The wind of their passage made conversation impossible, so Gyre closed his eyes—still strange, having two to close!—and tried to relax. To his surprise, he managed a light doze, and when he woke it was because the carriage-thing was slowing. The tunnel was the same as ever, round and smooth-walled, dark enough that his natural eye could see nothing at all. His silver eye saw the gray shapes of more constructs waiting for them, and he recognized the multilegged chair that held Naumoriel.

Elariel was there, too, standing between two spiky soldier-constructs. She looked nervous, in Gyre’s admittedly limited experience reading ghoul emotions: her long ears flat against her head, her fur rippling. Naumoriel, on the other hand, leaned forward in his chair.

“Hello, Kitsraea. Gyre.” Elariel stepped forward as the carriage-thing came to a halt. “I’m glad you’ve returned safely.”

“Do you have it?” Naumoriel said. “The Analytica?”

Gyre glanced at Kit, who raised her eyebrows and gestured him on. He hopped off the carriage-construct and opened his pack, producing the intricate cube. Naumoriel held out his wizened hands, and Gyre passed the thing over for inspection.

“Yes,” the old ghoul breathed. “Oh yes. Valthiel’s greatest work. Seventeen iterations deep.” His mouth hung slightly open, tongue running over small, sharp teeth. “There has never been anything like it in the history of the world.” His voice fell to a whisper. “The power under the mountain will be mine at last.”

“Which means,” Kit said, stepping forward, “we did what you wanted.”

Naumoriel looked down at her, and his face hardened. “After begging for a second chance.”

“You owe us. You owe me.” She tapped her chest. “I want this thing fixed, remember?”

“I remember perfectly,” Naumoriel snapped. “You want to live out your pathetic human life span, and Gyre desires the power to destroy the Twilight Order.” He turned to Gyre. “What do you think of your taste of power, boy?”

“It’s impressive,” Gyre said, touching the hilt of his silver sword. “But it’s just a taste.”

“So impatient.” Naumoriel clicked his tongue, ears twitching with mirth. “But there is one more task to perform, my human … friends. This”—he raised the Analytica—“must be brought to its … proper place. You will help me with this, and then everything you desire will be yours.”

“Help you?” Kit said. “You’re coming with us?”

“Indeed I am,” the old ghoul said with a toothy grin. “This is the last step on the path I have followed since I was a child. I intend to be there at the end.”

*