hint of weariness in Gesar's words.

'He went to Baikonur. The Fuaran really works. He wants to turn everybody on the planet into Others.'

I stopped, because I realised Gesar already knew. He'd seen and heard everything that happened – through my eyes and ears, or by using some other magical method, it wasn't important how.

'You have to stop him, Anton. Go after him and stop him.'

'And you?'

'We're keeping the channel open, Anton. Supplying you with Power. Do you know how many Others provided Power for the "grey prayer"?'

'I can imagine.'

'Anton, I can't handle him. Zabulon can't handle him. Or Svetlana. The only thing we can do now is feed Power to you. We're drawing it from all the Others in Moscow. If necessary, we'll start taking it directly from people. There's no time to regroup and use different magicians as channels. You have to stop Kostya . . . with our help. The alternative is a nuclear strike at Baikonur.'

'I won't be able to open a direct portal, Gesar.'

'Yes you will. The portal still hasn't closed completely, you need to find the opening and reactivate it.'

'Gesar, don't overestimate me. Even with your Power, I'm still a second-grade magician!'

'Anton, use your head. You were standing in front of Saushkin when he recited the spell. You're not second-grade any more.'

'Then what am I?'

'There's only one grade above first – Higher Magician. Enough talking, get after him!'

'But how am I going to defeat him?'

'Any way you like.'

I opened my eyes.

Las was standing before me and waving his hand in front of my face.

'Oh! Still alive!' he said, delighted. 'So what is this Watch? And do you mean to say I'm a magician too now?'

'Almost.' I took a step forward.

This was where Kostya had been standing . . . he fell . . . parted his hands . . . the portal appeared.

In the human world – nothing.

Just the wind blowing, the crumpled cellophane cover from a pack of cigarettes rustling over the concrete . . .

In the Twilight – nothing.

Grey gloom, stone monoliths instead of buildings, the rustling tendrils of the blue moss . . .

In the second level of the Twilight.

Dense, leaden mist . . . a dead, spectral light from behind heavy clouds . . . a small blue spark where the portal had been . . .

I reached out my hand –

in the human world,

in the first level of the Twilight,

in the second level of the Twilight . . .

I caught the fading blue spark in my fingers.

Wait. Don't go out. Here's Power for you – a raging torrent of energy, rupturing the boundary between worlds. Streaming from my fingers in drops of fire – onto the fading embers . . .

Grow, unfold, creep out into the bright light of day – there's work for you to do! I sense the trace left by the one who opened the portal. I see how he did it. I can follow his path.

And I don't need any incantations – all those formulae in obscure ancient languages – just as the witch Arina didn't need them when she brewed her potions, just as Gesar and Svetlana don't need them.

So this is what it's like to be a Higher Magician

Not to learn formulae off by heart, but to feel the movement of Power.

How incredible . . . and simple.

It wasn't a matter of new abilities, of a fireball with increased casualty capability or a more powerful 'freeze'. If he's pumped full of Power from outside or has accumulated a large reserve of his own, an ordinary magician can lash out hard enough to make a Higher Magician feel it. It was a matter of freedom. Like the difference between even the most talented swimmer and the laziest dolphin.

How difficult it must have been for Svetlana to live with me, forgetting about her Power, her freedom. This wasn't just the difference between strength and weakness – it was the difference between a healthy person and an invalid.

But ordinary people managed to live, didn't they? And they lived with the blind and the paralysed. Because, after all, freedom was not the most important thing. Freedom was the excuse used by scoundrels and fools. When they said 'freedom', they weren't thinking about other people's freedom, only about their own limitations.

And even Kostya, who was neither a fool nor a scoundrel, had been torn on the same hook that had caught the lips of revolutionaries of every breed – from Spartacus to Trotsky, from Robespierre to Che Guevara, from