Gabil leaped into the air, soared to one of the crevices that Johnis had first thought might be a way out of the bowl, landed in a somersault, and sprang to his feet. He swept his wing toward the small gap. “Here!” he cried, as if unveiling a grand prize.

Johnis walked over, gave the Roush a wide berth, and stepped up to the gap. Beyond lay the deep desert’s rolling dunes. The sun was sinking directly ahead, to the west. A butterfly beat in his belly.

“And as for your friends,” Gabil said, flying to the bowl’s opposite end, “they’re trapped in a canyon beyond this wall, through here.” He pointed to a third small gap.

“This is their only escape,” Michal said. “Take the book and show them this escape—surely that will be enough to convince them that you know what you’re talking about.”

“Then you don’t know Billos or Darsal,” Johnis said.

“I know humans. It’s enough.”

“You accept?” Gabil asked again, waddling back.

Johnis walked over to the book and picked it up, turning it in his hands. The title Stories of History was etched into the black leather cover, between the two straps of red twine.

“Careful, you may not want your blood to touch that book,” Michal said, taking a step forward. He was staring at Johnis’s finger, stained with blood from when he’d last touched his head to feel how his cut was doing. Striking Jackov head-on had left a deep wound that matted his dark hair with blood.

Without thinking Johnis touched the book with his bloodied finger. “Why not? I—”

An image slammed into his mind. A black strobe that ignited his world with darkness, even though it was still light.

The twisted image of a man or beast shrouded in a black cape. Or wings. A hat perhaps. Striding straight for him, featureless except for the capewings and an outstretched arm with long spiked fingers grasping at him, as if it wanted the book.

A loud moan, like that of a man in the throes of death, wrenched through the air. Mmmmwwwwaaaaa . . .

Johnis gasped and yanked his hand from the book. The image was gone. But his fingers were shaking like a rattler’s tail.

“That’s why,” Michal said. “And don’t ask what just happened because I can’t tell you. It’s beyond me. Beyond you. Just keep the books from blood.”

Johnis was too stunned to speak.

“It’s real,” Michal said softly. “Will you accept this task?”

“I will,” Johnis said softly. He wanted to ask about the book, but he wasn’t sure what to ask.

“Good,” Michal said, waddling away. “You’ll see us again, don’t worry. Remember, no one but you four may know of us—or the books or anything else that happens to you.”