Chentelle sighed as she felt the man’s barriers snap back into place. It was so senseless. This land was alive with the music of Creation, and for a moment they had shared in that song. But now he was pushing her away again. He had opened up before, when conversation had turned to the Staff. Maybe it would work twice.

  She handed him the book. “Have you found out anything more about the Staff?”

  A wave of pain washed over A’stoc’s face. He reached into his robe and pulled out a bundled cloth. Carefully, he unwrapped the cloth, revealing the charred remains of the book they had discovered. “I cannot understand it. It was all here, the command words, the hierarchy of powers, the rituals of binding, all recorded in my master’s own hand. But then he destroyed it. It had to have been him. No one else could have bypassed the warding spell. But why? Did he become so jealous of the Staff’s power that he could not stand the thought of anyone else using it?”

  He paused, shaking his head sadly. Then he looked up at Chentelle, a thin smile coming slowly to his face. “But perhaps I have learned something after all, despite A’pon’s paranoia.”

  “That’s wonderful,” cried Chentelle. “But what? How?”

  “As you said,” the wizard replied, “I put my hand into someone else’s magepool. But I am not a novice. When the Thunderwood Staff was activated, I was not just riding the wave of power, I was also learning from it.”

  The force of his excitement crashed over Chentelle, making her almost dizzy. “Does that mean you can activate the Staff? Oh, A’stoc, that’s fantastic. Do you think you will be able to help the High Bishop?”

  “The High Bishop?” A’stoc’s face darkened, all signs of openness and excitement hidden behind a curtain of suspicion. “Did he send you down here to ferret information out of me?”

  “No! I mean—Father Marcus did ask me to talk to you, but—”

  “So he sent you to see if the old apprentice knows what he is doing,” A’stoc growled. “So you come bearing food in kindness, but all the while you’re spying for Marcus.”

  Chentelle jumped to her feet. “I am not so manipulative! I came here of my own will, urged only by concern for you. Though I’m hard-pressed to imagine why at just this moment. Do all wizards lead lives of mistrust and suspicion? Have you learned nothing from the beauty of this land? I came to you with friendship, A’stoc. How you receive it is up to you.” Her words were bold, but there were tears in her eyes.

  A’stoc turned away from her, shielding his eyes with one hand. “Your words are convincing, but how can I trust them? You are an enchantress, able to weave the fabric of a man’s heart with the power of your voice.”

  He hesitated for a moment, rocking back and forth in inner turmoil. Then he shot out of his chair, grabbing the Staff with both hands. He towered over Chentelle, anger flaring in his eyes, but there was no threat of violence: In this place, anger could be turned only to resolve. “You are curious. And the High Bishop is curious. Well, perhaps it is time to show you what I can do. I would not have you worrying unduly.”

  With that, the wizard marched out of the chamber, moving quickly with long, purposeful steps.

  “A’stoc, wait,” Chentelle cried. “Where are you going?” But no answer came.

  She hurried out the doorway and caught a glimpse of the wizard disappearing around the corner. She raced to catch up, having almost to run in order to keep pace with A’stoc’s strides.

  A’stoc ignored all questions about his destination or his purpose. In silence, he led her up from the depths of the catacombs. When they reached the ground level, he marched directly to the central stairway and started climbing again. The ground fell away as they mounted flight after flight of invisible stairs. The mage covered two or three steps with each stride, and Chentelle fought to keep up. By the time they reached the level of the main assembly hall, both were struggling for breath.

  As they climbed to the next level, Chentelle saw that a large gathering was being held in the hall. Father Marcus addressed an assembly of priests and other clergy. Chentelle waved frantically, catching the High Bishop’s eye. She pointed at A’stoc, shrugged her shoulders, and motioned upward with both hands.

  Father Marcus stared up at her through the transparent ceiling, surprise and concern plain on his face. Then he nodded. He spoke briefly to his fellowship and then headed quickly for the door.

  Chentelle turned back to the stairs and gasped in surprise. A’stoc was nowhere in sight. She ran upward, almost slamming into the tapestry-covered door that marked the top of the stairs. She threw open the door and darted through. And paused in wonder.

  She was in a huge circular room that seemed to occupy the entire top floor of the Cathedral. There was no roof, but high walls around the circumference shielded the room from the winds which whistled above her head. Another stairwell lay before her, leading into the central spire rising high above. Inside it, barely discernible through the glare of reflected light, was the dark figure of a climbing man. Chentelle pushed herself toward the steps.

  The stairs wound their way around the tower, narrowing their spiral as they climbed. From here, Chentelle could see all of the Holy City, sprawled out peacefully around Norivika Bay. She passed a belfry filled with huge crystal spheres of various sizes. The balls looked hollow and hung from a central beam like large bells, but there were no pull cords or strikers. And the stairs kept leading higher.

  Suddenly, a gust of wind blasted Chentelle’s face. She slipped on the transparent stairs and nearly lost her balance. The ground taunted her from a hundred cubits below. Vertigo threatened to overwhelm her, but the cool wind helped her keep her mind clear. The top must be near, for the wind to be so strong. She forced herself onward.

  Within a dozen steps, she passed through an open doorway onto a narrow observation platform. She stood at the very top of the Cathedral of Light, with no walls between her and the vast blue sky. The unobstructed wind screamed about her, nearly tearing her from the platform. Desperately she groped for support. Her hands found a narrow balustrade. She clung to it, steadying herself. The wind whipped her hair about her head, and her robe about her legs.

  At the center of the platform, A’stoc rested his weight on the Thunderwood Staff, defying the gale that thrashed his tattered robes. He nodded to Chentelle, mouthing words which were lost to the wind. Then he lifted the Staff high above his head.

  Immediately, Chentelle felt a surge of magic. A’stoc drove his will into the Thunderwood Staff, trying to form a channel to the unimaginable power within. The wood remained inert, but still he poured his strength into it. Sweat beaded on his forehead and was ripped away by the wind. His arms trembled, exhausted by the strain, but his determination, his desperation, would not let him quit.

  Suddenly, the Staff flared into life. A nimbus of deep green light erupted from the wood, permeating the wizard, sending a torrent of force coursing through his body.

  A’stoc’s laughter echoed through the air like thunder. He thrust the Staff into the air, and a blast of eldritch energy sliced into the cloudless sky. The azure calm churned and started to darken. Again and again, the wizard thrust his bolts of power into the air, and the sky turned black beneath a sorcerous storm.

  Chentelle screamed. The harmony of the Holy Land was being twisted to A’stoc’s will. With the Thunderwood Staff, he could bend Creation itself. Not even the peace of the Holy Land was inviolate. The aurora of light that surrounded the wizard was beautiful, magnificent, but the power it heralded was terrifying.

  A’stoc shouted a command and the winds stopped. Overhead, the storm clouds hung in eerie stillness. The wizard stood with arms upraised to his accomplishment, strange shadows dancing across his face in the emerald glow of the Staff. His smile was one of pure rapture, but the wild gleam in his eyes spoke of other, darker emotions.

  Soft footfalls marked the arrival of Father Marcus. The sound echoed strangely in the mystical silence. But when the High Bishop spoke, his words banished the emptiness, filling it with unshaken faith and calm concern. “Wizard A’stoc, why have you done this? The Dark One surely watches the Holy Land. He will sense this disturbance.”

  “Let the Dark One see!” A’stoc shouted. “Let him know the power that opposes him!” The wizard’s body trembled with barely contained energy. “I have done it! I have unlocked the power of the Staff. Now I can avenge my master. If the Dark One stands against me, I will destroy him.”

  “Wizard A’stoc,” Father Marcus said soothingly. “It is well that you have learned to wield the Tree of Life. We sorely need its power. But before you attack the Dark One, remember your master. Remember A’pon Boemarre. He too, wielded the power you now feel. But he failed. Would you share his fate?”

  Chentelle felt a softening in the wall of anger and energy that seethed about the wizard. But it was not enough. The song of the Staff was still too strong. “A’stoc.” She pitched her words carefully, blending each syllable into the pattern of power and doubt. “Do not lose yourself. Do not let this power swallow you. Be true to your soul. Be true to your heart.”

  Slowly a change came over the wizard. The shadows faded from his face, and his eyes widened in dismay. “By the Creator, what have I done?” He let the Staff drop to his side, releasing his hold on the elements. The green radiance flickered into nothingness, and the wind returned in a sudden thunderclap, nearly unbalancing them all. A’stoc staggered to his knees, nearly losing his grip on the Staff as he struggled for support.

  Chentelle leaned into the wind, forcing her way to the wizard’s side. Father Marcus came up beside her, and together they struggled to help him rise. But the swirling winds turned every motion into a battle for equilibrium. They managed to get A’stoc to his feet, but a sudden gust made the human lurch violently. Chentelle overbalanced and lost her footing. She staggered sideways, crashing into the transparent railing. For a moment she teetered on the brink of falling. Then a strong hand caught her outflung wrist.

  It was Sulmar. He pulled her back from the edge and lifted her easily to her feet. The Tengarian poised on the balls of his feet, shifting his balance almost instinctively to counter the force of the wind. He anchored Chentelle with one arm and used the other to help Father Marcus pull A’stoc into the shelter of the stairs. As they entered the spire, the first drops of warm rain washed over them.

  The weeks passed slowly as the two suns grew farther apart and the nights grew short. They passed the time making ready for the quest to come.

  Dacius and the Legionnaires trained diligently, though it was a struggle for them to practice arms in this place of serenity. The human lord even had the smiths of Norivika work to replace the armor that had gone down with the Otan Stin. Word had reached him that the bodies of the others had been recovered and returned to their homelands for permanent burial, but none of the lost swords had been found. They would have to make do with the arms they had.

  Father Marcus spent the time organizing and preparing the Holy Order for the trials they would face in his absence. The reports from beyond the Barrier, tales of Ill-creatures appearing in ever greater strength and confidence, caused him obvious pain, but his only response was to exhort the scribes to increase their effort. He remained adamant that none of the party leave the Holy Land to assist in the defense. For now, the defense of the Realm would have to be entrusted to the wizards of the Collegium.

  A’stoc remained sequestered among the Lore Books. He took his meals in the workshop and had a cot installed next to his desk so that he would not have to climb the stairs to find sleep. He emerged only on those rare occasions when the need for cleanliness or a softer sleep became overwhelming.

  Chentelle used the time to explore the Holy Land. With Sulmar always at her side, she wandered the city of Norivika and its outlying villages. Everywhere she was greeted by an open friendliness that woke echoes of home in her heart. With Brother Ethnan’s permission, she even traveled to Atablicryon Island. The gardens there were very different from the wild beauty of Lone Valley, but somehow the tranquillity of the place eased her homesickness.

  Finally, the First Season of Light came upon them. Sulmar had gone to the gardens to perform his afternoon exercises, and Chentelle was taking advantage of the rare solitude. She wandered the upper levels of the Cathedral, keeping only her thoughts for company. The transparent walls and floors no longer made her uneasy. Now, she took pleasure in the illusion of floating freely in the air, seeing the beauty of the world from the Creator’s own perspective.

  But today she felt unsettled, out of step, somehow, with the peacefulness of the Holy Land. It was nervousness, she realized, anticipation. Tomorrow they would leave the security of the Holy Land, and who could know what they would encounter?

  Lost in her thoughts, she walked straight into Father Marcus as he rounded a turn in the corridor. The High Bishop seemed to be as startled by the encounter as she was.

  “Lady Chentelle,” he said, “please excuse me. I did not see you.”

  “The fault is mine, Father Marcus,” she said. “I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention to where I was walking.”

  The old priest smiled at her warmly. “I understand. After so many weeks of waiting, it is hard to believe that the time is here. Preparation and planning are a poor substitute for reality, it seems.”

  “I know.” His words described exactly what she felt. “Usually, the view from up here calms me, gives me a sense of peace and belonging. But today, everything seems different, somehow.”

  “We have a few hours before supper,” he said. “I was going to spend part of that time in meditation, to prepare myself for the Vespers tonight. Would you care to join me?”

  “Yes,” said Chentelle. “I think I would. I am curious about the way your devotions relate to my own Gift.”

  The High Bishop turned around and started walking back the way he had come. “Then follow me. Perhaps we can help you find peace and satisfy your curiosity at the same time.”

  He led her through a tapestry-shrouded door into a small room. With a start, Chentelle realized that it was his own sleeping chamber. An elven-crafted bed filled one corner, elegant without being luxurious. The opposite corner was occupied by a small writing desk and a collection of books. The floor was carpeted, wall to wall, in rich blue, and the wall opposite the bed was covered with a magnificent tapestry depicting doves in flight through a rich garden. It was one of the gardens of Atablicryon Island, but in the tapestry a huge tree dominated the center of the garden. The other walls were covered with plain drapes of blue or white.

  There were no chairs other than the small bench at the writing table, but a pile of pillows lay against the far wall. Father Marcus settled himself on one of these and motioned for her to choose one as well. The High Bishop reached without looking into a shelf beside the bed and drew out two books.

  “These are the foundation of the Holy Order,” he said. “The texts upon which all of our devotions are based. The Book of Truths tells us what the world was like in the Time of Perfection, what the world was meant to be. The Scriptures of Jediah tell us how we, as servants of the Creator, can act to restore the Creation. Through these meditations we learn to return small parts of the Creation to their true form. This is the truth behind the powers of the Holy Order, the power to heal, to create sanctuary, to summon orb-light and warmth from the earth, and, most importantly, to bring peace to the troubled spirit.”

  Father Marcus opened the Scriptures of Jediah. He flipped the pages with a practiced hand, coming quickly to the passage he was seeking. He handed her the book. “This is the Meditation on Darkness. I always review it before celebrating the Grand Vespers. Will you sing it with me?”

  Chentelle glanced at the flowing script, reading the prayer silently. The words seemed simple enough, and the meter was straightforward. She set the book down in front of her and nodded to Father Marcus. He began singing in a pleasant baritone, and she joined in, letting her voice flow easily into his.

  “The world must turn away from Ellistar,

  The world must turn from Deneob into night,

  The song exists in silence, between notes,

  In shadows do we learn to love the light.”

  They repeated the chant again and again. Each time they sang a little bit softer, until only the melody remained, kept alive by the music of their voices. But the words had not disappeared. They echoed softly in the quiet corners of Chentelle’s mind.

  She tried to follow their meaning. The meditation really didn’t seem to be talking about darkness at all. It was about motion. The world turned away from the suns because it had to. And later it would turn out of darkness and back to the light. That was the rhythm of Creation. It was present in the change from day into night, and it was there in the progression of the seasons. Motion could not be denied.

  She thought about her own life. She was in darkness now, traveling away from her home, her family. But she would return. That was the lesson of the meditation. The Creation was a sphere. The rhythms always brought you home again. And she had certainly learned to love Lone Valley in the time she had been away from it.

  But what about the third line? How could a song exist in silence? If the meditation was talking about her own life, then the notes must be her experiences. Or maybe they were her. She would be a different person when she next saw Lone Valley, a different note. And if you could play all the notes of all the different Chentelle notes that she would become in her life, you would have a song. But the song didn’t live in the notes. It lived in the experiences that made those notes different, in the process of growth and change.

  It was all starting to make sense. The quest they were about to begin wasn’t a journey into darkness. It was just part of the natural cycle of Creation. And they were not traveling alone. They were joining in the song of the world, fulfilling one small part of the Sphere of Perfection.