The sun ascended to the zenith, and heat radiated from the sand in waves. Travis sweated in his jeans and sweater—chosen for a misty London evening, not a blazing desert day—but he did not even think of shedding them, as they were his only protection from the wind and sun.

He and Vani did not speak. They kept their mouths clamped shut, breathing through their noses, trying to keep out the sand and conserve the moisture in their breath. Each time they crested a dune, Vani scanned the horizon, and Travis knew what she was looking for: the green smudge of an oasis and the white shapes of human habitations. All they saw were more dunes.

You really are an idiot, Travis told himself as he trudged after Vani. We don’t have food or water. We’re completely unprepared for this. You should have thought about what you were doing.

Only there hadn’t been time to think. He had leaped for the gate, not knowing what he was going to do on the other side, only knowing that jumping through that portal was his only chance to save Nim. He hadn’t expected Vani to follow, but he was grateful she had. He doubted he would survive five minutes in this desert without her.

Wouldn’t you, Travis?a dry voice spoke in his mind. It wasn’t Jack’s voice; it was his own. Only it was more sibilant, a coaxing hiss, like that of a serpent. Vani is right. You’re a sorcerer. And this land is their home. All you have to do is spill your blood—just a few drops—and they will come to you and do your bidding. The spirits. Those Who Thirst . . .

Only when he felt pain did he realize his fingernails were pressing into the skin of his forearm. He willed his hand away and instead thought about Beltan. It was possible he would never see the blond man again. But Beltan would have done the same in Travis’s place. He would have gone through the gate after Nim. How could he not? She was his daughter. Their daughter.

All the same, sorrow scoured at Travis’s heart. What was Beltan doing right now?

He’s trying to find a way to follow you, Travis. You know he is. He won’t let you go.

Three years ago, everything had seemed so muddled and confusing. His emotions had been a labyrinth, and he had stumbled through the maze, not knowing who—if anyone—waited for him at its end. Even during these last years in London, as happy as he had been, he had sometimes wondered if things might not have been different had she not left them. Then she stepped through the door of his and Beltan’s flat, and in that moment his wondering ceased.

Vani did not love him.

She hadloved him once, that much Travis did not doubt. He had held her in his arms, he had felt her body trembling, he had kissed her. And in those moments he had loved her back. However, he knew now their love had been a trick—one every bit as cruel as the ruse the Little People had played on Vani and Beltan. Only this was not a trick of fairies.

It was a trick of Fate.

Vani had loved Travis because she believed it was her destiny to love him; she had willed her love into being in an act of sheer faith. And he had loved her back because, confronted with such a ferocity of emotion, his only choice was either to drive her away or bring her close. He couldn’t cast her away, not when she needed love—real love—so badly and didn’t even know it.

However, while the T’hotcards spoke the truth, as so often happened when trying to interpret Fate, that truth misled her. The cards had said she was destined to bear a child byTravis, but not tohim, and that destiny had come to pass when she gave birth to Nim. Yet perhaps Fate was not so cruel after all, because in the end Vani had indeed found love—a love that was true, not based on any trick or deceit.

Her love for Nim.

Travis had seen it shining in Vani’s eyes when she held her daughter. And he saw it now in the hard set of her jaw as she marched up and down the endless dunes. He quickened his pace—

—and nearly ran into Vani, who had come to a halt atop a dune.

“I see something.” She was looking, not ahead, but off to their left.

“What is it?” He tried to follow her gaze, but the sand made his eyes water. “Is it a settlement?”

Vani squinted. “I’m not certain. It is difficult to see. Perhaps it is—blessed Mother of Orú!”

Travis screened his eyes with his fingers. There, on the horizon, a red-brown wall rose into the sky. Was it the mud wall of a city?

No. The wall rose higher into the sky, sending out swirling tendrils toward the sun.

“This is ill fate,” Vani said. “It is a blood tempest.”

“What’s a blood tempest?” Travis said, raising his voice over the howl of the wind.

“A storm that blows out of the heart of the Morgolthi. To be caught in one is certain death. We must run. Now!”

Vani grabbed his arm, pulling him down the lee side of the dune. He lost his footing on the slick sand and went tumbling down the slope. At the bottom he rolled to a stop, then pushed himself up to his knees, spitting out a mouthful of sand.

A strong hand jerked him to his feet. “Keep running!” Vani shouted.

The wall of the tempest loomed above them, its rusty surface roiling like a violent sea. Even as Travis watched, it blotted out the sun, casting the world into ruddy twilight.

Vani pulled his arm so hard he heard his shoulder pop. He stumbled after her in a headlong run.

“It’s coming too fast!” His throat was raw; he tasted metal. “We can’t outrun it!”

“We do not have to,” Vani shouted back. “A blood tempest is long and narrow in shape. Think of it as a serpent striking. We have only to flee to the side, to get out of its path, and we will be safe.”

As the wall of the storm advanced from the south, they ran east. At first the wind seemed to lessen in its ferocity, and Travis began to think they had a chance. Then they reached the top of a slope, and he turned and watched as dune after dune was enveloped by clouds of boiling red dust. A gritty blast struck him, and sand hissed all around.

The hissing phased into whispering words.

Lie down. Let the sand cover you as a blanket. You are weary—so weary of your burdens. Lie down. . . .

The voices were soothing. The howl of the wind faded, and all he heard were the gentle whispers.

Lie down and go to sleep. . . .

Travis sighed. He felt warm and safe, like a child in his bed. It was time to shut his eyes.

“Get up!” This voice was different than the voices in the wind: harsher, and full of anger. “Do not give up on me, Travis Wilder. Not now!”

Something grabbed him, jerking him up, and only then did he realize he had been laying face-first in the sand. He rolled over with a groan. Vani knelt over him. Above, the sky churned, and sick yellow lightning flickered between the red clouds.

“Voices,” he croaked. It was hard to speak; his mouth was full of dust. “I heard voices.”

Vani pulled him to his feet. “They are sand spirits—the voices of dead sorcerers from long ago. They want you to die, for your blood to soak into the sand, then dry to dust and be drawn up into the storm, feeding it. You must not listen to them!”

He nodded. It was too hard to speak.

“Come. We are still on the edge of the blood tempest, or we would already be dead. We can make it.”

They careened down the side of the slope, then ran through the gap between a pair of high dunes. Wind buffeted them from all sides, and it was so dark it was impossible to tell which way they were going. Fear gripped Travis. Perhaps they were running into the path of the storm, not out of it. The voices began to whisper again in his ears.

There—up ahead. It was hard to be sure, but for a moment he thought he glimpsed a faint patch of light, as if the clouds of sand were thinner. He staggered toward it, but his feet caught on something, tripping him, and he fell down on top of a soft lump.