In the stillness, the tall man turned to him again. “Why do you say that?”

Paul shrugged. “Am I right?”

“That searching truly was a mistake. Yes,” said their host, “you are right.” Dave was looking from Paul to the speaker with hostile incredulity. “Although I am Marcus, in a way—as much as anyone is. There is no one else. But Marcus is not who I am.”

“And who are you?” It was Kim who asked. And was answered in a voice suddenly deep as a spell.

“My name is Loren. Men call me Silvercloak. I am a mage. My friend is Matt Sören, who was once King of the Dwarves. We come from Paras Derval, where Ailell reigns, in a world that is not your own.”

In the stone silence that followed this, Kevin Laine, who had chased an elusive image down all the nights of his life, felt an astonishing turbulence rising in his heart. There was a power woven into the old man’s voice, and that, as much as the words, reached through to him.

“Almighty God,” he whispered. “Paul, how did you know?”

“Wait a second! You believe this?” It was Dave Martyniuk, all bristling belligerence. “I’ve never heard anything so crack-brained in my life!” He put his drink down and was halfway to the door in two long strides.

“Dave, please!”

It stopped him. Dave turned slowly in the middle of the room to face Jennifer Lowell. “Don’t go,” she pleaded. “He said he needed us.”

Her eyes, he noticed for the first time, were green. He shook his head. “Why do you care?”

“Didn’t you hear it?” she replied. “Didn’t you feel anything?”

He wasn’t about to tell these people what he had or hadn’t heard in the old man’s voice, but before he could make that clear, Kevin Laine spoke.

“Dave, we can afford to hear him out. If there’s danger or it’s really wild, we can run away after.”

He heard the goad in the words, and the implication. He didn’t rise to it, though. Never turning from Jennifer, he walked over and sat beside her on the couch. Didn’t even look at Kevin Laine.