And then, though the procession of mighty stone sentinels seemed endless, in the distance its edge appeared.

  Through the portholes, the unfolding panorama looked like magical scenery on a stage from which a gray curtain had just been drawn aside. Ashley pressed, spellbound, to the window, watching as the last massive peaks slowly slipped away, revealing a sight even more boundless, for which neither eyes nor feelings nor emotions nor imagination were enough… Vast prairies, the northern steppes gray with wild grasses and mixed herbs, which in winter were buried under snow, turning into the infamous Ice Desert. Dark, dense tracts of coniferous forest, with sparse leafy groves scattered on the hills near the mountains—the gateway to the endless expanses of the Vaimar taiga. Tiny patches of villages and hamlets fenced with palisades, towers of large towns flickering closer to the horizon, and the horizon itself, merging with the limitless sky, where the sun was beginning its slow descent westward, toward Derelzfjord. They were flying in the same direction, chasing it.

  "Down there is Vairad," Petros said quietly, pressing to the window beside Ashley. "See?.. The fortified town deep in the forest on the hills, the white towers sticking up among the pines… And that road there, always crowded. The customs officers hardly check anything. As if they’re not afraid."

  "And what should they be afraid of?" Saelin replied from somewhere in the dimness. He, Nubel, and Hector sat at the table in the half-light at the back of the gondola, gnawing on dry rations and washing them down with tea. "They’ve grown fat, Petros. They’re the generation that remembers neither wars nor bandit raids… And now they don’t care. To them, Aktida is just a dozen miles south across the pass with an experienced guide."

  "Something tells me this won’t last," Petros frowned, strode quickly and sharply across the gondola, and followed the border town with his gaze through the rear porthole. "Believe me… This is the calm before the storm. There will be strife again; we’ll live to see another World War."

  "But not now," remarked Vergilius. "Maybe not even in our lifetime. Which means we don’t need to worry."

  "Yes," Petros muttered under his breath. "Which also means we can use it to our advantage. As long as those idiots at customs don’t care what kind of objects… and what kind of knowledge can be carried from here to Aktida."

  The town faded on the horizon, the last traces of its white spired towers with flags vanished, replaced by wild, greening forests veiled in a light misty haze, crossed by a web of small rivers rushing down from the mountains and vanishing somewhere in the country’s depths. The terrain grew uneven. The aerostat descended to conserve fuel, but from above it was still easy to see every hill, ravine, and hollow, every meadow and swamp hidden among the woods, long strips of roads running west to east. People traveled either to Vairad or to Derelz, at the foot of the low ancient West-Vaimar Ridge. To the south lay Olmaer, its gray edge always visible on the horizon, while northward stretched the wild, dangerous, and unexplored trails rarely trodden by humankind.

  Twilight thickened. Tiny villages drifted by below, but no one bothered to glance at them anymore, and the mind no longer connected them with the dots on the map hanging by the table. Axel switched on a mechanism that allowed the aerostat to fly forward for some time without direct steering, then descended to his passengers. Lamps were lit, a modest supper eaten, and they crawled into their sleeping bags. The endless day was coming to an end.

  Ashley had no idea how they flew through the night, nor whether their guide had slept. Early in the morning, she found him again at the wheel on deck. What was certain was that they had made significant progress westward, deeper into the country, still moving forward without slowing. The flame of the burner droned steadily and soothingly, the propellers rumbled, pushing the aerostat onward.

  The novelty of flight had worn off. Their bodies grew used to the gentle rocking, the air pockets, and to watching forests, valleys, ravines, and plains flash past beyond the gondola’s sides as if they were merely beautiful pictures on an endless woven tapestry. Petros and Saelin spent hours bent over maps and diagrams, arguing over manuscripts. Axel, most of the time, either stood on deck or tinkered with his marvelous contraption in an oiled apron, tools in hand. Hector helped him whenever possible. It was clear the boy took after his father in his love for iron, engines, and all things crafted. Hunger was staved off strictly three times a day with carefully measured rations, overseen by Vergilius—the economy was incredibly strict. They carried only the bare minimum of food and water, calculated for just a few days of flight. A curtained corner served as the latrine, where a hole in the floor sent all waste straight down to the earth; the possibility that someone might be below didn’t concern anyone much.

  They shivered on deck in the mad howling wind, searched the horizon for mountains, warmed themselves near the engine, chatted, played—Axel with Hector, Nubel, and Vergilius at cards, Petros and Saelin at chess. After weeks spent together, all stories, jokes, and anecdotes had long since been told, and new topics for conversation came with difficulty.

  They were waiting for the mountains.

  Day slid into evening, the sun once again outpaced the balloon and sank far ahead into a hazy shroud of clouds. The travelers fell asleep, including Axel, who calmly left the gondola to the mercy of wind and mechanisms and crawled into his own sleeping bag. The second night of the journey came.

  And in the morning, when lemon-yellow sunrays broke through the rear porthole, gliding across Ashley’s eyes and waking her, she rose, rubbed the sleep away, packed her bag, and climbed up to the deck. Ahead, closing off the horizon, rose the West-Vaimar Range.

  The reddish, mossy rocks looked even redder in the rising sun. Every pass was visible, every path winding like a fine thread among boulders and massive spurs. Some peaks were swathed in violet clouds, and there were many more such clouds ahead, blanketing the sky in a dense layer. Axel stood tensely at the wheel, and soon it began: constant changes in altitude, slow maneuvers, as an hour later they neared the mountains and began searching for a pass wide enough for the aerostat to slip through. The travelers crowded the deck. The monotony of continuous flight had become tiresome, and everyone was impatient for the mountain line to be left behind.

  Half an hour later, it was. Ashley let out a quiet, stunned sigh as, beyond the pass, spread the endless, mist-veiled expanse of Derelzfjord.

  The sun had not yet reached here; it had not pierced the wall of mountains that stood as a reliable barrier between Derelz and central Vaimar. Sea waves, with a hollow roar, surged onto the stony shore, broke against the coastal cliffs, frothed and seethed. The water was dim, unsettled. The bay lay in shadow, the mist slightly distorting distances and shapes. Below wound a mountain road, descending first into the valley to the very shore, then twisting around a tall rocky bluff, climbing upward, straight to the gates of the solitary, proud temple of Tornir.

  Several novice girls stood knee-deep in the surf, washing clothes. Noticing the aerostat, they lifted their heads; excited voices and frightened cries carried to the deck. Laughing, Axel yanked his levers, sharply reduced the flame. The balloon dove down, sweeping in a circle just above the waves, terrifying the girls, who shrieked and scattered, and then all at once took up combat stances, clearly ready to unleash magic. But the aerostat was already rising again, rounding the bluff, hovering over the inner courtyard where monks poured out of the pagoda—and began its descent, creaking heavily with propellers and ropes, swaying and jerking back and forth. Axel clenched his teeth, sweat beading at his temples with the strain. Landing in such a small space was far more difficult than takeoff and had to be executed with jeweler’s precision.

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  He did it. The aerostat hovered over the ground, chose the flattest spot, crashed down with groaning boards, and finally settled on its belly. The burner nearly went out, the deflated balloon sagged slowly onto the deck like a massive shroud that Axel would still have to fold and stow away in a special compartment. The gondola tilted slightly, and pale Petros at last tore his hands from the rail to wave in greeting at the abbot descending from the pagoda porch.

  The door opened, and the travelers stepped outside, swaying and dizzy, to be surrounded by monks. Petros was the first to kneel and bow before the abbot—a plump, round-faced man with slanted eyes and long hair tied back in a tight braid.

  "Welcome, my son," the man said, touching his forehead with a hand adorned in multicolored rings. "May the blessing of Dar be upon you. We received your letter from Mainor and awaited your arrival… though we could hardly imagine it would be… ahem… this original."

  "We like to entertain a grateful audience." Petros rose, bowed toward the brethren, who were regarding the flying ship with open interest and delight. "Greetings, Zaruok, glad to see you in good health once more. You already know Axel and Saelin, allow me now to present the rest of my companions, the members of our expedition…"

  "It is a great joy for us to welcome such distinguished guests to our humble temple," said Zaruok, blessing the others as well. Though he could hardly have been more than twenty-five or thirty, Petros already saw in his face a slight arrogance hiding behind politeness, the expression common to higher ranks in the church hierarchy. Petros did not like churchmen. But for now, he had to endure them. "Please follow me; your cells and breakfast are already prepared. Surely you must be hungry, living on dry rations during the journey… Ah, and here comes our friend Konrad. Always buried in the ruins of his library, so he learns the news last, if at all, unless some monk bothers to summon him."

  A dark-haired man, a little older than Petros, lean, in a light summer suit and sandals, appeared on the porch, hastily adjusting his pince-nez. He had intelligent gray eyes, a slightly hooked, birdlike nose, a sharp, triangular chin, hollow cheeks, and skin pale from long confinement in study rooms.

  "Welcome! Axel! I can’t believe you actually got this tub to fly." Konrad broke into a broad smile; Axel couldn’t help but grin back. "Come on, the future sorrow of our family. Mountaineer. Inventor. I won’t deny it, our girl always stood out among a crowd of adventurers, maybe because she grew up a tomboy without a mother… Ah! And here, of course, are your employers. Madmen, too, if they willingly climbed aboard this contraption."

  "Konrad," Petros said seriously, shaking his hand. "How are you?"

  "Petros," the translator nodded in reply. "Greetings, Saelin."

  "And this is Ashley, our volunteer guest and companion, as well as Professors Vergilius and Nubel, and young Master Hector Saelin," Petros introduced the others. Konrad lingered, clasping the boy’s hand.

  "The son of his father," he noted, glancing at Saelin the elder. "Imagine that. Erik, you will found a whole dynasty of good men. I’m sure of it."

  Saelin forced a smile, then quickly grew solemn again.

  "Come," Zaruok said, stepping toward them. The brethren were gradually dispersing, though monks still cast bewildered looks at the aerostat. "Straight to the refectory. I cannot allow you to set about your business on empty stomachs, however important and urgent those matters may be…"

  Petros glanced at Saelin—and sighed quietly to himself. Formalities remained formalities. They had to be endured.

  ***

  "The translation is finished," Konrad said as soon as the door closed behind them. "Two years of work… but at last I’ve completed it. I think everything you need is here. The coordinates of old routes, mines, quarries… And most importantly, the shrines. And you were right: this region is devilishly rich in references to the Crossroads. Practically every hundred years, someone stumbled upon them in the west of Regerlim."

  "You translated everything? Word for word?" Petros asked sternly, flipping quickly through the notes.

  "Of course, as much as was within my power. I copied the manuscript in full, including the drawings. Everything that might interest you, about the crossroads of time, about the nature of time anomalies… all of it remains intact. Even the fanciful details."

  "Fanciful?" Petros repeated. "What do you mean? I thought—"

  "Well, Petros, it’s a philosophical treatise! The author had every right to weave in whatever nonsense suited his religious views. The existence of some legendary machine, supposedly allowing travel through time—that’s a direct accusation of the Church in paganism. After all, as everyone knows, only Aktos rules over time. You know, when you’re condemning the politics and corruption of the Church, they’re willing to forgive you any artistic invention."

  Petros snorted.

  "The important thing is that you translated every single word," Saelin cut in with a wave of his hand. "Any detail could prove significant… And what seems like artistic invention might be a metaphor hiding vital information. Oh!"

  Petros too couldn’t suppress a gasp of amazement. They slowly ducked their heads, passing under an arch marked by the traces of time, and of the fact that until quite recently everything here had been buried under earth and filth. Now, though, the hall with its stone columns and massive shelves had been completely cleared by the monks’ diligence. Lamps once more burned on the walls, and behind wooden panels, there was revealed a true treasury of manuscripts more than two thousand years old.

  It was an entire enfilade of rooms with low ceilings and carved columns stretching deep underground, once filled with earth and sealed off behind the monastery walls since the day the ancient Nocturns abandoned the continent, leaving it to the Alvens and the Kalds. The Temple of Tornir—by different reckonings between eight hundred and a thousand years old—had preserved in its crumbling walls and foundations countless secrets still beyond the reach of archaeologists. And now one of those secrets lay before Petros and Saelin, who were instantly seized by the thrill and excitement of discovery. For, regardless of their temperaments, libraries filled with ancient wisdom were their truest, unshared passion.

  "Where’s the book, Konrad?" Saelin asked quietly. "Come on, fetch it quickly… Gods, I can’t wait to explore this place! Petros! Have you ever seen anything like this before?… Later, we’ll call Nubel and Vergilius, I know they adore such things too…"

  "By the way!" Petros suddenly remembered. "Konrad!"

  "One moment, one moment…" the translator’s voice carried from the depths of the hall. He returned carrying a candle and an ancient folio bound in leather with golden clasps. "Yes?"

  "Tell me, was there anything in the Vaimarakirian about the Crescent?"

  "The Crescent?" Konrad carefully, reverently set the book on a table by the wall, placed the candle beside it, and pulled up some chairs. "Of course. Strange—can’t imagine where else you could have heard of it. There’s even an illustration."

  Petros and Saelin exchanged a breathless glance, and Petros felt his heart lurch into a gallop.

  "The ancient Nocturns loved star maps and geometric figures," Konrad explained, opening the book and finding the page. "Here, see? Theoretically, it’s a network of shrines across Western Vaimar and Derelzfjord. The lower horn of the Crescent is the Temple of Tornir. And the upper—here, on the border of the Duanmare Plateau. A mountain the druids call the Fire-Breathing One… Well, you’ll read and understand for yourselves."

  "Indeed." Petros licked his dry lips, his eyes glued to the map. "Konrad, be so kind, fetch Vergilius and Nubel. They must see this too… But remember—not a word about the Vaimarakirian! That must remain our secret."

  The moment the translator disappeared, and the sound of footsteps faded on the stairs, Petros turned to Saelin. In the unsteady glow of the candlelight, his friend’s face looked like an impenetrable mask. Saelin stared absently, sunk deep into the abyss of his own thoughts…

  "We’re close," Petros whispered suddenly, clutching his hand. Saelin flinched. "Two steps away from the goal. Do you see? Everything is falling into place. And the secret remains a secret. All that’s left is to make the final step. Not reveal ourselves. Not get caught. And find what rightfully belongs to us.

  "The day is coming when legends and tales become reality.

  "And then the most important thing is not to miss the chance."

  Saelin’s eyes were blazing, orange fire dancing within them, while around them the darkness thickened ever more, and within it lurked something worse than sleepless nights and memories of what had suddenly drawn near… The fear of losing everything. The fear of surrendering it all into other hands, without receiving the full reward for every agonizing minute…

  Darkness. And something vague within it, yet deeply unsettling.