“Now, rise: fear not where none have gone,
For then, at last, we may be one.”

IT FELT LIKE THE world was ending. Simia had been right all along. He tried to fight back, but it was hopeless: Espen was far too strong. Sylas looked back at his friends and saw that they too were trying to pull away from their captors, but their attempts were just as futile. As he watched, a long line of Ghor entered from behind them and now stood guarding their only exit.

“No others?”

The surprisingly soft, feminine voice came from beneath the hood of one of the three black figures, the one holding Simia.

“None,” replied Espen, his voice suddenly gruff and harsh.

“Was there trouble?”

“He suspected nothing,” said Espen.

“Traitor!” shrieked Simia, pulling even harder to free herself. Her face was pale with fury. “I knew you were a traitor!”

“Quiet, child,” purred the hooded Magruman. “You didn’t seriously expect to succeed, did you? One puny boy and those flimsy contraptions?” She cackled, sneering at Ash. “Pitiful! You’re all pitiful.”

She reached up and pulled back her hood, revealing her beautiful feline face, proud arching eyebrows and smooth, dark complexion. It was Scarpia.

The other Magrumen immediately did the same: one a narrow-faced woman, with unnervingly pale skin and hair, and eyebrows that were so blonde that she could have been albino; the other a man, older than the others, with curls of greying hair and taut, angular features.

But Sylas took little interest in the Magrumen, for his eyes were now fixed on the third of the captives. The closer they drew to one another, the more the pain raged in his wrist, the more certain he became.

It was Naeo.

She did not speak or make a sound, but there was something about the way she moved, the shape of her face, the way she fought with her tormentor as he fought with his. But it was more than that: something deeper and more primal. It was a sense he had that this was not a person at all – not in the way he knew people to be. As he drew closer and saw that she too was looking at him, he knew that she was thinking the same thoughts.

As he squinted to take in her features, she squinted to take in his.

As he drew in a gasp of air, so did she.

And there was something more powerful than all of this: when their eyes met, he felt his fear leaving him. In place of the confusion and doubt he had felt for days – perhaps longer – he felt a new certainty, and with it, a strange stirring of joy. Joy like he had felt in the forest, standing in the path of the Passing Bell.

Suddenly Espen stopped just a few paces short of Scarpia. She extended a long, elegant arm from beneath her cloak, her fingers reaching for Sylas’s collar. He was just out of reach.

There was a silence: a long, unexpected silence.

Scarpia shifted nervously and tilted her head questioningly to one side.

Sylas raised his eyes to Espen’s face. The Magruman looked down and for a moment he smiled an open, unguarded smile.

“Go to Naeo!” he cried. “Now!”

In one motion he released Sylas’s collar and threw his arms in the air. Instantly a roar rose from somewhere deep in the Dirgheon, somewhere in the tunnels and passageways far below. As he threw his hands forward, his features contorted with the effort. Scarpia raised a hand as though to defend herself, but it was too late. A grating, vicious scream erupted from the staircase behind him and, with a thunderous bang, the doors flew wide, splintering against the walls.

The entire hall shook as a great wind surged along its length, ripping books from the shelves and hurling them high into the air, striking the Magrumen and the Ghor with devastating force. In seconds it filled the room with the foul stink of the bowels of the Dirgheon, the filth and squalor of a thousand forgotten souls, the rot of years of neglect. It was as though the imprisoned masses had suddenly broken their silence and exhaled a cry of rage.

The prisoners were ripped free of their captors and sent sprawling towards the far end of the hall. The Ghor were lifted bodily into the air and hurled against the walls to the sound of cracking skulls and breaking bones.

Only the three Magrumen remained standing, their black cloaks flying around them as the pestilent wind struggled in vain to gather them up. Even as it struck, their arms were rising in unison, their faces set, their eyes focused on Espen.

To Sylas, this was all a distant blur, for his eyes were fixed on Naeo.

He could see her, there, just beyond the billowing cloaks of the Magrumen. She was halfway to her feet now, drawing herself away from the twisted limbs of one of the guards, her eyes on Sylas; like him, throwing herself forward, half leaping, half sliding towards him.

In the midst of the wild fury of the wind and the cries and the screams, Sylas felt an astonishing stillness: a stillness born of certainty – certainty that they would meet, that they were meant to meet, that it had always been intended. His eyes passed over her blonde hair, her intense blue eyes, the features he now remembered from his dreams, the features he saw to be so similar to his own.

He was her. She was him.

They were the same.

The pain in his wrist had become unbearable: no longer an ache or a stabbing pang, but a constant, searing fire that consumed his wrist, his hand, his arm. And when he looked down, he saw that the Merisi Band was aflame, its shining surface glowing with a bright light of its own, its shape now indistinct, in motion. But it was not the flickering motion of fire, it was the shimmer and ripple of molten metal.

He sensed that Naeo was now close and despite his pain he looked up and saw her just an arm’s reach away. Instinctively he held out his burning hand, his fingers searching for hers. In the same instant she reached out for him, her face straining, her body stretched to its limit.

Their hands met. Their fingers curled. And they held on.

Despite the desperate scene, despite the significance of the act, it felt natural – almost ordinary – like clasping his own hands or touching his own face. Yet there was something beyond the physical touch, something in his heart and his mind. It was like a great surge of energy, not the kind that moves limbs or courses through veins, but a feeling, a knowledge of completeness. Of strength.

Something strange started to happen to the Merisi Band. From the liquid metal rose a silvery vapour: barely visible trails that twirled and twisted in the air, forming an ethereal mist. It was entirely unmolested by the wind: instead it first rose, then turned in the air and drifted down to Naeo’s wrist. She and Sylas watched entranced as the vapour slid beneath her arm, then around, meeting itself to form a perfect ring – a band of its own. Even as they watched, it became more distinct and solid. The trace of silver became opaque and began to reflect the light; a true silver band began to form. And when Sylas looked to his wrist, the Merisi Band had changed, no longer broad but fine and narrow; no longer silver and gold but gold alone.

A calamitous crash made them lift their eyes. There they saw a scene of desperate battle: thousands of books flying from the shelves on both sides of the hall and slamming together in mid-air; Espen, standing alone in their midst, directing the winds, somehow managing to stop the great storm of books from striking him; staggering now, beginning to fall; Simia and Ash running towards him hand in hand, bending low, but assailed by the flying books; Simia clasping her shoulder, looking directly at Sylas, screaming something.

He was already in motion, rising and launching himself towards his friends. He did not turn to look for Naeo; he knew that she was at his side. He felt her there. As soon as they were on their feet, they were met by a hail of books that hurtled towards them from the shelves, scything, spinning, slicing through the air.

Sylas threw his hands up to protect himself and closed his eyes.

To his surprise, he felt nothing. None of the books found their mark. He looked about him and saw that they were falling out of the air as if they had met an invisible barrier. He lowered his hand a little and the books flew on. He raised it again, and abruptly they faltered and crashed to the floor.

Could it be that he was doing this? They were doing this?

Ash and Simia drew close to them and they moved forward as one, somehow protected amid the torrent of books. Moments later they were gathering around Espen. He was no longer on his feet, but on one knee, his bloodied hands still raised in an attempt to control the winds. He seemed near defeat: his tunic had been torn to reveal an open wound in his chest; his scarred face was streaked with sweat and blood, drawn with agony. Sylas instinctively moved to help him, leaning down to lift him by the shoulder.

Simia shouted again.

He saw her panicked face and followed her eyes to the three Magrumen. To his horror they were walking swiftly towards them, their hands sweeping before them as they hurled new missiles through the air: massive, tumbling, black shapes. It was the broken bodies of the Ghor, tossed aloft by some horrifying force, spinning and twisting as they flew; some still conscious, snarling wildly and gnashing their fearsome teeth.

Sylas let go of Espen’s shoulder and stood to his full height, aware of Naeo at his shoulder. They did not flinch or hesitate: they raised their arms towards the wretched bodies of the Ghor and opened their palms. For a moment there was a complete silence. The wind ceased howling and the books and the guards hung in the air as though time itself had stopped.

Simia and Ash glanced at one another; the Magrumen shifted nervously; Espen turned his bloodied face up to Sylas and Naeo, and the trace of a smile creased his lips.

Then, as they dropped their arms, everything tumbled to the floor: the books, the Ghor, the debris, all landed with an ear-splitting crash on the marble.

Another moment of stillness followed. The last pieces of torn parchment fluttered to the ground and Scarpia and the Magrumen glanced at one another uncertainly; Simia raised her hand to her mouth; Espen rose slowly to his feet.

Then two things happened at once. The Magrumen moved in perfect unison, extending their hands outwards over the marble floor, and Sylas and Naeo lifted their arms high above their heads.

Simia looked down at the patchwork of marble beneath her feet, wondering what new horror to expect. She caught her breath. The joins between the stone tiles had begun to blur and merge, the white ones starting to seep into the black. They were becoming fluid: melting into one another. The entire floor around them seemed to be in motion, becoming something it should not be – could not be. She felt the grip of panic as her feet became unsteady and she saw white and black ooze over her shoes.

“Sylas! Do something!” she cried.

“They are doing something!” shouted Ash. “Look!”

She looked up to the vaulted ceiling and recoiled.

The entire edifice was alive with fire.

Long, snaking tendrils of flame grew from the oil lamps on both sides of the hall, worming and twisting around one another, forming a breathtaking, living mesh of fire. They looped and spiralled beneath and over each other, forming an impossible knot of golden, flickering flame. This blistering weave of heat and light began falling slowly towards the Magrumen – drifting relentlessly towards the end of the hall. As it passed the oil paintings, fingers of flame reached out and touched the canvases, setting them instantly alight, forming pools of fire that rippled outwards towards the frames, feeding the inferno. The rumble became a roar. One of the Magrumen – the old man – changed his stance and raised his arms towards the approaching hellfire, seeking to fend it off. Instantly Naeo reacted, pointing a finger in his direction and, at the same moment, tendrils of fire wound round each other and launched at him, striking him roundly in the chest.

His face bore a look of surprise and horror. His cloak burst into flames, engulfing him in a searing ball of fire. A chilling scream echoed through the hall and suddenly they saw his burning figure falling through the open doors at the rear.

Scarpia and the other Magruman looked around, surprised, even frightened. They glanced up to the great web of fire now just above their heads, hesitated, then turned to Sylas and Naeo. They seemed unsure where to direct their attentions. They began to back away towards the doors, keeping their hands raised to protect themselves.

Their retreat came too late.

A furious wind rose from behind Sylas and Naeo, howling through the splintered doors, screaming into the void. It blasted along the hall, gathering pace as it went, tearing at the walls, clawing at the ceiling. It lifted the burning paintings and hurled them forward, flipping them end over end towards the Magrumen, spinning like murderous Catherine wheels, spitting a shower of sparks, smoke and flame.

Scarpia’s eyes widened. She raised her arms, but as she did so, the wind breathed into the lattice of fire, giving it new, terrifying energy. It flared as bright as a sun and bellowed a thunderous battle cry, then surged forward with horrifying force, closing in upon its prey. Scarpia’s sleeves burst into flames and with a shriek of pain she gathered her arms to her chest, charging towards the doors that were all too far away. The other Magruman threw herself to the floor, clawing hand over fist to the opening, but before she reached it the fiery web suddenly opened wide like a grasping claw, then collapsed into a fist of fire, engulfing them both. There were desperate screams and a calamitous crash as the burning paintings whipped into the heart of the flames, smashing into the floor and wall beyond.

The blast of heat subsided; the final traces of the lattice thinned and disappeared into smoke. All that remained was a wall of leaping flames and the crackle and roar of the settling fire.

Sylas and Naeo suddenly seemed smaller, almost frail. Children once again.

Their arms wavered in the air and fell slowly to their sides; their feet shifted uncertainly in the ooze and then, as if not knowing what else to do, they turned to each other.

They gazed at one another for a moment and then, silhouetted against the mounting flames, they clasped hands.