed the sorcerer with a spell, the Scirathi would fall from the bridge—taking Nim with him. The others must have sensed the same truth. All strained, as if wishing to move, but remained still, eyes locked on Nim and the Scirathi. The sorcerer took three more limping steps along the bridge.

  Orú’s throne room must be inside that tetrahedron. Nim will open the way for him. But you can’t let him get in there, Travis. If he does, you’re the only one who can follow him. And if he finds the blood of Orú in there, even you won’t be able to stop him. Xemeth was destroyed when he drank from the scarab, but he wasn’t an experienced sorcerer. If that Scirathi drinks Orú’s blood, he’ll kill us all.

  Larad gave Grace a sharp look. “Can you break his life thread, Your Majesty?”

  “No!” Vani hissed. “If the sorcerer perishes, Nim falls!”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Grace said, face ashen. “The Weirding is too weak. I can’t even see his thread from here, let alone break it.”

  Vani looked at Travis, her gold eyes imploring. “Please, you have to save her.”

  Travis opened his mouth, but he didn’t know what he would say, what he could possibly do. “Vani, I—”

  “Let me through,” Farr said, pushing past Travis and Vani.

  Vani gripped his arm. “What do you think you’re doing? If you try to approach, he’ll kill her.”

  Farr shook off her hand. He didn’t look at the T’gol. Instead, he turned his dark gaze on Grace. Travis saw her eyes go wide, then after a moment she nodded. She moved past Larad and Avhir.

  “Let’s go then,” Farr said, holding out one hand, the other tucked inside his robe.

  What did Farr think they were going to do? Before Travis could ask, Grace drew in a deep breath, then reached out and took Farr’s hand. The two of them turned around—

  —then ran forward, jumping off the ledge and vanishing into the impenetrable darkness below.

  Travis was so stunned that he could only stare into the void. For a moment he thought he glimpsed a flicker of silver-blue light, then all he saw was blackness.

  “Your Majesty!” Larad cried, rushing forward, and he would have gone over the edge himself if Vani hadn’t held him back.

  This wasn’t happening; Grace and Farr couldn’t have just leaped to their deaths. Only they had. Travis had seen them vanish into the endless dark below. A weakness came over him, a watery feeling, and his legs shook as if they were going to buckle. Avhir stood motionless at the place where Grace and the former Seeker had vanished. The sorcerer on the bridge had halted, his gold mask tilted at what seemed a quizzical angle, as if even he could not fathom what had just taken place. Then, before any of them could move, a strange thing happened.

  Nim laughed.

  The sorcerer’s grip on her had weakened, but he tightened his arm around her, stifling her mirth. Vani took a step onto the bridge, but the Scirathi raised the dagger, warning her back. She let out a low moan, a sound of both anguish and fury. Holding Nim, the sorcerer took another step along the bridge.

  A ball of silver light burst into being just behind him.

  The ball of light collapsed into a point, vanishing, and in its place, standing on the bridge, were two figures: a man in black robes and a woman with pale hair. Their appearance was so utterly unexpected that it took Travis a moment simply to recognize who they were.

  “By the Blood!” Vani said, staggering back a step.

  The two figures on the bridge were Grace and Hadrian Farr. They were no more than five steps from the sorcerer, with Farr the closest. Grace was fighting to keep her balance, but Farr was already moving, lunging for the Scirathi. The sorcerer whirled around, dagger flashing . . .

  Travis didn’t know whom the sorcerer was trying to stab— Nim or Farr—but Farr was faster, grabbing the sorcerer’s wrist and wrenching it hard. The dagger spun into the chasm, and the Scirathi lost his balance. His right foot slipped over the edge of the bridge, and he fell onto his right knee. Nim slipped halfway from his grasp and screamed. If he let go of her, she would tumble into the void.

  Only when he saw a dark blur moving along the bridge did Travis realize Vani was running. However, swift as she was, there wasn’t time to reach the Scirathi. Farr lunged again, reaching for Nim. The sorcerer twisted away. However, doing so caused him to lose what remained of his balance. The Scirathi tried to recover, but his foot snagged on his robe, and he tumbled off the bridge.

  Farr threw himself forward, onto his belly, arms flung outward. His fingers brushed against Nim’s golden robe. And latched on.

  Nim screamed again, a sound that echoed throughout the dome. The sorcerer was holding on to her legs. Their combined weight dragged at Farr, his body sliding across the bridge. Grace threw herself to her knees, gripping his ankles. However, she was only able to slow his progress toward the edge of the bridge, not stop it.

  “Nim!” Farr shouted. “The mask. Take his mask!”

  “Mother?” came Nim’s quavering voice.

  The sorcerer looked up, trying to paw his way farther up Nim’s legs to reach the edge of the bridge. There was a sound of cloth rending as Nim’s robe tore in Farr’s grip.

  Vani was halfway across the bridge. “Do as he says, daughter!”

  Hanging by the back of her robe, Nim reached down and pulled at the sorcerer’s mask. It was loose, and came away easily in her hands, revealing the scarred ruin of the sorcerer’s face.

  “Let go of me!” she shouted, and hit the sorcerer in the face with the mask.

  The Scirathi let out a cry of pain. His hands gave an involuntary spasm, then tried to regain their grip on Nim. Too late. Weakened, slicked with blood, the sorcerer’s fingers slipped free. His robe billowed out like black wings, and with a gurgling cry the Scirathi vanished into the chasm.

  “I can’t hold on!” Grace cried as Farr’s body started to slide over the edge. However, the dimness unfolded, and Vani was there; she pulled Farr up with one hand, hauling him to his feet.

  “Mother!” Nim cried, holding out her hands.

  “My daughter,” Vani said, taking the girl and holding her tight. Nim’s arms wrapped around her neck, and the girl, so brave a moment before, began to sob. Carefully, Vani, Grace, and Farr made their way back over the bridge to the others. A quick examination revealed that most of the blood on Nim was likely the sorcerer’s. There was a small cut on the girl’s arm, but it was already scabbed over.

  Vani held Nim tightly, her own face—usually so stoic— streaked with tears. “I promise no one will ever harm you again.”

  “I know,” the girl murmured, calm now, though her cheeks were still wet. She leaned
her head on Vani’s shoulder and turned her gray-gold eyes toward Travis.

  Travis started to reach toward Nim, then changed his motion and took Grace’s hand in his. “How?” he said simply.

  Grace held up her free hand. In it was a silver coin, a symbol engraved on each side. Even without looking closely, Travis knew what the two runes were; one was the rune Eldh, and the other was the rune Earth.

  “How did you get that?” he said, reaching into the pocket of his serafi. However, his fingers found the silver coin he always carried with him.

  “It’s Hadrian’s,” Grace said in answer to Travis’s confused look, handing the coin to Farr.

  Then Travis understood. Brother Cy must have given the silver coin to Farr before transporting him to Eldh, just as the strange preacher once gave the two halves of the coin Travis now carried to him and Grace. The coins were bound runes— ones of unusual power. They had the ability to return the bearer to his home world, to the place envisioned. When Farr and Grace leaped into the abyss, Farr must have used the coin to transport them to Earth as they fell. Then, just as quickly, Grace had used the coin to bring them back to Eldh, only this time on the bridge just behind the sorcerer. It was brilliant.

  And Farr had thought of it, not Travis. A strange, hollow feeling gnawed at his chest.

  “Magic is getting weaker,” Travis said, looking at Farr. “When you jumped, how did you know the coin would still work?”

  “I didn’t,” Farr said, the words crisp. “Though I had an idea it would. The Imsari still function, and the coins seem to be forged of a magic, if not so deep, then deep all the same. It was an educated guess.”

  Travis squeezed Grace’s hand. “That was incredibly foolish.” Despite the gnawing feeling in his chest, he smiled. “And incredibly brave.”

  “More the first one than the second,” she said. “I wasn’t sure Farr’s coin would work for me. But it did. I suppose because I had been granted one once.”

  Where did you go, Grace? Travis leaned in close to her. You were on Earth for a few seconds. Where were you?

  By the expression on her face she had heard his thoughts, but she looked away.

  Vani moved to Farr. She laid a hand on his arm; her gold eyes shone like moons. “I can never repay you.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t want payment. A simple thank you will suffice. For Grace as well as for me.”

  Vani nodded. “Will all my heart, I thank you both.” However, as she spoke, her eyes were fixed only on Farr.

  “So now what?” Larad said to Travis. “Do we leave, or will you enter the throne room?”

  His words shocked Travis. He had been so focused on getting to Morindu to retrieve Nim that he had not considered what might happen if they succeeded. Three thousand years ago, secrets of sorcery had been buried with Morindu. Now the city had been uncovered again. What might he find if he entered the throne room? What wondrous powers might he gain?

  None of that matters, Travis. You didn’t come to Morindu for magic, but to find Nim. Now you have, and only one thing is important—finding the Last Rune and binding the rifts in the sky. If it’s not too late.

  He opened his mouth to say this, but before he could Nim let out a gasp, her eyes widening into circles of fear.

  Vani gave Nim a worried look. “What is it, daughter?”

  “She’s here,” the girl whispered.

  “Who do you mean? Who’s here?”

  “The gold lady.”

  Nim pointed, and all of them turned around. On the far side of the bridge, a woman stepped from the triangular door in the side of the gilded tetrahedron. She appeared young—no more than twenty-five. A shift made of glittering beads dripped over the curves of her luscious body, and a red gem adorned her brow. Her hair and eyes were both black as onyx, and her skin was a deep, burnished gold.

  Avhir breathed an oath in an ancient tongue, and a sweat broke out on Travis’s skin, as if the temperature inside the dome had suddenly shot up.

  “It cannot be,” Vani said, her voice thick with awe. “Yet there is only one woman who could have entered there. Ti’an.”

  Farr gave her a piercing look. “Who is Ti’an?”

  “The wife of the god-king Orú,” Vani said.

  The gold-skinned woman sauntered toward them across the bridge.

  38.

  Thunder rattled the panes of the library’s windows as Deirdre shut the journal and leaned back in the chair. What time was it? How long had she spent reading and rereading the pages covered with Albrecht’s elegant handwriting? The day had seemed to grow darker as it went on, and the light of the tin lantern had receded to a flickering circle around the desk. By the cramp in her neck and the pounding between her temples, hours had passed. However, the gnawing in her gut was not from hunger.

  “It’s all a lie,” she murmured to the gloom.

  Everything she had been taught about the Seekers, everything she had believed in—the Motto, the Book and the Vow, the Nine Desiderata—all of it was an elaborate deception, perpetuated over centuries, and wrought so that the Seekers would diligently perform the work of the Philosophers without ever knowing—or even guessing at—the truth about their nature.

  We’re puppets, Deirdre. For four centuries they’ve been pulling our strings. We’ve been doing their work, helping them get closer to their magic elixir—a potion that will grant them true immortality. And now they’ve nearly got it.

  Anger rose in her, but it was drowned by a wave of sickness. To be betrayed in this way—it was like discovering the world was flat after all, and the sun was a hot coal no more than five hundred miles away. The lie had made so much more sense than the reality that had been revealed to her, yet much as she craved to go back to not knowing, it was impossible. She could not go back. Knowledge was a knife that cut deeply, and whose wounds never healed. The Philosophers were charlatans, nothing more.

  Except he was different than the others. Marius.

  Deirdre reached out a shaking hand and brushed the cover of the journal. She had read the final few lines so many times she did not need to turn to that page to see them; they were burned into her brain.

  Now you know what no other besides our own kind has ever known. Now you know the truth of the origin of the Philosophers.

  And now, I beg of you, help me bring about their end. . . .

  In over three centuries of existence, he had not forgiven the Philosophers for the way they had used him, had used Alis Faraday, and had used the half-fairy folk of Greenfellow’s Tavern. Only, by becoming one of the Philosophers, he had unwittingly bound himself to them, and had been unable to gain vengeance against them. Until now. He had led Deirdre there because he believed she could help him. But why her? And why now?

  Deirdre didn’t know. All she knew was that the Philosophers were no better than Duratek. No, they were worse. They used the tavern’s denizens, and when they were done with them, the Philosophers abandoned the folk of Greenfellow’s, rewarding them for their help and for their blood with poverty and suffering.

  She touched the silver ring on her hand, then brushed hot tears from her cheeks. There was so much in the journal to try to absorb and understand. The Philosophers were immortal—at least so long as they periodically returned to Crete and drank the blood of the Sleeping Ones. That the Sleeping Ones were one and the same with the seven sorcerer-priests of Orú, Deirdre had no doubt; it all fit too perfectly with what she had learned from Vani.

  Only now Deirdre could add to that story. The Seven of Orú had not perished with Morindu the Dark. Instead they had fled through a gate, traveling across the Void to the world Earth. They had come to Crete over three thousand years ago and made contact with the civilization there. Then they had sealed themselves in their sarcophagi beneath the palace of Knossos, falling into endless slumber just like Orú had, and there they had lain, forgotten. Until the Philosophers stumbled upon them over four centuries ago.

  But why had the Seven come to Earth? That was one questio
n the journal didn’t ask. Maybe because Marius didn’t know the answer. And maybe that was something the writing on the arch would reveal if they were ever able to translate all of it. She had to go back to London, to talk to Paul Jacoby, to see if he had been able to decipher any more of the—

  No. How could she return to the Charterhouse knowing what she did? The Seekers were a sham. The Philosophers didn’t seek to discover other worlds out of scholarly interest. All this time they had been searching for the world the Sleeping Ones came from, hoping to find a way to reach it, to discover what it was that had granted the Seven true, endless, perfect immortality— their Philosopher’s Stone. Now the Philosophers were terribly close. The world they sought was Eldh, and a gate had come to light. All the Philosophers had to do was use the blood of the Sleeping Ones to open the gate and . . .

  Deirdre went cold. The pieces clicked together in her brain with mechanical precision. She wanted to deny the result, only she couldn’t. The dying sorcerer in Beltan and Travis’s flat had said the Scirathi stole the stone arch from Crete for someone else, someone they had delivered it to.

  “It was the Philosophers,” she said to the gray air. “They hired the Scirathi and used them to retrieve the arch.”

  Once the earthquake uncovered the arch, they would have done anything to get it. They had probably been searching for it for centuries, trying to find the means by which the Sleeping Ones had traveled to Earth. Only now perihelion was approaching; the two worlds, Earth and Eldh, were drawing close. One way or another, the Philosophers were going to get what they desired; they were going to reach Eldh.

  Unless he gets his revenge on them first.

  Before Deirdre could consider what that meant, a chiming noise drifted through the door of the library: the unmistakable sound of a teaspoon stirring in a china cup. Had Eleanor returned with another thermos? She pushed herself up from the chair, walked to the door, and stepped into the manor’s front hall.