“Why not call them by name?” asked Hennea.

“Do you know this story?”

“No.” But Hennea frowned and rubbed her forehead as if she were trying to recall something.

“I’ve never heard of the Weaver,” said Seraph. “Only the Stalker.”

“Names have power.” The Scholar’s voice was as polite and even as his small smile. Seraph was finding that the Scholar’s expression, which had first been almost welcoming, was starting to make her uncomfortable.

He continued in that same quiet voice. “To speak the names of the twins is to call their attention to you, and it should not be done lightly.”

When neither Seraph nor Hennea commented, he continued. “The Weaver held the power of creation. Whenever he spoke a word or had a thought, he created. The Stalker held the keys of destruction. Whatsoever the Weaver created, the Stalker numbered its days so the Weaver’s creations did not grow to such an extent that the All of Being was made to Nothingness.”

“I remember that,” said Hennea. Her hands were on her temples as if they ached. “I remember that. If creation was given no limit, ultimately everything would cease to exist.”

The Scholar’s focus on Hennea was starting to bother Seraph. Though his expression never changed, his body leaned toward her, just a little. Seraph could see no magic passing from him to Hennea, but she watched him closely.

“One day the Stalker was walking when he came upon a woman washing her clothes. She was more beautiful to him than any other thing his brother had ever made, and so he took her to wife.

“While he had her the Stalker was the happiest of men, but, since she was his brother’s creation, her days were numbered from her birth. When she was an old, old woman, the Stalker went to his brother and pleaded that the Weaver would break the power of destruction, the Stalker’s own magic, that she might not die.

“But this was something the Weaver could not do. If he broke this power, then he would destroy them both. Because for the All that Is to exist, the power of creation can never overwhelm destruction.

“Since the Weaver had not saved her, his most perfect creation, the Stalker vowed that all of the Weaver’s creations would be destroyed. But he stayed his hand while his wife yet lived, because he could not stand to lose her one moment before he had to.

“As she lay dying, his wife gave her husband a drink the Weaver had prepared, and the Stalker fell asleep as the last breath left her mouth.”

It was a romantic story, but the Scholar told it the same dry fashion Jes had used to recite his lessons—perhaps with even a shade less enthusiasm.

“The Weaver knew that without his brother, his powers would also destroy the All of Being, so he drank the same potion the Stalker had drunk. They slept, the Weaver and the Stalker. And while they slept, the Weaver dreamed a weaving to cover them both and protect his creations from them when they next awoke.”

The Scholar quit speaking.

“That doesn’t sound like the end of the story,” Seraph said.

“The story of the Weaver and the Stalker will not end until the All of Being ends,” said the Scholar. “And at that time there will be no one to tell its end.”

Hennea sighed and started to say something but was stopped by noise from the stairway.

Gura was the first to reach them, whining and wagging his tail and trying to wriggle his way onto Seraph’s lap. Since he outweighed her by a couple of stones she was hard put to save herself until Tier hauled him off by his collar.

“Gura, down,” he said, and the dog dropped to the floor and looked repentant for a moment. Seraph sat up and rubbed his side with the toe of her boot, and he wagged his tail cheerfully.

Jes had come with Tier, and the Guardian was staring at the Scholar, who had not changed his expression—or his focus on Hennea.

“Where are the others?” she asked.

“I left them cooking steaks at camp. Since we’ll be here a while, Lehr brought down a buck. Jes and I came to get you for dinner.” Tier glanced at the illusion, then he looked again, frowning. “Your friend is welcome to come with us.”

“Thank you,” said the Scholar, turning toward Tier as if he’d just noticed him. “But I do not need to eat, and I may not leave the library.” He paused. “It is good that you stay outside of the city. The dead walk the streets at night.”

“It’s an illusion,” Hennea told Tier. “One of Hinnum’s.”

“It told us a story,” said Seraph. “I think you ought to hear it. Scholar, would you tell the story of the Weaver and the Stalker?”

“Of course.”

When the Scholar finished, Tier rubbed his jaw, and said, “So the Stalker wasn’t something created by the wizards here?”

“No,” said the Scholar.

“The stories are wrong,” Seraph said.

“So why did the wizards leave?” Tier asked Seraph. “Why freeze the city this way? Why is the library the only thing that isn’t frozen in time?”

“There was nothing here for them. It was part of the price for what they had done. They could not bear to lose the library forever.”

Hennea frowned. “If they didn’t create the Stalker, what had they done?”

For the first time, the smile fell from the illusion’s face and left something very old peering out of the young eyes. “They killed the gods,” he whispered; and then he was gone as if he’d never been.

The Guardian growled.

Back at camp, Tier told the story of the Stalker to the others, as they cooked venison over the fire. As far as Seraph could tell, he used the same words the Scholar had twice used.

“I thought the Stalker was supposed to be evil,” said the Emperor, feeding the last of his fire-roasted meat to Gura, who accepted it with more politeness than enthusiasm. The dog had discovered during their trip that Phoran and his guards were not as hardened to pleading eyes as his usual family and had been making use of this new power throughout supper.

“That’s what the stories I’ve always heard say,” agreed Seraph.

“So it isn’t the Stalker that caused the fall of the Elder Wizards?” Lehr leaned back on his elbows and stared thoughtfully at the fire.

“Ellevanal told me the Travelers killed their gods and ate them.” Seraph braced her elbows on her knees and leaned her chin on her hands. “My father just told me there were no gods, but Hennea—and the Scholar—say the gods are dead.”

“I don’t know where I heard it,” said Hennea, and Jes rubbed her shoulder gently.

Hennea had been quiet since they left the library, but then, being a Raven, that wasn’t unusual for her. Seraph would have dismissed her suspicions that Hennea was upset about something, except Jes had been fussing over her.

“The Shadowed is evil,” said Lehr with conviction. “He killed a whole town, a town larger than Redern. He killed Benroln, Brewydd, and all of Rongier’s clan. He taught the wizards of the Path how to steal Orders.”

“The Shadowed is evil,” agreed Seraph.

Phoran cleared his throat, and Seraph turned to look at him. He glanced once at the setting sun, then said, “I ought to mention that the Memory came last night. I asked him if he knew who the Shadowed was, but he didn’t. I wonder if you have a question you would like me to ask him tonight?”

“I do,” said Seraph, before anyone else could say anything. “I’d like to know the details of the second part of the spell that steals the Orders to tie them to the gems.”

That night, when the Memory beckoned Phoran, Seraph went with him. She made everyone else stay back in camp.

“If it was willing to come out with everyone here, it wouldn’t force Phoran to come to it,” she said, staring first at Jes, then at Toarsen and Kissel. “I will see to it that Phoran comes to no harm—and he will do the same for me.”

“Now mind you,” she told Phoran as they tromped up to the little rise he’d gone to the night before “Jes is going to follow us anyway. There’s nothing I can do about that—but he’ll stay out of my sight, and hopefully not interfere with the Memory.”