Not many people came out to see off the wagons loaded with clothes, tents, fuel, and food—only the mages of the High Chapter, the Archmage, and several scholars also involved in the work on the Crossroads of time. The day was foggy and cold, a typical March day in the Northern Province. Through the whitish veil one could not even see the edge of the Enchanted Forest to the west, beyond the fields. Five scholars with several guides intended to skirt it from the south and reach the Boreain Highway, which connected the Eastern Province and Mainor.

  Romenford was not with them; he had left for Mainor a week earlier on urgent business. A month had passed since that memorable morning when the Council decided to sponsor the trip, which received the official title of the First Derelz Expedition. Affairs had been settled, Petros’s estate locked under the guard of the best battle mages of the Northern Province, a sign appeared on the office door at the Academy: "Absent, return date unknown", and the newspapers announced that the expedition had already departed for Mainor. All the literate people of Aktida eagerly began to follow how the academicians were going to solve the riddle of the Crossroads.

  Just before departure, as if to be sure, the Archmage called Petros, Vergilius, and Saelin to him, shook their hands, and in a half-whisper, with some unease, said:

  "I am counting on you, gentlemen scholars… Considering the substantial sum we invested in this expedition, we also expect a corresponding result. A result that will shake the scientific world, a result that will fully return to us those infamous millions invested in such a difficult undertaking. Petros, I hope you’ve grown since you blew half the treasury on the expedition to the Cross Plateau and found almost nothing there. And I hope you understand: such money must be earned back with your own sweat. Earned, not squandered chasing grandmothers’ tales and grandfathers’ legends. They do not exist. What exists are the Crossroads of time. Focus on them, for Aktos’s sake."

  Petros was silent. He still felt too good; the euphoria was still boiling in his blood.

  "I give you my word," he said with his usual expressionless smile. "I give you my word that the result will exceed all your expectations, Archmage. This world will change after our expedition. And remember: Professor Petros places science above all else."

  The Archmage nodded dryly.

  "May Aktos’s blessing be with you," he said to Petros’s back, clearing his throat. Petros did not turn around. He was lost in thought and did not notice when the carriage started moving, while Saelin and Nubel, sprawling on the divans, began chatting animatedly.

  The cortege traveled accompanied by guards, mail coaches, and passenger landaus carrying common folk from Asternia to Mainor and farther south, to the Southern and Eastern Provinces. Recently, such scheduled coaches had completely supplanted all other means of travel. It had become fashionable to hire carriages, especially since they had dropped in price considerably, and it was cheaper to pay for a "long-haul" and a coachman than to search for lodging and fodder for one’s own horses at every stop.

  The hooves clattered evenly on the stone-paved highway. The carriage jolted slightly, but Petros, long accustomed to travel, no longer noticed any discomfort. Resting his head against the glass, he watched trees and fields flicker by, leaving no memory behind. All of it was sickeningly ordinary and mundane.

  During one of the stops, he climbed out of the carriage, where Nubel and both Saelins, elder and younger, were seated, and knocked on the window of Ashley and Vergilius’s coach.

  "Hi," she said, opening the door.

  "Can we talk?" Petros asked. Ashley shrugged, Vergilius smirked and got out. Petros immediately dropped confidently into his place opposite the sorceress.

  "Listen, I know you’re still angry with me," he said without preamble. "And I’d like to apologize once more and thank you for agreeing to come. It means a lot to me, truly."

  "I’m not angry, Horatius," Ashley said quietly and smiled. "It’s been three years. I’m fine. And I really hope you’ll be fine too. Time heals."

  "Me? I’ve already moved on," Petros said angrily. "I’m buried in work; I don’t have time for distractions… How are things with Roger? I’ve long wanted to tell you, he’s a good fellow. I’m glad you’re together. He’s someone I’d trust you with."

  Ashley laughed.

  "He really is very sweet. And he loves me madly. You know… with him I can relax. Forget for a moment that I’m a member of the Academy, the youngest magister, forget politics that I now have to take part in, the projects I must manage. I can come home and forget about work. I can build my own comfort. I had a stormy youth, but now I want peace."

  "Peace? Don’t scare me, Ashley. You’re twenty-five. You have your whole life and career ahead of you! Don’t you see you can rise much higher? You have enormous potential! That’s why I asked you to come. I want this expedition to be your ticket into the High Chapter. You can get there, Ashley, believe me!"

  "But I don’t want to, Horatius," Ashley shook her head. "I like where I am now."

  "Roger loves you," Petros said insistently. "And you? Do you love him? Tell me the truth!"

  "Horatius…"

  "Just answer me, please!"

  "Yes, I love him," Ashley answered firmly. "And I’m ready to spend the rest of my days with him. Horatius, years ago we had a wonderful time together, but that’s in the past. Still, I’m grateful to you for those memories. Please, let this expedition also leave us only with good memories of each other, all right?"

  She smiled again. Petros nodded silently and smiled back, falsely. He was utterly convinced that a shadow of hesitation had flickered across her face before she gave her answer.

  ***

  Days flowed by; the carriages rolled in even order under the gray, overcast sky, through which the sun only rarely broke. March was awakening, the ice crust cracked and shifted on the rivers. The sun, even through clouds, touched the February snowdrifts, and they shrank, melted; snowdrops peeked from the ruts left by passing carriages. Two weeks after leaving Asternia the road curved, skirting the edge of the sullen Enchanted Forest, swept across the fields, and on the horizon appeared the snow-white towers of Mainor, adorned with multicolored banners. The highways teemed with wagons; traders and wanderers streamed into the city, guests entered and departed through gates kept open around the clock, while the gatekeepers dozed peacefully at their posts.

  It was the year 1425, a prosperous time under Karplakh Winver I, who, having ascended the throne in 1410, had enacted only two more or less significant reforms—the reduction of import and export trade taxes in Mainor, and privileges for merchants and nobles—after which he peacefully indulged in the delights of secular life, beloved by the capital’s aristocracy. Mainor flourished, and so did all Aktida. Vaimar traded briskly with it, and the kings corresponded and met regularly in Petista or Vairad near the border to play chess and talk heart-to-heart. The Nocturns kept quiet. A few years earlier the Ministry of Foreign Affairs had made it clear that if the Nocturns pushed beyond what was permitted by the Treaty of 1355, they would be put in their place by the most radical means, up to economic blockade and the creation of reservations for pure-blood islanders and half-breeds. The Thieves’ Guild still plagued the citizens, but a sufficient contingent of sheriffs along with professional soldiers from the Fighters’ Guild coped well and kept crime within acceptable bounds. Thus the political and economic system had finally stabilized, and calm, happy times had arrived.

  Of course, in 1425 no one could guess that eighteen years later the king would suddenly die of a cerebral hemorrhage on his own throne, and the scepter would pass to his only son, the young Prince Emerlun.

  Nor did Petros suspect it. In his plans he gave no thought to possible political changes—under such a solid monarch they seemed utterly impossible. Therefore Mainor appeared to him as a stone bastion of permanence, a city that could never change. And why should it?..

  The carriage got jostled in a jam at the gates, then, thanks to the skilled coachman, squeezed through onto the central street and rolled along the cobblestones. The final destination was the Institute of Magic, at the other end of the city.

  "Nothing’s changed here either," thought Petros as he slowly rose and stepped out of the carriage, the door held open for him by a footman. "Damn it, the good old Institute. The same ascetic little rooms, the same strict uniforms for both students and academics… No, there really are things in this world that never change."

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  "Greetings, greetings," Petros and his companions Vergilius, Nubel, and Saelin exchanged bows and handshakes with the professors who had come to meet them. Ashley jumped lightly out of her own carriage with a smile, allowing one of the teachers to help her down, then strode first along the tulip-lined path toward the massive white building beyond the tall wrought-iron gates. Petros looked around. Life flowed as usual; the stillness told him that the students were all in classes inside the campus.

  "We’ve been waiting for you for some time," said Master Borregan, an old acquaintance of Petros and a lecturer in the Department of Temporal Magic. "Orders have been given to the servants, they’ll take your things to your rooms. Well, Petros, Saelin – you know your quarters in the Fifth Building have always been waiting for you, and the keys have always been with the porter. Ashley, Vergilius – welcome to Mainor."

  "Thank you, Borregan. I remember where I lived when I taught here – after all, I only left the Institute for a year," Ashley smiled. "What, they’re waiting for me to lecture already?"

  "As usual," shrugged the second greeter, Ashley’s colleague, Professor of Alchemy Paritsin. "If you can spare a minute… First, of course, the faculty is expecting you all for lunch during the class break, when we’ll have forty minutes of rest from this buzzing crowd."

  "How are the contest projects going?" Vergilius asked. "Aren’t you planning to send any students to defend theirs?"

  "Dullness, Vergilius! They’re all gifted, of course, in one way or another, but none of them have that spark that sets a genius apart from a mere excellent student. Remember, neither Petros nor Ashley showed much promise at first, and then – bang! – in a single stroke became famous worldwide. Well, no one can reproach these two. What marks famous scholars above all is a certain cast of mind. Am I right?"

  "Very unusual cast of mind, I’d say," Nubel interjected. "How else to explain that we’ve taken it upon ourselves to unravel the most absurd phenomenon in existence, and even expect to win a scientific prize for it?"

  The corridors filled with the noise of students rushing from classes to their own affairs, but on the third floor, behind massive stone doors, the noise was almost inaudible. Gradually the venerable magisters and doctors of science returned from their lessons to their offices; in truth, not the entire faculty could be expected at the meal, so the guests quietly enjoyed their feast as a group of ten. And what a feast it was! During the journey Petros had sorely missed such splendid dinners, and now he ate his fill, knowing well that soon enough he would have to content himself with camp rations and dry provisions. He was used to it, of course, and yet his aristocratic youth, filled with rich banquets, balls, and other entertainments, always reminded him of itself.

  "I hope you are satisfied," chuckled Miranfar, dean of the Faculty of Battle Magic. "The cook was told to do his utmost for our famous guests – a chance to remind them of the Institute’s hospitality. In my opinion, this time he outdid himself; such abundance rarely graces our professors’ table…"

  "Superb," Petros admitted, leaning back in his chair and lighting his pipe. "Truly, I never doubted the cook’s talents. I came to Mainor hoping he would not disappoint me again – and, of course, he has lived up to that hope completely…"

  "The good old Institute," Nubel said thoughtfully. "Perhaps someday my turn will come to stay here for good, take a chair in the Magisterium, and devote myself to teaching the young… I hope that in a few years I’ll remain here permanently for scholarly work."

  "You’ve tired too early, Nubel," Borregan remarked. "At your age, one should do nothing but travel on expeditions. The lot of a desk-bound worker is to entrust great discoveries to others’ hands. Admit it, it’s far more pleasant to touch the unraveling of a historical mystery yourself, even if it means swinging a shovel on a dig."

  "No, no, I quite agree!" Nubel blinked rapidly. "And I’m very glad. Expeditions are wonderful. But still, I think it’s better to send those who’ve had special training. Or at least a protective detachment."

  "Afraid of the druids, Nubel?" Petros smiled. "Don’t worry. We’ll have people with us who can take care of themselves – and of us."

  Nubel gave a meek smile in reply, but it was clear he was not convinced.

  "Here are the keys to your rooms," said Borregan. "Settle in and make yourselves at home. A reminder: tomorrow at twelve – the press conference, Magister Nielder’s lecture at two, Magister Nubel’s lecture at five. Petros, the archives are at your disposal. And also – may I have a word with you?"

  The others rose noisily from the table, passing compliments to the cook and leaving the dining hall to attend to their own affairs. Borregan drew Petros aside.

  "I wanted to speak about that student… Tychus… Still no news," he said sadly. "We tried everything, but he vanished without a trace. It’s a very tragic story, and I’m very sorry the Institute could not ensure his safety – but I am absolutely certain that, if something bad happened to him, it wasn’t on our grounds, but somewhere in the city. The Fighters’ Guild did everything it could, but even they are not all-powerful."

  "Thank you, Borregan," Petros said warmly, shaking his hand. "That means a great deal to me. Tychus was one of my best students. Such a loss for us all, for the community of scholars and mages… We live in unsettled times. Crime in Mainor is terribly high, and I feel the Fighters’ Guild can no longer cope – they’re too few, and underpaid. And in the end this is what we get – people disappearing in broad daylight…"

  "Yes, it’s terrible," Borregan nodded. "Believe me, we’ve strengthened security on Institute grounds. We’ve held safety lectures for the students. In general, we’re trying to do everything we can to prevent such cases from repeating. You know, the poor boy didn’t even have any family. An orphan from Boreain. But I don’t understand – what kind of fiend would want a student? He had nothing anyone could want…"

  "There are always villains, Borregan," Petros sighed. "It’s our society that breeds them. Social inequality, poverty, envy of the wealthy and the noble – that’s what drives people to crime. I think the boy was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time…"

  Borregan sighed.

  "In any case, thank you," Petros repeated. "Perhaps it’s time to admit we’ve done all we could and close the matter. Life goes on, doesn’t it? Forgive me, I have much work to do."

  He gave his colleague a sad smile and strode toward the staircase leading to the guest apartments.

  The room was well known to him. How many times he had stayed there when he came to give lectures in Mainor… Inside was a gentle half-darkness; Petros drew back the curtains to let in the brilliance of the spring midday sun, opened the window – as a northerner, he craved a constant flow of fresh air. His suitcases were indeed already there, brought by servants. Everything was just as before: the enormous bed with fresh linen stood in its place, the floors and furniture gleamed, scrubbed of dust and dirt in preparation for the magisters’ arrival.

  Petros locked the door, opened one of the suitcases, and quickly changed into the robe he always wore when arriving at the Mages’ Guild or a major university. One had to keep up appearances and present oneself in the best possible light. He would have time to visit the bathhouse later—and the Institute had an excellent one—but for now, he needed to make himself presentable, go to lunch, and then get on with business. Business above all…

  In the wrong place at the wrong time…

  Isn’t that right, Tychus?

  You truly were in the wrong time and the wrong place.

  A dimly lit chamber with a high ceiling, bathed in the pale, deathly glow of small lamps. This room lies hidden so deep within the ancient Institute that only a handful of the highest-ranking officials know of its existence. Steps descend in tiers like an amphitheater toward a circular platform in the center, encircled by a low barrier. Anyone standing inside that circle can not step beyond it.

  And there, on the floor, where a mosaic of stone formed some kind of pentagram, a man lies face down. A Nocturn. Naked, emaciated, little more than a skeleton draped in skin, his back scored with deep, bloody welts. On his shoulder a black tattoo of a lotus enclosed in a circle. A tattoo that would have meant nothing to anyone, except Petros, who knows all too well what it signifies.

  This was how the story began, Petros thought.

  With one who was not only in the wrong time and place, but who had made the fatal mistake of exposing himself by losing a book that could not possibly have existed in the year 1425.

  "Why are you here?"

  "We seek… Darius… Octarus…"

  "Darius and Octarus?" Petros repeats in disbelief. "The ones no one has seen in two thousand years? Aren’t they just inventions of the ancient storytellers?"

  "Priests… won’t tell us… The time has come… to return Aktida to the Nocturns…"

  "They truly existed? What became of them?"

  "They were to be left before the Exodus to the Archipelago… Darius somewhere in Aktida, Octarus somewhere in Vaimar. We do not know… They are building shrines… the Crescent…"

  "The Nocturns were to leave Darius and Octarus on the mainland before the Exodus?" Petros presses, stepping closer to the circle. "But why?"

  "Because that was the advice given in Elysium," the captive rasps. "The will of the Sacred See… They believe we should surrender."

  "And you disagree with them, is that it? That’s why they sent you here."

  "We of the ‘Black Lotus’ believe the Nocturns must reclaim Darius, Octarus, and all of Laugdeil… Now is the best time. It was foretold that Darius and Octarus would be found. We are trying to make it happen…"

  "I see," says Petros. He leans closer to the circle, careful not to cross the line that would rob him of his magic if he did. "Give me a clue," he urges. "And I will find Octarus and Darius. For you."

  "They are building the Crescent… starting from Avilix," the prisoner whispers with effort, sobbing. "In Avilix there may still be traces… We had planned to begin from there."

  Avilix, Petros thinks. Damn it, I’ve read about that place. That’s where the Temple of Tornir now stands.

  "I’m glad we met, Tychus," he says almost gently. "This is priceless knowledge."

  He even feels a pang of pity for the young man. He wishes things had turned out differently. But now there is no turning back. Nothing said or done here, in the Occultum of the Mainor Institute, must ever leave this room.

  And this two-thousand-year-old youth would never leave it either.

  Petros opened his eyes. He found himself sitting on the bed, breathing heavily, his fingers white as they clutched the blanket, cold sweat rolling down his back. He was gasping for air, though the fresh wind poured in through the open window, tossing the curtains from side to side.