Despite the lack of a breeze, the Lord's black cape ruffled around his boots, in front of which spun the crown of Lord British, as if it had been dropped.

The crown quivered to a halt.

"At last, we are together. It has been a long time. Since the summer solstice, I believe."

He was uncertain who had spoken, the Lord or the boy. Perhaps it did not matter, if they were one and the same.

"We have been together throughout all of this, I think. We were just unaware of it."

"And that was for the best, I believe, otherwise we would truly be without hope." A pause. "Lord British is alive. Imprisoned, but alive. I know that for certain now."

The Lord stepped to one side, revealing an ornate, golden-framed mirror. It reflected a small room, not the one in which the boy stood—a simple room with a desk and chair, a chest of drawers, and a bed. At the desk sat a figure robed in a white aura, his back facing the boy and Lord.

"I cannot see his face, but I know it is our Liege. I know because... he knows."

The chamber within the mirror faded, wavered, as if the glass were liquid and had been struck by a rock. The chamber now depicted was much like this one, circular with broad columns, perhaps the interior of a desolate tower. Within the center of the columns hunched a decrepit, old man, one-half of his face horribly disfigured. In one hand he held a quill pen. Like the Lord, the scribe had suffered a cut across his torso.

"He has always known about our Liege, hasn't he? Ever since our Liege was taken."

"Yes. Because . . . they know. They brought him to life."

Three more figures manifested in the mirror, wraiths robed in shadows, one to the right and left of the scribe, the third towering behind him. From within their cowls, red motes—eyes—flashed.

"Do they know what we hide from them?"

"I am not certain what we hide from them."

"Then look."

The boy handed the Lord an ornate box carved from sandalwood. The Lord lifted its top and tilted it so that the boy could see into it. Upon a small, velvet cushion rested a smaller, round, obsidian stone.

"A moonstone. A way to summon moongates."

"The Orb of the Moons, which Lord British uses to travel to his homeland, a world far, far from Britannia. Only the Orb can span such distances, and only by spanning such a distance can Lord British be freed. It is Britannia's only salvation. I remember now: Lord British entrusted it to me before he left on his journey, told me where it and its box were hidden so that I might be able to use it free him from the Underworld should anything happen."

The disfigured scribe within the mirror suddenly stirred.

"It will not be long before he learns of it, before they learn of it. We can no longer flee them, I fear. I have tried, but they are too strong. The scribe, you, and I are being brought together again."

Pain tingled across the flesh of the boy's abdomen and chest. He glanced down. Threads hung from a tear in his tunic that ran from shoulder to heart to waist. He placed his fingers within the tear, brought them back out. Blood.