“I will not be left behind! What, shall I honor Leth’s memory by cooling myself in the snow while great deeds are done.” Gerruth grabbed hold of Thildemar’s arm and jerked himself to his feet. Fresh blood seeped from his wound, and he doubled over in pain. But not a sound escaped his clenched lips. Slowly, he straightened up, loosening his grip on Thildemar’s arm. “I can walk.”

  Dacius stepped in front of the elf, blocking his way. “Are you trying to kill yourself? I’ve stopped you from doing so once already.”

  Gerruth met the human’s eyes with a hard stare. The message was clear. Without healing, he wouldn’t survive the night. He would not wait meekly for the end to come.

  Dacius stepped out of the way. “Stay with him, Thildemar.”

  Father Marcus led Gerruth through the oath. Then he spoke it for himself. “So, we are ready. May the Creator guide us through this final test.”

  “Lord Gemine.” Drup stepped forward, holding the helmet of A’kalendane outstretched in one hand. A flip of his wrist sent it spinning toward the Legionnaire.

  Dacius caught it smoothly and examined the damage. The helm was split along one side nearly to the crown, and the entire surface was blackened. Smiling ruefully, he shrugged and placed the helmet over his head.

  Arcs of blue radiance shot from the metal. The sparks coursed around Dacius’ body covering every inch of A’kalendane’s armor. Wherever they passed, rips mended and scars disappeared. In seconds, the armor gleamed like new. Even the shield welded itself together, and the twins suns of House Gemine blazed proudly on its argent field.

  “Amazing,” Father Marcus said. “But we must hurry.” That said, he turned and began to limp toward the Fallen Star.

  “I have seen worse omens,” A’stoc said blandly. Then he shrugged and followed after the High Bishop.

  Marcus’ eyes scanned the smooth surface intently. He took them close to the curved metal, then circled around until they reached the rock slide. He scrambled up the loose stones, dragging his injured leg behind him. When he reached the top, he pointed to a small oval protuberance. “Clear away the rubble on either side of that bulge.”

  Dacius and Sulmar set to work quickly, tossing stones to the side and scraping away ice and snow. Soon, bare metal showed for several cubits in both directions.

  Marcus ran his fingers along the oval swelling. A hidden door snapped open. Behind it lay a glowing red knob. The priest pressed against it with his thumb, and a hexagonal crack appeared in the metal. Air hissed angrily as the hexagon sank away from them. Then the door snapped to the side, revealing a dark tunnel into the Star. Something hummed deep within the metal, and a walkway pressed toward them. It came to rest on the stones near Marcus, an invitation into the Abyss.

  “What magic is this?” A’stoc muttered. “I sense no power here, no spells or talismans.”

  Chentelle reached out with her Gift. A’stoc was right. There was no flow of magic within the metal, but it went deeper than that. The Fallen Star radiated nothing at all. It was an emptiness, complete and absolute void. Not even the Desecration was so blank. The land there felt pain and retained the memory of life. The Fallen Star was an utter null. Her Gift slid off of it without making contact.

  “Hold your questions,” Father Marcus said, stepping onto the ramp. “The answers are dangerous.”

  The walkway took them to a small, dark chamber. Father Marcus touched a square tile on the far wall, and the door slid shut behind them. Immediately, light sprang from strips that ran across the top of the walls. It was white, like orb-light, but harsh and very bright.

  Again, Chentelle sensed no magic.

  Father Marcus touched another tile. A six-sided door hissed open and disappeared into the wall.

  Dacius’ hand snapped to his sword. The vorpal metal remained quiescent, but he drew the blade anyway. Cautiously, he stepped through the open portal.

  As soon as his foot crossed the threshold, light strips burst into life, revealing a curved tunnel carved from a smooth, beige material. Twisted tubes draped the ceiling and ran along the walls. Some of the tubes were metal, others seemed to be glass.

  Father Marcus pushed past the Legionnaire and hobbled down the corridor, using one wall for support. He led them deeper and deeper into the maze of tunnels that riddled the Fallen Star. He took each junction without pausing, as if he knew the path intimately.

  Dacius and A’stoc followed just behind the High Bishop. Chentelle and Sulmar were next, followed by Drup, Thildemar and Gerruth. The old elf supported most of Gerruth’s weight. His soft voice drifted forward, counting doors and passages and repeating their turnings over and over in a rhythmic chant.

  Father Marcus turned down a short tunnel that ended in a huge six-sided door. A flat oval of dark glass was mounted on one wall, surrounded by rows of red and white knobs. Each knob was decorated by a strange rune. The priest ran his fingers quickly over the knobs, pressing some and twisting others.

  More runes appeared, glowing in illish green from the black glass. Father Marcus twisted a knob and the runes slid quickly upward, replaced by new ones from below. The priest scanned the writing for several minutes. Then he pressed another knob and the door slid back into the wall.

  The hexagonal chamber beyond was a junction for three tunnels. Large doors still blocked the other two exits. Marcus’ fingers moved again, and one door across the left passage hissed open. Then the priest touched a knob and the glass blinked back into darkness.

  Marcus hopped through the first door, then froze. He turned slowly and stared at Gerruth, worry plain in his eyes.

  Thildemar had abandoned the pretense of assisting and now simply carried the Legionnaire in his arms. Gerruth was barely conscious. His face was pale, and his half-open eyes stared blankly at one wall. Only the quivering of his bloodless lips revealed that he was still alive.

  Father Marcus went back to the glass and called up the writing again. Then he pressed a knob and the other door slid open. He banished the runes once more and limped into the next passage, leading them down the right fork.

  They made two more turnings and stopped before a door on the right side of the corridor. A glowing red rune pulsed above the doorway, and a smaller version of the same symbol decorated a tile beside the door. Marcus pressed the tile and the portal slid open.

  The room beyond was large and held several oddly shaped altars. Marcus pointed to one and told Thildemar to lay Gerruth upon it. Amber lights above the altar glowed into life, and a panel slid aside from the pedestal’s base. Segmented metal tentacles shot from the opening, reaching up to surround the elf. Then thin metal thorns sprang from the sides of the altar, lancing into both sides of the Legionnaire’s neck.

  Dacius leaped forward. His vorpal sword clanged against one of the metal arms and rebounded harmlessly.

  “Wait!” Marcus shouted. “Leave it alone. It’s trying to save his life.” He held another machine close to his injured leg, and weblike strands flowed from it to wrap around his ankle.

  Dacius stepped back. He turned to face the priest, but his blank metal helm betrayed no expression.

  The tentacles formed a bridge over Gerruth’s head and snapped together with a loud click. Then the surface of the altar slid forward, passing the elf’s body through the metal arch. When the injury was centered below the tentacles, the altar stopped moving. Then the surface dropped away, falling open from the center. Strands of pale white fiber shot from above and below, forming a reticulate sheath that first penetrated and then sealed the elf’s wound.

  The altar snapped back into place, and the long thorns pulled out of Gerruth’s neck. Deep punctures showed where the spikes had been, but no blood flowed from the holes. The tentacles separated smoothly and retracted back into their home. The panel door slid shut, and the golden lights faded to darkness.

  The Legionnaire’s eyes opened, showing massively dilated pupils. He glanced around the room without comprehension. Then he sat up slowly.

  “GERRUTH, ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?”

  “Sure. I’m fine.” His voice was thin and slightly slurred. He raised a hand and ran it across his belly. The long fingers passed from torn leatherbark to flesh to the pale fibrous sheath that now bandaged his injury. His eyes snapped suddenly into focus. “Lord Gemine! What—?”

  “Later,” Father Marcus said quickly. “We must hurry.”

  The priest marched into the corridor and turned back the way they had come. He walked steadily, now, with no trace of a limp, and the others had to scramble to catch up to him.

  Chentelle extended her Gift. Gerruth’s body showed almost no sign of his injury. The torn flesh and ruptured organs were completely healed. Even the weakness brought on by lost blood was gone. His body was whole, but the wound itself was a mystery to her. The area covered by the pale fibers was a blank, impenetrable to her Gift. She felt a similar blankness in Father Marcus’ right leg.

  They returned to the junction chamber and turned down the other fork. Almost immediately, they emerged into a vast round chamber. A deep throbbing filled the room, and rows of long metal cabinets lined the floor, flickering with the light of glowing glass. Columns of twinkling white knobs covered the dark walls like a host of uniform stars. In the center of the hall, a huge, transparent conduit ran from floor to ceiling. Brilliant light swirled within the tube, ranging from flame blue to molten white but emitting no heat. A wide shaft surrounded the conduit, climbing hundreds of cubits past the tall ceiling and dropping beyond sight into the depths below.

  Father Marcus led them around the conduit and into the maze of cabinets on the other side. It was there that they found the first body.

  It appeared to be the skeleton of a human, but it was no creature from the races of man. The bones shone like ivory and showed no signs of age. They were draped by strange robes, clean and unwrinkled as though they had just been laundered. Many of the organs had also resisted decay. They hung from the rib cage, suspended by thin hollow tubes. Liver, kidneys, heart, they were all there, partly metal and partly composed of pale white fibers. Even one of the eyes remained, staring blindly upward with a pupil held an ember of glowing red at its center.

  Father Marcus paused and removed a strange wand from the cadaver’s belt. It was fashioned of sleek black metal and resembled an oddly shaped bird, pointed at one end with its wings folded back. A short stock was attached to the other end, like the handle of a gnomish crossbow. The priest adjusted a tiny lever on one side of the stock and thrust the wand into his robes.

  They passed several other corpses, each with a different selection of unnaturally preserved organs. Despite the bodies, there was no scent of decay. The air remained odorless, sterile. Several of the carcasses showed signs of violence, but the floor was unscarred and absent of bloodstains.

  Father Marcus slid open another door and paused outside the small, bare room it revealed. “This is a—levitating chamber. It will take us to the top of the shaft. It is there that we will activate the Sphere of Ohnn.”

  The company crowded into the chamber, and Marcus pressed the topmost knob of a series along one wall. The walls hummed and a slight heaviness fell upon them. Though there was no visible sign, it did indeed feel like a levitating platform.

  Chentelle felt a constriction in her throat. The Fallen Star remained impenetrable to her Gift, but something felt wrong. It had no source she could name, but a cold finger of fear touched her heart.

  The sensation of motion stopped, and the door slid open. Corridors branched off to either side, but Father Marcus took them straight ahead. They entered a large, domed hall that sat at the top of the conduit shaft. A web of metal supports and hollow tubes connected the glowing pillar to floor, walls, and ceiling. In the center of the chamber, a metal stairway climbed toward the top of the conduit. A dais with a single gleaming cabinet sat at the top of the stairs like the throne of some unknown king.

  Father Marcus walked to the foot of the stairs and then turned to face the company. “The landing is too small to hold us all. A’stoc and I will go up alone. The rest of you wait here. Once the Sphere is ignited, we will have to flee, so stand ready. Speed will be essential.” He hesitated, then turned to Chentelle. “Perhaps you should come, too.”

  “Of course,” she said, stifling the protest she had been preparing to voice. “Wait here, Sulmar.”

  They started up the stairs. The climb seemed interminable. They were so close to their goal, so close to the end of the quest—but each step seemed to drag slowly through time. Chentelle’s thoughts turned to Leth and Brother Gorin, to Simon and Captain Rone. So many deaths, so many sacrifices, but now they would redeem them all. And they would survive. Whatever Father Marcus planned, she wasn’t going to let him add his name or A’stoc’s to the list.

  They reached the midway point and paused on the small landing there. Father Marcus looked tired, suddenly weary beyond his years. His breath came in shallow pants, and he was muttering quietly to himself. “It will be done. Finally, it will be done.”

  A flicker of motion caught Chentelle’s eye—a shadow passed across the dais. Blue radiance exploded from the floor of the chamber as vorpal steel blazed to life. A cold hand clamped down on her mind. She was paralyzed. She could not even turn her eyes. The dais mocked her with its emptiness, and still she had the sense of a shadow moving just beyond the edge of vision.

  Desperately, she reached out with her Gift. She sensed the presence of her friends, felt their fear and rage. A’stoc was gripped by the same force that held her, as were all of those on the floor of the chamber. Only Father Marcus managed to resist it. His mind blocked the possession, trained to resistance by his experience with Bone. The High Bishop climbed the last flight of stairs, coming to a halt beside the raised cabinet.

  A single vikhor loped into the chamber. It moved past the frozen company and climbed up the steps. Chentelle’s skin crawled as it pressed by her, but she couldn’t even flinch away. The monster bounded up to the dais and stood facing Father Marcus. The half-seen shadow descended, then wrapped itself around the vikhor. The Ill-creature went rigid, and its features started to change. In moments, it looked exactly like Chentelle.

  She recognized the effect from A’stoc’s memory—the Dark One. To her eyes, it was like staring into a clear pool, but her Gift sensed a cold, dark hunger that could swallow the world and never be sated.

  “High Bishop Marcus Alanda,” the Dark One said. Its voice was hers, dripping with all the power and persuasion of her Gift but none of the gentleness. “Welcome to my new demesne. I have been waiting for you to arrive. The power here resists my touch, but the knowledge you hold will lay it bare before me.”

  Father Marcus snapped suddenly erect. His face twitched with tension as the Dark One’s will pressed against him, but his voice remained steady. “Such knowledge is not yours to take. I am not your creature.”

  “True.” The Dark One smiled sadly, and its voice held a twinge of actual disappointment. “But neither are you in a position to deny me. Your quest has failed.” As if to emphasize the statement, the Dark One gestured and a clatter of steel echoed through the hall. Sulmar and the Legionnaires had cast aside their vorpal weapons. “If you do not give me what I wish, then I will be forced to subject your friends to indescribable agony. Eventually you will capitulate. The only reward for your recalcitrance will be their suffering.”

  Chentelle screamed. Fire burned through her eyes. Flesh melted and ran down her face in scorching rivulets. The bones in her legs shattered and crashed to the stairs. She was blind, paralyzed, and a thousand insects swarmed over her body, digesting her piece by piece. Another cry tore from her throat, joining the chorus from below and beside her.

  “Stop it! Stop!”

  Chentelle’s agony vanished. She could see again. Her legs were whole, and she was standing exactly as she had before. Only the rawness of her throat remained. The screams, at least, had been real.

  “Of course,” the Dark One said. “They are nothing to me. I take no pleasure from their pain; it is simply the means to my goal. But there is a better way, if you would entertain it.”

  “What way?” Marcus asked.

  “Cooperation.” The Dark One smiled with Chentelle’s face. It was a kind expression, filled with compassion and gentle concern. “I submit to you that your cause is lost. Your Creator has long since abandoned this world to my will. I cannot be stopped. Without the Fallen Star, I will destroy Infinitera and all that lives upon it. No other outcome is possible.”

  The Dark One raised a finger, and A’stoc jerked forward. Green flames flickered briefly around the Thunderwood Staff, but they were feeble and died quickly. The wizard lurched up to the top stair and stopped. His arm thrust forward, raising the Staff as if in offering.

  “Such an interesting toy. It’s really a pity that I’ll have to destroy it.” The Dark One lifted the Thunderwood from A’stoc’s hand and set it casually on the dais. “As I was saying, this world is mine. Without the Fallen Star, all I can do is destroy it. But there is power here, the power to shape rather than annihilate. You are the key to that power, Marcus Alanda. Together, we can reshape Creation. We can end the strife and the bloodshed. We can forge a new order of perfect unity. All you have to do is open your mind to me. In return, I will grant you immortality. You will live forever, and rule the world as my most favored son.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” Marcus said. “Perhaps there is no hope for this world. Perhaps your power is unstoppable. But I notice that you come here only in spirit, and you hide your soft words behind my own face. Where is your body?”

  “My body is elsewhere!” Anger flared in the Dark One’s voice. Its gaze drifted away from the High Bishop and locked on to A’stoc. Then it snatched up the Thunderwood and jabbed it at the wizard. Earthpower roared from the Staff, scorching the very air and halting barely a finger’s width before A’stoc’s face. “Your master died before I could repay him for the pain he caused me. You shall not be so fortunate.”

  “So,” Father Marcus said, “your lies collapse one after the other. You are neither as kind nor as omnipotent as you pretend. Listen to me. The power of the Fallen Star comes from beyond the Creation. You cannot control it. You may harness it for a time, but in the end it will destroy Infinitera and you along with it.”