Clouds of smoke and soot hung low over the city of Covenshire. From the manor house, the people below were like ants. Their carriages and Hansom cabs were great beetles. The buildings, grey and grimy, were really nothing more than anthills, no more safe or enduring. Derdrie Coventry turned from the window to pay closer attention to the conversation in the room behind her.

Alistair had been infuriatingly triumphant, as if his victory over the monks of St. Simon was something worthy of more than passing pride. Then Dominick had returned from Manhattan. Dominick had not chosen to reveal his true purpose in the Prime Realm, but while he was there, he had attempted to capture Gwenivere Valentine. Derdrie’s spies in Dominick’s camp had already told her of the outcome of that particular operation, so she was eager to see what Alistair made of it.

Her elder brother was standing before the fireplace, still dressed in his traveling clothes. He’d been back from the Shard of the monastery for less than a day. Father was in his study, pouring over Alistair’s prize, a nearly complete collection of the Simion Grimories. When Dominick entered the greatroom he took immediately up the stairs to the study, not sparing his siblings more than a sneering glance.

Derdrie decided that she would have to get the conversation rolling. “Dearest brother, you’ve returned. Was the Prime Realm much changed?”

“Derdrie,” Dominick smiled. “I didn’t see you there. No, the Prime Realm has not changed so much. The fashions are uglier, and the streets noisier, of course.”

“Did you find Gwenivere Valentine there? Alistair reported that she escaped him by fleeing through a Darkway portal. He couldn’t be certain, but he believed that the portal was scribed for Manhattan. Isn’t that right, Alistair.”

Alistair turned from the fire and snarled, not liking to be reminded of his failure. “That is so. However, I will find her yet. I’ve her scent now.”

Dominick stiffened, only for a fraction of a moment. “I did not find Gwenivere.”

Derdrie feigned surprise. “But surely you looked. Alistair’s first message mentioned her, and wasn’t yestereve the day of the elder Valentines’ ‘heroic sacrifice?’”

“I did not find her.”

Alistair regarded his brother carefully. His nostrils flared in and out. “Her scent is on you.”

Dominick didn’t bother to answer, resuming his ascent of the stairs. Plainly he believed that either Alistair would not attack in the house, or that his attack would pose no threat. Dominick tended to rely upon his access to Prime Realm technology more than was healthy. The years of exile evidently hadn’t taught him the error of that sort of thinking.

Alistair snarled low in his throat and made for the stairs. One hand was tight around his sword hilt. The other reached out, clenched into a claw. He was at the base of the stairs in three strides, and fairly leapt to grab for Dominick’s coattails.

Derdrie stepped well out of the way, savoring the emotions the conflict released. Dominick’s sudden fear was painfully sweet, almost too much to stand, but swiftly passing away. It was buried under a wave of anger that didn’t burn so hot as Alistair’s, but was none the less impressive. Alistair, though, was like a white-hot ball of rage. The demons he’d made pacts with were creatures of savagery and anger. They gave him the senses and strength of a predatory beast and the emotions of one as well. He would try to kill Dominick, and possibly succeed. Derdrie saw no reason to interfere.

Alistair’s hand closed on the hem of Dominick’s coat and he pulled harshly.

Dominick lost his footing, falling heavily. He rolled with the impact and brought his cane up to guard his head.

Alistair was already bringing his sword down in a vicious arc. Metal rang against wood when the blade struck the metal cored walking stick. Both combatants’ muscles strained.

The aggression wafting through the room was so intoxicating that Derdrie giggled.

“Charming, little sister.” Elysia had glided up from nowhere, dressed in a severe business suit of the sort worn on the Prime Realm. “Were you planning to let one of them kill the other?”

“If that’s what they really want, who am I to interfere?”

Dominick managed to get his feet under Alistair and shoved him off, buying time. He climbed shakily to a standing position with his cane in his left hand. His right dove into the folds of his coat to produce a pistol.

“Carefully, brother,” he sneered. “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Put that away.” Alistair growled low in his throat, clearly trying to gauge the distance, deciding whether or not to attack.

“You’ll never make it, not even with your speed. Don’t count on your armor to save you, either. The Prime Worlders have such amazing ammunition.”

Alistair didn’t move, though his whole body vibrated with angry tension. With his inhuman strength he might survive a gunshot, even at that range.

Dominick evidently thought so as well. He took a step backwards, further up the stairs. “It would be self defense. Derdrie would verify. Father would hold me blameless.”

Derdrie watched the little drama unfold with interest. Alistair’s aura of fury was tinged with fear now. Dominick’s emotions had shifted from fear to an almost triumphant sense of superiority. He was still cautious, though. His hand tensed on his pistol. The trigger finger began to tighten.

“Vincent.” Elysia’s voice was crisp and quiet.

A whip crack shattered the stillness of the room. Elysia’s son appeared from the shadows at the head of the stairs. His whip coiled around Dominick’s arm, spoiling his aim. The pistol shot only grazed Alistair. The bullet buried itself in an armoire.

Alistair spun away from the pain, which moved him out of position to attack again. Vincent was already skipping down the stairs to interpose himself between his uncles. He held a serrated knife in his free hand, and wore a manic grin. He said nothing, but his visage signaled violence to whoever moved next.

Both Alistair and Dominick ignored Vincent with practiced effort. Dominick calmly uncoiled his shredded sleeve and replaced his pistol. Alistair sheathed his sword and straightened his clothing.

“Do not interfere in my hunt for Gwenivere, Dominick,” Alistair said, all cultured tones and moderated voice. “She is mine.”

“Of course she is.” Derdrie could not honestly tell from his voice if Dominick was being mocking or not. “In truth, I did find her, but I didn’t capture her. I intended to present her as a gift to you. There were unforeseen complications. That is what I came to discuss with Father. I did not wish to come to you empty handed.”

For his part, Alistair seemed willing to accept the explanation. He calmed a bit. “I do not require your aid in my hunt. I will find her myself.”

So, Derdrie though, Alistair has objectives in the Prime Realm. Since the meeting in which Father had given them their assignments, she had been trying to discover what her siblings were about. If she could learn who was assigned to each necessary task, she could then deduce where Father’s true interests lay. She was not entirely comfortable with his grand talk of smiting the family’s enemies, or enriching Covenshire. The Box of Sorrows was no child’s toy. It belonged to a class of objects beyond the power that any living Sorcerer or Wizard could duplicate. For Father to be using the Box, he had to be planning something to shake the very foundations of the world.

“When will you be returning to the Prime Realm?” she asked Dominick, smiling sweetly. “My errands can best be run in the Netherlands, and I thought I might ask you for a ride.”

Dominick would be with Father for some time, and might not be in any shape to travel for a time after that. Derdrie knew this, of course. So did Alistair.

“You can accompany me, little sister,” he said. “My next conquest is in the Netherlands of Manhattan. I may as well leave now.”

“That’s perfect. I’ll just go get my things.” Derdrie decided to play a guess, and turned to address Elysia. “Would you and Vincent like to accompany us?”

“No, little sister. I believe not,” Elysia answered coolly.

“We have our own transportation into the city,” Vincent added, earning a dark look from his mother.

Derdrie’s suspicions were confirmed. Alistair would be attacking one of the larger Domains of Manhattan; somewhere the family could use as a base of operations. Elysia was being sent to watch things in the city. Father trusted her more than he did any of his other children. She might also have drawn the job of assaying the Wards the Valentines had erected over their castle. As long as the castle stood, Covenshire was not fully connected to the Prime Realm. It was possible to open paths to the Netherlands, but the strain on the Foundries was enormous. The Foundries maintained the fabric of Reality around Covenshire, making the soil fertile, and the air breathable. If they were to falter, the entire city might die. Any plan of Fathers had to involve the breaking of those Wards.

“Very well then.” Derdrie bowed a little as she made her way out of the room. “It was terribly rude of me to volunteer for Alistair anyway, so that’s for the best.”

Derdrie returned to her chambers to gather what she needed. One of her personal servants opened the door. Another immediately started helping her change clothes. They needed no urging, knowing of her desires as quickly as she could form them. In a way, it was very tiresome.

They were both pale and attractive, even beautiful. They wore Derdrie’s livery, black, like most of the family, with embroidered lotus flowers. Once, they had been aristocrats from the city, members of the families who ran the day to day affairs of Covenshire. Derdrie had taken an interest in them, as well as in several others who now served her in her personal estates. With her powers, she had sapped their wills, replacing them with a portion of her own. After a time, her playmates became nothing more than puppets of her whims.

Her maidservant helped her into a leather corset. She smiled as the laces tightened. She was in the mood to find a new playmate, and Father’s instructions gave her considerable latitude for her free time.

By the time Alistair arrived to collect her, she was dressed and ready, with her outfit hidden under a long cloak. Her hair was up in an intricate braid, with two ruby capped pins.

“How are we traveling?” she asked.

“Through the tunnels. We will arrive near the Old City. I’ve arranged a private carriage for you.”

“Excellent. Will we arrive in time for the Market?”

“Very likely, though I’ll not have time to remain. I can leave a couple of men with you to act as bodyguards and porters, if you desire.” Alistair offered her his arm.

“Not necessary. I’ll have these two to see to my needs.”

“Of course.” Alistair hadn’t really expected her to let him spy on her so easily. The gesture was a formality. He led her out of the house, to a black carriage. There were several house soldiers gathered there, by no means enough to mount a full assault, though.

“Is this your entire contingent?”

“No. The rest are already in position elsewhere.” Alistair turned to one of the men, who saluted in response. “Captain, are we ready?”

“Yes, milord.”

“Good. Let us be off then.”

They traveled through thick forest, making slow progress, until the rough trail opened onto a highway of dull grey flagstones. As the carriage made the transition from the rough ground to the road Alistair rode up along side.

“I trust your ride has not been too uncomfortable,” he said.

“I’ve had worse.”

“I dare say. Fear not, little sister. We will make better time on the Highway.”

The road they now traveled was a gateway between worlds. One who knew the signs to follow could travel this section of pavement to almost any other. Derdrie was no Traveler with knowledge of all the byways of the Netherlands and the Shards beyond, but she began to see familiar features as the journey progressed.

On another of Alistair’s visits, she decided to test her theories. “We’re moving faster than men on horseback can travel, aren’t we?”

“I have enlisted a Traveler,” Alistair answered.

“Surprising that any of them will work with us. I suppose ten years is a long time.”

Alistair chose not to add anything to the conversation, merely nodding. He was not going to tell her how he gained the services of a member of the insular Travelers, or else he did not know himself. Father might have done it.

Derdrie decided to try another tactic. “We’re going to emerge south of the Simonite compound.”

“There’s nothing of value there. We’re going to the city itself.” Either Alistair thought the monks’ well to be of no value, or he didn’t know what it was at all. Derdrie wasn’t sure which. Alistair could be remarkably ignorant on some subjects.

“Ah. I assumed we’d be using the monastery as a base of operations.”

Alistair chuckled condescendingly. “The monastery is too far away to make a useful base. We can’t use Travel spells all the time. We’ll have a base in the city.”

“What will you be doing there, if that is not revealing too much?”

“My tasks are not so interesting. I am a warrior. I will prepare to make war. What task has Father set you?”

“Truly, I’m at a certain liberty right now. I just wanted to see the Prime Realm while I wait for something to do.”

Alistair mulled Derdrie’s response. Despite his attempts to hide his thoughts, Derdrie could tell that he didn’t know what to make of it. Either her answer was an outright lie, which was unlikely, since many of the Coventrys had the power to detect falsehood, or Mordakai, the patriarch, did not think he could rely on Derdrie enough to include her in his plans.

Neither conclusion was entirely true. Derdrie hid a predatory smile. Alistair would not be pleased with Derdrie’s plans, so she decided not to trouble him with them.

* * *

To avoid the Fog beyond the Old City, Colwynn led Jason and Kildare through the tunnel realms. Over the years, many myths had grown up in the Prime Realm about veritable cities in the tunnels below New York. Those myths were more true than anyone knew. Sewers and subway passages gave way to caverns hewn out of solid rock. The upper levels were fairly close to the Reality of Manhattan, sometimes shrouded in cold mist. The lowest levels led to other worlds.

Colwynn had changed in the years of separation. Of course, she’d been just a girl when Jason left. Now she was a young woman with an athletic figure under her light body armor and blue jacket. She wore a short sword with practiced ease, like she knew how to use it. Her blond hair was cut short. She’d worn it long before, in a pair of braids. Jason smiled as she led the way through the tunnels. She seemed more confident of her Gift now.

Roderick Kildare hadn’t changed at all. He still had the same black hair, shot through with grey, and the same ruggedly lined face that he’d always had. His clothing was black, with traces of grey and brown in a style reminiscent of a doublet. Armor was worked into the design, covering vulnerable points without overly interfering with the man’s freedom of movement.

Jason moved up next to his sister, about to ask her a question. Kildare was too close, though. He held his silence until Colwynn drew to a halt in front of a reinforced metal door at street level.

Two shadows detached from pools of darkness on either side of the building. Steel gleamed in the moonlight as the Circle Knights revealed their weapons.

“Declare.” one of the Knights growled.

“Kildare, Colwynn, and a guest.” Lord Kildare answered.

Both knights bowed. “Lord Kildare.”

One of the pair returned to his position while the other opened the door. Kildare entered first, followed by Colwynn.

“Welcome to my chapter house, Lord Valentine.”

Jason nodded acknowledgement, and Kildare moved out of the way.

Walking through the door, Jason took in the scene. The Chapterhouse was a converted warehouse, with brick walls and wooden floors, a very old building then. There was no electricity. Instead, fires burned in several metal barrels, and candles flickered from shelves and tables. The hall had little character to make it different than the mundane world, but it was obviously separate enough that the city’s power gird did not reach it.

“This is a new Domain,” Jason reasoned. “How long have you been here?”

Kildare inclined his head to acknowledge Jason’s observation. “We have been here but a short time. Internal matters drew the Knights out of the city. I have only recently returned. In the time we were gone, our prior chapterhouse was lost to the Threshold.”

“Pity. I always liked it.”

In truth, the loss was severe. Kildare had once owned a small Foundry, one of the strange artifacts that could be used to artificially maintain the Reality of a Domain within the Netherlands. Someone had been audacious enough to strike while Kildare was otherwise occupied and had made off with a treasure.

“The material world is inconstant. Even the hardest stone is eventually worn by wave and scattered by wind. To have is to lose.”

Jason sprawled comfortably onto a bench, loosening the scabbard beneath his coat. “Speaking of that, I believe one of your people lost something.”

He pulled the sword free, scabbard and all, and tossed it across the room. Kildare caught it casually.

The Knight inspected the katana, looking closely at the inlay of the hilt. “Hmm, one of ours. Old. I could not tell you to whom it belongs.”

“It belongs to me now. I took it as fair spoils.”

“Did you? Recently, I assume.” Kildare’s manner shifted. Jason could sense increased wariness in him.

“Not from one of yours, Kildare, not unless your standards in recruits slipped at the same time as your standards in decorating.” Jason immediately regretted the cutting remark. Anyone else would have been stung, or at least annoyed. Kildare just ignored the crack entirely.

“Jason.” Colwynn’s voice was reproving.

Jason shrugged in response. Even as a child, Colwynn had always been the peacemaker. To spare his sister’s feelings, and to avoid a losing duel of repartee, Jason resolved to ease up on Kildare.

The Lord Knight calmly crossed the room to hand the sword back to Jason. “You may keep it. The owner of this blade had no relatives; therefore no other has a stronger claim than you. I also note that you have no other arms upon which you may depend in the deepest levels.”

“I’ll get by.” Jason tried to suppress the sullen note in his voice, and he was wise enough to take the sword.

Kildare watched as Jason secured the weapon beneath his coat. “I believe we found the blade’s last possessor earlier today. He was killed very neatly. Colwynn was unable to determine who his killer was, but she led me to you.”

“You just found one?”

“There were two, but only one was of the Netherlands. I elected to allow the mundane authorities to deal with the other. He had no identification.”

“One got away.”

“I thought that might be the case. We might return to the scene to track the other.”

“Why were they trying to kill you, Jason? How did they even know you were here? You’ve been gone for a long time.”

“I know, kiddo. I’m not sure how they found me. I spotted one of them shadowing me, and the other two ambushed me. Two were Prime Worlders.”

Without going into full detail, Jason related the events of his encounter of the previous evening. He began with his return to the city, hoping that Kildare would betray some hint, but if the Lord of the Circle Knights was responsible for Summoning Jason to Manhattan, he gave no sign.

Through the story, Colwynn listened aptly, and asked a few questions about Jason’s activities. These he largely evaded, replying with vague answers. The truth was that he was not very proud of some of what he had done.

Kildare was quiet and attentive. Jason sensed that the Knight could guess at some of the details behind Jason’s story. He did not interrupt, though.

“So I was in the Old City waiting for the Market. I was pretty sure someone there would be able to point me to the Knights, and possibly to whoever was trying to kill me. Any mundane agents would have a hard time getting deep enough into the Netherlands to bother me, too.” Jason finished his story with another shrug, and stood up to stretch his legs.

“And when I tracked the swordsman’s killer, the trail led to you. I didn’t know who I was Finding, though,” Colwynn smiled. “It’s kind of good that they attacked you. If they hadn’t, I might not have ever found you at all.

“An interesting story, Lord Valentine. This gives me a path for investigation. We now know that your victim was not simply an unfortunate thief or a ruffian, but an assassin, and that he someone’s pay. Clearly, he had information you wanted, but chose not to reveal it.”

“Lord Kildare,” a voice from the doorway brought the conversation to an end. Two Knights, dressed in light armor and traveling cloaks, stood at the door, supporting burden between them on a wooden litter. They both saluted awkwardly.

“My lord, we were on patrol...”

“Obviously, you found something.” Kildare was calm, all business, with just a hint of condescension.

“Yes, My lord. The Simonites, they sent a messenger,” said the first. “He was carrying this.” The Knight produced a length of bamboo capped with a wax seal.

“He was fleeing from a pair of dogs.” There was no disparagement of the priest’s accomplishments.

“What sort of dogs?” Kildare took the scroll case and casually broke the seal.

“I’m not sure, Lord Kildare. Large. They stank of sorcery.”

Jason crossed the room. “If you want to know his story, you’d best call for a healer, Kildare. He doesn’t look good.”

The Knights lowered their litter, improvised from spear shafts and spare garments, to the ground. The monk was severely wounded, but still breathing. His clothes were travel stained and ragged, with bloodstains in several places. The hem of his cloak was torn, as if by massive knives, or fangs.

Jason took the edge of the cape in one hand and cleared his mind. The cloak was of no great importance, nor was it well made or of strong material. None the less, it held impressions. They were weak and shallow, but present. Jason drank them in and translated them with his imagination.

The Hounds were large, almost man-sized at the shoulder, and hellfire ran through their veins. Black hide, white teeth, and burning red eyes played past Jason’s mind. He released the scrap of cloth, having seen all he needed.

“Alistair’s Hounds,” he said, voice dull. “Two had his cloak in their teeth.”

“The Coventrys have breached their barrier. This is a request for aid.” Kildare said calmly.

Colwynn had crossed the room. She was between Jason and Kildare. “Could Mama and Papa be free?”

Even after all this time... Jason kept his voice controlled. “We’d know if they were free.”

He backed away from the unconscious monk, and from the accusing, forgiving eyes of his youngest sister. One of the Knights’ healers had entered the room, an older woman, decidedly less martial in dress and bearing than anyone else in the room. Jason let the healer do her work.

She did not immediately lay hands upon the monk amidst chants in Latin or appeals to God. Instead, she started exploring his injuries in much the way a mundane physician would. She muttered to herself, and Jason detected Irish tones in her voice.

“What do you intend to do now, Lord Valentine?” Kildare’s question reached past Jason’s revere. The Lord Knight had placed strong emphasis on Jason’s title.

“My plans haven’t changed.” Jason purposely kept a growl out of his voice. He wasn’t going to lose his temper in front of Kildare. Neither was he going to get involved in a second crusade against the Coventrys. That fight had already cost him everything he was willing to spend. “I’m going to figure out who’s trying to kill me, then I’m going to kill them.”

Jason focused his attention on the healer. Colwynn was aiding her now. The healer had torn away most of the monk’s robes and tunic with a sharp knife.

“Both of you,” she addressed the two Knights. “Pick him up, gently, and we’ll get him to a proper bed. I can’t imagine why you didn’t do so in the first place”

“Milady...we thought it was important that Lord Kildare...”

“Yes, yes, and he couldn’t possibly walk to the infirmary himself.” The woman’s brogue was stronger when she was upset.

The two scouts carefully lifted their litter.

Kildare addressed them as they left. “When he awakens, find out what else he might know. The missive was woefully lacking of details.”

Colwynn was less composed. “Why are we waiting. The Simonites are in trouble. Shouldn’t we go help them?”

“We will ride soon enough, but not without adequate planning,” Kildare answered.

“But they could be under attack right now.”

“Colwynn,” Jason started. “Colwynn, the monk was on foot for at least part of his trip. This was more than a day ago, and he didn’t even make it all the way here.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Colwynn, the attack has already happened. All we can do now is help the survivors and bury the dead.”

Jason’s heart twisted as his baby sister’s eyes filled with tears. He started to reach out for her, but she ran to Kildare’s side.

The Lord Knight embraced her loosely and let her cry into his chest.

Jason looked on, hands clenched into fists. Kildare’s concern seemed to be genuine, but Jason knew the man. The Lord Knight was a ruthless man. The Order of the Circle had almost been broken when Kildare gained control over the Circles of North America.

Pressing down a rage he wanted to believe was irrational, Jason turned from the room. He needed a drink. That presented problems of its own, of course. He’d been in the Netherlands for the better part of a full day. He’d used his Gift three times. The Fog outside would be so thick he could hardly see, and there would be few places where he could spend his money.

“Where are you going, Jason?” Colwynn had looked up from Kildare’s ribs.

“I’ll be back later,” he said over his shoulder. “I don’t really have anywhere else to go.” He regretted the bitterness in his voice as soon as he spoke, but something kept him from turning back to apologize in front of Kildare.

* * *

It had been too long since Gwenivere had been in New York. The paths through the City of Shadows had changed with time. The major landmarks were all still there, but sometimes the ways to reach them were different. There was nothing to be gained by using the Prime Realm, so she was trying to lead her charges through the Netherlands. The pummeling Dominick had given her ribs and chest wasn’t doing anything to improve her concentration.

She drew to a stop. “Ok, what’s that address again?”

Gabriel Rider came up beside her, and shifted the Sword’s belt and scabbard to his other shoulder. “Washington and Canal. We need to get closer to the Hudson.” He was tired from his ordeal. The Sword of Glass had a lot to offer, but it gave its help at a price.

“We can’t go in a straight line. The Netherlands don’t work that way.”

“Netherlands? You’ve said that before, but I don’t understand. What’s happening?”

Gwenivere looked around. They were in a deserted section of tunnel peppered with bits of ruined stone columns. The architecture looked Classical, but that didn’t really mean anything.

She settled Key on a fallen pillar and rolled her shoulders to ease the pain. Gabriel sat down heavily, leaning against the wall.

“I don’t even know how to begin to explain this to you,” she started. “How about this.”

With her dagger tip, she drew a circle in the dust on the floor.

“Imagine this as your world. The edges of the circle are a barrier that we call the Threshold. All your reality is on one side, and a whole different reality is on the other.”

“Like parallel dimensions?” Gabriel asked, and Gwenivere sent up a silent prayer of thanks that fate had presented her with a science fiction fan.

“Sort of. That’s a good enough way to look at it for now. Let’s concentrate on the Threshold. On one side is your world, where there’s no such thing as magic. We call it the Prime Realm. People who spend a lot of time thinking about stuff like this say that it’s the real world, and all the rest is some kind of lesser reality. On the other side is my world, where there is.

“Here’s the trick. Magick is real.” She put an emphasis on the word to make her point. “On your side of the Threshold, nobody ever notices it, but it’s there all the time. Ordinarily, you would have never seen Key, or if you had you wouldn’t have taken any notice of her. Even if she’d come up and talked to you, you would have just walked away and forgotten all about it.

“For some reason, though, you did see her. You were starting to cross the Threshold on your own. Sometimes it just happens. People get lost and they never come back. Most of the time, they’re people who nobody would notice anyway, or people who don’t really notice the world around them.”

She thought about what Julie had said, and about the dream she’d had back at the monastery. Gabriel might well have been willing to leave the Prime Realm.

He seemed to realize at the same time, burying his face in his hands.

Gwenivere was about to move to comfort him, but Key beat her to it. The little girl scooted over next to him and laid her head on his shoulder. Gabriel absently stroked her hair.

“OK, so the terminally depressed can go to Never-Never Land. And all this time I thought it took happy thoughts.”

Gwenivere laughed dryly. “It’s harder to get back than it was in the story, too. The Threshold doesn’t easily let things back through. Once you start interacting with the Magickal world, how do you forget everything and go back to life the way it was before? There are a few ways, some spells, some other things, but it’s hard. Some people can go back and forth at will, but they’re very rare. The strain of living in two, or three worlds, usually makes them seem kind of crazy. See, on the other side of the Threshold are other worlds that we call Shards, or sometimes the Far Countries.” She added several more circles, like orbiting moons, to her diagram. “I think that sounds more romantic, personally.”

She elicited a smile from Gabriel. That was good. If he could keep a sense of humor, he might not go crazy or die.

“Along the edge is the Netherlands.” To illustrate, Gwenivere drew a series of zigzag lines along the central circle. “That’s where we are. They’re like a fuzzy place between the two sides of Reality. They’re little pockets of Magick all through the Prime Realm, all linked together by paths and tunnels and things. The links aren’t always the same as the roads in the Prime Realm.”

“Thus our problem with directions.” Gabriel was quick, for a Prime Worlder, and he didn’t seem to waste a lot of time on saying that things were impossible.

“Right, and we should get back to working them out.” Gwenivere answered. “The paths have changed since I was last in the city. The Netherlands are always shifting. The Prime Realm finds places it lost, and loses places it ignores.”

Gwenivere decided she’d crawled through tunnels long enough to lose any pursuit that Dominick could send. It would be easier to find Gabriel’s apartment from the Prime streets. As they made their way back to the surface, she continued her lecture.

“The Threshold isn’t perfect, as you now know. If we’re close enough to the Prime Realm, we can see it, sort of. The Threshold tries to make it hard to interact.”

“Like with that weird fog.”

“That’s the first part, but there’s more. People in the Prime won’t notice you. After a while, they won’t even remember you. Machines, too. I really hate trying to get into a grocery store these days.”

“My family is going to forget me?”

Gwenivere ducked her head in regret. It wasn’t really her fault that he’d picked up the Sword of Glass, but she still felt a bit responsible. “Not completely, they just won’t think about you. They’ll all assume you went on a trip to Canada and never bother to write, or something like that. They won’t worry about you while you’re gone, and they’ll be glad to see you when I send you back. I have a spell that can do it. The only problem will be the Sword of Glass. The fact you can hold it at all means it has chosen you as a wielder. I don’t know if I can take it away from you, and as long as you have it, you’re part of the magical world. If it helps, I’m sorry to have gotten you into this.”

“You needed my help,” Gabriel said.

Gwenivere cold read tomes of meaning behind those words. It was as though the musician defined his entire role in life by them. That level of devotion from a complete stranger was rather frightening. She didn’t know how to respond, so she fell silent. They walked for a few minutes without saying anything.

“Tell me about your family.” Gwenivere couldn’t tell if Gabriel was really curious, or just didn’t want his paradigm shaken any more for a while.

They had reached the streets, and Gwenivere paused to get her bearings. The Fog didn’t help any.

“My family... There’s a good story. We’re all Magickal, one way or another. There are Valentines all over the world, both sides of the Threshold. My side of the clan comes from the Prime Realm. Somewhere down the line, some of us find Magick Gifts. A few more learn to use Magick directly. Then we find out that it’s our job to save the world every so often.

“The last time we didn’t do such a good job. My mother and father both... died, and now the work they died for seems to have come undone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago, ten years.”

“What happened?”

“That’s a long story, and I’ll go into it later. First, I think we just need to go a few blocks south.”

The Fog was thick in a residential area. The going was slow.

Gwenivere gathered her thoughts, and put some of the unpleasant ones out of her mind. “OK, I guess the next thing you need to know is about the Sword of Glass. I wish I knew more to tell you. It used to belong to a hero out in the Far Countries; someone called the King of Summer. It was given to him by a woman who was supposed to be some kind of goddess.”

“Sounds like King Arthur and the Lady of the Lake.” Evidently Gabriel Rider read more than just science fiction.

“A lot of what you think of as myths and legends has roots in the Shards, but it’s like that children’s party game. All the details are screwed up by the time they get to the Prime Realm.”

“OK. I can accept that.” Gabriel sounded dubious, but he was keeping it together.

“Right.” Gwenivere wasn’t sure what she could do for him. She’d only ever known a few other people who had crossed the Threshold, and most of them were family. She’d never met someone just as he was crossing over before. “Let’s get back to the sword. In the legends I’ve heard the Sword of Glass was a powerful weapon, something you could use to kill a god. There are stories of it all over, but none of them can really be confirmed. I found it a few weeks ago, almost by accident. I’d been wandering around.”

“Avoiding responsibilities?” Gabriel’s smile was wan.

Gwenivere chuckled. “Avoiding responsibilities. After my parents died, our family kind of fell apart. I grew up in the Prime Realm, mostly around here, actually. I’d seen most of the big Netherlands in North America, and some of Europe, but I’d never been very far into the Shards. I decided to go on a tour, more or less. Then I found the Sword, and now I have to figure out what to do with it.”

“So what do you have in mind?” Gabriel was a good listener, commenting just enough to let her know he was paying attention, and prodding her to keep talking when she lapsed into silence.

“I’m not sure. I need to talk to some other people before I decide. If I’m lucky, they’ll meet me at the Façade tonight. If not, I have some other ways to track them down. Hey, is that your place?”

The Fog had parted enough to reveal a two-story building with a decorative iron façade. Lights burned in the upper windows revealing a ghostly silhouette that glided back and forth.

“Looks like Sabrina’s there,” Gabriel said.

“That whole building is yours?”

“Yeah. It’s not as impressive as it sounds. It was an inheritance.” Pain lurked behind those words like sharp rocks concealed beneath dark water. “Most of it is empty. I just live upstairs.”

Gabriel fumbled for his keys at the door, almost dropping the sword as he straightened his left shoulder too far. The Fog cleared almost as soon as they entered the building. Gabriel was tiring. He’d been able to keep up with Gwenivere’s pace after his impromptu sword fight, but the simple fact was that the sword had sapped his strength, and he’d need to rest.

The lower floor was dark. The streetlights faintly illuminated several pillars around the perimeter. A catwalk formed a partial ceiling, with a broad overhang that looked like a later addition. There was a small office just to the left of the door, with an elevator next to that. A somewhat battered van was parked close to the door on the opposite side.

“This is huge for New York,” Gwenivere said, following her host to the gated elevator. You could sell it for a small fortune.”

Gabriel sighed, tired and a little sad. “I guess. I don’t really need the money. Besides the building, Crystal left me enough money to live on for the rest of my life. She knew I liked this place. I thought it would be the coolest place to live. We were going to convert the back half into a sound studio. After she died, I never got around to it.”

The elevator carried them to the second level. Key was fascinated with the old Industrial style machinery. Gabriel opened the gate to reveal the lighted upper level. Almost as soon as he did, a woman in faded denim and a white tanktop pelted across the catwalk to greet them.

“My god, Gabriel, where have you been?”

“Hi, Sabrina. I didn’t expect you here.”

Gwenivere recognized Sabrina Lucas from before. The artist stopped up short when she saw Gwenivere and Key. “Who are your friends?” she asked, a bit suspiciously.

Gabriel barely shrugged in their direction. “This is Gwenivere Valentine and Key. They ran into a little trouble in the park, and I helped them out. I’ll explain it all in a minute, but I’ve really got to sit down.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Sabrina said automatically. “I’m Sabrina Lucas.”

Gwenivere smiled. “I know. I was at the Grand Facade earlier today. Julie pointed you out to me. She’s impressed with your work.”

Sabrina smiled slightly at the complement, evidently mollified at the surprise of seeing unexpected visitors.

As if to underscore his statement, Gabriel almost collapsed, catching himself on the catwalk’s guard rail.

“Are you alright?” Sabrina moved to his side and wrapped her arms around him, leaning her head up against his back for a second. “Let me help you.”

“I’m fine.” Gabriel straightened, but didn’t shake her off.

Gwenivere followed them to the converted warehouse’s living section, trailed by the silent Key. The living quarters consisted of a broad, open space differentiated only by some freestanding shelves and raised platforms. The room was divided into a sleeping area with a curtained bed, a sitting room with a TV, two easy chairs, and a sectional sofa, and a kitchen/dining area. There was also a closet, but it seemed that the bathroom was on the far side of the building, where the office cubicle stood below. The ceiling consisted almost entirely of a huge sunroof. Metal shutters could be drawn to cover the glass in the event of a storm, or to shut out the light, but tonight they revealed the stars above. The lighting was subdued enough not to transform the sunroof into a big mirror.

Other than a few metal and frosted glass folding screens placed to divide the room, there were no decorations. The apartment was perfectly clean and organized, but it looked unfinished, like a place to sleep rather than a place to live.

A young man, perhaps a bit younger than Gabriel, dressed in a black leather jacket and a T-shirt advertising a rock band, was sprawled in one of the easy chairs watching TV. Gwenivere wondered how he could see at all through his unruly mass of brown hair. He got up when Sabrina reached the room.

“See, I told you he’d be back,” he said. He added, “And he brought friends.” when he noticed Gwenivere and Key. Grinning comically, he introduced himself. “I’m Max.”

With Sabrina’s help, Gabriel sank into the embrace of the sofa. “Gwenivere Valentine, Key...I don’t know your last name, meet Maxwell Duvall. Max, meet Gwenivere and Key.”

“Gwenivere Valentine and Key I-Don’t-Know-Your-Last-Name, I am very glad to meet you.”

Key smiled at his joke, then joined Gabriel on the sofa. She looked almost as tired as he did.

Truly, Gwenivere wasn’t much better. “Do you mind if I sit down?” she asked.

Gabriel gestured vaguely at the opposite curve of the sectional.

Sabrina did not take a seat. “What’s wrong with Gabriel?” she asked.

Gwenivere wasn’t in the mood for the hint of accusation laced into that question, but she mastered her temper. “He’s had kind of a shock. He’ll be all right in a few minutes. If you have some coffee, that’d be a help, and I would dearly love a cup.

In fact, she was hungry, too. She and Key had never quite gotten around to eating before Dominick had interrupted. The little girl must be starving.

Max picked up on that as well. “Hey, kid, while I get the coffee, would you like a peanut butter sandwich. Gabriel’s a boring stiff, so all he has is creamy, but it’s better than nothing.

Gwenivere doubted that the Shard born girl would even know what peanut butter was, but she’d probably be happy with the result.

“Do you have anything else? I hate to impose any further, but I haven’t eaten all day.”

Gwenivere addressed Gabriel, since it was his house. Max answered, though. “He has some microwave pizza, microwave pasta dinners, microwave chicken, and microwave popcorn, and...that’s weird. There’s some real food in here. Oh wait, it’s OK, It’s just Captain Crunch. Oh, and Gabriel, you’re almost out of Captain Crunch.”

“Funny,” Gabriel said drowsily, “I had plenty this morning.”

“You’re low on milk, too.”

Sabrina snickered involuntarily.

Gwenivere smiled, too. “I haven’t had a good pizza in ages,” she said.

“Well, that’s not about to change now, but I’ll put in one of these microwave ones.”

Max Duvall reminded her of her cousin, Brian, never serious, never afraid, always fun to be around. Brian was amongst the missing in the Valentine family. Then again, most of Gwenivere’s generation was among the missing. When Jason refused the ascension, the kids all drifted off in their own directions.

“Now, Ms. Valentine, will you tell us what happened to Gabriel, and why he came in with a sword?” Sabrina’s tone was not threatening in the least, but she left no doubt that she wanted answers.

“It’s a long story. I’m not sure how much to tell you.”

The decision was complicated. The truth would be unbelievable, and if she offered any proof Gwenivere would be dooming both of them to cross the Threshold. She really didn’t want to take on that responsibility.

Gwenivere gathered her thoughts. “Key and I were in Central Park, and someone attacked us. Gabriel happened to be nearby, and he scared them off.”

“Them, as in multiples? Way to go, Gabriel,” Max said as he returned with the coffee.

He put an incredibly gooey sandwich in front of Key, who regarded it dubiously before taking a bite.

The smell of the pizza, a pepperoni and vegetable combo, set off Gwenivere’s suppressed appetite. She helped herself to a slice almost as soon as Max put the tray down.

Gabriel, a little more alert now, took his coffee. “It wasn’t like that. It was, I don’t really know how to explain it.” His strength was returning quickly, a sign of a strong life force.

Gwenivere looked up from her second slice of pizza. “If Gabriel hadn’t come along, I’m not sure what would have happened. I study archeology and history. The sword I was carrying is very valuable.”

Max listened with rapt attention, but Sabrina Lucas looked on with piercing skepticism. The young woman was very perceptive, Gwenivere could tell, and was as interested in what wasn’t included in the story as in what was.

“So you were attacked by someone who wanted to steal that sword? I’m surprised that you took no precautions,” Sabrina said.

Gwenivere was at a loss. To involve these people further was dangerous, but if she stayed any longer she’d have to explain what was really going on. Worse yet, she still wasn’t sure that the Sword of Glass would leave Gabriel alone.

While she was still trying to figure out what to do, her host surprised her. “Look, this is really strange,” he said. “Gwenivere and I will be leaving in a minute. I’ll try to be back soon, and then I’ll explain.”

“What?” Gwenivere was taken completely off guard. “Gabriel, the longer you keep the Sword… This is dangerous. I should just go.”

“It’ll be OK.”

“You have no idea what you’re getting into.” Gwenivere picked up her bag and stood. Her ribs and shoulder protested.

“I have some idea, enough to know that you need my help.”

There was that phrase again. He was probably right, too. The Coventrys knew she was in the city, and they would be looking for her. The Façade would be watched. Gwenivere could take care of herself, but she was still tired from her earlier exertions, and from Dominick’s interrogation.

“OK, if you really insist, you can go with me as far as the Grand Façade. After that, we’ll see.”

“Good. I’ll just grab some things and be right back.” Gabriel clearly had his own ideas about what they would see at the Façade.

Gwenivere wondered if he even realized when he picked up the Sword of Glass on his way out of the room. The ancient blade was already claiming him, turning him into a hero. Of course, in most of the legends Gwenivere had traced to the Sword of Glass, the hero ended up dead.

Gabriel crossed to the sleeping area, which also contained a wardrobe and a vanity. Max followed him. Key looked after the departing pair, and licked jelly from the edge of her mouth.

Gwenivere sat back down, perched on the edge of the sectional, uncomfortable in the sudden scrutiny of Sabrina Lucas.

“Yes?”

Sabrina didn’t speak immediately. When she did, her voice was carefully controlled. “Gabriel has been my friend for a long time, since before he and Crystal were even dating. When she died, he didn’t take it very well. It was like he wanted to die too. In the last few weeks, he’s gotten a little better. Now, you’re here, and you’re involved in something dangerous, maybe illegal...”

“Not illegal,” Gwenivere interrupted. That was true enough. Since Gwenivere wasn’t technically a citizen of any country in the Prime Realm, nothing she did was really illegal.

“OK, not illegal, but definitely dangerous. Gabriel’s jacket had blood on it. So do your clothes. Not a lot, but it’s there.”

“You’ve got sharp eyesight.”

Gwenivere had done her best to clean up, but in the dark, with the rain, she’d obviously missed some.

Sabrina was not swayed by Gwenivere’s compliment. “I won’t let you do anything to hurt Gabriel, not now.”

“What do you want me to tell you? Yes, this will be dangerous, for me, for him. I can’t keep him from following me to the nightclub. I may not be able to keep him from coming with me after that.”

Gwenivere was worried that she’d have to try to explain that, but Sabrina took a different track. “Then I’m coming with you.”

“What? That’s not possible. If it’s dangerous for me, what makes you think it will be any less dangerous with two more innocent bystanders?”

Sabrina crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not going to let anything happen to Gabriel without trying to help him. I’m going with you to the club. Maybe the two of us can talk him into staying out of it.”

“That’s the best I’m going to get?”

“Yes.”

“Then I guess it will have to do.”

“Good, I’ll go warm up the van.” Gwenivere almost jumped out of her skin at the sound of Max’s voice directly behind her.

Gabriel was just behind him, now dressed in slightly more rugged clothing. He had the scabbard looped below his trench coat. The folds of leather didn’t really conceal the Sword, but they did make it less obvious.

“I’m going to be stuck with all three of you, aren’t I?” Gwenivere asked.

She hoped it wasn’t true. The Threshold was weaker in the Facade than in other places. Magick and the mundane could interact. Most of the Prime Worlders never fully remembered what really happened there. If there were any place in New York where she could tell these three what they were really getting into, that would be it.

Sighing out her frustrations, she looked over her erstwhile company. Key had scaled Gabriel’s leg again, and he was holding her. He’d foisted her small knapsack off on Max, though. Sabrina hovered behind Gabriel protectively. Max had the expression of a kid on his way to the circus.

“Alright,” Gwenivere said. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Mordakai stretched painfully and wiped fatigue from his eyes. Before him, several large books were spread out on his worktable. Another volume occupied a lectern behind him. The collection of the Grimories Alistair had recovered was woefully incomplete. The Simonites guarding the vaults had managed to destroy a few key volumes before their fortress fell. Still, Mordakai believed he’d found what he needed. The ancient man tried to rise, but his legs would not obey him. He could feel them only as a dull weight shot through with needles of pain. He’d been lost in his studies for too long, and had allowed his strength to slip too far. Anastasia, silent and faithful, helped him to rise.

“I require sustenance…” he croaked. “The bottles.”

His servant helped him to the cabinet. He was barely able to open the wards and locks. His hands were shaking far too much to hold one of the precious bottles of fluid.

Anastasia settled him in the chair, then returned for a bottle.

His bony fingers immediately went for the mask. By the time he had it ready, she had returned with a vial full of dull yellow liquid. He poured it into the receptacle and inhaled the essence in deep gulps. Anastasia had chosen an older vial, stale and flat. The sweet, sickly vapors only gave him the strength to reach the cabinet and pull out another vial.

Within the cabinet, the reserves of vials were getting dangerously low. Each day, Mordakai required more of the liquid essence to maintain his strength. He made a mental note to increase the Children’s Bounty in the city, and to send out more agents to collect from the countryside. The essence of adults was becoming insufficient.

The second vial restored Mordakai, and a third gave him the strength he would need for his casting. Followed by Anastasia, he descended from his workroom into a chamber carved out of rock beneath the house. He had a leather bound volume tucked under his arm, not one of the Grimories, but one of his own notebooks. None of his children were about, and the household staff had retired. Few of the mundane citizens of Covenshire were willing to be abroad after dark.

The chamber was a perfect hexagon. The only light came from a candle Anastasia carried. As soon as she entered the room, she lit several more candles on iron stands. The candles were black, and emitted an oily smoke. Black jade covered the walls, ceiling, and floor. Over that was a complicated web of spun silver wire. Iron spikes protruded at odd angles, seemingly placed at random.

In the middle of the room, on a circular platform made of black iron, a white box rested. It was larger than a man, and oblong, made of shafts of dense crystal. In the depths of the box a figure could be seen, trapped like a fly in amber. Twelve sigils were embossed into the surface of the box in dark red, the only imperfections in its smooth, seamless shape.

“The God of Chaos,” Mordakai breathed. “A poor god indeed to be trapped like this.”

He stepped away and consulted his notes. According to Simion, the Seals were the most important component to the Box of Sorrows, and its greatest weakness. Simion had made a great study of these ancient things, with an eye toward understanding the deeper Magick they might reveal. Mordakai was not interested in learning the secrets of ancient Wizardry, or the origins of all Magick, but he did believe that Simion had something useful to teach.

A glance from Mordakai, and Anastasia closed the iron door of the six-sided room.

Mordakai nodded and cleared his mind. His demonic Patron answered his mental call sluggishly. The power flowed into him less easily with each passing year. Finally, though, he had what he needed. He focused his will on the Box and called down balefire. A plasma of damned souls cascaded to the box, burning with absolute darkness. The sorcerer maintained the onslaught for as long as he could, all the time weaving subtler enchantments into the spectral flames.

Finally, spent, he allowed the balefire to fade and sank to the floor. Anastasia attended him instantly. At his direction, she helped him to the Box.

Its pristine surface was unmarred, except for in the regions of the seals. There, it was laced with a multitude of tiny fractures. The twelve seals oozed with red liquid.

“Excellent, excellent.” Mordakai’s muttering set off a spasm of coughing.

He felt a ripping in his chest and throat. When his vision cleared, he saw dozens of tiny red flecks on the edges of the Box. They were the same color as the substance lining the cracks in the twelve seals.

* * *

Awareness dawned slowly for the Youngest. He had no way of telling how long he’d been imprisoned, totally cut off from reality, from unreality, too for that matter.

His senses were not totally his to control. The sounds around him were very purple, and tasted a bit like chicken. Then again, everything tasted like chicken, except for chicken, which tasted like everything else. There was nothing to see where he was, so his vision found other outlets, casting around the fractured remains of the universe.

Nothing had really changed in ten thousand years or so. Of course, it could have been only a few hours, but then all the computers and airplanes and renaissance festivals wouldn’t make very much sense. There was still war and death and plague and politics and art, and stupid tripe deliberately produced to offend popular taste passing itself off as art. That was his favorite kind. That and the serial killers. Those were funny guys.

He couldn’t believe how funny it all was.

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Changeling Seed

A Novel of the Side World

The First of the Valentine Chronicles

Copyright 2000 David Goodner

Continued from Chapter 2

Changeling Seed Archive