You must take them,the dervish had said, giving the scrolls to Farr. All my life I have searched for them. I have sacrificed everything to seek them out: my home, my people, my blood.

The scrolls had been filled with writing Farr could not understand. What are they?

They are a story, the dervish said. The story of the birthing of all the worlds. Those that are, and those that are not.

All night Farr huddled in the ruins with the dervish, listening to the old man speak. He told Farr everything that had happened to him in his years as a dervish, everything he had forsaken and everything he had learned. Then, as the horizon turned from gray to white, the old man fell silent; he was dead.

As the sun rose, Farr took the dervish’s bag of food, his waterskins, and the scrolls, then donned the old man’s black serafi. He set out on foot, in the direction from which the dervish said he had come.

For three days Farr walked through the desert, beneath the blazing sun, avoiding scorpions, vipers, and sandstorms, until his water was gone. Another day he walked, but still there was no sign of a village. The vultures began to circle again; death drew near. At last Farr fell to his knees, ready to die. Only then he remembered there was one other thing he had taken from the dervish: his knife.

Farr cut his arm, let his blood spill upon the sand, and called the morndarito him, just as the dervish had described.

“I didn’t really think they would come,” Farr said, the words quiet. “Even after all that had happened, after all I had seen, I don’t think I truly believed in magic. Only then they did come, just as the old man had said.” His eyes went distant, and he touched his left arm. “At first I was nearly intoxicated, and they drank deeply of my blood, drawing it from me with terrible force. Then fear sharpened my mind, and I commanded the spirits to lead me to water. To my amazement, they did.

“They carved a line in the sand, and I stumbled along it before the winds could blow it away. It turned out I was very close to a village. It was just on the other side of a ridge. However, if I had kept on in the direction I had been walking, I would have passed it and never known. I managed to stumble into the village, and I fell down next to the oasis and drank as the spirits buzzed away.”

Vani studied Farr with a look of grudging respect. “Only one in a hundred has any talent for sorcery. And only one in a thousand might call the morndariand command them successfully on the first try. It is fate you came here, for you were born to this. And yet . . .” A knife appeared in her hands.

“Are you going to kill me?” Farr said. He made no attempt to move away from her.

The T’golran a finger along the edge of the knife. “To be a dervish is anathema. The working of blood sorcery is forbidden by my people.”

“I am not one of the Mournish.”

Vani sheathed the knife. Only then did Travis realize he had been holding his breath. He glanced at Grace; her eyes were locked on Farr. Larad watched with cool interest.

“You are right about one thing,” Farr said, sitting down at the table again. “To be a dervish is to be an outcast. I learned that at the village I first came to. The people came for me, throwing stones at me, driving me from the village. Luckily, I had had time to refill my waterskins, and this time there was a road to follow, leading to a larger city. Once there, I made sure to hide my black serafiand dress in the garb of common folk.”

“You’re not hiding your robe now,” Travis said.

“One can only hide what one truly is for so long. I believe you understand that well, Travis Wilder.”

“So you really are a dervish,” Grace said softly.

Now the expression on his face became one of wonder. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. At first I thought I was still being a Seeker. And what Seeker wouldn’t want to understand the origin of all the worlds? I began to study the scrolls I had taken from the old dervish, and to research how I might read them. But the course of my studies kept leading me back to ancient Amún. And to sorcery.”

“Was it only that?” Vani said. “Was it only research, as you say? Or was it not that you enjoyed summoning the spirits and wished to do it again?” Her gaze moved down to his arms.

Farr pulled down the sleeves of his serafi, but not before they all saw the fine scars that crisscrossed his skin.

“So have you ever learned what was in the scrolls?” Grace said after a long moment.

Farr shook his head. “I have learned some of the ancient tongue of Amún, but not enough to translate the scrolls fully. They are written in a peculiar script—used only, I believe, by a secret cabal of sorcerers long ago. It is possible that some among the Mournish might be able to read more of the scrolls than I have, but I wouldn’t exactly expect a friendly reception if I were to go to them.”

He cast a glance at Vani. The T’golsaid nothing.

“What I have been able to read is intriguing,” Farr went on, and he seemed more like a scholar or researcher now, speaking with growing excitement. “Of course, it’s all heavily coded in metaphor. It reads like a myth—though like all myths, I think there is truth at its heart. The scrolls describe how in the beginning there was nothing. Then the nothing, quite spontaneously, spawned two twins. The twins were opposites in every way: one light and giving, the other dark and consuming. From the moment they were born, the twins were separated and kept apart, and each built many cities beholden to him. However, the scrolls speak of a time when the twins will come together again. When they do, they will war, and all that both of them created will be destroyed. Even the very nothingness that spawned them will be annihilated. All of existence will be like an empty cup, only with no chance of ever being filled again.”

The story made Travis sick. “It’s just like what you said about the rift, Grace. It’s the end of everything.”

Larad leaned on his elbows, his fingertips pressed together. “Do the scrolls speak of how the twins might be prevented from warring?”

“Not in any passages that I have been able to decipher.”

Travis stood up. He had heard enough. “We can worry about what’s in the scrolls later. Right now we have to find Nim. The sorcerers will be taking her to Morindu, won’t they?” Vani nodded. He turned his gaze on Farr. “And you know the way, don’t you?”

Farr hesitated. “I believe I do. There has been an increasing number of tremors in Moringarth in recent months. Many ruins, previously buried and lost, have been uncovered. Not long ago, while investigating the rumors of just such a ruin, I came upon a Scirathi. He had crawled out of the deep desert and was nearly dead. I think he was hallucinating and thought I was one of his kind, for he clutched at my robe and babbled that he had seen a spire of black stone jutting up out of the sand. He told me where he had seen it, but before he could tell me more, a band of his ilk attacked, and I was forced to flee.”

“A black spire,” Vani breathed, her gold eyes gleaming. “Of all the cities of ancient Amún, only Morindu was built of black stone.”

“That is why I believe what the sorcerer said was true: that after all these eons, Morindu has at last been found.”

“What happened to this sorcerer?” Larad asked.

“I can only believe the Scirathi retrieved him, and that they learned what I did from him, and perhaps more.”

Vani clenched a fist. “You should have slain him.”

Farr glared at her, and Travis stepped between the two. They didn’t have time for arguments. “You can fight about this later. The Scirathi know where Morindu is, and that means right now they’re taking Nim to it. The storm is over—there’s no more reason to wait here. We have to go.”