Piercing the gloom were pin-points of light. A dark shape grazed Garin's head—one of the Gibi Queen's guards.
Then abruptly they stumbled into a throng of the Folk, one of whom reached for Thrala with a crooning cry. It was Sera welcoming her mistress.
Thrala was borne away by the women, leaving Garin with a feeling of desolation.
"The Mists, Outlander." It was Urg, pointing toward the Cavern mouth. Two of the Folk swung their weight on a lever. Across the opening a sheet of crystal clicked into place. The Caverns were sealed.
The haze was now inky black outside and billows of it beat against the protecting barrier. It might have been midnight of the blackest, starless night.
"So will it be for forty days. What is without—dies," said Urg.
"Then we have forty days in which to prepare," Garin spoke his thought aloud. Dandtan's keen face lightened.
"Well said, Garin. Forty days before Kepta may seek us. And we have much to do. But first, our respects to the Lord of the Folk."
Together they went to the Hall of Thrones where, when he saw Dandtan, Trar arose and held out his jade-tipped rod of office. The son of the Ancient Ones touched it.
"Hail! Dweller in the Light, and Outlander who has fulfilled the promise of Thran. Thrala is once more within the Caverns. Now send you to dust this black throne...."