The distant city’s buildings looked safe and solid enough, but cold and oppressive. In a moment my heightened vision pierced the walls, but this city was without thrones; no, there was a throne, but only one, there at the center. I couldn’t clearly see who sat on it, but my intuition told me it was a dreadful tyrant, intolerant, squashing creativity and initiative. I envisioned him granting his subjects freedom enough to make a mistake just so he could condemn them for it and command their execution.

How did I know all this? I couldn’t explain it, but I was as certain of it as I could be.

So this was what awaited us on the red road! I was aghast. I had long ago learned to trust my instincts, and they told me this city was a monument to the pride of some self-proclaimed, glory-hungry sovereign who delighted in robbing men of their dignity.

I smelled Shadrach next to me again and heard him say in a measured tone, “Behold, nestled on Mount Aletheas: Charis, the City of Light.”

Light? He was even more a fool than I thought. Why was he unable to see what I saw so clearly?

“Do you hear it?” Malaiki gasped, her face glowing. A few seconds went by before it struck me that I’d understood her words for the first time.

“Music!” she exclaimed with enchanting fervor. “Songs of life and learning, choruses of pleasure and adventure! In a thousand languages!”

I heard nothing. Who was she trying to kid and why?

She broke into dancing, Salama joined her, then Quon and Mason. Shad was dancing too, an unlikely sight to say the least. I thought I heard some distant music myself, then stole a glance at Victoria, hoping she felt like a spin and ready to join her if she did. But she stood back, and I couldn’t read her expression.

Malaiki and the others kept looking toward the city even as they twirled and high-stepped. Following their gaze, I saw the coldness of the place replaced by light and warmth and by what seemed to be the radiant energy of people celebrating. I barely heard the music, but now I heard a geyser of laughter exploding from a fountain of joy. It was the same laughter I’d heard when I stepped out of the cave.

For a moment I felt torn between two cities, as if I were the center knot of a rope being yanked from both sides in a cosmic game of tug of war.

A surge of caution overtook me. I could not, would not let that laughter grab me this time. Nick Seagrave wasn’t a marionette on a string to be yanked around by someone or something else. I stopped dancing. I had to stay in control.

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