It was Vani. She wasn’t moving. Her nose and mouth were caked with dust. He tried to clear it away, to help her breathe. Only he couldn’t breathe himself. There was no air left, only sand and dust. Only the dried blood of sorcerers, more than three thousand years dead, whose power and malice had given birth to the tempest when chance winds in the desert brought enough of the red-brown powder together. The voices hissed again in his ears.

Travis! Can you hear me? I know you’re out there. . . .

This voice seemed different than the others. There was no hate in it, and it was . . . familiar to him. He tried to call out in answer, but dust choked his throat. It was no use. He slumped over Vani, letting the sand cover them both.

A sound roused him from his stupor. Was it a shout? Somehow he lifted his head and looked up. He could just make it out amid the swirling sand: a figure shrouded in a black robe. Was this one of the sorcerers, then, come to take his blood?

The dark figure reached out a hand.

“Be dead!” intoned a commanding voice.

Then there was only silence.

26.

After a long time, Travis heard voices again. The voices fluttered about him in the dark, as soft as the murmur of moth wings.

Travis . . .

A light shone in the darkness, a light as green and gold as sun through leaves.

You can wake up now. You’re safe. I’m here with you. . . .

Travis opened his eyes. A face hovered over him. A beautiful, dusty, worried face he knew and loved.

“Grace,” he croaked.

She smiled and brushed his hair from his brow. “Welcome back, Travis.” She lifted his head and helped him drink water from a clay cup. It was cool and sweet. He tried to gulp it. “Slow, now. We need to get fluids back into you gradually.”

Grace set down the cup, and with her help Travis managed to sit up in the cot. They were in some kind of low dwelling. Its walls were made of whitewashed mud, their corners rounded. The door was covered with a heavy cloth; the sound of sand hissed outside.

“Where’s Vani?” His voice was still raspy, but better after the water.

“I am here,” the T’golsaid, drawing close to the bed. Her hair was white with dust, and it made her look old and weary.

He leaned his head back against the wall. “What happened to us? I remember the sand tempest, and I remember finding you on the ground. Then I heard the voices. They told me to sleep.”

“They were sand spirits,” a man’s voice said.

Travis looked up. He had not seen the other standing in the corner of the hut; his black garb blended with the shadows. But now the man stepped forward, into the gold circle of light cast by an oil lamp. His dark hair was long and shaggy, as was his beard, which grew high up his cheeks. The skin of his forehead was deeply tanned. Only his dark eyes looked familiar. They still glinted with sharp intelligence. But there was something else in them now—a hot light, like that of a fever.

“Hello, Hadrian,” Travis said.

Farr brushed the words aside as if they were beyond introductions. Or as if the name no longer applied. Red tattoos coiled across the palm of his hand. “The sand spirits were trying to take you, and had Grace not sensed your presence, they would have succeeded. As it was, I feared I had found you too late. I commanded the spirits to be what they were—to be dead— only when the storm cleared and I saw you lying on the ground, I assumed you were both dead as well.”

Grace pressed a moist cloth to his brow. “But you’re not. You’re here, Travis. You’re really here. I found you.”

There was much to understand. Had Farr really been able to command the spirits in the sand tempest? If so, he was a powerful dervish indeed. Travis felt a pang of jealousy.

What an impudent upstart, Jack Graystone’s voice sounded in his mind. He’s done nothing but ride along on your coattails. Surely you’re a more powerful sorcerer than he is, Travis. And you’re quite a good wizard as well. Why, you should wave your hand and—

No, this wasn’t a competition. Besides, Farr had had three years to learn secrets and delve into magics Travis had never even wanted to know about.

“Thank you for finding us,” he said to Farr, then he looked at Grace. “And you, too. I’m glad you were able to sense our life threads. But what are you doing here in the first place? Why were you looking for me? And how did you know I’d be here?” He frowned. “Come to think of it, where exactly is here, anyway?”

Grace smiled. “You’re in the village of Hadassa, on the southern edges of Al-Amún, on the continent of Moringarth.” She touched his cheek. “You’re on Eldh, Travis.”

“Nim,” he croaked. That was why he had come to Eldh—to save Nim. Fear renewed his strength in a way the water had not. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed to stand.

And immediately sat back down.

“Careful, Travis,” Grace said, hands on his shoulders, steadying him. “You’re still very weak.”

“Vani is standing up,” he said, feeling more than a little ashamed of himself. The room spun in a lazy circle around him. “And before everything went black, I found her lying on the ground.”

Farr looked at Vani. “After I dismissed the sand spirits, she was able to help me carry you back here. I believe the T’golhave training that can help them resist mind-altering effects, such as those of a sand tempest.”

“I was deep in meditation when you came upon me, Travis, forging a wall around my mind so that I could shut out the voices of the spirits. I believed our only chance of survival was for me to retain my own will.” She cast a look at Farr. “It was fortunate I was wrong.”

“Being caught on the edge of a sand tempest is dangerous for anyone,” Farr said. “But it’s especially perilous for a sorcerer. The spirits were focused, not on Vani, but on you and your blood, Travis.”

Travis clenched his right hand. “So you know about that.”

Grace sat on the cot next to him and covered his hand with her own. “I told him everything.”

“Then I’d say it’s his turn.”

“I will tell you anything you wish to know,” Farr said.

Travis nodded, but he doubted that was possible. Even Farr couldn’t know everything. Like where Nim was, and how they were going to get her back.

A silence settled over the hut, and only then did Travis realize that the wind was no longer hissing outside.

“The storm has passed,” Farr said, pulling back the cloth covering the door to let a shaft of hot light into the hut.

Grace took a step toward him. “Does the village look all right?”

“You need not fear for these people. They have weathered far more sand tempests than I have. They know how to set the proper wards, and to keep their doors and windows shut. Besides, I believe the worst of the storm passed to the west of the village.”

“And was that your doing?” Grace said.

Farr did not answer. He moved away from the door, and a man stepped through. Travis laughed in surprise and delight.

Master Larad glared at him, a sour expression on his scarred face. “Does something amuse you, Master Wilder?”

“Yes, very much,” he said, far more glad that he might have guessed at the unexpected sight of the Runelord. Maybe it was just that it was good to know that the wizards in this hut now outnumbered the sorcerers two to one.

No, they don’t, Travis. You’re a sorcerer as well as a wizard. Besides, Master Larad has never exactly been on your side.

However, even when it appeared otherwise, the sardonic Runelord had always been on the side of good, and that was more than enough for Travis. This time, when he stood up, he managed to stay standing, and he moved to Larad, gripping his hand. He was grinning, and even Larad—never one for sentiment—could not conceal the hint of a smile.