She was the nexus.

Something shimmered in Deirdre’s subconscious, some understanding that had lain too deep for her to reach. Only now her mind was so clear she could almost see it. . . .

“Great Hermes!” a man’s voice shouted.

Deirdre shook her head, clearing her vision. Not far from her, Grace gasped. In each of the sarcophagi, a gold-skinned figure sat upright. Their eyes were open, and they were not gold, but rather black as onyx. In slow, perfect unison, the Seven climbed from their sarcophagi.

Nim let out a soft cry, and the air rippled again. The domed building on Earth now. The girl reached up, but her fingers could not grasp the Stone of Twilight. It had plucked itself from her hands, and it hovered in midair above her.

The iron box in Larad’s hands gave a jerk. He fumbled with the lid and opened it. The other two Stones shot out, white-blue and crimson, rising into the air, and drifting toward Sinfathisar.

The knowledge that Grace had imparted to Deirdre melded with her own experiences, and the result was a new amalgam of understanding. Yes—that was why the two worlds had been drawing closer and closer over the centuries; that was why perihelion was destined to come.

It was the Imsari and the Sleeping Ones. Their purpose was to be joined together, to heal the imbalance in the universes, and for eons they had pulled at one another, bringing the two worlds they resided on closer and closer together.

Now, at last, perihelion was upon them. The Seven approached the center of the chamber, where the three Stones bobbed. Their golden faces were ageless and serene as death masks from the tomb of an Egyptian pharaoh.

“Stop them!” Phoebe called, voice rising into a shriek. “Their blood is ours!”

But the other Philosophers retreated, letting the Seven pass by. The air rippled, and they were on Morindu. More ripples, and it was London again. Still the effect was centered on Nim. The Stones hovered just above her. The girl was gazing all around. Travis started toward her, but Phoebe sprang in front of him, brandishing her knife.

“It’s the child, isn’t it? She’s doing this. She’s making everything . . . change.”

Travis tried to pass her, but she thrust with the dagger, and he was forced to leap back. As he did, the talisman he wore around his neck slipped from his serafi. The piece of white bone caught Deirdre’s eye. It was marked with three parallel lines.

Three lines . . .

A humming tone sounded in Deirdre’s mind, like the vibration of a quartz crystal. She knew. She knew what the catalyst was.

I understand, Marius. I understand the song. It’s about endings, and beginnings, too, and how sometimes they can be the same thing. It’s about how, no matter what happens, when all is said and done, there’s always still possibility. After fire and wonder, we end where we began. . . .

Again Deirdre glanced at the talisman Travis wore. The lines were etched in parallel onto the piece of bone. However, they could just have easily been connected end to end, in the shape of a triangle, like the symbol Grace and Travis had seen on the wall of the throne room. Years ago, Travis had told Deirdre the name of the rune carved on the talisman.

It was Nim.

Hope.

The Seven golden figures closed in on the girl. The three Stones still hovered above her.

“It’s Nim!” Deirdre called out. “She’s the catalyst.”

She felt Beltan’s and Travis’s startled gazes on her. Beltan tried to swipe the dagger from Phoebe’s hand, but he still moved stiffly, and she was nimbler than the other Philosophers. She darted past him, then grabbed Nim, holding the dagger above the girl.

“Stop!”

The Sleeping Ones seemed to understand her. They ceased moving a few steps from Nim, their faces still serene, expressionless. Travis and Beltan lunged forward, but Phoebe glared at them.

She did not have the power to cast her spell, not fully, but there was still some malice in her gaze. Both Travis and Beltan staggered back, and Deirdre knew a chill like that in her own arm had touched them. However, in the time it took Phoebe to work her magic, Grace had closed the distance. She reached for the dagger.

Deirdre didn’t will herself to run forward. Instead, she seemed to float over the floor. She was so light, so empty, like a bauble of spun glass. The air continued to ripple, so quickly now that with each blink of the eye the world seemed to change. London. Morindu. Again, and again, until the two blurred together, becoming one. . . .

Phoebe slashed with the dagger. A line of red appeared on Grace’s arm. Grace staggered back, outside the circle of the Seven. Phoebe’s lips curled in a smile. Nim gazed up, her face a white oval. The dagger flashed, then sank deep into flesh.

“Oh,” Deirdre said softly.

Phoebe stepped back, a look of annoyance on her face. Nim’s cheeks were streaked with tears, but she made no sound. Deirdre smiled down at the girl, to tell her not to cry. Then she saw it: The hilt of the dagger jutted from Deirdre’s stomach. Nim hesitated, then reached out and touched Deirdre’s hand.

Deirdre saw it at once: the shimmering web of the Weirding. She could see—no, could feel—Travis and Beltan staring, shock on their faces. Not far away, Larad was regaining his feet. And Hadrian and Vani, though still in stasis, were unhurt.

I wish I could talk to you Hadrian. You finally did it—you had a Class Zero Encounter.

But so had she, Deirdre supposed. The room around them was still a blur, changing so quickly that it was both London and Morindu, both Earth and Eldh, at once.

Oh, Deirdre, Grace’s voice sounded in her mind, trembling with sorrow.

I see, Grace.A feeling of exhilaration filled Deirdre. The Stones hovered before her. The Seven golden figures stepped forward. I see everything.

Grace’s voice hummed over the shimmering threads. You would have made a good witch, Deirdre.

Thank you, Deirdre wanted to say.

Only then the Seven took another step, closing the circle. She was aware of Phoebe trying to push them back, to break the circle, but Grace stuck out a foot, tripping her, and Phoebe went down, her black veil tangling around her.

Nim tried to pull her hand free, but Deirdre held her tight. Don’t be afraid, she tried to murmur. The catalyst doesn’t change. That’s what Sister Mirrim told Hadrian.

She didn’t know if she spoke, or if she sent the words along the Weirding, but either way Nim stopped struggling and stood still. The Seven reached out gold hands, laying them against the girl. The three Stones descended, alighting on Nim’s outstretched hands.

The melded vision of Earth and Eldh vanished, replaced by darkness—pure, flawless darkness, stretching into eternity. It was like the primordial vacuum, the empty space that constantly spawned pairs of virtual particles. It was the nothingness in whose very emptiness lay coiled the potential for everything. It was the silence before the word, the slumber before the dream.

It was hope.

With her last thought, Deirdre Falling Hawk sent everything she saw, everything she sensed and understood, in a pulse along the Weirding, toward the green-gold strand she knew belonged to Grace.

It’s so beautiful!

Then she gazed into ancient black eyes, and the nothingness that had brought her into being claimed her once again.

48.

Travis was cold. So terribly cold.

He was a planet, spinning alone out in space. The sun he had been bound to had vanished. Its light and life-giving warmth were gone, and there was nothing to hold him down, nothing to keep him from spinning off into the dark, endless Void alone. . . .