The tunnel led forward, to where, beyond a series of turns, reflections of a dim flame danced on the walls. Its vaults were high enough for a person to walk beneath, and the walls smooth enough to tell that this passage through the mountain had been made by human hands. The floor was covered in cracks from which thin streams of steam rose toward the ceiling. Saelin jumped over them on the run and kept rushing on, breathing heavily and raspingly, wiping large drops of sweat from his eyes. A stifling heat hung in the place, yet for now it was not lethal. But it exhausted one, sucking the strength away.

  Saelin passed another corridor and suddenly shot out of the tunnel so abruptly that, had it happened a couple of months earlier, he would not have escaped death. But much had changed in his body since then—in particular, quick animal reflexes had appeared. He managed to brake, teetering on the edge of a wide fissure and springing back as several stones flew from under his boots and tumbled into the abyss. He froze, swaying, arms spread to keep his balance. Then he swept his gaze over the place where he had landed.

  Above him, the cave walls rose upward at an angle, covered with obsidian growths. In front of him lay a chasm, wide enough that even a running person could not have cleared it with a single jump, and deep enough that its bottom was lost in darkness. On the other side a ledge, beyond which the tunnel continued into the heart of the rock, sat a little higher than the place where Saelin stood.

  A path led off, disappearing behind heaps of rock and stone. The fissure was so long that its end could not be seen either to the right or to the left. The ceiling was high; the flicker of torch flames, burning in special holders at the tunnel entrance on the far side of the chasm, danced on it and lit the surrounding space. The mountain shuddered dully. From the depths, from the black abyss, a rumble and, as if muffled, a growl came forth.

  On the other side, looking down and listlessly kicking small stones into the abyss, stood Petros.

  "You!" Saelin shouted. "You again!"

  "Erik," Petros answered calmly. "What a meeting. And I must confess, I thought you were out of the game. See, I’ve already formed a new alliance with Vergilius."

  "Really?" Saelin said, struggling to hold back a furious cry. "And where is Vergilius himself?"

  "He’ll come soon. We had to split up a bit; soldiers of the Fighters’ Guild attacked us, for some reason, they threatened to arrest me. But it’s nothing. The main thing is that we’re here, we’ve arrived, and we’re one step from the goal..."

  "To hell with your goal!" Saelin yelled. "To hell with all of this! Hear me—I’ve already told you, and I’ll say it again: I’m no longer interested in Octarus! I’m out of the game, I’m stopping the hunt for the time machine!"

  "Seriously?" Petros smirked. "And what caused such a change? Not long ago, you lived by that idea, by that journey. You built hypotheses, plans. You were ready to do anything for it... And now? How can that be, Saelin? To abandon everything while standing so close to the time machine? Here, descend a little deeper—and you’ll reach Scarlet’s tomb, just from the other side. The brooch is already set in the reliquary. I miscalculated only one thing: it turns out we still need to return to the statue. I was going to do that, but those soldiers bothered me a bit, and I decided to come out on the other side. But that changes nothing."

  "Petros, don’t be an idiot. The mountain is waking; soon it will be impossible to breathe here from the ash and poisonous fumes. Outside, there is a forest fire, and two druid clans are fighting. And somewhere out there, my son is lost. I beg you, help me find him, and then we’ll go after Octarus together."

  "A forest fire? Two druid clans?" Petros repeated. "What the hell? What nonsense are you spouting, Saelin? I know where your son is. He’s in safe hands. He’s safe, because he’s necessary for the success of our enterprise."

  "He’s with you?!" Saelin screamed, kicking a stone underfoot. "How am I to know you’re not bluffing?"

  "That’s your right—to believe me or not," Petros said coldly. "Don’t believe me—Aktos will forgive you. Turn around and leave. But you must understand that Hector’s life is in my hands now. Only I can ensure he returns to you whole and unharmed. But for that to happen, you must be honest with me. On this journey, everyone, absolutely everyone lied to me. I’m tired of hearing lies, Erik."

  Saelin was silent. Petros smiled:

  "We’ve come, Saelin. Our journey has finally ended. Which means it’s time to lay all the cards on the table. I want to know who the man was that I until recently considered my friend, and why you persuaded me to search for the time machine. What was your plan, at what moment were you going to betray me, as everyone else did—Nubel, Vergilius, Konrad... Ashley? I think you owe me an explanation, Erik."

  In the silence, the dull roar of the black abyss of the fissure could be heard, and the torches cracked by the walls.

  "Because we all have skeletons in our closets," Petros said. "And I want to know the truth: how did you learn about Octarus, and why did you so stubbornly seek it for the whole time we’ve known each other? I’m sure something moved you beyond mere desire for wealth and glory. So why did you need the time machine? Speak, Erik. Tell me the whole truth, from beginning to end... And I’ll give you your son. Otherwise, I’m afraid that by the time we get out of here, something terrible could happen to Hector."

  "You won’t dare!" Saelin turned pale.

  "I most certainly will. Better not to test it, believe me! I’ve reached the goal, two steps from Octarus... I don’t want needless sacrifices. But in about ten to fifteen minutes, an eruption of the Fire-Breathing Mountain will begin, and we won’t survive here without the Runes of Cold, and all the corridors will be flooded with molten lava. So it would be good to finish the business and get out of here in one piece, and finally take what belongs to us... Come on, Erik! Speak!"

  Saelin clenched his fists until they hurt.

  ***

  Above their heads, the black gloom of the sky swirled and rolled upward. There, the reflections of flame above the crater picked out black winged shapes from the darkness. Rita shuddered. She had never seen them before, but for some reason immediately understood that they were harpies, roused by the elements. Ardrai lay ahead—vast, burning with thousands of lights, with spires of towers and mansions thrusting up toward the sky.

  Rita ran. She stumbled, fell, scraping her knees on the rocks, emitted a muffled groan, got up, and, swaying, continued running. In places, the slope became so steep that she would slide down it easily and sometimes feel her breath catch at the thought that a sheer cliff might be ahead. But she managed to reach, more or less safely, the height where groves encircled the mountain ridge. There, the terrain became much more even, and one could not fear deep chasms or sudden ledges.

  She found the trail they had used to come up here fairly quickly. Rita, already out of breath, slowed. Her legs felt as if filled with lead and no longer held her, and she now longed to call for the Hellsteed, which would obey only her thoughts and carry her to the place in seconds.

  Time passed, time fled swiftly, and the path seemed endless. Trees flashed to the right and left, and Rita began to feel the road was leading her in circles and would never bring her to the city walls.

  Some shadow flickered ahead and immediately darted behind the trees. At first, Rita even decided she had just imagined it. She froze, straining into the gloom and instinctively drawing the bow from her back.

  "Who’s there?"

  The tremor in her voice betrayed her; she bit her tongue and cursed herself, trying to compose herself so the call would sound firmer. But the shadow suddenly appeared again. A man slowly emerged from the bushes in front of her. She did not immediately recognize him in the dark, but when she did, she went cold and seemed rooted to the spot, still clutching the bow with a numb hand. And the man, not noticing this, slowly and uncertainly stepped toward her:

  "Thank the gods... I thought—a druid..."

  Rita stood, petrified, unable to believe her eyes. In an instant, as soon as she heard that voice, tears burst from her eyes against her will—tears of joy and at the same time of unimaginable sorrow. The wild happiness that filled her could not be expressed in words, and only shock kept her from rushing forward to throw her arms around the man, to touch him once more, even for a moment...

  "Stop!" she croaked, swallowing the huge lump stuck in her throat with difficulty. "Stop... It’s you I was looking for, Axel."

  ***

  "I’ll be damned," Saelin rasped. But his voice changed. Petros only smirked and remained silent.

  "I don’t know why you need this," Saelin said helplessly, spreading his hands. "I don’t know what you plan to do with this information… or whether you’ll use it against me… My story won’t change anything, Petros. I never spoke of it only because I feared mistrust. Everything was going too well… But now… now I understand I was wrong to keep it inside."

  Silence again, broken only by the muffled rumble from the bottom of the chasm.

  "I was born in 1976," Saelin said in a low voice.

  He paused, choosing words, then spoke—reluctantly, grinding each phrase through his teeth.

  "I was born in a town that stands where present-day Nalvin will be… its name won’t mean anything to you, because that town will arise from the ashes only two hundred years from now. I received an excellent education; I was a design engineer, a specialist in self-propelled machines, flying devices, and similar technical stuff… it’s hard to explain to people of the fifteenth century. I had everything one could dream of. A beloved wife. A son. A job. A house. But I wanted more… I was always striving somewhere; I didn’t like to sit still. I got interested in history and begged to join an expedition to the south, into the jungles of the Eastern province… they needed an engineer to look after the equipment and instruments… I took Hector with me. My wife let me go easily because she thought we were leaving for a couple of weeks, no more.

  Petros listened. The same detached, wandering smirk remained on his face.

  "We were floating by boats down a river," Saelin continued. He spoke, staring vacantly at one point and seeming to want to confess primarily to himself rather than to Petros. "They were looking for yet another lost shrine of the ancient Nocturns, carrying a bunch of the newest equipment, weapons, preparing for fights with wild beasts… There were several boats; Hector and I were in a separate one and carried the largest load. And suddenly a tropical downpour began—it was summer, the rainy season. The current became so strong that we lost control, and we were swept far from the main flotilla. I remember we were shouting and being shouted back at; at one point, I was even ready to give Hector the life vest and throw myself into the water with him… But reason prevailed over panic. I realized that if we went into the water, we wouldn’t get out. All we could do was hope for a miracle and aim for the shore. The river split into two branches, and we were carried to the right while our companions went left; we went through several more sharp bends and almost managed to break out of the rapid into a relatively calm stretch, and then rapids appeared ahead… And we hit them; the boat capsized, we were in the water, and the current carried us further like two helpless dolls.

  It was a miracle that the flow did not separate me and Hector. We swam, we tried to keep our heads above water… I remember how we both went over a small waterfall, and then below, where the river gathered into a huge boiling cauldron and ran on from there. I managed to row to the shore and then pull Hector out. At that moment, I didn’t immediately notice one strange detail: just a moment ago, while we were in the boat, the rain had been lashing my face, but when we crawled ashore, the sun was shining, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the current was calm—thanks to that we managed to get out. I simply thought that, fighting the rapids, I hadn’t noticed the rain had ended. We had nothing—radios and phones were soaked and refused to work, our clothes were torn on the stones, and we just headed at random along the river, hoping to reach some settlement. I had never studied maps of that area, relying on our guide and the expedition commander. I had no idea where we had been carried, or how to get out.

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  There was plenty of water, as you can imagine, but there was nothing to eat… I remember we noticed that the soil, the grass, and the trees were all absolutely dry, not a single drop left from the rain. That was already strange… But the strangest things began later, the next day, when we, hungry and exhausted, having managed to fill ourselves only with a few berries found in the forest, came out to a village. We saw old wooden houses, the likes of which no one in our time built anymore. From afar, we saw people dressed in clothes that no one had worn for five hundred years. For us, it looked like a carnival, a masquerade, or a scene from a historical film…"

  Petros realized he didn’t understand half the words.

  "Thank the gods, our language and religion were practically indistinguishable," Saelin said. "They simply didn’t understand what we wanted to say and recoiled from us when they saw our strange clothes. And we didn’t understand what was happening, why these people had never heard of computers and phones… Only after some peasants agreed to shelter us did we gradually realize that this was not a masquerade, not a set, not someone’s stupid joke. These people did not understand us. On the wall hung a calendar for the year 1415. In some incomprehensible way, we had been transported in time by over five hundred years. And, worst of all, we had no idea what to do now or how to get back.

  "A crossroads of times," Petros said quietly.

  "Yes," Saelin nodded, "a crossroads of times. The one I had been searching for all this time. Most likely it was somewhere under the water… Whatever the case, the way back was closed to us; it was impossible to find the exact place on the river where we had passed through the portal. We had gone too far. At first, we were seized by despair. Hector wanted to go home, to his mother; I, of course, also went mad with helplessness and could not understand how it could happen. Back then, we knew nothing about crossroads of times and time travel, didn’t even believe it possible until we felt the cruel magic of Octarus on our own skin. We were locked in this time like prisoners in a dark cell with no windows and no doors. There was no way out.

  "We realized that fighting was hopeless, and that all that remained was to accept our lot and bid farewell to the world in which we were born. We began to get used to the new life. At first, we lived in poverty, not knowing where to get money; then we realized that many people lived like that here… and we joined the vagrants. With them, we managed to reach Boreain, where we slept in the slums and tried to earn bread by day. Gradually, we saved enough money to rent a room in an inn and at least have a regular place to sleep. But I understood that it couldn’t go on forever, and that we needed a permanent source of income… and then a way out presented itself—training in the Mages’ Guild. In the future, Petros, they will be abolished completely, magic will be left to only a few of the chosen… and the world will be ruled by technology. But arriving here and learning the laws of this world, I suddenly thought that if we had been transported in time by some magical means, then magic might help us return.

  "The end of the tunnel glimmered with light. I joined the school at the Guild and began studying diligently, trying at the same time to learn everything possible about the Magic of Time. As you can imagine, finding information was devilishly difficult, and the studies were extremely hard for me. Yet I endured. After two years, during which we had almost grown used to living here, I got lucky for the first time. I stumbled upon your monograph, Petros, which described the cults of the ancient Nocturns, including the figure of the High Priest who could see the future. Of course, it was hard to connect that with time travel, but I had no other leads, and I seized that thread like a lifeline. I began to search for any data on those cults, and, of course, nearly all the new research on the topic was being done by you, Petros. Soon, I found your work in which you posited that the ancient Nocturns had some artifact that allowed them to travel through time. I know that article wasn’t a success in the scientific community—everyone thought your ideas too radical—but believe me, you gained at least one devoted reader then: me.

  The day I read that article, I nearly went mad with joy—I wasn’t put off by the claim that the artifact was considered lost. I realized that if I could find a trace of the time machine, Hector and I would have a real chance to return home… While in Mainor in 1419, I tried to attend your lectures and meet you. The rest you remember yourself. Yes, I hoped for your help. Yes, it was invaluable support to me… Yes, I dreamed of finding the time machine and using it—only once. One single time, and then the need for it would vanish. Everything I wanted, everything I dreamed of day and night, everything I could think of while continuing my search, was to return home. I was tired of this world, Petros, I couldn’t live like this… and Hector couldn’t either, this isn’t our time, we don’t belong here… You know that yourself. Well, that’s the whole truth."

  "Ten years…" Petros murmured thoughtfully.

  Silence followed. Saelin was pale and still breathing heavily with agitation.

  "Ten years of searching. Ten years of work, sorrow, and disappointments, hopes that were never to come true," Petros rasped. "And all—just for this? To return to your time?"

  "We can’t live here," Saelin replied. "This time… both Hector and I felt it draining us. A person in a foreign time does not outwardly age; his life seems to flow independently of time… and it shortens rapidly. This time is killing us… I have nothing more to tell you," he shrugged helplessly.

  "Nothing? Then I will speak."

  The mountain suddenly shuddered and shook so violently that huge boulders broke off the ceiling and tumbled into the chasm. Saelin recoiled and pressed against the wall, standing on his side on the narrow ledge.

  "Listen, Saelin!" Petros seemed not to notice the mountain trembling; he shouted, fighting the growing roar from beneath the ground. "I have something to tell you, too! Once, when we were just beginning to work together, we swore to each other that we would form a tandem. That we would become the most famous scholars in all Laugdeil. That we would be friends, allies, and comrades, and stay together to the very end… And what came of it? All this time you lied to me! All this time, you wanted to use me! You hid information you knew, information that might have been critical to our search. You didn’t tell us that your son is a Seer, damn it! And do you know that only Seers can use Octarus, that this ability is unavailable to ordinary mortals? This whole scheme made no sense from the start, Saelin, because you would open the crossroads of time you needed and slip away there with Hector, leaving me with the artifact, which would then be useless. If you got the chance to travel through time, I would get nothing. And I…," Petros raised his voice, flung out his hand, "I wasn’t going to walk such a long road and get nothing in return, damn it! And I care little for the noble goals you pursue. For me, one thing is clear: you wanted to get Octarus, return to your time, and happily keep it for yourself. And I would be left with nothing, having wasted ten years of my life?!"

  "I didn’t know…" Saelin mumbled. "I swear, I didn’t know that only a Seer could use the machine… And you know that this ability is always reborn! You just needed to find a Seer in your time!"

  "Is that so?" Petros sneered. "And where and how am I supposed to look for him? It was a gift of fate that you came to me with Hector, that both of you joined this expedition, and that the druid shaman opened my eyes. Of course, after that, I won’t let you go to your time. Hector is too important an element in this equation, no less, perhaps even more important, than Darius and Octarus… This will be punishment for you, Saelin, for hiding the truth from me. You led me to this search, you enticed me because you knew that without me, you’re nothing, and you wouldn’t have achieved anything! And you knew that when all this ended, you would betray me. Betray your oath, betray our friendship… That’s why the expedition was doomed to fail. That’s why you and Vergilius, hoping to cut off all ends in time, informed those bloodhounds from the Royal Guard so I would be arrested on charges of treason… What, you think I’m wrong?!"

  "Lies!" Saelin cried. "Stupid and brazen lies! And Vergilius… Where the hell is Vergilius?!"

  "He won’t bother me anymore," Petros answered calmly. "Nor his lackeys. Nor the bastards Nubel and Konrad. I let them go, but they’ll get what’s coming. One day I’ll settle the score with them."

  "You… you killed Vergilius?" Saelin’s voice trembled, a mixture of hatred and fear. "You’ve gone mad, Petros! You’re not the Petros I knew, not the one I went on the expedition with! What has happened to you?.." He stopped. Suddenly, he realized what he had so far refused to believe.

  "Gone mad?" Petros thundered. "I’m the most reasonable of you all, damn you! You all tried to outsmart me, but I fooled you! Go to hell, Saelin! I’ll find Octarus; you won’t stop me, nor the bloodhounds from Mainor! You can stay here and burn alive, because neither you nor Hector will ever return to the future!"

  "That’s you…" Saelin muttered, no longer paying attention to the threats. "So it’s you. Were the druids’ kidnapping of Hector your doing? You hired them, didn’t you?! With one hand, you paid the Wolf Clan to guide us into the shrine, and with the other, the Lynx Clan to attack the aerostat at the exact moment we and you entered the shrine?"

  Petros smiled coldly.

  "You’re no detective, that’s for sure, but here you’re right," he said. "Yes, I didn’t know what to expect from you or what you needed. So I decided it would be useful to have a small lever to influence you."

  "You’re an idiot!" Saelin gasped. "The Wolf Clan attacked the Lynx Clan! Outside the forest is burning, and a battle is raging! And Hector may already have been burned alive, or killed by a stray arrow in that chaos! I couldn’t find him, and you don’t know where he is either! You’ve lost control, Petros! You think you’re a clever puppeteer, pulling strings to control us all and every event? Know this: all your strings are broken! You won’t get the ability to control time either, because most likely my son is already dead! And he’s dead because of you!"

  The ground shook again, this time longer and harder. A cloud of smoke burst out of the fissure, boulders rained down once more, and Petros, on his side, clutched at the wall to keep his balance.

  It was that moment when several fighters from the Vaimar Fighters’ Guild came running out of the tunnel behind him—dirty, with bloodied faces, their armor dented, and all the more enraged at the man they had been sent to hunt through the labyrinth of the shrine.

  "There he is!" screeched Maclevirr, raising his crossbow. "Seize him! If he resists—kill him!"

  Petros swung his staff. A wall of fire leaped up, surrounding him in a crimson ring. Two soldiers managed to break through toward him and nearly pressed him against the abyss when Petros flung up his hand, releasing a massive blazing sphere. It hurled both pursuers aside and down into the depths, their screams fading into the darkness. Petros moved his palm again. Between his fingers, white fire flared. He lifted his arms, and the first arrows, whistling as they pierced the wall of flame, slowed in flight and clattered onto the stones.

  "Grab him!" roared Saelin, clinging to the trembling wall on his side. His eyes were bloodshot with rage, but he could do nothing—the distance was too great. "Don’t let him escape!"

  But Petros was already retreating, backing away behind his magical shield, while the soldiers, exhausted by long wanderings in the labyrinth, no longer tried to attack him in close combat. They advanced steadily, keeping formation, cutting off his retreat into the tunnel from which they had come. Arrows still whistled through the air, the white fire around Petros was dimming, his strength nearly spent, and then he cast one last look at Saelin.

  "We are not finished, Saelin!" he shouted. "I will still get Octarus! And you will regret trying to stop me!"

  "I hate you!" Saelin screamed back. "I hate you! Damn you! It’s because of you he died, do you hear me, Petros?! Hear me, you clever fool?! Do whatever you want now! Yes, damn it, I betrayed you, I lied to you, I used you, and now, you hear?—now… I will have my revenge! And I will kill you, Petros! One day I will find you, and kill you!"

  He was still shouting, but his cries were drowned by the rising rumble. The ground swayed, Maclevirr’s men halted, rocking as they struggled to keep balance on the narrow ledge. The shooting stopped, aiming was impossible—even breathing was hard, as the cave filled with hot air, smoke, and ash. Soldiers coughed, wiping their streaming eyes with dirty sleeves. At that moment, Petros turned away and dashed into the tunnel leading to the far side of the mountain.

  Inside the tunnel, it was hot as a steam bath, and from the labyrinth’s passages came the hoarse screams of Maclevirr’s guards still prowling within, searching for the fugitive. Petros ran, hunched low, hearing arrows and bolts ricocheting off the walls above his head, feeling his heart hammer wildly, sticky fear choking his insides. For the first time that evening, he was truly afraid.

  The earth shook beneath his feet. Several times, he stumbled in the darkness, lighting his way only with a torch he had snatched at the tunnel’s entrance. Behind him came the pounding of boots, but the crashes, the thunder of collapsing stone slabs, and the roar from deep underground drowned nearly every other sound. Petros kept running.

  He didn’t know how long he ran before familiar steps loomed ahead. Gasping, on the verge of collapse, he scrambled up and all but tumbled out onto the rocky slope among huge mossy boulders. Around him was darkness, but ahead, in the east, the clouds were parting bit by bit, and the sky was deep, dark violet, with faint shards of northern stars glimmering.

  The mountain was trembling, smoke already billowing in a column above the crater. Petros collapsed onto the rocks, breathing hard, spitting thick saliva several times, wiping sweat from his face with the back of his hand. He was shaking.

  Suddenly, a dark figure emerged before him. A tall man in a gray cloak, hood pulled low over his eyes, a magic staff in hand. Petros slowly lifted his head, but in the night gloom, he couldn’t make out the face of the one standing before him. He saw only a silhouette—and was suddenly seized by blind, irrational fear.

  "Wh-who are you?" he forced out, struggling to rise to his knees.

  The man pulled back his hood.

  "I am you," he said. "Forgive me, Horatius."

  The staff rose. A white flash blazed. Petros’s body was hurled against the stones; he twitched a few times more and lay still. Crimson stains spread across his chest.