The goblin reached out his hands in the sign of harmony, revealing long dexterous fingers tipped with gleaming ivory claws filed neatly into blunted nails. He met Dacius’ eyes and spoke to him in a soft, impossibly deep voice. “I understand that you have reason to hate and mistrust many of my race. But I am not they. I have dedicated my life to the teachings of the Holy Order. The Lord High Bishop has graced me with this opportunity to serve the Creation, and I am going to be accompanying him on this quest. I hope that you will be able to overcome your prejudices for the time which we will be together.”

  A chastened look came to Dacius’ face as he dropped his hand to his side. He bowed to the goblin. “You are correct. If you work to assist the High Bishop, then you are not my enemy. I apologize for my outburst.”

  As Dacius returned to his seat, the goblin spoke again. “The island the Lord High Bishop seeks is known to my people. It lies far to the south of the lands of the Realm, well beyond any of your trade routes. In order to reach it quickly, we will have to follow the southern current. Do any of you understand what that means?”

  “Aye,” Captain Rone said. “It means hugging the coast of the Hordelands all the way. It means traveling for weeks within reach of goblins raiders.”

  “That is right,” said Gorin. “We have to travel close to the lands of my people. That means danger, both from piracy and from Ill-creatures, for the Heresiarchs have always been open to the servants of evil. Therefore, it is to our benefit to travel discreetly.”

  The goblin bowed to Father Marcus, yielding the floor.

  “Captain Rone,” said the High Bishop, “have you ever sailed a goblinship?”

  The elf raised one eyebrow. “Can’t say I have, Father.”

  Marcus nodded toward his fellow priest. “Brother Gorin was once a sailor. The vessel he sailed on is still here in the Holy City. If you think you are able to pilot it, then we shall use that ship to avoid challenge as we pass through goblin waters.”

  “If I can handle it?” said Rone. “Beggin’ your pardon, Your Worship, but there’s not a sailing ship been built or dreamt that I can’t handle with a willing crew, especially with a former hand there to help me learn the ropes. If you need a captain for your goblinship, then I’m your man.”

  “Excellent. Now, I propose to travel during the First Season of Light in order to avoid detection by the Ill-creatures. That should give Captain Rone time to familiarize himself with his new vessel and the rest of you time to make whatever preparations you deem necessary. Are there any other questions?”

  Chentelle’s mind was spinning. A secret mission aboard a goblinship, traveling to an uncharted island to retrieve an artifact that no one else even knew existed, battling the Dark One’s creatures to fulfill a quest to stop an evil even more terrible than the Dark One himself—it was almost too much to comprehend. She had to follow where her dream led, but she never dreamt that it would lead her to this. She wondered what Willow would think, or her mother. Would her mother understand? Would she ever forgive Chentelle for leaving? Memories of Lone Valley filled Chentelle’s thoughts, but even in her mind it seemed very small and very far away.

  Dacius’ voice brought her attention back to the present. “Your pardon, Father Marcus, but if we all sail off into the Great Sea, who will defend the Realm from the Ill-creatures?”

  A flicker of sadness seemed to cross the High Bishop’s face, but it was soon replaced by the quiet surety that seemed to surround him like an aura. “For that, we must depend on the Wizards’ Collegium at Tel Adartak-Skysoar. Our own mission calls us elsewhere, to face a more dangerous threat.”

  “But must we leave the Realm without protectors?” Dacius asked, dismayed. “I know that you say this other threat is more dangerous, but how certain are you of that knowledge? And how do you know we will find this island? Are we to abandon the defense of the Realm based solely on the word of one goblin?”

  Father Marcus sat silently for a while, as if weighing a decision. “Forgive me. I have told you what I may. Gorin is not the source of my knowledge. It is another, one who I trust implicitly and absolutely. And now I must ask you to place a similar trust in me. I have no wish to keep secrets, but the knowledge I have been given carries a terrible price, a price I alone must pay. You must believe me: if our quest fails, then Infinitera will be destroyed by an evil more terrible than anything the races of man have ever known.”

  As the High Bishop spoke, Chentelle’s mind was filled with images from her dream, visions of darkness spreading through the world. Unbidden, the words came to her lips. “The Fallen Star.”

  Father Marcus turned to her in amazement. “How do you know of this?”

  “My dream. I’ve seen it in my dream.”

  The High Bishop nodded. “Yes, it is the Fallen Star of which I speak.”

  A’stoc’s voice broke in. “What is this Fallen Star? Chentelle, why did you keep this from me?” There was a resonance of pain in his voice, almost betrayal.

  Chentelle didn’t know what to do, how to answer him. “I didn’t—that is, you never—”

  “Wizard A’stoc,” Father Marcus inserted smoothly into her awkward pause. “It was not her duty to inform you of this. It is mine. The Fallen Star is the evil that I have asked you here to defeat. It has come from beyond the Abyss and threatens the very existence of the Creation. It is powerful beyond measure; neither the power of the Holy Order nor the Lore of the Collegium can affect it. Only with the primal force of Earthpower can we hope to destroy it.”

  “So that is why,” A’stoc said, “you seek the Sphere of Ohnn.”

  “Yes. And that is why I need you. I have the knowledge to destroy the Fallen Star, and the Sphere of Ohnn has the power. But only you can unlock that power.”

  A strange look came over A’stoc, as if he were listening to a distant sound. “Me? Why me?”

  “You bear the Staff,” Father Marcus said. “Only the Thunderwood Staff can free the Earthpower from the Sphere.”

  A’stoc stood and picked up the Staff from where it lay beside him. Slowly, in one hand, he raised it high over the table. When he spoke, it was in a voice filled with vitriol. “Then the world is dead.”

  A clamor of questions filled the chamber as the company tried to understand the meaning behind A’stoc’s words.

  With a sudden motion, the mage slammed the end of the Thunderwood Staff down on the table. The loud clap reverberated through the quiet hall. When the echoes died, he spoke again, the words grating slowly between his clenched teeth.

  “The knowledge of this power,” he said, shaking the Staff in the air, “died with my master. I have spent a lifetime trying to unlock its secrets, a lifetime of failure and futility. I cannot summon orb-light through this stick, much less break open the Sphere of Ohnn and unleash the Earthpower! You must accept reality, Father Marcus. I cannot help you.”

  There was stunned silence. Chentelle saw the confusion as the others tried to digest A’stoc’s words.

  Only Father Marcus remained unperturbed. The iron foundation of the priest’s faith seemed unassailable. “Nevertheless,” he said, “we must try for the Sphere of Ohnn. It is our only hope. The Creator has not abandoned us. Perhaps on our quest we will uncover the means to unlock the Staff as well. Possibly the Wizard’s Council at Tel Adartak-Skysoar will know how to help.”

  Chentelle cringed. The High Bishop had unwittingly said exactly the wrong thing. She remembered the visions she had gained when she touched the Thunderwood Staff, the deep pain A’stoc had felt at the Collegium’s covetousness and betrayal. She prepared herself for the mage’s furious retort, but it never came.

  A’stoc only dropped his face into his hand and shook his head sadly. “You have no idea. You place your faith in fools and failures, then follow blindly down the inevitable path. The Council knows nothing. Your hope is misplaced.”

  Father Marcus rested a hand on the mage’s shoulder. “I do not place my hope in such fragile hands, Wizard A’stoc. My faith lies in the Creator himself, and in the tools he has given us to protect his work. If the wizards of the Collegium have no answers, then perhaps you will find some clue in A’pon Boemarre’s workshop.”

  A’stoc’s head snapped upward as if he had been slapped. “What are you saying? My master’s workshop in Odenal revealed nothing of his work.”

  The High Bishop nodded. “But surely you know he had a workshop here in the Cathedral, as well. It was here that he carved the Thunderwood Staff.”

  A’stoc’s eyes were suddenly alert, almost manic in their intensity. “And this workshop remains intact?”

  “It is untouched since his departure. The seals on the chamber have not diminished through the decades. It has resisted all of our attempts to enter. If you can open the door, then perhaps you will find something useful.”

  A’stoc slammed his hand against the table. “I am a fool! Sixty years of failure and frustration, and I never guessed that this workshop might still exist. Perhaps A’valman was right about me.” He started to stand. “Father Marcus, where exactly is the laboratory?”

  The High Bishop stopped him with an upraised hand. “A moment, Wizard A’stoc. I will take you there once this meeting is adjourned.”

  He turned to face the assembled company. “You all have an understanding, now, of the task that lies before us. I say again, if anyone here does not wish to take part in this quest, they may decline freely.” He paused, but no one spoke. Chentelle knew why: the others could not deny the effort to save Infinitera, any more than she could.

  “Then this meeting is concluded. I suggest that we all use the weeks until the Ceremony of Light to prepare ourselves. If you require anything from the Cathedral staff, please make your needs known to Brother Ethnan.”

  Father Marcus left the table, motioning for A’stoc to follow. Chentelle moved quickly to the mage’s side. “Wait for me.”

  “Lady Chentelle,” Father Marcus said, “I would like to have this time alone with Wizard A’stoc, so that we may acquaint ourselves. I am sure you can understand.”

  She couldn’t go? After all this business about how important she was to the mission? Chentelle looked helplessly to A’stoc, but the mage avoided her eyes. Fine. If that was how he felt she would find something else to do. She spun around, almost running into Sulmar, who had fallen noiselessly into step behind her.

  “One moment.” A’stoc’s voice made her stop and turn again. “Perhaps it would be best for the enchantress to accompany us. I seem to recall she has an interest in magical laboratories, and I would never have learned of this one if not for her. I am sure you understand, Father Marcus. We will have many opportunities to come to know each other.”

  “Of course,” the High Bishop said, smoothly reversing himself. He seemed quietly pleased, as if he had proved a point. “Please join us, Chentelle. We may all benefit from your insight.”

  “Thank you,” Chentelle said. But she wanted to make a gesture of concession as well, so that the High Bishop would not be offended. “Sulmar, will you stay with the others so that we can keep abreast of their preparations?”

  The Tengarian started to protest, but she silenced him with a gesture. “Please, Sulmar. I am in no danger here. The Holy Land protects us all.”

  Sulmar nodded, unable to argue against such an obvious truth. “As you wish, liege.”

  Father Marcus led them deep into the heart of the Cathedral. They descended flight after flight of crystal stairs until the transparent walls gave way to solid bedrock. They entered a hallway which led through a maze of wine vaults and underground storage rooms. The construction was granite, now, instead of adartak crystal, but the stone was highly polished and intricately fashioned.

  The passage took them to a portal guarded by two massive wooden doors. A small shelf was carved into the stone beside the door, and in this shelf were several wooden rods, each carved in the shape of an open hand. Inside each hand was a large, polished crystal.

  Father Marcus lifted out one of the rods. “The light of the Creation shines within you. Share your light with us.” He passed his hand over the crystal and a steady glow of orb-light grew within it.

  Chentelle was amazed. She had felt none of the outpouring of power that A’stoc used to fuel his spells. Neither had she felt the kind of union and communion with the stone that was her own Gift. The stone seemed to be glowing in the light of its own power. “How did you do that?”

  Father Marcus called light from another rod, smiling at her curiosity. “We follow the wisdom of Jediah, who learned that through faith and devotion it is possible for us to recapture a small part of the original Creation. In the Time Before, all adartak glowed with the light of Perfection. I have merely reminded these crystals of their true form.”

  The High Bishop pushed open one of the doors and led them down into the catacombs. The stonework here was much rougher than in the cellars above, and a thick coat of dust swirled around their feet. They weaved their way through a dozen twists and turns, following intersections that seemed to materialize from out of the shadows. Always the High Bishop seemed to choose the narrowest and most uneven of hallways, and always their path sloped deeper into the earth.

  “I believe that Wizard A’pon was jealous of his privacy,” Father Marcus remarked, “so he chose a location that would deter visitors.”

  “Indeed,” A’stoc said. “He gave orders that no one was to come near during his experiments, not even his apprentice.”

  The pain in those quiet words was almost too much to bear. Chentelle wanted to reach out, to reassure A’stoc that he was not the failure he believed. But the bitterness that surrounded him held her at bay. It was a wall without gates, impregnable, unbreachable.

  “Of course, I forgot that you were there,” said Father Marcus. “I was only a child at the time. But you never came back to the Holy City, did you? So Father Serdonis never had a chance to tell you about the workshop.”

  “No,” A’stoc agreed. “I never returned.”

  “We’re close,” Chentelle said. She could feel it. The air down here was cold and damp, but it hummed with an almost audible energy. She could feel a great concentration of magic ahead.

  “Why, yes,” Father Marcus said. “We are close. It is just around this last bend.”

  They turned the corner and entered a long, straight passageway. At the far end, just before the hallway ended in blank stone, a large wrought-iron door hung on the left wall. The stone of that wall was alive with power. It pulsed in Chentelle’s mind, beating with a slow, steady rhythm like the heart of the world. It surrounded not only the door, but the very walls of the chamber within.

  “There it is,” Father Marcus said. “But that door has resisted all attempts to access the chamber within. Neither tools nor spells nor the prayers of my brethren have been sufficient to the task.”

  A’stoc ran fingers slowly over the iron lock. “I have some Lore in magical locks. Perhaps that will be enough.” But there was little hope in his voice.

  Chentelle felt the mage reach out with his power. Sweat beaded on A’stoc’s brow as he reached his mind through the metal, exerting his will on the bars and tumblers. Slowly, straining against decades of disuse, the lock clicked open. But the magic ward was unaffected. A’stoc pulled at the ring, but the door did not move.

  “What is wrong?” Father Marcus asked. “I heard the lock open.”

  “There must be another lock somewhere,” A’stoc said. “But I did not sense it with my magic. Perhaps it is in the wall.”

  Another lock? “Wait,” Chentelle said. “It isn’t another lock. It’s a spell. There’s a magic ward that covers the whole chamber.”

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” she said. “I can feel it. It’s very powerful. And it flows with its own rhythm, almost like a living thing.”

  A’stoc’s eyes widened in understanding. “Of course, he used the Staff. I didn’t think to check for a magical ward; all of A’pon’s spells should have died with him. But with the Staff he could fuel his ward with Earthpower.”

  “And you have the Staff,” Chentelle said. Then realized her mistake. He had not mastered the Staff.

  The excitement in A’stoc’s eyes died suddenly, replaced by a look of absolute defeat. “Then we are lost. No wizard alive has Lore which can counter such magic.”

  “I could send for some engineers,” Father Marcus said. “We could remove a section of the wall.”

  “No. The stone would not give way. It will hold to the shape of the ward until the spell is broken. And the spell will not fade until the power of Creation is broken. We are lost.”

  A’stoc turned and started marching furiously back and forth in front of the doorway. The thick air vibrated with his anger and despair. With every second step he brought the Thunderwood Staff down hard against the stone floor, sending deep echoes of sound through the narrow passage.

  Chentelle looked to Father Marcus, but the High Bishop just shook his head helplessly. They settled in and watched the mage pace.

  Eight steps. Turn. Eight steps. Turn. And all the while beating his tattoo against the stone floor. Boom. Pause. Boom. Pause. The corridor shook with the rhythm. Even the throbbing of the mystic ward adjusted itself to the mage’s cadence.

  “A—A’stoc,” Chentelle said tentatively.

  “WHAT?”

  “The ward,” she said. “It’s responding to the Staff.”

  “What?” This time the mage stopped pacing.

  “The pulsing,” Chentelle said. “When you beat the floor with the Staff, the ward pulsed in response.”

  A’stoc looked at the Staff in his hand, as if seeing it for the first time. Slowly, he reached a hand out and placed it against the stone wall. “I think it would be best if you both sought shelter around the corner.”

  He was going to try it!

  Father Marcus glanced quickly at the Staff and the door. “I understand.”

  Chentelle could feel A’stoc’s tension and determination. She pressed a hand softly against his arm. “You can do this,” she said, and then joined Father Marcus in the walk down the corridor. She was halfway to the corner before she heard the mage’s reply, barely audible even to elven ears.