all right,” she said, her voice low and thin. “Shiloh gone.”
“I know. I don’t mean that. I mean . . .” He lifted her chin. “What did you say?”
A new tear trickled down her cheek. “Shiloh . . . gone.”
Elam covered his face with his hands. “No! Tell me you didn’t eat the fig cakes!”
She raised a finger. “Only one. But I sick now.” Her eyes closed and her head lolled to the side.
Elam lowered his head to the floor and banged it against the wood as he let out a mournful wail. “Noooo!” He nuzzled her limp hand and kissed her fingers tenderly.
“Paili!” Patrick called.
Elam jerked his head around. Patrick stormed in and scooped Paili’s limp body into his arms. “Come, Elam!” he said as he headed toward the door. “There is still hope!”
Blinded by tears, Elam leaped to his feet and stumbled behind Patrick.
“I’m taking her to the ancient chamber,” Patrick said, grunting as he struggled along the corridor. “Acacia said she might be able to save her.”
“I left my flashlight in the chamber.” Elam surged in front of Patrick. “I’ll get another lantern!” After sprinting down the hall again, he stopped at a table that held two lanterns. He snatched one up, lit it, and waited for Patrick. When he came in sight, his cheeks puffing in time with his grunts, Elam strode ahead, adjusting the wick to provide a strong, vibrant glow.
When they arrived at the chamber, Acacia pushed up from the floor and held out her arms. “Give her to me.”
“Are you sure you can carry her?” Patrick asked as he transferred Paili’s body to Acacia.
Acacia groaned under Paili’s weight. “I’ll do whatever I have to do.” She limped toward the portal window. The glow bathed the two female forms, dissolving their bodies, and absorbed them into the ghostly wash.
The portal suddenly darkened, leaving Elam’s lantern as the only light in the room. He fell to his seat and covered his face with his hands. “Why is this happening?” he cried. “Why would God allow Morgan to kill someone as innocent as Paili?”
Patrick’s trembling grip massaged Elam’s shoulder. His voice quaked. “I . . . don’t know. . . . I just . . . don’t know.”
Elam lowered his hands and looked up at Patrick, who was now sitting on the floor. “I feel like the whole world is coming to an end,” Elam said. “Is Morgan going to win this war?”
Patrick’s face, now as pale as Sapphira’s, seemed old and worn out, like a ghost weary of haunting a troubled home. He firmed his chin, pain and determination stretching his words. “She . . . will . . . not . . . prevail!”
Chapter 7
SEARCHING FOR SHILOH
Sapphira threw an empty crate to the side. Nothing behind that one, either. Setting her hands on her hips, she surveyed the stacks of crates that lined the alley, groaning at the number. Searching every one of them would be a huge pain, and, besides, Shiloh wouldn’t have any reason to conceal herself, would she? Then again, fear of being alone in the sixth circle might drive a teenager into hiding. The eerie remnants of Shinar could give anyone an urge to cower in the shadows.
She sauntered back to the deserted road, shuffling her tired feet. When she reached the middle of the cobblestone paving, she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Shiiilohhh!” She waited a few seconds. A distant echo responded, but no other sound interrupted the quiet evening.
Sighing loudly, she hopped up to a raised, planked sidewalk and forced her legs into a trot. “Shiiilohhh!” She repeated her name over and over as her bare feet slapped the boards.
Stopping at the center of town in the shadow of a clock tower, she gazed at a tall statue in the main square a sculpture of a man riding a horse. As she crossed the street and approached the statue, she blew a low whistle. The village had changed so much! Makaidos and the other dragons, working in another dimension, had altered every building and garden in Shinar. But, of course, they weren’t around for her to congratulate. Still, she might see some of them, as she had seen the images of Makaidos and Roxil the last time she visited.
Sapphira followed the berm that formed the perimeter of the village’s central garden until she came upon a pitcher pump. With its spout poised over a patch of bare dirt at the edge of the street, it