The mage thrust his own Staff toward the attack. The pillar of flame that surrounded him flowed down through his arms and through the Thunderwood. Green fire raged through the air, swallowing the Ill-creature’s attack and tracing back along its path. The demonspawn disappeared in an inferno of Earthpower.

  But now the others joined the assault. Twin jets of force blasted across the cavern. A’stoc was forced to the defensive. He raised the Staff in both hands, calling forth a protective nimbus of power. Green light surrounded him an instant before the eldritch bolts hit.

  Ill-power crashed into his shield with an explosion of fire. The wizard flew backward, landing among the stalagmites. A tiny sun of yellow flames formed in the air as the demonspawn pressed their attack. A’stoc disappeared in a holocaust of power. Slabs of stone ripped loose from the floor. The walls trembled, and showers of rock fell from the ceiling. And the onslaught continued.

  The company had rushed toward the Atablicryon when A’stoc had first appeared, but now they froze. The rubble surrounding the temple shifted treacherously under their feet, and falling stones clattered all around them. Thildemar dived for the cover of a still standing column, and the rest of them followed his lead.

  At last, the demonspawn lowered their staves. The conflagration of power flickered into nothingness. Still surrounded by their blazing yellow auras, the Ill-creatures threw back their heads and laughed. It was a shrill, grating sound, like steel plates grinding on stone. It echoed wildly around the stone walls, then stopped suddenly.

  A pale green light was visible through the cloud of debris near the rift.

  A’stoc levered himself slowly to his feet. He grabbed one of the ends of the Thunderwood Staff in both hands and whirled it around his head. Earthpower coursed along the length of the wood. He swung the Staff down and pointed it toward the Ill-creatures. Once again, green lightning lanced across the cave, striking one of the demonspawn.

  Only this time, the creature was prepared. Lightning ripped at the demonspawn’s shield, tearing through the sphere of flame. But before it penetrated fully, the Ill-creature thrust its staff toward the fissure. A stream of energy arced into the tear. The instant it touched the surface of the pit, A’stoc’s assault was redirected. Earthpower poured from his Staff through the Ill-creature’s staff and into the molten stone. The rock churned violently, spewing gouts of glowing magma into the air.

  A’stoc was trapped. Energy drained from the Thunderwood, feeding the vile pit. He was unable to break the circuit and unable to defend himself. The second demonspawn stalked forward.

  “Sulmar,” Chentelle cried. “Help him!”

  The Tengarian sprinted forward.

  “Leth, guard the High Bishop!” Dacius and the other Legionnaires dropped their packs and followed mere steps behind the Tengarian.

  As he approached the demonspawn, Sulmar drew his vorpal sword. The blade carved a fierce blue glow through the air as he drove it at the demonspawn’s back. The weapon struck the Ill-creature’s protective aura and stopped dead in the air. Yellow fire streaked down the blade and surrounded the Tengarian. Smoke rose from his body, and he dropped to his knees. But he held on to the sword. Blue light warred against yellow flame until both exploded in a fountain of radiance.

  Sulmar flew through the air, crashing to the floor a dozen cubits from where he had stood. The vorpal sword slipped from his fingers, its blade a twisted knot of dull steel. The Tengarian groaned and struggled to stand.

  The Ill-fires flickered into nothingness, leaving the demonspawn unprotected. It whirled around to face the new threat.

  Dacius was the first Legionnaire to arrive. He swung a powerful cut toward the demonspawn’s leg, but the creature brought its staff around in a lightning-quick parry. The force of the block ripped the sword from the Legionnaire’s hand and sent it flying across the floor.

  The Ill-creature reversed its grip and snapped the staff down in a vicious counter. Dacius dived out of the way, rolling in the direction of his sword. Yellow sparks flew from the iron rod as it slammed into the ground, scoring a deep gouge in the stone.

  Thildemar struck while the monster was extended. A line of blue fire appeared on the demonspawn’s arm, running from claw to elbow. The Ill-creature’s only response was to launch an attack at the elf’s head.

  Thildemar ducked under the swinging staff. But as soon as he moved, the demonspawn snapped its powerful arms. The other end of the staff screamed toward the elf’s ribs, far too fast to avoid.

  Gerruth stepped forward. He swung his sword in a two-handed stroke, intercepting the iron staff. The impact drove him several steps backward, but it gave Thildemar time to move out of range.

  Alve moved in behind the demonspawn’s swing. He lunged forward, driving the tip of his blade deep into the Ill-creature’s side. Flames erupted from the wound, and the monster staggered. Alve withdrew his blade and lunged again.

  The demonspawn lashed out. Its staff moved with blinding speed, catching the young Legionnaire full in the chest. The strike lifted Alve off the ground. Ill-magic crackled around his body and he burst into flame. By the time he hit the ground, charred flesh was already falling from his bones.

  The demonspawn threw back its head and laughed, showing none of the weakness that had lured Alve into a second lunge. Chentelle, watching, stifled a groan. She had thought the Ill-creatures to be mostly mindless savages. Now it was clear they were not. They had cruel cunning.

  A’stoc remained locked in the demonspawn’s magical drain. Green Earthpower still flowed from the Thunderwood Staff, feeding the dark spells that controlled the breeding pit.

  Suddenly, the stream of force doubled in intensity. “Do you want my power?” A’stoc screamed. “Then take it, demonspawn. Take it all!”

  He whirled the Thunderwood above his head and drove it toward the creature. The flow of power continued unabated, describing a spiral as the weapon moved. Again and again he lifted the Staff and hammered it against the air. Again and again the mystic cord pulsed with energy. Raw Earthpower poured through the demonspawn’s staff. The iron turned red, then white with heat. The Ill-creature’s claws burst into flame. Now it was the one unable to break free. The staff melted into slag. But the liquid fragments floated in the air, still trapped in the circuit of power.

  The torrent of force ripped through the demonspawn and into the breeding pit. The surface churned, sending geysers of molten rock into the air. The magma radiated power, glowing with a light that rivaled Ellistar’s. But the color of that was shifting from yellow to pure white. A cleansing fire swept the surface of the pit, reducing both human bones and growing Ill-creatures to ash.

  A’stoc dropped the Staff to his side, cutting off the current of power. Molten iron splashed to the ground at the demonspawn’s feet. The Ill-creature staggered forward and collapsed, shattering into a cloud of dust when it hit the stone floor.

  Dacius charged at the last demonspawn’s flank. The gloating Ill-creature didn’t see him until it was too late. He drove his point into the monster’s chest, lodging it deeply. Blue fire screamed around the blade as he jumped away from a wild counterattack, leaving the weapon lodged.

  The demonspawn howled in pain. The iron staff clattered to the floor as the creature grabbed for the sword. The massive claws smoldered and hissed wherever they touched the blade, but they did not let go. Inch by inch, the Ill-creature pulled the blade from its body. Roaring in triumph, the demonspawn tossed the glowing weapon into the distance.

  Sulmar stepped forward. Alve’s sword danced in his hand, weaving a deadly web of blue light.

  The demonspawn backed away from the blade, moving toward the fissure. Suddenly, it clapped its claws together. A splash of weak yellow flame jumped out and struck Sulmar in the face. The Tengarian backed away, momentarily blinded.

  Gerruth leaped to the attack. Using great, two-handed strokes he hammered at the demonspawn. The Ill-creature staggered backward, a crisscross of blue fire glowing in the armored plates of its head and shoulders. The Legionnaire pressed his advantage, driving into the assault with renewed fury, but the monster held its ground.

  A claw shot out, breaking the rhythm of Gerruth’s attack. The second claw swung, and the Legionnaire was forced to retreat.

  Thildemar slid around the demonspawn’s guard. He slashed downward, cutting deeply into the Ill-creature’s thigh. The monster dropped to its knees as the leg buckled beneath it.

  Sulmar’s sword crashed through the demonspawn’s tusks and into its face. The creature toppled backward and landed in the crevice. White flames wrapped around it, reducing it to ash in seconds.

  Chentelle rushed forward. “Sulmar, are you all right?”

  The Tengarian blinked his eyes. “My vision is blurred, mistress. But I believe it will clear soon.”

  Alve was not so lucky. They gathered the elf’s body and cremated it in the pure Earthpower of the fissure. It was the best burial they could manage. Father Marcus said a quick prayer for the Legionnaire, but that was all Dacius would allow.

  “We must keep moving,” he said. “The goblins can’t have missed the signs of that battle. It would be folly to invite more deaths by dallying over this one.”

  Father Marcus nodded grimly.

  They rushed toward the Atablicryon. Rubble surrounded the building, blocking any access from the ground. But when they climbed the pile of fallen stone, a small gap was revealed. The hole opened near the temple’s ceiling and was illuminated faintly from below. They lowered themselves through the cavity and dropped to the floor beneath.

  Chentelle immediately experienced a feeling of peace and security. It was similar to the aura of the Holy Land, but much weaker. And it hinted more toward solitude than communion. Still, it must be what kept the Ill-creatures away from the temple. Its true power might show only in adversity.

  The walls glowed faintly with a steady white light, illuminating a bare interior inhabited only by dust and debris. No doors or corridors led from the room. It was entirely encased by rock and rubble. The Sphere of Ohnn was nowhere to be seen.

  Father Marcus walked to a point near the center of the floor. He turned to face the company. “I must ask each of you never to speak of anything that you see within this temple,” he said.

  Each of them nodded. They knew that some great mystery was associated with this structure. Then Father Marcus closed his eyes and started to chant.

  Light flooded the room. It shone from a ring of stones beneath the High Bishop’s feet. It radiated in equal intensity from the simple stone sphere of Kelmek’s necklace. And it burst forth from Father Marcus’ own body. The brilliance increased until it became almost blinding. Then it vanished. And Father Marcus vanished with it.

  Minutes dragged past.

  “How long will it take?” Dacius asked Brother Gorin.

  “I do not know, Lord Gemine,” the goblin answered. “I fear that something is wrong.”

  The Legionnaire nodded agreement. “What can we do? Do you know where he is?”

  “No. I have never before seen this power.”

  “A’stoc?” Dacius inquired.

  The wizard was slumped against a wall, recuperating from his battle. He looked up at Dacius’ question and shook his head.

  Dacius walked over and examined the spot where Father Marcus had been standing. “It looks just like the rest of the floor. I can’t see any difference.”

  “Maybe it was only reacting to Father Marcus’ song,” Chentelle said. She turned to Brother Gorin. “What was he chanting?”

  “It was one of the meditations,” he said.

  “All right,” Dacius said. “Everybody come here. Lock your hands together. Good, now don’t lose contact with the people next to you. Gorin, I want you to lead us in the meditation.”

  They gathered around the temple’s center. Chentelle took a place between Sulmar and A’stoc. The wizard kept his hand on the Thunderwood Staff, so she grabbed his wrist.

  The goblin waited while the others found their places in the circle. “Close your eyes. Breathe deeply and slowly. Let all tensions slide from your spirit.” He paused, and then started to chant.

  “Peace, in the Creation.

  Harmony, of the Creation.

  Unity, with the Creation.

  Healing, for the Creation.”

  The simple chant filled the temple. The four-tone structure reminded Chentelle of the Grand Vespers. She felt the same spirit of union and community with her friends. The meditation continued. Chentelle felt relaxed and refreshed; fatigue and worry melted from her. But there was no blinding radiance, no miraculous transportation.

  Then she felt something, a slight warmth against her cheek, a distant call. She opened her eyes. An ember of light burned in Kelmek’s amulet, faint but steady. She reached for it with her Gift, but the radiance eluded her. Kelmek stood just on the other side of Sulmar, but the glow seemed a hundred leagues away. If she could only touch it…

  Chentelle let go of A’stoc’s arm. She reached across Sulmar and wrapped her hand around the amulet. The glow erupted through her Gift. Unity. All was oneness. All things were joined. All places were here. There was an explosion of light, and Chentelle was elsewhere.

  She floated in an ocean of oneness, a place without substance, full of radiant light. Music surrounded her, a single note that enfolded and protected. She felt secure—as if she rested in her mother’s womb. The oneness extended forever. She was alone. She was all.

  Wait. That wasn’t right. She was supposed to find something, someone. “Father Marcus!” she called.

  Pain lanced through her. The music buffeted her, louder than before. It was a tone of isolation, of emptiness. It seeped into her, reverberating in her spirit. She felt herself dissipating, dissolving into the unending sameness.

  No. She wouldn’t surrender. She sang out with her Gift. The monotonous tone rang in her soul, but she countered it with the four-tone progression of the Vespers. She filled her song with the communion of the Holy Land, the diverse harmony of Creation. The oneness of unity clashed with the oneness of isolation.

  “Stop.” A monotone voice materialized out of the ceaseless drone. “This is beyond toleration.”

  Chentelle let her song end. The note of isolation no longer pressed in on her. “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I am the Creator, the Dreamer of All Things. The question is, why am I being disturbed?”

  The Creator? Chentelle felt a shudder of fear. Had the temple really sent her to the Creator? If so, why was everything so empty? “I’m looking for Father Marcus and the Sphere of Ohnn.”

  “No. Those things do not exist. Nothing exists. You are all illusions, fragments of my imagination. But why have you manifested to plague me with your cacophony?”

  Illusions? “I don’t believe you. The Creation is no illusion. It’s real. It’s beautiful.”

  “Ah, now I understand. You are an aspect of doubt. I thought that I was beyond that.”

  “What are you talking about?” Chentelle asked.

  “I see I must purge you again. Very well, I am the Creator. I am alone. Creation is an illusion, dreamed by me to combat my isolation. But this is a trap. I am still alone. Only by letting go of all illusion can I be free.”

  “I don’t understand,” Chentelle said. “Free of what?”

  “Of isolation.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Enough. I have affirmed my determination. You are dealt with. Now, disappear.”

  “But you haven’t dealt with me,” Chentelle said. “I still need to find Father Marcus.”

  There was no answer. The music of oneness swelled again, drowning out her voice.

  “This is childish,” she said. “I know you’re still there.”

  Nothing. The empty note droned on. Then, it was interrupted.

  “Enchantress, is that you?”

  “Father Marcus!” She could not see the priest, but there was no mistaking the gentle power of his voice. “Are you all right?”

  “I am now,” the priest replied. “I was—lost for a time. Then I heard your song, the song of Vespers. It gave me the strength I needed to summon a sanctuary. Now, I—”

  “Silence. This is unacceptable. I will not be disturbed by the chattering of my own dreams. I am your Creator. I demand that you vanish.”

  Chentelle opened herself to her Gift, searching beyond the voice, past the tone of isolation. She sensed a distant pocket of harmony, a small sphere that rang with the harmony of the True Creation. She touched it with her Gift, and she was there.

  “Hello, Father Marcus.”

  The High Bishop blinked in surprise at her appearance. “Greetings, Chentelle.” He reached out and touched her arm. The aura of sanctuary surrounded her, filling her with peace. The music of this place disappeared, unable to penetrate the harmony of the Holy Order.

  Chentelle smiled gratefully. “Thank you. I was growing tired of that note. Do you know where we are?”

  The priest nodded. “The Atablicryon in the Holy Land is home to a spirit. I call it the Protector. This spirit inhabits a realm that is no place but is connected to all places. We are in the realm of this Atablicryon’s spirit.”

  “Then that is the voice we heard?” Chentelle said.

  “I believe so,” he said. “But I fear that the spirit is insane. Somehow this realm has become severed from the Sphere of Creation. The shock of isolation must have been too much for it.”

  Chentelle thought about the spirit’s rambling. “I think you’re right. Is there any way you can heal it?”

  Father Marcus shook his head sadly. “No. The spirit rejects the power of the Holy Order, just as it recoils from the touch of your own Gift.”

  Chentelle felt the pain behind those words. She put her hand over the High Bishop’s and squeezed. “I’m sorry. What should we do?”

  “I am not certain. I can return us to the temple, but we must find the Sphere first. And to find the Sphere we must have the spirit’s aid.”