21

Why?”

Cordan Barthos paced nervously before the panoramic window, looking out over the lush gardens behind the Shass home and into the night sky beyond. Despite the dozens of armed Watchers stationed all around the house, his world suddenly felt less secure, less controlled. A contagion had been freed and was out there somewhere, a disease that would infect the entire planet if not contained.

It was the only disease utterly fatal to the Dark.

“Why, Cordan?” Paull Shass repeated angrily, looking up from his plush living-room chair, where he sat waving a stack of papers in the air. It was after two in the morning, and the Prime Lord was tired. “As far as I can see, T. G. was doing exactly what we wanted him to do. These reports all indicate that. Why did he run?”

“I don’t know. Something woke him up.”

“You should have killed them all, Cordan,” Shass said, tossing the documents onto a low table and rising to his feet. “As long as any of them live, they are a threat to everything we have built and everything we still must do. I do not know why I let you convince me otherwise.”

“Bargaining tools,” Barthos insisted. “It will come down to that. I see no reason to destroy a weapon simply because it could conceivably be used against us. If we’re careful, it will do far more damage in our hands than it would in theirs.”

“It is too much of a risk!” Shass replied. “Once the Gift was given, a countdown began. The Elesh woman knows too much of what is to come, and we do not know how much of the Truth got out. If she managed to complete a translation … no! I want her dead! Now!”

“The Voice will move against us … and soon. We must keep our heads and keep the tactical advantage. We will force him to limit himself.”

“And how do we do that?”

“By exploiting his weaknesses. But Elesh may provide an additional assurance that things will happen as we wish.”

“All right, then,” Shass angrily conceded. “Keep her alive. But I hate this, Cordan … that woman could still be the key to this god of theirs becoming known to the world again.”

“Drosha still reigns, and everything has been carefully orchestrated to create the appearance that she has handed dominion over to you. You are ‘chosen’ now in the eyes of the people, and from there it’s a short step to godhood. The whole world sees you as its savior now.”

Barthos calmly took a seat, continuing to reassure his superior. “We have to stay with the plan. We give the people just enough so that they will trust in you and will follow you blindly. We continue to create the illusion of an impending end to the class system, throwing bones to those who think a better world is on the way. By the time they realize that it isn’t going to happen, it will be too late. You will have total power and will be unreachable. Those with any ability to marshal forces against us will be kept happy, or they will be eliminated. There can be no overthrow. With a single army and a single union of nations now before us, there is no longer anyone left to challenge you.”

“We must accelerate our timetable. We no longer have the luxury of letting things unfold naturally. If T. G. reveals himself to the world as the Voice in the Dark before we can silence him—”

“Using the information we found, a systematic search is underway for those who followed the Twelve. They should be eliminated within the month. The Voice will find no ear to hear him if we handle this correctly, so leave it to me. All who know that the Voice walks among us will be dead before he has a chance to threaten us. He cannot defeat us alone.”

The men continued to discuss their rise to power, their voices carrying farther than they had intended. They did not know that another set of ears, awakened from sleep, had been standing unseen and unsuspected, listening in stunned and fearful silence to the monstrous words of the supposedly noble leaders.

Tears streamed down Sereen’s cheeks as she quietly slipped away down the long hallway and back into her bedroom. She would not be seeing her husband that night—he seldom slept at home. When he did, he bedded down on a couch in his office, at the far end of the house. She slid back into bed, wide awake, unable to stop thinking about all she had heard.

The husband she had known and loved was dead to her.

Worse than that, she now feared him—and for her very life.

Her world had been torn apart, shredded, by Paull’s words. She cried again, burying her face in her pillow, weeping until she was exhausted and could weep no more.

Her final thoughts, before sleep closed in, were of the one person to whom she could turn, a person she had not spoken to for a long, long time, a person who now needed her as well. She wanted to bolt, to run from the house, to go at once to her port in this storm. But she forced herself to stay put for the moment. She could not risk raising suspicions. She could not let the Prime Lord know that she knew.

Sleep finally came, sleep that she was going to need.

There was much to be done.

The ground was blackened. The heavy odor of burned wood hung in the still air, reminding T. G. of burning autumn leaves. The scent had always been a happy one for him, but no more.

Now it smelled of death and stupidity and betrayal.

He stood surveying the ruined library, deep within the Fire Zone, far from the clearing where Ish’s power had been made manifest. What plant regrowth had once surrounded the building was gone, leaving newly charred remains that betrayed the attack that had recently taken place there. With the artifact slung over his shoulder, he walked slowly through the debris, kicking stone fragments and carbonized lumber aside in frustration, knowing that he may as well have torched the place himself.

“I killed them,” T. G. thought aloud, his heart heavy with the realization.

Finding a stairwell into the stone foundation, he carefully proceeded downward, descending only as far as the available light would allow. The room below dropped away into darkness, and the part of it he could see was no more than a clutter of fallen timbers and chunks of plaster. A light pallor of smoke still hung tenuously in the air.

The burden of what he had brought about through his pride and foolishness weighed upon his shoulders, far more than the artifact ever had. All he saw were the faces of the Twelve in that underground chamber that night, as they had looked upon him in the wondrous realization that their Voice had come. Faces. Eyes. He could not shut them out. And then, despite all T. G. had done wrong, Ish had still come to him in the forest, saving his life twice—once through a burst of majestic power beyond T. G.’s comprehension.

He walked back up and into the gentle morning light to find Ish sitting to one side on the former library steps.

“I did this,” T. G. mourned. “You sent me here so I could see for myself.”

“When one becomes a part of the light,” Ish began, “he illuminates those who follow him. Should he turn away from that light, he blocks it instead, casting darkness upon the others.” He paused a moment, letting T. G. think about that. “Your position carries a vast responsibility. You must never forget that.”

“People died. People who looked to me, trusted me. People who waited all their lives for me to show up. I’ll have to live with what I’ve done for the rest of my life.”

“Those who died are in no pain. They are with us.”

“I can’t believe I was so foolish. I let myself trust the Dark. I fell for it all … hook, line and sinker. They used me, and I never even suspected it.” He looked at the seated figure. “Why didn’t you tell me I was going wrong?”

“You never asked me. Not once, during all those months, did you call upon me. I was with you, yet you were not with me.”

He knew Ish was right. He hung his head. “I was so sure. Of everything. You’re right. I never thought to check with you. I assumed you had a hand in everything that was happening because it all seemed so perfect.” He sat beside his blue-robed friend. “So you didn’t heal Paull Shass after all?”

Ish shook his head. “You would be amazed by the ‘miracles’ the Dark can perform. Many things we do, it can counterfeit. It will heal, grant wishes, or bestow wealth or worldly pleasures—and these ‘miracles’ are usually presented as if they had come from us. The Dark will even praise the name of the Creator if its purposes demand it.”

“I figured Paull was too important to die,” T. G. said. “I was sure you’d done it. I never gave his recovery a second thought.”

“Healings are not given based upon any measure of personal merit, but only in accordance with the will of the Father. Even among those who belong to us, not all are healed of their afflictions, for differing reasons. For some, their sufferings or deaths lead to the eternal salvation of others whose lives they have touched. There is a plan in place, T. G., and each life has a part in that plan.

“It is difficult for human pride to accept the fact that, although all prayer is answered, sometimes the answer is ‘no.’ That which a man thinks he wants is seldom what he really needs. Too often, when a believer is given that which he desires, he becomes too comfortable, loses focus, and immerses himself in the world around him. The Dark knows this well.”

The young prophet was humbled. “Well, I sure fell for it.” He paused, considering what he had done. “No, I didn’t fall for it. I walked right into it with my eyes wide open.”

“Mankind usually does. There’s nothing new under the sun, T. G. Your senses overrode your judgment. You heard what you wanted to hear, and you were given your every desire. You filtered everything that subsequently happened to you—everything you heard, everything you saw—through a bias you let them create within you. It has happened time and again throughout your world’s history, and millions have been deluded and have lost their lives as a result.” He nodded sadly. “You are not the first. You are, however, among the last.”

“It had to be the phone call,” T. G. realized, thinking of the raid on the library. “I should have known better than to believe that Paull Shass had changed his stripes. They must have been waiting months for me to contact the underground. I led them directly to Pretsal, who led them to the Twelve.” He fearfully looked to Ish. Hopeful words stumbled from his lips. “Pretsal … where is he? Is he safe?” His tone dropped into one of dreadful expectation. “Or did I kill him too?”

“He is in hiding, safely making final preparations, along with others. You will see him shortly.”

T. G. breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “Some Voice in the Dark I turned out to be. Well, I won’t make that mistake again.”

“Moses made mistakes. David made mistakes. Peter made mistakes. All serious, all with their consequences, and often others suffered or died because of them. Yet all those mistakes were forgiven and overcome, and great things followed. Yours have been and will be too. Mourn, but make an end of your grief. There is much to be done, and you must remain focused.”

“I trust you with my life,” T. G. swore, clutching the artifact tightly. “Ask anything, and I’ll do it. I will not serve the Dark again.”

“I know.”

He considered the Gift. “Why do I have this back? I mean, Darafine finished the translation, and surely copies have been circulated by now.”

“Credentials. No one but the Voice in the Dark can carry that among the people. Once the Truth has become known to all, they will know from its prophecies that I have sent you. Just as it was a sign for the Twelve, it will be a sign for all.” He smiled. “You may even wish to read it. I have given you the gift of the Old Tongue.”

T G. looked down at the artifact, seeing it with new eyes. Suddenly, the words tooled into its surface were plainly legible.

The Truth, written that man may know the love of He Who made him.

He looked aside, turning his gaze away. “I’m … sorry, Ish. I must have disappointed you so badly. You trusted me …”

Ish smiled. “We do not remember what you did.”

“I don’t know how you put up with me,” T. G. commented. “Are you my guardian angel or something? I never really asked. I guess I’ve been taking everything for granted lately. Please. I’d like to know.”

“T. G.,” Ish said, rising to his feet, “it is time you knew me.”

A burst of new light flared into existence around Ish. T. G. leaped to his feet and backed away a few steps as the man became engulfed in the fiery brilliance. It was like a second sunrise. Watching, transfixed, T. G. squinted and brought his hands up as the light against his eyes became heat against his face as well.

He fell to the ground, covering his head and face. He felt the pinprick warmth of the infinite yet contained power as it played upon his entire body. An unearthly electricity crawled like thousands of hurried ants upon his skin. He could not look, could not speak, could not move. His heart pounded, leaping against his breastbone so hard it hurt. His tightly closed eyes filled with light.

And he knew.

“Rise, T. G.,” a resonant, infinite voice said. “Look upon me. Don’t be afraid.”

Slowly, he rose to his feet, soot from the ground blackening his clothes, arms, and face. The blinding glare no longer hurt his eyes, and its warmth even became comforting. Within the radiance he saw a gently smiling face, and his eyes beheld the man’s hands as they were held outward.

Something was there upon them, deep scars etched by the cruelty and hatred of men who knew not what they did.

The figure stood patiently, letting his chosen prophet have all the time he needed. T. G. finally found his voice.

“You’re … I mean, you’re … you’re …” The words struggled from his lips. “You … you … are …”

“Yes, T. G. I am.”

The words were powerful, knocking T. G. backward with a tangible force. He ran them again and again through his mind, weighing the full implication of the simple statement.

I AM … the self-spoken name of God.

The chosen prophet took a few steps closer to the Figure and looked into the unfathomable wisdom of his Lord’s eyes, not knowing what to say next.

T. G. struggled to fully seize upon the fact of just Whom it was Who had chosen him. It was too big. “It was You, wasn’t it … Who spoke to Abraham … and Moses … the burning bush … and David … and … Paul …” He paused in wonder. “And … raised the dead, and …” He trembled in awe. “And … died …” He gazed into the loving eyes, then at the wounds in his hands. “Crucified.”

His voice trailed off, becoming a shaky whisper, and he wept. “Forgive me. I was so wrong … when I—”

“Losing your parents hurt more than you could express, I know. You suffered much, and your pain made you doubt Me. You believed, in your youth, but after your parents’ deaths you were angry. You turned away. Yet I stayed with you through it all, for you were Mine, and I never leave My own.”

Ish then reached out, and T. G. went to Him. The comforting embrace he found in those arms—the very arms that had forged the universe itself—swept away his sorrows, his pain, his doubts.

Ish looked down into the face of His chosen. “You are My prophet, My Voice, chosen before the foundation of the world was laid. You always will be.”

After a few moments, the embrace ended. The glow surrounding Ish faded, leaving a momentary warmth in the air. T. G., his knees weak and unsteady, lowered himself to the stone library steps and sat at the feet of his Lord. After a few moments, Ish joined him.

They sat there for nearly half an hour before a humbled and astonished T. G. could formulate another question or utter another syllable.

“Ish, where do I go from here? What do I do now?”

Ish stood. “You are ready. You will go into the world, and tell them that the Awakening is upon them.”

“But I blew it. They’ll kill me. The second they see me, they’ll kill me.”

“What happened at the clearing was only a foretaste of what now follows. You are Our witness. Henceforth, no harm can befall you that you do not allow, so long as you continue to draw upon Me. Those who would see you killed cannot take your life from you. You are immune to their attacks. The forces of nature and all power are now at your disposal. Use them wisely. You have a mission, and you will complete it. The time has come to bring the people back to the Truth. You will personally lead the world away from the Dark. Nothing will stop that.”

T. G. looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers as if testing them. “I can’t be killed? I don’t feel any different …”

“Feelings mean nothing. Your senses mean nothing. I have told you the truth, and it stands alone. Without corroboration. Without majority approval. Without compromise.”

Several silent moments passed, and T. G. took one last look around. With new resolve, anchored in the knowledge of Who was with him, he took a deep breath of the cool air and looked up at the pink sky.

The war had escalated—and not for the last time.

The elevator dropped soundlessly deeper, headed toward the buried complex of sublevels where the government prison lay. The car slid down a heavily reinforced synthecrete-and-steel shaft that was impenetrable, with a single door at the top and one at the bottom. Two hundred feet, then three hundred flew by before the car finally and gently slowed, coming to a complete stop thirty-four levels beneath the foundation of the World Capitol.

It was the most secure penitentiary on the planet. One way in—one way out.

As the elevator doors slid open, Sereen Shass took a deep breath. What she was doing was risky at best, suicidal at worst. But she had to try, for she believed that only in succeeding here did her planet’s salvation—and her own—lie. It would be her only opportunity to act, for both Barthos and her husband were out of the country, on an inspection tour of a new industrial complex in Kamir. They would be back in two days.

If all went well, she would be gone in one.

She stepped out of the elevator and into the heavily guarded lobby. Watchers at the security station recognized her immediately, rising to their feet in respect as she approached. She wore a draped gossamer veil of sunburst yellow over her head and face, and carried a small matching purse. Her body was wrapped tightly in short silken robes of green and yellow that hung only to midthigh. Her honey hair shone in the controlled light.

The men looked upon the woman’s classically exquisite form as she neared them, walking as only a beautiful, confident woman can. Their lustful thoughts were held somewhat in check by the fact that her husband could end their lives with no more than a nod.

Sereen casually surveyed the bank of circular monitoring screens that lined the wall behind the security desk. Each was assigned to an occupied high-security cell and provided a constant two-dimensional image of anything a prisoner might say or do.

“Kira Shass,” the security chief said. “We were not expecting you.”

“Prosperity, gentlemen,” she said, her voice heavy with the authority of her position. “I have come to see the Elesh woman.”

“Forgive me, but we were given a general order to hold her in isolation, with no visitors.”

“I am well aware of that. My husband does not want her bizarre ideologies infecting any of the other prisoners. How anyone can be as deluded as she, I do not know,” she said in a heavily disapproving tone. “I, however, am immune to the disease she carries, and I wish to speak to her. I want this heretic to know that her feeble attempts to undermine my husband’s authority will not go unpunished.”

She saw doubt still playing upon their faces and addressed the security chief more directly. “Tell me, Maran, when was the last time one of my husband’s general orders applied to me?”

“Well …”

“I intend to go in there, say my piece, and be gone. I have an appointment for dinner in one hour, which leaves me little time to stand here arguing with you. Must I contact my husband and bring him into this?”

At that the chief nodded and one of his subordinates motioned for the woman to follow. He led her down a stark, cold corridor, lit only by the chill of pale blue light strips. Their footsteps echoed as they took a right turn and entered the Isolation Unit, which, like the entire facility, had been chiseled directly into the thick layer of black granite bedrock upon which the city rested.

The Watcher pointed to a plate on the wall, next to a reinforced door. “Place your hand there, Kira Shass,” he directed. As she did so he simultaneously pressed his palm into an identical plate some ten feet away. The door slowly swung open. “The security system has memorized you now. You have full access within this block for twenty minutes. I would suggest, however, that you not open the door to her cell.”

“Do you think me a fool, Garthon?” she asked in a highly irritated tone, subtly reminding the man that she, and therefore her husband, knew his name.

“Oh … no, Kira Shass,” he almost pleaded. “Not at all. I am sorry … it is simply that—”

“What else, Garthon?” she asked, feigning the regal impatience the man expected from her.

“By pressing the plate just inside the cellblock door, you may leave anytime you are ready.” He pointed into the block corridor. “Elesh is the only one in there … she will not be hard to find. Do you wish me to accompany you?”

“No. I do not need my hand held. I have a great deal to say to that woman, and what I say is for her wretched ears alone. I want complete privacy, which means no monitoring in this section. No sound, no picture. Especially no sound. Is that understood?”

The order was unusual, but she was who she was. “Understood, Kira Shass,” the man said, nodding in respect. “It will be as you say.” He turned and walked away, leaving the woman alone to enter the cellblock.

Upon his return to the security station, the Watcher reached over and touched a jeweled plate, disabling the audiovisual monitor.

“What are you doing?” the security chief asked. “You are shutting down surveillance in that whole block!”

“Kira Shass ordered it for the duration of her visit.”

“Why?”

“I would assume that she intends to say a few choice things to the prisoner, using language that would be considered somewhat beneath her station,” the man smiled. “She is not in the best of moods.”

“I do not like it.”

“Then you go tell her that.”

The monitor stayed off.

Sereen made her way along the bare corridor, peering into each cell as she passed. All were empty. Finally, she found the woman she sought, and lifted the veil from her face. She noticed that the tiny blue indicator light on the monitoring unit, high on the wall within the cell, was dark. No one was watching.

Elesh was huddled over the basin, drinking from cupped hands. Sereen silently stood for a moment, watching, allowing the prisoner time to notice her.

Darafine turned and caught sight of the woman’s bright clothing from the corner of her eye. Turning fully in surprise, she wiped the water from her chin with the back of a hand. She brushed her dark hair back out of her face. Their eyes met and locked. No one spoke for several uncomfortable moments.

“Hello, Janella,” Sereen said, looking upon the woman’s tattered, sooty robes. “You look well, considering.”

“I am surprised to see you,” she replied. “And it is ‘Darafine’ now.”

“So I understand. I must say, I knew you would end up in here, sooner or later.”

“Everyone keeps saying that.”

“How long has it been?”

“Forty years.”

“It seems longer. I am only sorry that it took a situation like this to force …” She paused for a moment. “Janella, there is something that I need to say—”

“Darafine.”

The blonde woman nodded. “Darafine,” she began again. “I hope you can understand. I have given this much thought. Because of your personal convictions, I think I have always known that something like this would be necessary, one day …”

She reached into her purse.

Fifteen minutes later, those at the security station watched as the influential woman nodded and walked past, headed toward the lone elevator. Discreetly, they continued to watch her curvaceous, fluid form from behind, greatly enjoying the feminine vision their eyes beheld—the short figure-hugging robes, the sexy veil, the flowing blonde hair, those long, luscious legs. Rank did indeed have its privileges, for she was, without a doubt, a woman fit to be seen on the arm of the leader of the world.

The security chief reactivated the monitoring units in Elesh’s cellblock. The assigned screen was instantly filled with a view of the prisoner as she lay huddled on her cot, her unkempt brown hair hanging in her face. What a waste, the man thought. That one is not so bad looking, either. His primal mind filled with images as he leered at her—brutal imaginings of having his way with her, there in her cell and unseen by anyone, her screams unheard as they echoed down the cold stone cellblock.

The powerful woman disappeared into the elevator, and the doors closed. At once, chatter about her obvious physical attributes broke out among the men, who laughed and shared comments as lewd and suggestive as they each felt they could get away with.

In her cell, the other woman thought about what she had done with her life, about the events and the decisions that had landed her there. There was no going back, not now. What would befall her, she did not know for certain, but that was secondary. She knew that she had done what she had to do, that her secret had remained secure. She lay still, listening for alarms or some other sign that something had gone wrong. None sounded, and a joy filled her as she came to realize that none would.

Sereen faced away from the monitoring unit, not moving, feigning sleep. Her hair, now dark, hung in her eyes. She hoped they were watching her, so arrogant and so sure of themselves, never suspecting a woman had deceived them. The longer their masculine pride swelled within them, the more time Sereen would be able to buy.

Her sister, now free, would need it.

Pretsal carried the huge wooden crate over to where the others had been stacked and set it down. It was all there—power cells, focusing crystals, lens assemblies, electronics packages, and everything else they were going to need for the next battle in their war against the Dark.

The relocation of the underground forces had gone smoothly. Darafine’s knowledge of the Old Tongue had allowed her to interpret a small cache of historical military documents discovered by the Twelve centuries earlier, giving them the locations of several long-forgotten installations spread across Noron’s single continent.

The room, nestled within the lower levels of a former munitions complex deep in the northern wilderness, was slowly becoming the nerve center of operations for both the Twelve and the Truth. It had lain empty for millennia, forgotten after an ancient war, situated next to a clearing beneath the dense, overspreading jungle forest above. The facility, built underground and well hidden, was heavily reinforced and constructed of cast synthecrete, cut stone, and steel. It was perfect for the electronic assault the Twelve was about to launch against the Prime Lord.

“Is that the last of it?” T. G. asked, walking into the room, the Gift hanging from his shoulder. “When will it be ready to go?”

“This is all,” Pretsal nodded, slapping his hands against each other. The heaviness of centuries-old dust filled his nostrils. “Josan will have to oversee its construction … he once worked in a schooling center, where equipment like this was used. I would expect that it will be a couple of weeks before we are ready.”

“And this will take us worldwide, right?” T. G. asked, walking up to him. He set the artifact on one of the crates. “Everyone must hear.”

“We’ll use the atmospheric canopy as a reflector, as the simulight broadcast centers do. By bouncing the signal that way, it will be picked up by the relay grid used by the government. We can even use the World network frequency if we choose, but I would suggest we not do so for too long at a time. They may be able to set up a trace.”

A blonde woman in green and yellow entered, pulling her veil away as she approached the two men.

“Sereen …?” T. G. puzzled aloud, a bit fearfully. They found us! How did they find us?

She grew closer. The woman’s smile was a wonder to behold.

“Darafine!” T. G. joyfully realized. He rushed forward and embraced her. “I thought you were … I thought the worst.”

Pretsal extended a comforting arm, and she hugged him as well. “We had heard horrible things,” the gentle giant said. “We feared you had been killed along with the others.”

“No,” she said. “Not dead, just shaken. I surely would have been, though, had Sereen not freed me.” She looked around. “I hoped you had relocated here. Of the possible sites we discussed, this is the most secure. We should be safe.”

“Sereen, you said?” T. G. asked, surprised. “She freed you …?”

“Yes. She smuggled a colorwand into my cell, and we exchanged both clothing and hair color. She used her palm print to open the doors to the cell and the prison block for me, before sealing herself in. I took her place, and she took mine.”

“That took guts,” he said.

“You must go to her, T. G. You alone can help her. They will kill her as soon as they discover the deception. I am sure of it, and many hours have already passed.” Her glance fell to the floor. “They tortured the others. They may be dead by now. Poor Josan. To have suffered as he did …”

“It was only a broken leg,” a calm and familiar voice said from behind, “and barely a limp to show for it, thanks to our good doctor. Good as new.”

Darafine spun to see Josan and several others walking into the room, carrying boxes of perishable food supplies. Noron’s medical science had allowed his broken tibia to knit in minutes, making a cast or crutches unnecessary. Momentarily confused, she could only stare at his handsome smiling face as he approached on two good legs. She ran to him and held him tightly, as she had thought she never would again.

“Thank the Creator you are safe,” he said, returning her embrace. “We were fearful that you would be tortured … and worse.”

“But how? How did you escape the prison?” She grabbed his hands and held them up before her, finding all ten of his fingers healthy and intact.

“Prison?”

“Yes. Barthos said—”

“They did not capture me. They did not know I was there and did not conduct much of a search. The soldiers all seemed to be in a hurry to get out of the library and out of Jerithia for some reason. Perhaps angels scared them, yes?”

“What did happen?”

“After the corridor collapsed I was pinned there, under a pile of debris and fallen ceiling beams. I would still be there had Pretsal not come to the Fire Zone, or had he not been so thorough in his search of the library’s sublevels. Those were fifteen hours I would not like to live through again.”

“Barthos … that monster!” Darafine said. “He lied. Made me think they had captured you and were torturing you. He tried to use you as a weapon against me, and he did not even have you!”

“Sounds about right,” T. G. commented.

“As you can see, I am quite safe,” Josan continued, “and we have no missing friends. Everyone we lost has been accounted for.” His tone became more serious. “Twenty-six were killed in the attack, and the soldiers left them lying where they had fallen. We brought them here, where we can give them a proper and grateful farewell.”

“At least Barthos can no longer hurt our friends,” Darafine said sadly.

“No, he cannot,” Josan said, missing them. He saw their faces in his mind, their smiles. “Despite the chancellor’s words, it would appear that only you were captured.”

“Please, help Sereen,” she implored T. G., turning to him. “You have to save my sister.”

“Sister?”

“Please, T.G, you have to help her,” the woman pleaded. “Go to her.”

“Sister?”

A voice sounded gently in his mind, not audibly yet clearly.

Sereen is to join us, T. G. She has turned from the world, as you did. She saved her sister at the risk of her own life, as was meant to be. The spiritual shielding that prevents the Dark from sensing the location of the Twelve will also allow you to shift away from this place and back without detection. Go to Sereen. Bring her home.

“Okay,” T. G. said. “I’ll bring her back here. Pretsal, would she be in the same prison where you and I were jailed on my last visit?”

“She would have to be, yes. There’s only one government detention facility in Keltrian. She’s probably in the high-security section, though … two levels beneath where you and I were held.”

“Yes,” Darafine confirmed. “Cell 1102. Sublevel 3.”

T. G. took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll get her. Josan, get your people busy assembling this equipment. The sooner we start, the sooner we can get on the air.”

“ ‘On the air’ … I like that,” Pretsal smiled.

“It will be done,” Josan answered, nodding in respect.

“On the air,” Pretsal repeated, tickled.

“Watch my stuff,” the Voice said with a smile, indicating the artifact. Then he was gone, as if he had never been there at all. The eyes of the others went wide.

“That is a bit unsettling,” Josan admitted. “Seeing him just vanish like that.”

“You would be surprised what one can get used to,” Pretsal said, gently resting his hand on the artifact. “Doesn’t bother me at all.”

Josan turned to Darafine, his eyes studying her with some amusement. “Hmmm,” he mused.

“What?” she asked.

“I think I like you as a blonde.”

Seven long hours had passed since Darafine’s escape, and it was after midnight. A weary Sereen stirred, always cautious to keep her face angled away from the monitor. Hours before, food, such as it was, had been left at the top of the steps leading down into the cell, and it was only her extreme hunger that finally compelled her to eat. A hard roll and a few strips of dried meat were the entirety of her meal, accompanied by water from the wash basin.

Just as she forced down the last of the dry, flavorless bread, she suddenly became aware of another presence in the cell. She turned to see T. G. standing there, a smile on his face.

“T. G.!” she cried, startled. “How did you …?”

“Hello, Sereen,” he said, beaming at her, so proud he could burst. “Ready to come home?”

“Home …” Her voice trailed off as she understood. “It is all true. You are who they said you were. They said there were prophecies, but until now, I did not really …” She rushed to him. As they embraced, her attention was drawn to the monitor light. “They will see and hear us. They will know you are here.”

“No, they won’t. Trust me.”

She relaxed a little. “Darafine reached safety then?”

“Yes, she’s fine. I came for you as soon as she told us how you’d freed her. We’re all very grateful for what you have done.” He smiled anew. “Sounds like you’ve had quite a day. You shake your personal Watchers, enter the most secure prison in the world, get them to shut off the security system, and pull the old ‘switching clothes’ trick. Jim Phelps would be proud. Good thing you’re on our side.”

She smiled. Once more, he was taken by her beauty.

“You and Darafine look so much alike,” he observed. “I never noticed it before, but I can really see the family resemblance now that I know. Especially with your hair dark like that. Sure fooled the guards.”

“I had to get her out of here. I did not know how or where to find you, but I knew she could, if anyone.” Sereen glanced downward, remembering. “Janella and I last saw each other so long ago … before she changed her name to protect the rest of us. My family disowned her. Forgot her. Now I know she was right. I heard Paull and Cordan talking about her … and about you.” She smiled, lighting up the cell. “She was right, T. G. You really are the Voice in the Dark that she always said would come.”

“Yes, Sereen.”

“And I was right,” she said, recalling her first conversation with him in his hospital room. “You are special.” She paused for a moment, thinking. “You must have known Janella was here. If you can move anywhere at will, as it would appear, why did you not just come here and free her yourself?”

“That was for you to do, and you did it. And now you’re with us. You are set apart, Sereen. Few women on this world have your compassion or your conscience. And you are a woman of courage. You knew going in that they might well have killed you, had they found you here—Prime Lord’s wife or no.”

She shuddered, tears welling in her eyes. “How could I ever have loved him, T. G.? The things I heard him say the other night … how could I have been so deceived? It was as if the Paull I thought I knew was dead.”

“The Paull you knew may well be.” T. G. took her hand, comforting her for a few quiet moments, then he changed the subject. “What do you say we blow this joint and grab a pizza?” He enjoyed her puzzled expression. “Never mind,” he smiled. “Come on … friends are waiting.”

“Who is Jim Phelps?” she asked.

They vanished in the twinkling of an eye. Several minutes later a young Watcher—a poor soul who as a result would lose not merely his job but his life—would discover the impossibly empty cell.