Eventually Jossua found the strength to stand. He had nothing to fear; the Nax wanted him alive. And yet he, a man over three centuries old, felt humbled and lessened by this experience. It was as if this brief exchange had held up a mirror to his old foolishness, the belief he had maintained for decades that somehow he was important.

“My time is near,” Jossua whispered, and sibilant echoes came back at him from the tunnel walls. They contained humor that had not been evident in his own words.

He turned and began to retrace his steps. His time was near. There was much to be done. He had a brief but powerful recollection of standing on the beach on Mages’ Bane, staring northward, knowing that even though the battle was over his own long war had only just begun.

As he traveled back along the tunnel, climbing slowly toward the Monastery high above his head, he noticed that water had ceased spewing from rock walls and running past him into the depths. It was as if something had sucked the place dry.

HE HAD LOST track of time. When he found his way back into the Monastery’s basements, Jossua was confused that there was no daylight bleeding down from above. He began to panic. Darkness, he thought, there’s only darkness. Maybe they were already too late.

“The dark,” he gasped past a tongue swollen by dehydration.

“It’s nighttime, Elder Jossua,” a voice said, and Jossua felt water dripping onto his tongue. It stung at first, but then the coolness trickled into his throat and he sighed and slumped back to the ground. He was held up, given water, touched softly by hands sworn only to kill.

“How long?” he croaked.

“Elder?”

“How long was I gone?”

“A day,” a voice said. “We thought . . .”

Jossua smiled and shook his head. “Oh no, they wouldn’t have let me die,” he said. “They need us to find and destroy the magic back in the land.”

“Magic!”

Jossua glanced at the Monk that had spoken, her face dancing in torchlight. The flames fluttered in a steady breeze coming up from below, and Jossua wondered how much of each waft was the breath of a Nax. “You’re surprised, Gathana?” he said. “You’re shocked that magic should live again? It’s nature, after all—life itself—and life is tenacious.” In each Monk’s eyes, Jossua could make out two emotions: fear and excitement. Their concern for him had vanished already, but he did not mind. They were not meant to be here forever, listening to him, following his words, looking after him as he grew older and older, less able to dress himself, forgetful, wont to piss the bed on occasion . . .

They were killers.

“Help me up,” he said. “And call the Council. You’ll all be leaving soon.”