As long as Gil's hand from wrist bones to farthest fingertip, and just too thick to be circled by her fingers, it appeared to be made of glass clear as water. Those who had lived in the Times Before- before the first rising of the Dark Ones, seemed to have favored plain geometrical shapes. Ingold brushed the thing with his lips, then set it on a corner of the table and studied it, peering inside for reflections, Gil thought. By the way he handled it, it was heavier than glass would have been.

In the end he slipped it into his rucksack. "Obviously one of Maia's predecessors considered it either dangerous or sacrilegious." He stepped carefully back through the hole in the bricks, took up his staff again. "Goodness knows there were centuries-and not too distant ones-during which magic was anathema and people thought nothing of bricking up wizards along with their toys. That room was spelled with the Rune of the Chain, which inhibits the use of magic... Heaven only knows what they destroyed over the course of the years. But this..." He touched the rucksack.

"Someone thought this worth the guarding, the preserving, down through the centuries. And that alone makes it worth whatever it may have cost us." He touched the dressings on the side of her swollen face. At the contact, she felt stronger, warmer inside. "It is not unappeciated, my dear."

She looked away. She had never known what to say in the presence of love, even after she'd stopped consciously thinking When he finds out what kind of person I am, he'll leave.

Ingold, to her ever-renewed surprise, evidently really did love her, exactly as she was.

She still didn't know why. ''It's my job," she said.

Scarred and warm, his palm touched her unhurt cheek, turning her face back to his, and he gathered her again into his arms. For a time they stood pressed together, the old man and the warrior, taking comfort among the desolation of world's end. They spent two days moving books.