Then A’stoc came forward. He nodded his head politely as Father Marcus presented him to the Holy Priest.

  “A wizard! How wonderful,” Elihaz said. He ran his eyes up and down the mage’s body. “You are very tall, but you need better posture. You slump over as if the whole of Creation rests on your shoulders. I think maybe you lean on your walking stick too much. Try standing up on your own, instead. It’s better for the spine.”

  A’stoc reared up to his full height and jabbed a finger toward the old man’s face. His mouth opened, but no words came out. The wizard’s lips contorted wildly, and the knuckles of his right hand whitened against the Staff. But still no sound came from his mouth. He spun around and stalked to an empty bench.

  Chentelle moved forward and was introduced.

  “Ah, the enchantress,” Elihaz said, smiling warmly. “No wonder Kelmek is stricken. The grace of your form is matched only by the beauty of your spirit. But please, do not sing for me. My ears have grown hard with age, and I fear they would make a poor audience for your charms.”

  Chentelle wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or insulted. She settled on embarrassed. “Thank you,” she murmured. She wandered over to one of the benches and sat down beside A’stoc. Somehow, the wizard’s rigid presence was comforting.

  Elihaz climbed back to his seat by the altar. “On behalf of myself and anyone foolish enough to let me speak for them, I welcome you all. Now, why have you appeared on my doorstep in the middle of the night?”

  “We seek a temple called the Atablicryon,” Father Marcus said. “We have learned of a great danger, one which threatens all of Infinitera. The only way to defeat this evil is to use the power of the Sphere of Ohnn, which lies hidden in your Atablicryon.”

  “I have never heard of this Sphere,” Elihaz said. “How do you know it is there?”

  “We are guided by vision and prophecy,” Father Marcus said. “In the Holy Land, the power of the Creator still flows purely, untouched by the corruption of the Flaw. At the center of this harmony is the Atablicryon, the holiest shrine of the Holy Order. Until recently, we believed it was unique, but now we know that there is an Atablicryon on this island. In the same way, we know that the Sphere of Ohnn is held within. I cannot tell the source of this information, but it is true.”

  Elihaz pulled his pendant over his head and toyed with it thoughtfully. “Visions and prophecies—my father once told me he would rather suffer a thousand curses than one true vision. But he used to exaggerate terribly. Well, we can come back to that. Tell me about this Holy Land.”

  “It is the last remnant of the True Creation,” Marcus said. “It is the way the Old Book tells us the world should be. The peace of your temple is a wondrous thing, a miracle whose provenance I would beg you to share, but it is only a candle to the Golden Sun next to the harmony of the Holy Land. No evil can exist there, and all wounds are healed.”

  Except certain emotional ones, Chentelle thought, glancing sidelong at A’stoc.

  Elihaz smiled and closed his eyes. “In the perfect emptiness, a Sphere was formed. And within the Sphere, the races were born. The Creation was perfect, and the Creator was perfection. The Sphere existed in balance, in harmony, and for the eyes of the Creator. For its existence was Beauty. Its purpose was Beauty.”

  “The Old Book!” Marcus exclaimed. “Do you also know the Scriptures of Jediah?”

  “Jediah?” said Elihaz.

  “The first High Bishop,” Marcus said. “He revolutionized the Holy Order. He realized that worshiping perfection without fighting to preserve it led only to despair. He believed that the races of man had a destiny to heal the Flaw and re-create the Time of Perfection, so he dedicated his life to perpetuating harmony and fighting corruption. His words form the core of our belief.”

  “I have never heard of him,” Elihaz said. He held up his pendant. “This is the core of our belief. It symbolizes the Sphere of Creation: perfect, unchanging, immutable. These are the truths I learned when my father welcomed me into the Holy Order. Do you know what we call it? No?”

  The old priest held up a finger for silence and moved quietly to the door of the chamber. His eyes met Chentelle’s for an instant, and he winked conspiratorially. Then he yanked the door open and Kelmek fell inside. “Well, boy,” Elihaz said, dangling the pendant in front of his face. “What would you call this?”

  “It’s a rock, Grandfather,” Kelmek answered tentatively.

  “Excellent!” Elihaz cried. “You have been diligent in your studies. Now tell me what you have learned while listening at the door.”

  Kelmek looked as if he wanted to crawl out of the room and hide, but there was no escape. He stood and brushed the dirt from his knees. “I do not understand this High Bishop, Grandfather. He knows things that he cannot know, but he will not tell us how. He speaks of miracles as though they were trifles but gapes in awe at the refuge of the temple.”

  “Do you believe him?” Elihaz asked.

  “I don’t know, Grandfather,” Kelmek admitted.

  “Then ask him a question,” prodded the Holy Priest, “something that will satisfy your doubts.”

  Kelmek stared at Father Marcus, brow furrowed in concentration. “All right, tell me what the evil is that you carry inside your soul.”

  Father Marcus turned from the boy to Elihaz. He locked eyes with the old priest for a moment, then turned back to Kelmek. “It is the same evil that we fight against,” he said calmly. “It is the evil that will consume Infinitera if it is not destroyed.”

  Kelmek’s mouth dropped open. He turned to his grandfather and shrugged helplessly.

  Elihaz grinned and led the boy into the center of the room. He hopped into his seat against the altar and motioned for Kelmek to sit next to him. “Your revelations have unnerved my grandson,” he said to Marcus. “But what confuses him, reassures me. A deceitful man would be sure to claim an impressive source for his secret knowledge, but you maintain silence. And what need would you have to summon the pale refuge I use to fill this temple, when you dwell in the light of the True Creation? Still, the boy did not ask quite the right question. Why do you harbor evil in your soul?”

  Father Marcus smiled and bowed his head respectfully. “The evil that we battle is new to Infinitera. It comes from beyond the Abyss, from outside the Sphere of Creation. In order to destroy it, I will have to understand it. That is the knowledge I carry.”

  “And so it is settled,” said Elihaz, “I will help you. But first, I will tell you a story of a true vision.”

  Another true vision? Chentelle was having trouble assimilating this. But she listened intently.

  “In the mountains south of the village lie the remains of an ancient city. No one knows how long it has been since the city died, but for countless generations we have held that land to be sacred. In the center of the dead city is the mountain we call Hel’s Crown. In happier times, it had other names: Enchanted Rock, the Dome of Creation. But that was before the demons came. Now it is Hel’s Crown.”

  Elihaz climbed to his feet and paced behind the altar. “We used to bury our dead in the catacombs beneath the mountain. All the peoples did: the men of the Stone City, the folk of the scattered farms, even the wild men of the coast. But during my father’s father’s time, a great cataclysm shook the land. Cracks appeared in the earth. Rivers changed their course. And strange creatures appeared under the mountain, black as Hel’s heart and just as cruel.

  “The demons drove the people from the catacombs. They would not let us bury our dead. They would not let us travel in the Sacred City. It was intolerable. The Four Holy Priests joined together to resist them. They were great men: Kolos of the Stone City, Silas the Pale, Lazy Tom, and my grandfather.”

  He paused in his narrative, focusing on Father Marcus. “Do you know the power of sanctuary? Good. The power of refuge is very much like that, but we turn it outward, filling a space with the peace of our spirit. The Holy Priests filled the catacombs with the power of refuge. The demons were forced to retreat deeper into the earth. But the refuge lasts only so long as a priest remains, feeding it with his spirit, so an agreement was made. Each priest remained in the catacombs for one season, maintaining the refuge, while the others returned to their homes. And so it stayed for through my father’s time and my own.

  “Two years ago, everything changed again. People from every community had gathered under the mountain for the ceremony of renewal. My daughter was Holy Priest then. She was there representing the village, as was her daughter. But something happened during the ceremony. Holdar of the Stone City went insane. He broke the ritual and allowed the refuge to collapse. Before the other priests could react, the demons attacked. Men, women, children: no one escaped the power of their magic. No one except Holdar. They left him alive.

  “He staggered out of the mountains two days later, babbling like a madman about a holy vision. Before he died, we learned two things: the truth about the slaughter, and the nature of his vision. He had dreamed of an ancient temple, older than even the Sacred City. It was deep underneath the mountain, deeper than the catacombs. During his time as guardian of the refuge, he had followed the dream and discovered the temple. He called it the Atablicryon.”

  Elihaz leaned heavily against the altar, looking suddenly frail and haggard. “I was the only Holy Priest left alive. I went to the catacombs and raised the refuge once more. I drove the demons back into the depths, and my people were able to recover our dead. For three days we worked to give them a proper burial. Then the goblins came.

  “I had to choose. I could not hold the demons at bay and protect the village. I came home. Now, the Stone City is destroyed. The scattered farms are empty, and only goblins roam the coast. Now the demons rule from under Hel’s Crown, and I am old. I am very old.”

  The priest’s sadness echoed in Chentelle’s heart. She felt a great emptiness, a void that could never be filled. Tears gathered on her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  Elihaz must have heard. He turned to her and smiled. “Thank you, dear child, thank you. But please, do not cry for my sorrows.”

  “I don’t understand,” Dacius said. “Why didn’t you fight? Your people could have forged weapons, driven the goblins back to the sea.”

  Elihaz shook his head. “That is not our way. We believe in the perfection of the Creator and his Creation. To take up arms would be a violation of that perfection. It would be a violation of our selves. We have always relied on the powers of refuge and sanctuary to protect us.”

  “But they killed your people,” Dacius protested. “The perfection you believe in is a lie. The Creation is flawed. If it wasn’t, then such evil could not exist.”

  “Years ago,” said Elihaz, “I would have argued the point with you. I would have pointed out that by preparing for violence you perpetuate the need for it. I would have said that just by wearing your sword you support the idea of violence as acceptable behavior. Those are the truths I was taught by my father and my father’s father. I believe in those truths, but I find little comfort in them, now.”

  “Maybe I can help,” said Father Marcus. He reached into his pack and pulled out a well-worn volume. “These are the Scriptures of Jediah. Centuries ago, he wrestled with the same sorrows that trouble you now. Perhaps the answers he found will help you find your own.”

  “Thank you,” said Elihaz, accepting the book gingerly. “This is a precious gift. And it deserves a fair return. You will need a guide to find the Atablicryon, someone who knows the catacombs and who is not afraid to try the demons’ lair. That someone will be me.”

  “What?” Kelmek jumped to his feet. “Grandfather, no! You cannot be their guide. I will not permit it.”

  Elihaz cocked his head and raised one eyebrow. “And who are you to permit me or not?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Kelmek, momentarily cowed. “But you’re in no condition to travel so far. Besides, you have a duty to the village. You have to stay here and protect our people.”

  “And how am I to do that,” said Elihaz, “if all of Infinitera dies.” He waved a hand at the company. “You heard their words. No one will be safe if they fail in their quest. And they will never find the temple without a guide. I must go with them.”

  “No, Grandfather,” said Kelmek. “If they must have a guide, then I will go with them.”

  The old priest shook his head firmly. “That I will not permit. You are the only family I have left, and the only hope the village has to survive after I’m gone. I will not let you take such a risk. Besides, you do not know the catacombs as well as I do.”

  “No,” said Kelmek, “I don’t, but I know them well enough. And I will be at risk no matter who acts as guide. If you leave, the village will be helpless against the goblins. But if I go, then the village will be safe, and I will be protected by the stranger’s weapons and magic.”

  Elihaz sighed and dropped his eyes. “It seems that you are a better student than I knew. You are right. I will stay. But be careful, Grandson, and come back alive. The village needs you. I need you.” He pushed his pendant into Kelmek’s hand. “Take this. It may give you some protection.”

  “But, Grandfather,” Kelmek said, “only the Holy—” He paused, reconsidering. “Thank you, Grandfather. Don’t worry. I will be fine.”

  Elihaz turned to Father Marcus. “Watch out for him, Marcus Alanda, High Bishop of the Holy Order in Norivika, leader of the Holy Land of Talan. He is my hope.”

  Marcus bowed to the old priest. “You honor us with your trust and your guidance. Do not fear. Our path is dangerous, but the Creator guides our steps. Your grandson will be safe.”

  “May the Creator watch you all,” said Elihaz. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to try and track down some sleep. I suggest you do the same.”

  Chentelle woke to the ringing of a bell. She rolled out of bed and tried to get her bearing. She was in Kelmek’s room. He had insisted that she use it while he stayed with his grandfather. She ran to the window. The first hints of Ellistar’s light brightened the sky, and people from the village were running toward the temple doors.

  “Goblins!” someone shouted. “To the temple! Goblins are coming.”

  “Blessed Creator, not again.” Chentelle yanked on her boots and slid into her dress. She rushed out the door and nearly ran straight into Sulmar.

  “Oh!” Chentelle stumbled to a halt. “You startled me. I thought you were down in the assembly hall with the Legionnaires.”

  “No, mistress.”

  She saw a thin pile of bedding on the floor of the hallway. He had slept outside her door. “Sulmar—”

  The clanging of the bell interrupted her thought.

  “Come on.” She raced for the stairs, certain that Sulmar was only seconds behind.

  The entry hall was clogged with people. Villagers from beyond the gate were scrambling to get in, but their way was impeded by Legionnaires trying to force their way outside. Father Marcus and Elihaz guided the villagers who were already inside deeper into the temple, trying to ease the logjam. Chentelle tried to join the Legionnaires, but the crowd pushed her back.

  “Allow me, mistress.” Sulmar slid around her. He grabbed the nearest villager on the hip and shoulder and applied slight pressure. The man stepped sideways as his balance shifted, leaving an opening. Sulmar moved into the vacancy and applied similar pressure to the next person. He neither threatened nor overpowered anyone, but he drove a clear path to the temple doors.

  Dacius and the Legionnaires were already outside, surveying the situation.

  Suddenly, Thildemar appeared, sprinting toward them from the village square. He came to a stop beside Dacius. Sweat ran freely down the old elf’s brow, but his breathing was even and controlled. “I marked a score plus three, Lord Gemine, all mounted. None were obvious shamans or witches, but they are veteran troops. Nearly all carry blood trophies.”

  Dacius nodded. “How long?”

  “Perhaps four minutes,” Thildemar said. He paused, then spoke again. “Lord Gemine, they follow our trail.”

  Muscles corded along Dacius’ jaw. “So be it.” He pointed to the two houses nearest to the temple. “Leth, Gerruth, Thildemar, take the left. Drup, Alve, you’re with me. Wizard—where’s A’stoc? Never mind. We don’t have time. Sulmar, will you fight with us?”

  The Tengarian looked to Chentelle.

  She nodded. “Go on. I’ll be safe in the temple.”

  “Good,” Dacius said. “You’re on the left. Archers, three shots no more. We don’t have the men to hold a defensive position. Use the houses for cover, but don’t get cornered. Work in pairs or groups; an isolated man is fodder for cavalry. Move out, Legionnaires, and stay calm. No one fires until my signal.”

  Father Marcus came up behind them. “Lord Gemine, there is no need for this. We will be safe within the refuge.”

  Dacius spun about to face the priest. “They follow our trail, High Bishop. We have to take them.”

  The Legionnaire ran off to take his position, and Father Marcus turned to Chentelle, a puzzled expression on his face.

  She shrugged. “I have to find A’stoc.”

  The gates of the temple boomed shut behind Chentelle. She ran to the assembly hall. The wizard should have been easy to spot; he stood at least a head taller than any of the villagers. But there was no sign of him. Where could he be? She raced up the stairs, checking each of the sleeping chambers in turn. Nothing. What could have happened to him? Chentelle took a deep breath. Okay, relax. There had to be a way to find him.

  She closed her eyes, reaching out with her Gift. The power of the refuge made it easy. She let her awareness spread outward, until it filled the temple. She drifted in a sea of peace and tranquillity. She sensed the villagers below her, secure in the embrace of the Holy Priest’s power. And below them, she felt the hard core of guilt and anger that could only be A’stoc. He was in the cellar.