Only she did feel good. Whatever Grace had done to her, it had made her feel awake, alive. Her mind was a flawless crystal, reflecting everything around her in its facets. Across the room, Vani was helping Farr to his feet, while Travis had pulled himself up using one of the sarcophagi. When he fell, Master Larad had struck his head on one of the steps of the dais. Blood oozed from his scalp, and pain etched the scarred mosaic of his face. He clutched a small iron box in his hand.

“The Stone of Twilight!” the Runelord shouted.

Deirdre saw it. The gray-green orb had rolled across the floor and stopped a few feet from where Grace knelt, Nim clutched in her arms. Grace started to reach out a hand, then hesitated; from what Deirdre knew, it was perilous for anyone save a Runelord to touch a Stone.

“So much for your gate,” Travis said, stepping over a crack in the floor, eyes on the heap of rubble on the dais.

Phoebe flicked her veil over her shoulders. “The gate can be easily reassembled. The same will not be said for you once we are finished with you. Kill them for what they’ve done!”

The remaining Philosophers were untangling themselves from their robes. One of them gave the gold-eyed woman a startled look. “Are you serious, Phoebe? You mean do it ourselves?”

She glared at him. “For once in four centuries, stop being a worm, Arthur. Yes, I mean do it ourselves. Use your knife!”

From her gown, she pulled out the curved dagger she had used to draw blood from the Sleeping Ones. The men took out their own daggers. Arthur fumbled his, nearly dropping it. But others—like the bearded one, Gabriel—held their weapons firmly. Vani and Farr were the closest to the Philosophers. The T’golstarted to spring into motion.

Phoebe’s gold eyes flashed. Vani ceased moving in midair and toppled to the floor, rigid as a sculpture of black stone. Hadrian remained standing, but he was motionless as well, his eyes staring blindly. Travis gave the two a startled glance, then returned his gaze to Phoebe. He took a step back.

Deirdre, Grace’s voice sounded in her mind, what has she done to them?

It’s a spell, Deirdre spun the words back, surprised how easy it was to do so. It’s the same one she cast on Beltan. I don’t know how to break it.She thought about what she had learned from Grace. Though if all magic is gone except that closest to the source, then she must have drunk the blood of the Sleeping Ones recently. Otherwise, I don’t think she would have been able to cast the spell at all. Either way, she won’t be able to do it again for a while. It weakens her, and it takes time for her to recover.

What about the other Philosophers? Can they do the same?

Deirdre glanced at the gold-eyed men. Their eyes shifted between Travis and Phoebe.

I don’t think so. She directed the words toward Grace. If they could cast the same spell, they would have done it already. I don’t think they’re as strong as she is.

Or as strong as Marius had been, or his master before him. Either might have been the leader of the Philosophers. Only neither had wanted what the others craved—true, eternal immortality—and so it was Phoebe who had become their queen.

“Take him!” Phoebe said, pointing her dagger at Travis.

The men hesitated, then started forward, blades before them.

“ Dur!” Travis shouted.

However, magic was all but gone. Without the Imsari in hand, the rune was powerless. Travis cast a look at Larad. The Runelord fumbled with the box. But he was too far away to get the Stones to Travis, and too weary to speak runes himself. Both Deirdre and Grace were on the opposite side of the room. Neither could reach him in time, even if they had the power to stop five men. Except maybe they did.

Deirdre, help me. . . .

Grace had already come to the same conclusion. Travis edged past the motionless forms of Vani and Hadrian.

“Run, Father!” Nim cried, but he couldn’t. The Philosophers had him cornered against a column that supported the mezzanine above.

Deirdre shut her eyes, concentrating. I don’t know what to do, Grace.

I’ll show you how. Weave the threads, like this. . . .

Understanding flowed across the web of the Weirding. Of course—it was so simple. Deirdre grasped the silvery threads in imaginary hands, braiding them into knots.

Deirdre opened her eyes in time to see two of the Philosophers drop their knives and fall to the floor, limbs flopping against the marble like fish on dry land.

Phoebe shot Grace and Deirdre a poisonous look. Then she searched the floor with her gaze. She was looking for the gun she had dropped, Deirdre was sure of it. The remaining Philosophers closed in around Travis; his gray eyes flicked left and right, but he could not escape. The man Gabriel raised his dagger.

Again, Deirdre! Weave with me!

Deirdre reached out to grasp the shining threads—

—and her hands touched nothing. The shimmering web vanished.

“Nim!” a voice cried. “No!”

Deirdre opened her eyes. It was Grace who had shouted. She reached forward, trying to catch Nim, but she was too slow. The girl had wriggled free of her grasp and was running forward.

“Father needs the Stone,” the girl said. She crouched, the hem of her gold shift brushing the floor, and closed her fingers around Sinfathisar.

Deirdre held her breath, waiting for something terrible to happen, for green-gray energy to engulf Nim.

It didn’t. The girl stood, holding the stone. “Father!” She started to run across the room. Grace scrambled after her, and Deirdre followed, feeling so light that her boots hardly touched the floor.

“Now!” Phoebe said. “Do it!”

Hands reached out, gripping Travis, holding him tight. Gabriel’s knife flashed, descending. Nim screamed—

—and the room changed. The air rippled like the surface of a pond disturbed by a pebble. The domed room with the mezzanine and the ruined gate vanished, replaced by a space that Deirdre—from the thoughts and memories Grace had granted her—recognized as the throne room in Morindu the Dark. Deirdre and Grace halted. The Philosophers snapped their heads up. Phoebe stared at the mummified figure on the dais.

Nim screamed again, and another series of ripples radiated through the air. The throne room was gone. They were back in the domed chamber on Earth.

A roar sounded, reverberating off the dome. Something launched itself from the edge of the mezzanine, landing like a great cat behind Gabriel. Big hands grabbed the Philosopher by the scruff of the neck, hurling him back, away from Travis.

“Get away from him!” the blond man growled, his eyes flashing green. He moved stiffly, but he was still faster and stronger than the Philosophers. He grabbed another one of them— Arthur—and tossed him across the room. The Philosopher landed, wailing, not far from Phoebe’s feet. The other retreated.

“Beltan,” Travis said, his voice thick with wonder. He touched the blond man’s cheek.

“What’s happening, Travis?” Beltan said, confusion in his green eyes.

Before Travis could answer, Nim rushed toward them. “Father!” she called out. “And Father!”

Again the air wavered, blurred, resolved, and they were back in the throne room of Morindu. Then Deirdre blinked, and it was Earth again. The change kept recurring every few seconds. Morindu. London. Eldh. Earth. A sharp scent, like lightning, permeated the air.

“It’s perihelion,” Travis said, turning around in a slow circle. “It’s here. . . .”

As he spoke, waves of distortion rippled through the air— suddenly they were in Morindu again—and this time Deirdre saw from where the ripples radiated. It was Nim. The girl had stopped, still clutching the Stone, and was staring all around, mouth open. She was the center of the effect.