As Ba stepped forward with no hint of hesitation, Glaeken noticed Sylvia slip back into the far corner of the room holding her listless Jeffy by the hand. She must have been listening, must have heard Ba's name called. She watched intently as Ba took the hilt from Jack and slipped it down over the spike.

Again—nothing.

Glaeken ground his teeth and hid his frustration. Not Jack, not Ba. Who?

Without a word, Ba removed the hilt and turned to Bill.

"Me?" Bill said.

Ba held it out to him.

"But I can't…I mean, I'm not…"

"But perhaps you are," Glaeken told him. "In a way, you've been Rasalom's nemesis since his rebirth—since before his rebirth. Is there anyone alive today—besides me—who Rasalom hates more? Anyone Rasalom has tried to harm so dreadfully? Is there anyone else from this age who has actually harmed Rasalom? No. Only you, Bill."

Yes. It was Bill. It had to be Bill. He was perfect—a holy man's soul and a warrior's heart. Bill had drawn first blood and had withstood the death, misery, and horror of Rasalom's vicious campaign to break him.

They were made to face off against each other.

Although at the moment Bill looked anything but the fearless standard bearer.

"Yeah," Jack said, smiling tightly. "It's you, Bill. I should've seen it."

Carol was clutching Bill's arm, but she let go as he moved forward. She stood back with her eyes fixed on the hilt and both hands pressed tight against her face, covering her mouth.

Slowly, hesitantly, Bill reached out with trembling hands and took the hilt from Ba.

"It can't be me," he said.

Ba stepped aside, clearing the path to the blade.

Like a sleepwalker, Bill shuffled to the blade, fitted the tip of the spike into the opening—and paused. He looked around.

"It's not me," he said. "I know it's not." But his hoarse voice lacked conviction.

Bill didn't shove the hilt down, he merely let it fall upon the spike. Once again, Glaeken averted his eyes…

But nothing happened.

Bill stepped back from the instrument, his entire body trembling.

"I—I don't know whether to laugh or cry."

"Well, then, who is it?" Carol said in a high voice verging on anger. "It's got to be somebody!" She turned to Glaeken. "And who said it has to be a man?"

Glaeken had no answer for that, and Carol wasn't waiting for one anyway. She stepped forward, lifted the hilt, and rammed it back down.

Nothing.

"Don't tell me we went through all this for nothing!" she said. "It's gotto—"

She spotted the watcher at the far end of the room. "Sylvia! Sylvia, you try it. Please."

Sylvia wiped away a tear. "I don't…"

"Just come over and do it."

Leading Jeffy by the hand, Sylvia approached the instrument. She made eye contact with no one.

"This is a waste of time," she said.

The words proved too true. She released Jeffy, lifted the hilt, and rammed it home with no more effect than anyone before her.

How pathetic they are.

Rasalom has watched the members of Glaeken's circle stride up to the odd conglomeration of metals and spirit standing in the center of the room, each so full of hope and noble purpose, and watched each of them fail. He relishes the growing despair in the room, thickening and congealing until it is almost palpable.

And something else growing there…anger.

When their trite little totem fails, they will begin to turn on each other.

Luscious.

Glaeken watched Sylvia tug the hilt free of the spike and turn in a slow circle. This time she made eye contact—and her gaze was withering.

"This is it?" her voice bitter, brittle. "This is all we get? Alan loses his life, Jeffy sinks back into autism, all for what? For nothing?"

"Maybe it's Nick," Bill said.

"No," Sylvia said disdainfully. "It's not Nick."

"Maybe it wasn't refurbished right," Jack said. "Or like Glaeken said, maybe it's too late. Maybe the signal can't get through."

"Oh, it's too late all right," she said, continuing her slow turn. "Too late for Alan and Jeffy." Finally her turn brought her around to Glaeken. She stopped and glared at him. "But it's not too late for you, is it, Glaeken?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Yes, you do." She lifted the hilt higher, straining against its weight. "This is yours, isn't it?"

"It's predecessor was, before it was melted down and—"

"It's still yours, isn't it?"

Glaeken felt his mouth going dry. Sylvia was trespassing along a path he dearly wished her to avoid.

"Not anymore. Someone new must take it up now."

"But it wants you."

"No!" What was she saying? "I served my time—more than my time. Someone else—"

"But what if no one but Glaeken will do?"

"That's not possible."

She lifted the hilt still higher. Her expression was fierce.

"Try it. Just try it. Let's see what happens. Then we'll know for sure."

"You don't understand," Glaeken said. His arthritic lower back was shooting pain down his left leg so he eased himself into the straight-back chair against the wall directly behind him. "I served my time. You can't ask me to serve again. No one has that right. No one."

He saw Jack step closer to Sylvia. He kept his voice low but Glaeken made out the words.

"Chill, Sylvia. Look at him. He's all rusted up. Even if he's the one it wants, what can he do against all that's going on out there?"

Sylvia stared Glaeken's way a moment more, then shook her head.

"Maybe. But there's something else going on here. Something he's not telling us." She handed the hilt to Jack. "You figure it out."

She took Jeffy by the hand and led him from the room.

Jack glanced down at the gold and silver hilt in his hand, then looked at Bill.

"Only one other person left to try."

As they led Nick to the blade, wrapped his hands around the hilt, and guided it over the butt spike, Glaeken rose stiffly to his feet and walked down the hall to the rear of the apartment. He needed to be alone, away from the oppressive despair in the living room.

He stopped at Magda's bedroom and looked in. She was sleeping. That was all she seemed to do these days. Maybe that was a blessing. He took a seat at her bedside and held her hand.

Sylvia and the others didn't—couldn't—understand. He was tired. They didn't know how tired one could be after all this living. To have engineered one last victory, or merely to have launched a final battle against Rasalom would have been wonderful. He could have gone blissfully to his death then. But that was not to be. He would die in the darkness like everyone else.

No, he couldn't risk even going near the instrument. Who knew what the reaction might be? It might start everything over again, and once more he would be in the thrall of the ally power. Forever.

I've done my part. I've contributed more than my share. They cannot ask for more.

Someone else had to carry on the fight.

"Where's my Glen?"

Startled by the words, spoken in Hungarian, Glaeken looked down and saw that Magda was awake, staring at him. Their litany was about to begin. Her memories were mired in the Second World War, when they both had been young and fresh and newly in love.

"I'm right here, Magda."

She pulled her hand away. "No. You're not him. You're old. My Glen is young and strong!"

"But I've grown old, my dear, like you."

"You're not him!" she said, her voice rising. "Glen is out there in the darkness fighting the Enemy."

The darkness. Some part of her jumbled mind was aware of the horrors outside, and knew Rasalom was involved.

"No, he isn't. He's right here beside you."

"No! Not my Glen! He's out there! He'd never let the Enemy win! Never! Now get away from me, you old fool! Away!"