Near the end of the War of the Sorcerers, a great army led by the sorcerers of Scirath had marched toward the city. Rather than fall to its foes and let its secrets be plundered, Morindu had chosen to destroy itself. When the army arrived, they found only empty desert.

Soon after that, the War of the Sorcerers ended in a violent cataclysm that destroyed the city-states and blasted all of Amún, transforming it into a wasteland. What few people survived fled north to the shores of the Summer Sea, to begin civilization anew in Al-Amún. Eventually, some of the Morindai found their way across the sea, to the northern continent of Falengarth, and there became a wandering folk known as the Mournish. These were Vani’s people. However, Vani was no mere gypsy. Deirdre knew the T’golcould trace her lineage all the way back to the royal line of Morindu the Dark.

“All right,” Beltan said around a mouthful of popcorn. “If the Mournish don’t know what’s buried in Morindu, then tell me this: What do the Scirathi thinkis buried there? What are they so eager to get their paws on?”

Vani rested her hands on her hips. “Many things, I imagine. Books of spells. Artifacts of power. Treasures of gold and gems. Or perhaps—”

“Blood,” Travis said. “They want blood.”

Deirdre shivered. At one time Travis had possessed an artifact shaped like a gold spider, a living jewel called a scarab. The scarab had contained three drops of blood taken from the god-king Orú. With it, Travis had been able to activate the gate artifact, opening a crackling doorway to Eldh.

“You think they want blood of power,” Deirdre said. “Blood from the god-king Orú.”

Travis shook his head. “No. I think they want Orú himself.” He turned his gaze on Vani. “He’s still there, isn’t he? The Seven stayed with him to the end, and they buried him with the city.”

Vani knelt on the floor. Beltan gave her a suspicious look and edged the bowl of popcorn out of her reach.

“We suppose he is still there,” the T’golsaid. “But we do not know.”

“You mean his body,” Deirdre said. “It’s been three thousand years. It’s not like Orú can still be alive.”

Vani shrugged. “Who is to say what can and cannot be? It is said Orú was five hundred years old at the time Morindu was destroyed. He was the most powerful sorcerer ever known. So powerful that Fate itself tangled around him, its strands unraveling, so that only the Seven A’naraicould stand in his presence. Yet in time that power consumed him. He fell into a deep slumber, and so it was that the Fateless Ones drank of his blood, becoming sorcerers of dreadful might themselves, and ruled in his name.”

“Okay,” Deirdre said, hoping logic might make all of this seem less terrifying. “Let’s pretend for a moment Orú is somehow still alive, buried beneath the desert. What would happen if the Scirathi found him?”

“That must not be allowed to happen!” Vani said, her eyes flashing. “With Orú’s blood, there is no limit to the evils the Scirathi might work. I have no doubt that they would first hunt my people, slaying the Morindai down to the last man, woman, and child.” Vani stood, pacing again. “But that would only be the beginning. With Orú’s blood at their command, they might enslave all of Moringarth—all of Eldh. They would dominate its people with all the hatred, all the cruelty, they have fostered in their hearts all these ages. Nothing could stand before them. That is what the Seven understood. That was why they destroyed their own city.”

Travis cleared his throat. “The way you describe them, the Scirathi make the Pale King sound like a chap who just wanted to come out of his kingdom and play.”

Vani raised an eyebrow. “Compared to what the Scirathi might become, he was.”

“Wait just a minute,” Beltan said, a handful of popcorn halfway to his mouth. “Weren’t all of the Scirathi killed when the demon destroyed the Etherion in Tarras?”

“All of the Scirathi in Falengarth, yes,” Vani said. “But far more yet dwell on Moringarth. If each of them was to drink of the blood of Orú, they would become an army such as you cannot imagine.”

“She’s right,” Travis said, slipping from the sofa to the floor and sitting across the coffee table from Beltan. “Remember what happened to Xemeth after he drank from the scarab? He would have destroyed us if it hadn’t been for the demon. And he was only one man, and not even a sorcerer at that. The blood made him . . .”

Travis gripped his right hand inside the left, and Beltan gave him a look of concern. Deirdre wondered what he had been about to say.

“All right,” she said, trying to get all of this straight in her mind. “I understand that Orú’s blood is powerful, and that the Scirathi would do anything to get their hands on it. But Morindu has been lost for ages. Why is this so important now? And what does any of this have to do with me?”

“I believe this will answer both of your questions,” Vani said, setting a tetrahedron of black stone on the coffee table. “Travis?”

Travis hesitated, then reached out and touched the stone. Deirdre sucked in a breath as the image of a man appeared above the tetrahedron. She had never seen him before, but their kinship was clear in his striking, angular features, and she knew he was Vani’s brother. This was a message from Eldh.

The message was brief, and it changed everything. By the time the image of Vani’s brother vanished, Deirdre’s heart was racing.

“You bastard, Hadrian,” she murmured. “You fabulous bastard. You actually did it.”

“Did what?” Beltan said, brow furrowing.

She hugged a throw pillow to her chest. “He had a Class Zero Encounter. Translocation to another world. Something every Seeker has worked for, and something none of them has ever achieved.”

Until now.

“Maybe I should be a Seeker,” Beltan said brightly. “I’ve been to another world. This one.”

Despite the buzzing in her head, Deirdre grinned at the blond man. “Don’t be such a show-off.”

She reminded herself that she was having multiple Class One Encounters herself at this very moment—something rare enough in the history of the Seekers. Resting her chin on a hand, she gazed at the onyx tetrahedron. What did it all mean? How had Farr gotten to Eldh? And why was he the one who had told the Mournish that Morindu had been found?

You always were a fast learner, Hadrian. They said you’re a dervish, which I gather is some sort of sorcerer. I wish I could talk to you now. I know I should do something, but I have no idea what.

The only thing she knew for certain was that this case wasn’t over. In fact, she had the feeling that—despite everything that had happened—it had only just begun.

“So now what?” Deirdre said.

“Now Travis must fulfill his fate,” Vani said as if everything had already been decided.

Beltan’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“Travis must return to Eldh,” Vani said, standing. “He must journey into the Morgolthi and reach Morindu before the Scirathi.”

Beltan jumped to his feet. “Why don’t you go find it yourself, you and the Mournish? It’s your bloody city.”

Vani kept her eyes on Travis. “It is his fate to do it.”

“Why?” Beltan said, cheeks ruddy. “Because you want it to be?”

Vani’s face was hard. “No, because it is. Our oracles saw it long ago: The wizard who came to Eldh to defeat a great evil in the north would also be the one to raise Morindu. This task is his.”

“Don’t you think he’s done enough already? He gave up everything to fight the Necromancer, and the Pale King, and Mohg. He’s done enough for the world. For both worlds. This is his time now. Our time. And you can’t just walk in here and take it from him. By all the gods, I won’t let you!”

Deirdre felt she should turn her head, that she shouldn’t be seeing this, only she couldn’t look away. She had never seen Beltan cry before, but he was weeping now, tears running down his cheeks, and the big man’s anguish made her own heart ache. Even Vani did not appear unmoved. The T’golcast her eyes downward, but again she said, her voice low this time, “It is his fate.”