“What is this place?” he croaked.

Farr gazed around them, his dark eyes narrowing. “Somewhere we should not be.”

It was not a natural dune that had sheltered them from the storm. Sand had covered it, but the tempest had scoured much of that sand away, revealing the columns and walls of pitted, buff-colored stone. In one place the remains of a broad stairway plunged down into the sand.

Grace turned around. “It looks like a temple.”

“Or perhaps a palace,” Farr said, shaking sand from his black robe. “This might be the ruins of Golbrora, or perhaps one of the royal villas near Xalas. It is difficult to say. Those cities have been lost for eons, and their precise locations can only be guessed at.”

Travis moved toward a rectangular block of stone that was half-exposed by the sand. The stone was large, its narrowest edge as wide as the span of his arms, and there were carvings on it, though they were too worn to be made out. Perhaps if he brushed away some of the remaining dust . . .

Fingers closed around his wrist, halting him.

“Do not touch anything,” Farr said, his eyes locked on Travis. “We are deep in the Morgolthi now. There’s no telling what ancient magics yet remain.”

Travis pulled his hand back. “Isn’t that why you’re a dervish now? To look for things like this? For ancient magics?”

Farr turned his back. “It’s time to make camp. Let’s find the T’gol.”

The T’golfound them first. The assassins had explored the ruins, but they had not discovered anything that warned of immediate danger, and so had decided it was safe to stay in the ruins for the day. Not that they had much choice. Although it was still morning, the day was already blistering, and there was no sign of any other shelter.

Rafid drew close to Farr. “Do not go exploring among the ruins, dervish. I will be watching you.”

The former Seeker’s expression was unreadable. “And who will be watching you?”

The T’golspat on the sand, then turned and stalked away, vanishing like a mirage.

“He fears magic,” Farr said. “It will be his death.”

Vani gave him a sharp look. “Let’s set up a shelter.”

They used blankets to create a makeshift canopy in the corner of a half-crumbled wall and huddled in the scant shade. As the hours passed, they sipped a little water from their skins and ate some dried fruit, though Travis could hardly gag it down. He did not feel hungry.

He must have fallen into a fitful daze, for he woke with a start and sat up. His mouth was parched, and dried sweat crusted his skin. The sun was sinking toward the horizon, and the shadows of the stone columns stretched across the sand. In another hour, it would be time to start traveling again.

Grace was curled up on a rug next to him, asleep. Larad lay nearby, and beyond him was Farr. Their eyes were closed, their breathing shallow but steady. Travis gazed around. The camels huddled in the scant shade of the wall, heads drooping. There was no sign of the T’gol. No doubt they were keeping watch.

Travis picked up the waterskin, took a sip, then sealed it, careful not to spill a drop. He started to lie back down, then halted.

His eyes focused on the block of stone he had drawn close to earlier. It was canted at an angle in the sand, so that one end was completely buried. How big was it? There was no way to know how far it went into the sand. The block was a different color than the rest of the ruins, a nearly pure white. The low angle of the evening light cast shadows in the carvings on the stone so that he could almost make them out, only he was too far away. . . .

Before he thought about what he was doing, Travis was walking toward the stone.

I’m just going to look at the carvings, he told himself. I’m not going to touch it, so I’m not doing anything wrong.

All the same, he moved quietly, and he cast several glances back over his shoulder to be sure the others were still asleep.

He halted beside the stone. Its top was smooth, though here and there dark flecks, like the remains of black paint, were embedded in its porous surface. The carvings on the sides were easier to discern in the angled light of the sun, though they meant nothing to Travis. They were long and sinuous, forming interlocking patterns. It occurred to him that if Grace was right, if this really had been a temple once, then the stone must be some kind of altar.

Travis licked his cracked and blistered lips, and the metallic taste of blood spread over his tongue. He was sweating, and a rushing noise sounded in his ears, along with a low susurration like a whispering voice, though it did not speak in words. At least not human words. All the same, Travis understood. The voice wanted him to touch the stone. His fingers stretched toward the stone’s surface. . . .

A shout broke the spell.

Travis snatched his hand back. Beneath the shelter, Grace and Larad sat up, eyes wide. Farr sprang to his feet, glaring at Travis.

The shout came again, from the other side of the mound of sand from which the columns jutted. Travis started running. The others followed, but he was closer. He ran around the edge of the mound, to the other side of the row of columns.

The storm had exhumed a section of a stone wall from the mound. Set into the wall, beneath a massive lintel, was a stone door, shut. One of the T’golstood in front of the door: Rafid. His face, always before stern and hard, was now pale with fear. He struggled as if trying to get away from the door, the muscles of his compact body straining beneath black leather, only something was holding him in place. Then Travis saw what it was. There was a hole in the center of the door, about as large as a splayed hand. Rafid’s arm was stuck in the hole, up to the elbow.

The T’gol’s body jerked, and his arm was drawn several more inches into the hole. He shouted again.

“What’s going on?” Grace said, panting as she halted next to Travis. Farr and Larad were right behind her.

“Idiot!” Farr said, clenching a fist. “He should have known. I thought T’golwere trained better than that.”

Rafid opened his mouth, making a dry, weak sound. By then his arm was completely consumed by the hole, his shoulder against the stone door. His skin, once bronze, was ash gray.

Larad started forward. “We must help him.”

Farr grabbed the Runelord’s shoulder. “You can’t help him. Not now. Not unless you know the rune of death.”

Travis didn’t care what Farr said. They had to do something. He started moving; Grace was with him. However, before they could go three steps, the air blurred, and Vani was there before them.

“Do not go near him!”

They stumbled backward, colliding with one another. Ahead, a patch of air shimmered like a mirage, then Avhir appeared, gripping a curved scimitar. The tall assassin swung the blade, lopping off Rafid’s arm at the shoulder. Vani pulled the man back, away from the door; no blood pumped from the stump of his arm. Rafid stared at the other T’gol, opening his mouth as if to speak something. He shuddered once.

Then his body crumbled into dust.

The wind snatched the dust, blowing it away in gritty swirls. Avhir threw Rafid’s empty black leathers to the sand, his bronze eyes hard. Vani stalked toward them. Travis and Grace ran after, Larad behind.

“Stay away from the door!” Farr shouted, but they ignored him.

Just as they reached the assassins, Kylees appeared. “What has happened?” she said, staring at Rafid’s crumpled leathers.

Avhir uncoiled long legs, standing. “I am not certain. I had posted Rafid at this wall to keep watch to the east. I came when I heard his shout. He was—”

Something black and sinuous shot from the hole in the door, wrapping itself around Avhir’s neck, hissing. With a quick motion the T’goldived into a roll, disentangling himself and flinging the thing to the ground as he stood back up.