“ Urath!”

There was a clap of thunder and a blinding flash. When his vision cleared he saw that the doorway remained closed. He clenched the stones, his knuckles whitening. “ Urath!” he shouted again, and a hundred voices chanted in his mind, a chorus of all the Runelords that had gone before him. Again thunder rent the air. The ground trembled.

Travis opened his eyes. The doorway was still blocked.

It was no use. He had felt the power of his runespell roll outward like a wave—then part around the tower, flowing to either side of it, repelled by the slick onyx walls.

“I can’t do it,” he said, giving the Stones back to Larad.

“Perhaps not with northern magic,” Avhir said, his bronze gaze on Travis. “But what about sorcery? Does not the blood of Orú himself run in your veins?”

“He can try,” Farr said, his face covered with sweat and sand. “But it’s no use. If blood sorcery still worked as it should, the Scirathi would have left a trap for us. Only it doesn’t. The morndariwill not come. Or perhaps they cannot come. Whatever has weakened magic prevents them from responding to our calls. There is . . . there is no hope.”

They all gazed at one another, faces ashen, eyes dull. The heat was punishing now, even in the shadow of the spire. Grace could not maintain her spell for long. She and Larad and Farr would perish. Nor could the T’golsurvive in these conditions, and while the heat did not affect Travis, even he needed water. They would all die.

Grace touched his arm. “You tried, Travis. I think . . . I think in the end that counts for something. It has to.”

Travis bowed his head, his brow touching hers. He wanted to weep, only he couldn’t. It felt as if there was a darkness in him, a rift like that in the sky, growing, consuming him from the inside out. He had failed to save Nim from the sorcerers. What would Beltan think of him? Travis didn’t know, but he did know one thing: Grace was wrong. Trying didn’t count, not for anything. In the end, trying and failing was no different than doing nothing at all. The darkness ate at his heart, his spirit. In a moment all would be gone. He would feel nothing. . . .

No. That wasn’t right. Travis resisted the darkness. He wouldfeel something. And if not sorrow, then something else.

Grace gasped, pushing away from him. “Travis—you’re hot.”

He held out his arms and saw shimmering waves radiating from his skin. Fire surged through his veins, burning away the darkness inside him, fueled by a new power: rage. The Scirathi had taken Vani’s daughter. Beltan’s daughter. Hisdaughter.

With a cry, Travis turned and flung himself against the wall of the tower, beating at it with bare fists. He felt a strange resistance each time his fist approached the stone, as if his hands were moving through some viscous fluid. However, he gritted his teeth and was able to punch through it, his blows landing against the tower. His fists glanced off without effect, but he didn’t care. Again he struck the onyx wall, again, again. Distantly, he felt pain in his hands, and wetness.

“Stop, Travis!”

It was Vani, her words sharp, but Travis hardly heard her. Fury boiled in his head, burning away thought and reason. He wanted only to beat down the tower with his bare hands, or to die trying.

“He’s hurting himself. Avhir, help me!”

Strong hands gripped Travis, pulling him away. He howled at them, snarled like a wild animal, trying to break free.

Travis, please.

The words were cool as bells in his mind. He went limp in the arms of the T’gol, the rage pouring out of him, leaving him empty, consumed. His hands hurt; they were smeared with blood. He gazed up, into Grace’s green-gold eyes. I’m sorry, he wanted to say.

The words were drowned out by a groan from beneath their feet.

Vani and Avhir let go of Travis, whirling around, hands raised, eyes searching.

“What was that?” Larad said.

Farr pointed at the black wall of the spire. “Look.”

Blood dripped down the wall where Travis had flailed against the stones. Then, with a wisp of steam, the fluid vanished, as if drunk in by the dark stones. The ground lurched. Grace stumbled against Travis, and both would have fallen if Vani had not held them upright.

Larad let out a breath. “By all the gods.”

It took Travis a long moment to understand what was happening. A gap had appeared between the wall of the tower and the ground. Even as he watched, sand poured into the gap and it widened, reaching a foot from the tower. Two feet. Three. The ground shook again. Then, at the same instant as the others, he understood.

“Run!” Vani shouted. “Away from the spire. Now!”

The tower began to thrust upward from the ground, and the sand bulged beneath their feet, as if a great bubble was forming deep beneath them. Vani pulled Travis into a run. Avhir was pushing Grace and Larad, and Farr careened after them. The flat surface of the plain became a steep slope, rising behind them and falling away before them.

Travis glanced over his shoulder and saw the black spire soaring toward the sky. He caught other shapes as well—more spires, and onyx domes—then Vani jerked his arm.

“Don’t look back. Keep running!”

He could hardly hear her over the rumbling. A hot, metallic odor permeated the air. They were sliding now more than running, skidding down the slope on their heels. Sand began to sheet past them in waves, carrying them along with it. If he went down, Travis knew he would be buried in a heartbeat.

Just before them and to the left was a flat expanse of gray, wind-scoured stone, like an island in the sea of sand. The slab looked natural, not man-made. Vani veered toward it, pulling him along; they were nearly there. Then Travis felt his feet go out from under him. He fell and rolled down the slope, sand pouring over him, filling his mouth so he couldn’t scream. Not again. . . .

A strong hand caught him, hauling him forward, and he rolled onto something hard. He groped and felt rock beneath him.

“Look!” a voice shouted. It was Farr.

Travis struggled to his feet. He stood on the expanse of rough rock; the others were there as well. However, the surface was no longer level with the desert floor. Instead, they were on top of a pinnacle. The ground had fallen away to either side, and a torrent of sand rushed around the pinnacle. Before them loomed a dark mountain. Travis craned his neck, looking up. Sand poured like gold waterfalls between lofty spires and broad domes, tumbling down past sheer walls of onyx stone. Then he drew in a breath, and a feeling of awe came over him.

It wasn’t a mountain. It was a city.

The sound of thunder rolled away across the desert. The torrent of sand flowing to either side of the rock pinnacle ebbed, then ceased. Black domes and spires no longer thrust upward, but stood still and stark against the yellow sky. A few streams of sand trickled from the walls, then even they dwindled and were gone.

Travis stared at the onyx city, unable to move or speak. Over three thousand years ago, the sorcerers of Morindu had chosen to destroy their home rather than let it be taken. With a bloodspell of terrible power, they had buried Morindu deep beneath the sands of the desert. Now, the touch of his own blood had reversed that spell, awakening the city again.

Just like Travis, Morindu had died beneath the sands of the Morgolthi. And had been resurrected.

“Your blood,” Grace murmured. She took one of his hands in hers; his scraped knuckles were crusted with sand. “Your blood did this, Travis.”

No, not his blood. It was the blood of Orú that flowed in his veins. The city had known the blood of its god-king. And it had answered.

Vani stepped to the edge of the pinnacle, her black leathers dusted with sand. “This is why the Scirathi feared you, Travis, why they wanted to kill you. They knew you could command the city. They knew you were fated to raise Morindu from the sands of the Morgolthi, just as the Mournish knew. And now you have.” She turned to look at him, her gold eyes shining.