"The apothecary called it foxglove, but I know this herb as heartwort."

"What does it do?"

Lirith kept tilting the cup. "I believe Sir Tanner vomited much of the laudanum. That is well, for if he did not I fear he would already be dead. All the same, too much of it has entered his blood. The poppy has quickened the rhythm of his heart. If it goes any faster, his heart will give out. This simple will make his heart beat more slowly and strongly."

"That sounds good," Travis said, daring to hope.

"It would be. Except I don't know how much of the laudanum is flowing in his veins. If the dosage is too small, it won't be enough to help him."

Durge cleared his throat. "And if it's too large?"

"His heart will slow so much it will stop beating."

Lirith set down the empty cup; she had gotten most of the liquid into the sheriff. Durge helped her lay him back down.

"Now what?" Travis said.

She looked up. "Now we wait."

Travis bit his lip. Why was it, in all his studies of rune magic, he had never learned the rune for healing? But maybe there wasn't one. And maybe that's why Eldh needed witches as well as runelords-to heal the world after the wizards broke it apart.

What about Sinfathisar, Travis? You know the Stone has the power to choose between states. Life or death, light or dark. That's its magic. It made the demon just a rock. And it turned the feydrim back into fairies.

But what would it do to a man? As far as Travis knew, the runelords were the only human beings who had ever learned to touch the Great Stones and live to tell the tale.

They left the bedroom and returned to the parlor.

Maudie didn't look up. "How is he?"

Lirith sighed. "We'll know by sundown."

"Well, there's no use sitting here then, not when there's work to do." Maudie leaned on her cane and rose. "Come on, Liza. I'll help you get dinner started."

Travis felt his stomach twist into a knot. Sundown-that would be Tanner's reckoning hour. And in two more days, it would be Sareth's. Only why was the sorcerer making them wait three days? Why not make them bring the scarab today?

"He's scheming something, that's why," Jack said, popping into the parlor from the hallway.

Travis nearly jumped out of his boots. "Can you read my mind?"

"It's not my fault you think so loudly," Jack said in a huffy tone. There was something tucked under his arm. "If you ask me, you have an unwelcome propensity for being maudlin."

"So what is the sorcerer planning?"

Jack scowled. "I'm connected to you, Travis, not him. I haven't the foggiest notion what he's up to. However, one thing's certain-he fears you."

"Fears me?" Travis said, incredulous.

"As well he should. You're a runelord, after all. If you weren't, most likely he would have stolen the scarab long ago. The Scirathi is afraid of confronting you directly, so he's planning this exchange for the scarab quite carefully."

Jack's words made sense. But what was the sorcerer intending to do? Travis would have given anything to know. If they could prepare, they might have a chance of rescuing Sareth. Because there was one thing Travis did know: Sareth's only value to the Scirathi was as a bargaining chip. Once the sorcerer had the scarab, Sareth would die.

Jack sat on the sofa, took the object that had been tucked under his arm, and unfolded it. It was a copy of the Castle City Clarion.

Travis eyed the paper. "Where did you get that?"

"From a boy passing by on the street." Jack's voice grew testy. "And you needn't worry-I didn't disobey your rather rude command and leave the boardinghouse. He came to the front porch, and I leaned over the rail. So I don't believe that counts as a violation. I thought I'd catch up on the news." He flipped through the pages. "Only there doesn't seem to be a single story about London in this wretched publication."

Travis hardly heard Jack's words. He could only stare at the headline boldly printed on the front page: MURDERER BREAKS FREE FROM JAIL.

In two steps, Travis crossed the room and snatched the paper from Jack's hands.

"Gods, man, have you no manners at all?" Jack exclaimed, but Travis wasn't listening. The paper bore that day's date. Travis scanned the story beneath the headline as Lirith and Durge moved close, reading over his shoulder. Travis only made out a few fragments before his vision began to swim.

... a cold-blooded killer...to be considered armed and dangerous...and no man will be blamed for shooting on sight, as it would be a matter of self-defense...

Travis tossed down the paper. "Jack, when did you buy this?"

"Not long after you all left in such a rush," Jack said. "Why do you ask?"

Travis looked at Durge and Lirith. "These newspapers must have been printed hours ago. That means they already knew what had happened at the jail. It's got to be Mortimer Hale- he's the publisher of the paper. He has to be behind the Crusade. And in league with the sorcerer."

Durge hesitated, then placed a hand on Lirith's shoulder. "We'll get Sareth back, my lady."

She raised her chin, and her voice was as hard as the expression in her eyes. "Yes. We will."

But how? A thought occurred to Travis. "Durge, do you know where the Bar L Ranch is? And if it's owned by Mortimer Hale?"

The knight crossed his arms. "I cannot say on either account. But I can find out."

Travis nodded; there was nothing more to do just then. Lirith headed to the back bedroom to keep watch over Tanner, and Jack went upstairs, saying there was something he wanted to get for Travis.

"It's going to be a trap, you know," Durge said once he and Travis were alone. "There is no telling how many men the sorcerer will have waiting for us at this ranch-Gentry, Ellis, Hale, and Wilson at the least."

Travis swallowed. "It's not men I'm most worried about."

By his grim look, Durge caught Travis's meaning. Had the sorcerer had time to work more experiments like those he had on Calvin Murray?

"I must go to the sheriff's office now," Durge said, starting for the door.

Travis grabbed his arm, stopping him. "You don't have to do this, Durge. You're not the sheriff of this town."

"I am until Tanner awakens," Durge started to pull away, then paused. "I will be careful, Goodman Travis."

Travis couldn't find words. He squeezed Durge's arm, then let the knight go.

Jack reappeared a minute later. In his hands was a leather-bound journal. He held it out.

"What is it?" Travis said.

"It's the book I mentioned. The one I've been working on. It's a slight volume, really, something I undertook for my own amusement. There's a bit of history here and there, but mostly it's about magic. I thought you might find it inspiring." Jack gave him an eager grin. "You know, as you get ready to do battle with the sorcerer."

Travis pressed his lips in a tight line in an effort to keep from vomiting, only Jack must have mistaken the expression for a smile. He pressed the book into Travis's hands.

"Do take good care of it, Travis. It's the only copy I've got."

Jack headed upstairs to rest. Travis checked in on Lirith, but she was bent over Tanner, her fingers on his wrist, and didn't even notice him. Maudie and Liza were busy in the kitchen, and Travis knew he would only be in their way, so he went to the dining room. Not sure what else to do, he opened Jack's book and began to read.

He wasn't certain what language the book was written in, but he had the sense that it was both ancient and formal. However, with the help of the coin fragment in his pocket- along with a stray pencil, which he laid across the page to help focus his eyes on each line-he was able to wade through the flowing script.

The book was fascinating. And horrifying. There were passages about the first War of the Stones and the history of Malachor, but it was the tales of the Runelords that claimed Travis's attention. Last night, when Jack told them about the rune of time, Travis had thought binding such a thing-let alone breaking it-must have ranked as one of the greatest feats of the Runelords. Now he knew that wasn't so.

According to the book, the Ironfang Mountains-the peaks that bordered Imbrifale to the south-had once been little more than a line of hills. However, after Ulther defeated the Pale King, a hundred runelords spoke the rune Fal as one, and the mountains soared toward the sky, becoming an impenetrable wall, transforming Imbrifale into a prison.

But that was only one of the wonders wrought by the runelords. They raised castles simply by speaking the rune Sar, then bound the rune of stone so that the fortresses were far stronger than any wrought by human hands. They caught the light of the stars and bound it into the stones of Malachor's highest tower, so that it shone like a beacon in the night. And they worked magics upon themselves, so that even the shortest-lived among them endured long into his second century.

"Can I do those things?" Travis whispered.

It seemed a chorus of voices whispered in his mind. Yes, we can...

Travis continued reading about all of the wonders wrought by the runelords. He turned another page--and excitement drained from him, leaving the cavity of his chest hollow. The words on the page burned his eyes.

It is well known to the Runelords that gods, dragons, and witches of the Sight have all foretold his coming. The one named Runebreaker will shatter the rune Eldh, which was the First Rune spoken by the Worldsmith, who bound it in the Dawning Stone at the very beginning of the world. And so the First Rune shall also be the Last Rune, for when it breaks, the world shall end, and in that instant all things will cease to be.

None of it mattered. The wonders, the beautiful things created by the rune magic. Nothing mattered if in the end he was doomed to destroy it all.

Was there no escaping it? Even here, in Castle City, he couldn't avoid reminders of what it was his destiny to do. Vani and Sareth's al-Mama had said he was one of the Fateless, but how could that be right? Wasn't it fate that was driving everything? He clutched the pencil and stabbed it at the open book, as if to strike out the words. Instead he scribbled furiously in the margin next to the passage. Then he flung down the pencil and shut the book.

He pushed away from the table and rose. It was hot in there; he couldn't breathe. He needed to get out. Travis started to turn away, hesitated, then grabbed the book and shoved it into his back pocket. He headed out the front door, down the steps, then strode down Grant Street as fast as his legs would carry him.

You shouldn't be doing this. There's no telling whom you might run into-Gentry, Ellis, maybe even Hale himself. The sorcerer probably has them all keeping watch on you.

Only they wouldn't attack, would they? The Scirathi was laying a trap for him at the Bar L Ranch, and he was far too smart to let any of his minions jeopardize that by striking too soon. Feeling bold, even reckless, Travis turned two corners, then strode down the dusty swath of Elk Street.

The main avenue was largely deserted. It seemed everyone in town knew something was coming, something terrible, and they were lying low until the storm blew over. The usually bustling shops were empty, and many of the storefronts- mostly saloons-were boarded up. The Crusade for Purity had done its work well. They had stamped out the sin in this town. And just about every spark of life along with it.

A paper nailed to a post caught his eyes. Was it one of their commandments? However, as he drew closer, he saw it was a battered Wanted poster, the same as the one he had found in the back of the saloon. WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE. TYLER CAINE, THE MAN-KILLER.

Travis tore the poster off the nail, folded it up, and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He considered swinging by the jail to make sure Durge was all right. Then again, Travis doubted there was much lawbreaking for the knight to take care of. He was starting to think there was nobody left in Castle City.

Then he saw the small gathering of people and the black wagon.

Travis found himself moving closer. The wagon had halted to one side of Elk Street at the mouth of an alley. It was a rectangular vehicle with one small round window in its side; its black-lacquered panels were dusty and blistered. At first Travis thought it must be a stagecoach. Then he considered the shape, the color, the smallness of the window, and he knew the vehicle had been designed to carry passengers, not in a seat, but in a coffin.

Two swaybacked horses were hitched to the vehicle, heads bowed, looking like they didn't have enough life between the two of them to pull the hearse ten feet, let alone over a mountain pass. The crowd of about twenty gathered in a half-moon around the wagon didn't look much better. By their shabby clothes they were miners and washwomen. They gazed up with grimy faces that were too haggard for hope, too weary for despair.

Just as Travis reached the edge of the crowd, the wind turned, and that was when he heard the voice. It crashed and rolled like thunder out of a clear sky. Recognition flashed through Travis. He circled around the throng until the speaker came into view.

The door at the back of the wagon had been thrown wide, and the man stood in the opening, at the top of a set of wooden steps. He looked exactly as Travis remembered him. His skin was like yellow parchment stretched over his bony frame, and the black suit he wore looked as if it had been freshly stolen from a grave. The man held on to his broad-brimmed pastor's hat with one long hand, while the other was balled into a fist and shook in time to the cadence of his speech.

"...and there's no point in hoping things will get better," Brother Cy was saying in his booming voice. "Hope caught the last train to Denver, and she didn't look back. You're all on your own now, and there's no one who can help you." A sly look crept into the preacher's black-marble eyes. "That is, unless you all decide to help yourselves."

"But what can we do?" one of the miners shouted. "I can't swing a pick anymore. My lungs-it's like they're on fire all the time. Only if I don't work in the mines, my wife and children are going to starve."

"What can you do?" Brother Cy roared, drawing himself up to his full, terrible height, and the crowd fell back a step. "Why, you can spit in the face of Death, that's what you can do. You can pick out the plot for your own grave, then dance upon it. You can laugh as long as you've got a breath, and when your breath is gone, then you'll know at least you put every bit you had to good use."

A woman raised her hands. "Well, that sounds fine, but how will it put bread in our bellies?"

Brother Cy laughed. "It won't, madam. It can't. Nothing I can possibly say will heal you, or feed you, or make you wealthy, or give you something you don't already have."

"Then why should we be listening to you at all?" a man shouted, shaking his fist.

"Because," said a soft, lisping voice, "he tells the truth that most people in this town fear. Only you have dared to come forth and listen to it."

The murmurs of the crowd fell silent. Brother Cy descended the steps to the ground, and a girl and a woman appeared in the back of the hearse. The girl's hair was as black as her dress, her face was a cherub's cameo, and her eyes were purple. The woman wore a dress like the girl's, high-necked and severe, but her hair was wild and red, flying like fire about the oval of her face. She stared with stricken eyes.

The girl folded her small hands together. "Only a deceiver offers hope when there is no hope to be had. Only a devil takes your hand to guide you down the path to joy, when the only path from this world is barred with thorns."

"Child Samanda speaks wisely," Brother Cy said, his voice a low rasp, but commanding no less attention. "All I'm saying is that you'll all have plenty of time to be dead soon enough. So don't start acting like you're dead before you are. That's not why you were granted this life. I can't take away your sickness. I can't give you money. But I can help you find the truth, and in these days that's more precious than gold, and more welcome than water in the desert."

Brother Cy fell silent.

"But what is it?" the man who had shouted before said, lowering his fist.

"What is what?" the preacher snorted.

"The truth you're going to give us."

Again Brother Cy grinned his cadaverous grin. "I didn't say I was going to give you the truth. I said I was going to help you find it. And so I have, if you've been listening. Everything you can ever possibly have is already inside of you-be it love or fear, laughter or sorrow, madness or peace. No one else can give you those things, not man, woman, child, or god. They're in your blood. They were born with you, and they'll die with you. No matter what life dishes out, no one can take those possibilities from you." Brother Cy's grin vanished, and with a start Travis realized the preacher was gazing at him. "And that's the truth."

"The wind!" Sister Mirrim called out, her eyes wide and empty. "The wind is changing. I can see it!"

At that moment, a gust raced down Elk Street. Dust devils sprang to gritty life. The people turned their backs and hurried away, hanging on to hats and hands, and then-as if the wind had blown them all away-they were gone. The air grew still; the dust settled. Travis stood alone in front of the wagon.

He blinked his stinging eyes to clear them. Child Samanda and Sister Mirrim were gone; they must have retreated into the wagon. Brother Cy stood like a crooked post, watching.

"Who are you?" Travis said. But didn't he already know the answer to that? He took a step closer. "You're Old Gods, aren't you? The ones who helped trap Mohg beyond the circle of Eldh. Only you got trapped there with him."

Sadness filled the preacher's black eyes, but he smiled. "It doesn't matter who we are, son. All that matters is what you're going to be."

Travis didn't let go. "But how did you get here?"

"A way beyond has been opened. The world has been cracked."

"What are you talking about?"

Brother Cy brought his spidery hands together. "Two things can't be in the same place, son, you know that. It was the only way it knew how to fix things, to make an opening, to give one of the two a direction to retreat. The Stones are powerful, but they're not really all that clever, if you know what I mean."

Travis reached into his pocket, feeling the smooth shape of Sinfathisar. He had felt it, like far-off thunder, when his Sinfathisar had touched Jack's Stone. Hadn't Melia and Falken talked about a rift? One that had allowed the New Gods to transport Grace to Eldh-and had allowed the Pale King to send his minions after her. It was his fault; he was the one who had caused the rift.