Flane held his breath, staring at the closed eyes. The thought came to him that this man lying so still and silent on the desert at his knees was the last hope of the Klarnva. If he dies without speaking, the Machine will never work. And if the Machine does not work, then the Darksiders will overrun the city-states of the Klarn. The mekniks may call them in to fight the dulars, and that will hasten their coming; but come they will, some day. For the Klarnva were sliding back to their level, swiftly, without the Machine. There would be no rays to wipe out hordes at one swipe. Instead, there must be arrow to meet arrow, and sword for sword; and there were few of the Klarnva who could match the Darksiders with these weapons!
He moved Vawdar with an arm under his shoulder, staring at the pallid face. "Vawdar! Speak to me!"
The man moved his head from side to side. His eyes opened, staring. They focused, after a moment. "The prophecy, Flane. The prophecy—"
Flane scowled. Prophecy? He knew no prophecy. Yet wait—
There was something. Crazy words about a man who would come with stars in his hands, who would unite all Klarn, dulars and mekniks and Darksiders alike, who would bring them the blessings of the Machine, and lead them to greatness. But such a man must be a giant. Stars in his hands! Flane grunted disbelief.
There came to Vawdar that false strength that some experience before death. He said strongly, "The key is lost, Flane. It may never be found. In certain records that your moth—the Princess Gleya, rather—kept, there was mention of it. She never knew, apparently. When the Keeper disappeared so long ago, he had the key with him.
"If you can find the Keeper, he will have the key. Search, Flane, Search!"
The man stiffened, opened his mouth wide for air.
Flane said softly, "But what is the key like? Is it big? Small? Is—"
Flane opened his eyes wide and put out a hand. The flesh he touched was yet warm, but—