The child did not see him, his gaze was fixed on the open door. Pale light shone there, pale, but growing stronger, brighter as something approached in the passage beyond. Richard held his breath as one by one several women slowly filed in. They were of a kind with their serene faces, and unadorned white robes. Their bare feet whispered over the flags. The light they carried was their own, shining out from their smooth flesh. Eight in all, eight of the nine sisters of Avalon, they surrounded little Michael, who showed no fear of them. Three of them-they looked much like the boy's mother and sisters-lifted him up and carried him away. Their light went with them, dimming with distance, then vanishing altogether.

None had marked Richard or shown any sign of his existence.

Richard was alone.

He slumped, accepting it, accepting everything. Wincing, he leaned back in the chair, knowing the pain would keep him from ever sleeping again, but wishing for a respite all the same. He wished only. Here, there was no more hope.

He felt the blood seeping past his fingers. He'd borne a thousand such woundings and worse and survived. They'd always healed, physically. This, though, represented not only all of Michael's hurts, but the inner wounds Richard had endured over the centuries, the ones whose scars yet bled when his thoughts touched on them. He would have much time now to think.

He closed his eyes.

Let go. The agonies of the past imprison and torture us all, but only if we allow it. Let go.

Indeed, were it only that simple.

It is. You cannot have the past you wanted, only that which you had. Accept that it made you what you are and move on.

How? he wondered.

Just let go. Move forward.

I want to. How? Whose was this out-of-time voice? Was it part of the room or within his mind?

Release the past. Let go.

Then sleep stole over him after all... and dreams.

He dreamed that he was able to sink back into the chair and find true comfort, true rest. His cares slipped away, spiraling off into sweet darkness.

He dreamed that gentle arms were wrapped around him, a soft hand caressed his brow, a softer voice called his name.

"Wake now, Richard. Come to me. Move forward and come to me."

He drew a great breath, like a diver just surfaced, and struggled to sit up. The pain clutched at him, holding him down.

" 'Tis over," Sabra whispered close to his ear. She cradled his shoulders and head in her lap. "Waken, my love."

He saw a black sky and full moon, glass and metal framing above, none of it seemed real, not at all solid as this chamber. One vision was hard upon the other, each wavering, fighting to assert itself.

"Come to me," she said. Her voice drew him like a lifeline. "But I must stay... for Michael."

"He's here. Come to us."

Richard shook his head, trying to force his eyes to open on the right reality, the right time. The chamber of pain faded; the torches winked out. Sabra was with him instead, holding him. And there was a weight on his chest.

He sat up a little. Michael was unexpectedly in his arms, curled against him, his small fists hanging tight to the fabric of the old blue bathrobe. He slept, but with that wonderful abandon that only children know. His little face was relaxed now, at peace.

Richard fiercely tightened his embrace around the child and kissed the top of his blond head. He looked at Sabra. "Is he well? Truly well?"

"He is. You delivered his soul from its darkness. He will be able to heal in this world, now."

"But I thought I had to stay."

"Your willingness to do so was enough. The difficulty was persuading you away. You're a man of duty, my Richard."

"I saw my mother there."

"I know. Michael saw his, and long they spoke."

"They may still be speaking, if he dreams."

She nodded. "As it is for you. He is a special child."

"Michel come back to me."

"He's done so before, only you knew it not. His soul has been in many vessels over time."

"If only I had known."

"Nay, but each life must be what it is, not what it was before, else there is no learning, no growth. You must prune off limbs from a tree so that the trunk sprouts new ones more lush."

"And sometimes the cutting is harsh?"

"But what must be. You and he have endured much, learned much, he through many lives, you through this one. I think you will each understand one another better now."

"What do you see for him?" He thought better of the question as soon as he'd asked it. Her Sight was a terrible gift.

"His mother and sisters are close, you cannot see them, but he will know and they will comfort him. They will speak to him in his dreams and guide his waking steps. He has much power and must learn to be wise with it."

"Power?"

"He has gifts from the Goddess even I cannot grasp."

"Like the Sight and the giving of visions?"

"Yes. Those among others."

Richard thought of the nightmare vision he'd had of the house, the killings, the chase into the fields, and looked down at Michael in wonder. The animal blood had not forced that imagining. It had been Michael, reliving the memory, projecting it into Richard's mind as a reality. Dear God. "He is waking to them. But so young."

"He needs teachers, you and I, and more, many, many more."

"You will take him north with you, to the tribe there?"

"They will help with his healing as no others can."

"I thought as much."

"Perhaps you will come?" she asked.

Richard knew he needed healing as well. He would find it in the shadows of those tall woods with a wise people who yet understood the Old Ways. "Yes," he whispered. "As soon as may be."

With Michael still enfolded protectively in his arms, he leaned back against Sabra and, for a time, slept with that same peaceful abandon. ***

Relentless sun, blistering heat, muggy air. High noon in Texas.

Richard ignored those annoyances as he left his rental in the dust of a little-used lane and stalked through the scrub oak. He carried a heavy rucksack slung over his shoulder. Now and then he checked his compass. When the tangle of trees and briars opened up to a field, he saw the hill he wanted a quarter-mile ahead. He used the mirror on the reverse side of the compass and caught the sun in it, aiming the reflection at the trees on the summit.

A moment later, two flashes returned to him.

He kept close to the edge of the field, walking as quickly as he could manage through the trees. His new hat and old drover's coat helped shield him from the sun, but the additional shade meant he could stay out longer.

The last few days had been busy. Bourland had arrived, still weighed down with grief and in need of work to ease it. He efficiently took on the red tape of local officialdom, claiming the bodies, running interference for Richard's part in things, and generally smoothing the way for Michael to leave the country.

Seated in the air-conditioned shelter of the New Karnak flat, a drink at his elbow, Bourland had listened somberly to Richard's version of things. He'd frowned hard over Luis's disappearance from the Anatole hotel.

"My guess," said Richard, "is that Alejandro had people watching all the major hotels in town, waiting for Luis to surface. As soon as he walked in with Michael it was all up and they grabbed him. There must have been a hell of a reward out."

"That seems a pretty massive effort on Alejandro's part. Quite a long shot, in fact," said Bourland, doubtful.

Richard fixed his old friend with a long look. "Nevertheless, that's how it must have happened. Alejandro took them both, killed Luis, then tried to use Michael as a lever against me. Thankfully, it didn't work." He delicately released his mental hold.

Bourland shook his head, still frowning, but oblivious to what had just happened. "Poor Luis. You and Michael were damned lucky to have escaped that mess. The police are still trying to sort out what happened on the property. All those men dead? Alejandro, yes, he can rot in hell forever, but so many others?" He looked across at Richard, as though finding it hard to believe that so quiet and controlled a man was also capable of such savage violence. He knew it to occasionally be Richard's business, but had rarely seen evidence of it. The police crime photos had been most graphic.

"It's an ugly world, Philip. I did what was necessary to save Michael. Let the police form their own conclusions so long as he's left out of them."

"Oh, absolutely. But what could have happened to poor Luis?"

Richard shrugged. "We may never know."

"It'll be hard on the boy."

"He'll deal with it. My friend Sabra is an expert at grief therapy. She'll be there for him. We all will."

"Yes. My daughter is already working on the custody papers for Michael. After that, it's a short step to adoption.

Michael Bourland is a strong name, don't you think?"

"Very strong. A good one."

Richard gave the same story-and hypnotic nudge-to Dr. Sam and Helen. Both were astonished at the change in Michael, going from near-comatose withdrawal to subdued but close-to-normal interaction with the world again. Both were delighted.

"He just needed a little time," said Sam after a final examination. He, too, was being shielded by Bourland's influence. The police knew nothing about Dr. Samuel Ross George's part in things, and it would remain so.

Richard's own story of going to the house to visit an old employee friend, then finding Michael wandering about the ruins in shock was also accepted. His delay in coming forward got him a stern rebuke from the investigators, but nothing more.

"They're not going to bother you again?" Sam asked, surprised.

"No. I explained my reasons about wanting to protect the boy by keeping him clear, and they accepted them.

They're thinking that after the explosion, one of Alejandro's men defected to a rival, who simply caught up with him." "But that's a Federal case! It's still being run on CNN."

Richard had shrugged, unconcerned. "You just need to know how to talk to people, that's all."

Sabra stayed with Richard and would be flying back with Michael and Bourland when the time came. She and Bourland became fast friends within minutes of being introduced, but that was only to be expected of her when she wished it. She also knew the value of cultivating important contacts. Bourland was certainly in that category.

And he was a big, handsome man.

"Please don't break him," Richard advised her sotto voce, well aware of her preferences. But she merely smiled.

One last detail remained for Richard to see to; Sabra alone knew of it, but said nothing either way of what she thought.

This was strictly his business.

Drenched in sweat and red of face, he reached the top of the hill. In the shade beneath the trees he thought he could risk removing the heavy coat, but the hat remained in place. At least now he could feel the wind, even though its source point must have been an oven.

"Over here," said Jordan Keyes, quietly.

It took a moment for Richard to spot him.

He was again dressed to blend with the background, this time in green cammos, with a matching bush hat. Except for the sunglasses, it all looked to be army surplus, well broken in. Richard gave him a once-over.

"What, no face paint?" he asked.

"The damn stuff gets in the beard." Keyes had not shaved in several days, nor bathed, indication to Richard that he'd been constantly on the job. He looked tired, but gave no sign of leaving his post just yet. "All I have to do to be invisible is keep low and not make noise," Keyes said. "No one comes out here, though."

"So it would seem. How do you know of this place?"

"Deer hunting range. Owner of the property's out of the country."

"Friend of yours?"

"Nope. He's never heard of me. I found this acreage awhile back, liked it, and looked up who had it. I keep tabs on him. If he ever decides to sell, I'll be first in line."

He and Keyes walked to the summit. It commanded a fine view of the woods and fields below. Here Keyes had set up something resembling a hunting blind. He'd strung camouflage netting around an area just large enough for him to lie down in and high enough to be above his head while seated. Within, he'd set up a folding camp chair and brought some paperbacks to read. Near the chair was a rucksack similar to the one Richard carried. It held empty food wrappers, depleted plastic water bottles, insect repellent, and a roll of biodegradable toilet paper.

"Glad you found the place," said Keyes. "I'm down to my last shot of water."

"How are things progressing?"

"About what you'd expect. He was pretty noisy the first day, but the duct tape took care of that. He can't talk any more, tongue's too swollen. Probably won't be too much longer, a couple, three days. Want a look?" He offered up a pair of very powerful binoculars.

Richard took them, peering down the hill toward a tree some fifty yards away. The figure by it sprang close in every awful detail.

Luis Trujillo was chained with his back to the tree, collapsed at its base. He was naked, but covered in patches of vicious red skin that seemed to clothe him. His body occasionally twitched, and he kept shaking his head as though trying to dislodge something. His face was puffed, his eyes sunken and bordering on madness.

"It's a wonder he's not passed out yet," Richard commented.

"That little refinement you wanted... I added to it."