Her mind grew clear, crystallizing around a single purpose. She leaped to her feet. “Stay with him, Beltan!”

Without waiting for an answer, she dashed across the hall, into the foyer, and out the front door. Rain pelted her as she skidded down the stone steps and ran down the gravel drive. She saw a small form crumpled on the ground. Eustace. He had brought her the photo of Anders; he had been working with Sasha. Now he was dead.

“Hold on, Anders,” she said through clenched teeth as she pushed open the door of the carriage house. “Please, you’ve got to hold on.”

She grabbed the phone from the wall, dialed, then forced herself to speak in a clear voice. Once she was finished, she hung up. For a moment she shut her eyes, gripping her bear claw necklace, murmuring a prayer for the dead as well as the living.

Then she went outside and stood in the cold rain until she heard the distant sounds of sirens.

40.

Travis watched, transfixed, as the golden woman walked toward them over the slender span of the bridge. He was aware of the others speaking and moving behind him, but only dimly. To his eyes, the woman shone like a sun. Beneath his serafi, sweat trickled down his sides, over the flat of his stomach.

A pale moon eclipsed the sun, blocking it from sight. Hot anger surged in him. . . .

“. . . to go, Travis!”

Anger melted into confusion, and the moon resolved into a familiar face. “Grace?”

She gripped his arm, her green eyes bright. “Now, Travis— come on. Farr says we can’t let her get close.”

Her touch seemed to break the torpor that had come over him. Travis grabbed her hand, and together they ran from the bridge, catching up with the others at the arch that led back into the hall of statues.

“She did that,” Nim said, pointing to the crumpled body of a sorcerer at the top of the stone steps. “The gold lady. She’ll do it to us, too.” She buried her face against Vani’s shoulder.

“No, daughter, no harm will come to us,” Vani said, hugging the girl tight. However, her gaze was not as confident as her voice. “Never did I think Ti’an might still remain in Morindu. I always believed she died soon after her marriage to Orú. After she became his bride, the stories of my people do not speak of her.”

“But the stories of the dervishes do,” Farr said, wiping sweat from his brow. “From what I’ve learned, she was her husband’s guardian. She drank of his blood, becoming immortal just like the Fateless. It was said she would destroy any besides the Seven who attempted to draw near the throne room. We must not let her draw close to us.”

Travis glanced over his shoulder. Ti’an had reached the end of the bridge. Her beaded garment swayed and glittered as she moved, and the ruby in the center of her forehead gleamed like a third eye. She did not run, but rather walked slowly, her feet bare against the stone floor. Travis met her onyx gaze, and once again he felt heat rise within him. . . .

A hard jerk on his arm brought him back to himself. He turned and stumbled after Grace down the long flight of steps, past the dismembered corpses of the Scirathi. At least now they knew what—or rather who—had slain the Scirathi. But how? Surely, if Ti’an were close, she would not stand taller than Grace’s shoulder. How had one tiny woman torn apart a small army of sorcerers?

They reached the bottom of the steps. The hall stretched before them, the gigantic statues of spider-eyed women and falcon-beaked men standing sentinel on either side. At the far end, the crack in the door through which they had slipped glowed white hot. It seemed terribly far away. Grace ran toward it, and Travis followed.

“Avhir, stop!” cried a sharp voice. It was Vani.

Travis halted, turning around. Avhir was walking up the steps they had all just descended, back toward the arch that led into the dome. The T’golwas more than halfway to the top, moving slowly, mechanically, without his usual sleek stealth.

Vani took a step toward the arch, Nim in her arms. “Avhir, what are you doing? Get back here now!”

However, the T’golseemed not to hear her and kept climbing. A golden figure appeared at the top of the stairs. She raised a delicate hand, making a beckoning gesture. Avhir obeyed, moving toward her. Only a few steps remained. . . .

Larad fumbled in his robes as if to draw out the box with the Imsari. “We have to stop him.”

“It’s too late,” Farr said.

Avhir reached the final step. Ti’an’s onyx eyes flashed, and her arms reached up, coiling around his neck, drawing his face down as her own tilted upward. Their lips touched in a kiss.

The T’gol’s body went rigid, as if a spike had been driven through him, and his arms shot out to either side. He struggled, trying to pull away, but Ti’an’s small hands clamped on either side of his head, holding him in place so that their mouths remained locked. Like cracks in sun-baked mud, black lines snaked up Avhir’s neck, over his face and hands.

It happened in a moment. Avhir gave a single jerk, then his skin changed from bronze to gray. His cheeks sank inward, and his hands curled into claws. He no longer struggled, but stood stiff and still as Ti’an continued her kiss. Her golden skin seemed to glow brighter, as if burnished with oil.

Then it was done. She released Avhir, stepping away. He toppled over, rolling down the steps, coming to a halt at Vani’s feet. The T’gol’s withered face gazed blindly, eyes like gray raisins in their sockets. Inside his black leathers, his body was a shriveled husk.

“I think we had best consider leaving,” Larad said, his voice hoarse. “Now.”

Travis managed to tear his gaze away from the mummy that moments ago had been Avhir. Ti’an was slowly, steadily descending the steps. Her skin shone so brightly it was painful to look at her, though all the same Travis now found it hard to look away. She had drawn Avhir’s blood, his life into her. And now she was going to do the same to them.

Nim screamed. The sound helped Travis to tear his gaze away from Ti’an. Vani clutched the girl and started running. Travis followed along with the others. However, they had only gone a dozen steps when he heard a groaning sound.

He risked a glance over his shoulder. Ti’an stood at the base of the steps, her arms raised before her, palms outward. The ruby on her brow shone as if on fire.

“Oh,” he heard Grace say as she and the others came to a halt.

Why had they stopped? Then Travis turned around, and he understood. At the far end of the hall, the two statues closest to the doorway were moving. Sand fell from their shoulders as they stepped from their pedestals; the stone floor cracked under the pressure of their feet.

Farr was closest to them. The statue of the spider-eyed woman towered over him, twenty feet tall. Red light flashed in its multifaceted eyes as it brought a fist whistling down toward his head.

The dervish dived at the last minute, rolling to one side. The statue’s fist crashed into the floor with a sound like thunder, creating a gaping pit three feet across. The figure of the falcon-beaked man lumbered forward, swifter than seemed possible for such an enormous thing, and Farr was forced to roll to one side as a stone foot kicked at him. He jumped to his feet and tried to lunge toward the crack in the door, but both statues stepped in front of it, blocking the line of white light. Farr backed away.

“If anyone has any ideas how else to get out of here,” Grace said, her face pale, “now would be the time to speak up.”

However, the only other way out of the hall was the arch that led back to the dome. And that would mean going past Ti’an. She was walking toward them now, the ruby on her brow blazing.

“We’ve got to get past those statues,” Farr said.