"Earl!"

"I'm all right." Dumarest felt his shoulder, his fingers red when he lifted them from the shallow wound. "See to Pacula."

She rose as Marek reached her, her temple marred by an ugly bruise, her hands reaching toward the girl.

"Culpea! My child!"

"Shell be all right," said Marek. "We'll see to that, Pacula. If you will let me?"

The way of life, need meeting need, each recognizing the emptiness of the other, each ready to fill it, both to take care of the girl.

With time she would be herself again and more. New eyes could be grown from cell tissue to replace those deliberately blinded by the Schell-Peng in order to concentrate her mind on her talent.

"Earl?" Timus Omilcar looked at the dead man, the gleaming bulk of the city. "I suppose there's nothing more we can do here?"

"Nothing. Get back to the ship now. We leave as soon as the girl has rested."

Up and back through the Cloud, the ship sold and the money divided. Timus to go his own way, the others to return to Teralde, perhaps, the security of land and family, himself to move on.

Stooping, Dumarest jerked free his knife. Sufan Noyoka was dead and with him had died the immediate danger of the Cyclan. Had he known the value of the stranger he had carried? Dumarest thought it possible, but he could never have realized his true worth. More even than the fabled treasures of Balhadorha.

He looked for the last time at the city. It lay like a gem in the cupped palm of the hills, a cathedral or a tomb? Had those who built it lived to worship the mist? Had they, finally, succumbed to its attraction? Or had it been nothing more than an elaborate prison? A housing for paradise?

Dumarest turned and headed toward the ship. The city held nothing but illusion, and Earth, the real Earth, had yet to be found.