SINCE OKSA HAD COME BACK FROM THE SINGING SPRING, Orthon McGraw had done his utmost to dictate when Oksa entered the Chamber. Two violent attempts to force her hand had been thwarted, first by the ever vigilant Runaways and then by his father, Ocious, who had authoritatively stepped in.
“Last time I looked, I was still the ruler of Edefia!” he’d declared to his son.
Orthon had swallowed his hurt pride as best he could, but no one was in any doubt that the Felon’s bitter resentment might prompt him to commit all manner of atrocities—the most unforgivable of which would be to harm Oksa in order to prevent her from accomplishing her rescue mission. No one knew how far he would go and there was always the chance he might commit a kamikaze attack. Orthon was a loose cannon, a constant danger. If his father pushed him too far, would he destroy everything to prove he was the stronger?
They had been living in a state of anxiety for so long that when a score of Ageless Ones passed through the walls of the Chamber, Oksa’s first reaction was to arm herself with her Granok-Shooter, her magical blowpipe.
“Don’t worry, Dushka,” said Dragomira, enveloping her. “You’re in no danger here.”
“It’s time for your enthronement,” said an Ageless Fairy, her hair undulating like seaweed at the bottom of the sea.
Like her companions, she had a hazy silhouette and an incredibly soothing presence. The Ageless Ones approached Oksa holding out a long piece of deep-red cloth.
“Your Cloak, Young Gracious,” she said. “We began embroidering it the day you were born.”
“But how did you know it would be me?”
“We knew,” replied the Fairy.
She unfolded the garment and Oksa examined the beautiful embroidery with a cry of admiration.
“The thread was made from the feathers of your phoenix,” explained the Fairy. “Then each strand was dyed with decoctions made from plants or stones and embroidered onto a piece of fabric prepared by our most skilled weavers.”
“It’s magnificent,” whispered Oksa, staring at the patterns. “I’m sure there isn’t anything comparable on Earth. Not even the emperors in China had something like this!”
The bottom of the Cloak depicted the huge, intertwined roots of a tree, then uneven soil, and grass dotted with thousands of flowers, each one unique and sublime. Above this vegetation flew bees, birds, dragonflies and other winged creatures. Higher up, at waist level, the abundant foliage of the tree spread out in myriad shades of green. Then the red background darkened to an almost black night sky dotted with stars, planets and the sun with its magical beam falling to Earth. The Ageless Ones turned the Cloak to reveal the eight-pointed star, the emblem of Edefia. Oksa instinctively rested her hand on her stomach. She knew that the mark, which had designated her as the next Gracious, was still around her belly button. She could feel its comforting warmth.
“Take it, Young Gracious. This is your Cloak.”
Oksa looked at Dragomira. Her gran was no ordinary woman. She’d agreed to give up her mortal life to open the Portal to Edefia, so that her loved ones and the two worlds would have a chance of survival. However, her sacrifice meant that she’d never complete her training as a Gracious—she’d never enjoy the privilege of wearing her Cloak, of facing the future with her people, or of watching her successor grow up.
“I have a different destiny ahead of me, Dushka,” came the much-loved voice.
“So the Lunatrix was right,” murmured Oksa, a lump in her throat.
The Gracious’s small steward hadn’t wanted to tell Oksa everything he knew when she had questioned him, but the Young Gracious now realized that her hunch had been correct: Dragomira would be the Infinite Entity, the supreme Ageless One who embodied the equilibrium of the two worlds once their heart was saved.
“It’s a huge honour for me to be able to help those I love,” said Dragomira.
“It’s so much more than that, Baba!” exclaimed Oksa. “You’ll embody a new future for humanity! Everything will depend on you, do you realize how incredible that is?”
Dragomira’s silhouette became more solid and Oksa could have sworn she saw her gran smile. A wave of affection washed over her, filling her with what she felt was unshakeable resolve. She floated towards the Ageless Fairy who was holding out the Cloak and let her drape it around her shoulders. Its colour was such a dark red that it looked almost black and its fabric was soft as velvet and light as silk. What was more, each fibre seemed to radiate power, a supernatural energy that galvanized Oksa like an electric shock. In amazement, she saw her whole life flash past her eyes, from her earliest moments of blissful innocence to her most painful ordeals, separations, betrayals and regrets. The last image of Marie Pollock, her mother, left behind on the cold sand of the desert, made her whimper. She saw again in quick succession her last memories of Gus and Tugdual, her lifelong attachment to the former and her irresistible attraction to the latter, their kisses, and her uncertainties. Then dark clouds crackling with flashes of lightning descended over the sphere hovering a few yards from her, and a terrible earth tremor shook the Glass Column to its foundations.
“Tell me what to do!” begged Oksa, her eyes fixed on the rising waters around Great Britain.
Without further ado, the Ageless Ones encircled her and led her to the darkened sphere. They rolled up the sleeve of the Cloak and the longer one of her tee-shirt, then took her hand and plunged it into the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Oksa felt her arm plunge through the icy water, then pass easily through the Earth’s crust. For a second she was afraid she might be burnt by the incandescent lava, which was bubbling fiercely, but her hand, guided by the fairies, sank as smoothly into the depths of the Earth as if it were… crème fraîche! Finally, with her arm buried up to the shoulder, she reached the core. The crucial moment had come.
“But what am I supposed to do?” wailed Oksa. “I’m going to ruin everything! Help me!”
“Take it in your hand, Young Gracious!” whispered an Ageless Fairy. “Take the Heart of the Two Worlds in your hand and bring it back to life!”
Oksa obeyed, determined not to allow panic to get the better of her and destroy their last hopes. She seized the core which was palpitating weakly and, instinctively, began to massage it.
Its spongy, elastic texture made Oksa think of raw flesh, which was disconcerting. Concentrating hard, she attempted to transfer to it the tremendous power she felt inside her, while continuing to exert a steady, rhythmic pressure. The waves of the ocean lapped around her shoulder, harmless on this reduced scale but lethal for anyone who was in the sea. As for the black clouds, Oksa saw them pass in front of her face. She tried blowing them away, but soon realized she was powerless to affect their course: the clouds were free as air. One of them, bristling with lightning, grazed her neck.
“Ouch!” she said, putting her free hand over the spot which had just been struck by a tiny bolt of lightning.
“Concentrate, Oksa!” rang out Dragomira’s voice.
Flushing, the Young Gracious continued her resuscitation attempt. The Cloak poured its incredible energy into her muscles and nerves, while Oksa transferred strength and hope to the sick heart. The hours passed, and she was aching all over. Dragomira and the Ageless Ones floated by her side, powerless to do anything but give moral support and boost her spirits, which were sapped by exhaustion. Oksa had by now realized that the success of this massive rescue operation depended on her alone, and the anxiety this caused her soon became harder to bear than the physical exertion.
The Earth steadily continued turning. The continents and oceans rolled past in slow succession and Oksa was alternately subjected to the heat of the deserts, the humidity of the tropics and the biting cold of the poles. The drastic changes in temperature made her shiver or perspire relentlessly, testing her body to the extreme. Vast Siberia passed before her eyes and she had a sudden thought. Part of her origins was down there, beneath the snow. A permanent part, as eternal as the mountains forming a wall through the centre of Europe. France brushed her cheek, then England appeared. Oksa followed the course of the swollen Thames. With her whole body tirelessly at work, she became aware that a piece of her was slipping away.
“Mum! Gus!” she cried.