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“You know better than that!” Joram replied. His eyes gleamed feverishly, sweat trickling down his pale face. “You know her power. She’s talking to dead who are…. My god!” he whispered in sudden realization. “You’ve attacked Merilon!”

“Don’t be hard on Major Boris, Joram. He is a soldier, after all, and you couldn’t expect him to stay penned up like a steer in the slaughterhouse.”

“It won’t do any good. You can’t penetrate the city’s magical shield.”

“Ah, that’s where you are wrong, my friend. The thickheaded Major actually came up with an ingenious idea. He converted the flying troop carriers into assault ships. He plans to use their laser fire to destroy the magical dome. It may not pierce the magic, but it will drain the Life of those who keep that magic in place. The shield will soon disintegrate. The Crystal Palace will fall out of the skies, taking with it those huge marble slabs—what do they call them, the Three Sisters? Poor ladies. They, too, will crash to the ground.”

“Thousands will die?” Saryon cried, aghast. Staring out across the plains, he saw a brilliant flaring of light, the glinting of the sun shining off the metal bodies of the creatures that were crawling, antlike, around the perimeter of the city. That was all he could see with his eyes, mentally he saw much, much more.

Prince Garald—if he were still alive—fighting courageously but bewildered and unnerved over this unexpected attack. Lord and Lady Samuels, their little children, and the countless other noble families whose homes were built upon those floating marble slabs dying horribly, crushed in the falling wreckage. The Crystal Palace, smashing to the ground, exploding into millions of shards of knife-sharp glass fragments…

“Let go of your life,” repeated Gwendolyn sadly.

“If only I could get there?” Joram cried in a low voice. “I could help—What am I saying?” He laughed bitterly. “I brought this on them!” Slumping back against the column, he covered his eyes with his bloodstained hand.

“The time of the Prophecy is accomplished, Joram,” the Sorcerer said “Leave them to their fate. How did that charming little quotation run? ‘And in his hand he holds the destruction of the world—’”

“—or its salvation,” said Gwendolyn.

Lost in his despair, Joram didn’t even appear to hear her. Saryon did, however. Turning, he stared at her intently. She, too, was gazing out at the beleaguered city, her eyes wide and unfocused, a sweet, sad smile on her lips. Moving slowly and quietly, so he would not startle her, the catalyst laid his hand upon her shoulder.

“What did you say, my dear?”

“She is raving!” the Sorcerer snapped impatiently. “Enough of this. In case you have forgotten, there is an assassin out there Catalyst, open a Corridor—”

A Hand was outstretched, trying to help Saryon back from the edge of the cliff. He had only to reach out, take hold of it….

“Continue, my dear,” he said urgently, his voice trembling, trying to contain his excitement so as not to frighten the woman.

Gwendolyn gazed about her with a dreamy expression.

“There is someone here—an old, old man—a Bishop. Where are you? Oh, yes. There, in the back.” She pointed vaguely. “He’s been waiting for centuries for someone to listen to him. It was all a mistake, he says, running away from our home like spoiled, angry children. Then came the Iron War and everything was falling apart. He prayed to find out how to change the world. The Almin granted his prayers, hoping that mankind would turn back from the dangerous path on which he trod. But the Bishop was too weak. He saw the future. He saw the terrible danger. He saw the promised redemption. Dazzled by his vision, he perished. The words of the Almin that were meant to be a warning remained unspoken, unfinished. And mankind, in his fear, made of that warning a prophecy.”

“Fear…. A warning….” murmured Saryon, light filling his soul. “Joram, don’t you understand?”

Joram did not even look up. His head lowered, his face was hidden by the mat of