“I found it when we were fleeing back from Scarlet’s tree,” the lifeguard explained. “My treasure sense went nuts and I had to pick it up.”
Gizelle gave a sigh. “Yes,” she said.
Mal took it, hefting it in his hand. It was a big chunk of metal, clearly a mechanical lock of some kind that had been badly damaged. A hole had been drilled in it, and a carabiner was looped through that hole. A lock had good symbolism, and when he cast his power sight on it—wincing at the effort it took—he was stunned by the emotions it had captured: Neal’s anger and helplessness, Gizelle’s fears and confusion... and Conall’s deep love.
“This is perfect,” he agreed. He put it in Gizelle’s hands. “I want you to picture a large door.”
She closed her eyes obediently.
“Now imagine a deadbolt—do you know what that is?”
Gizelle nodded.
“Good. Imagine that you’ve closed the door, and now you’re locking it. The lock is heavy, like this, and you can hear it shooting home. You might have to press on the door to make the lock fit. And then nothing can get in or out, forever.”
“It’s the end,” Gizelle said quietly.
Mal didn’t need to cast his power sight to confirm her success; Gizelle’s hair suddenly shimmered to pure white and the feathered wyrm bleached of color as if it had turned into pale marble.
Forever.
“You did it,” Mal murmured to Gizelle.
Scarlet, the same exhaustion in her shoulders that Mal felt on his own, let the vines and trees wrapping the creature go slack and turned to account for the rest of her staff. They began to emerge from the rubble they had used as cover as the storm, no longer powered by the wyrm’s wrath, began to die. It was still raining, but was a gentle rain, warm and apologetic.
Two bears, one white and one golden brown, rose to four feet and shook rubble and rain off of them as staff who had sheltered behind them dazedly dusted themselves off.
Gizelle lifted a face tracked with tears and raindrops to look at Mal. “Why am I still here? I don’t remember this...”
“The door is closed,” Mal said wearily. “You’re locked to one time now, like all of us. No more whispers from the future, only memories of the past.”
She made a wordless noise of agony and turned away. “I don’t want to be here. I thought it would end when the door shut.”
She slipped around Mal and climbed up the shattered stairs to where Conall’s body lay crumpled, her white hair a tangled cloak behind her. Jenny let go of Travis to follow her, and after a moment, Lydia gave Wrench a squeeze and trailed after.
Slowly, weary and battered, they all picked their way one by one and two by two through the rubble, standing in a stunned group on the broken tile to gather around Conall.
Mal, feeling empty and exhausted as never before, stood alone for a moment on the bar level.
“Can you heal him?” Scarlet demanded quietly, suddenly at his side.
“He’s dead,” Mal told her. “I can’t do anything about that.”
“I know that,” Scarlet said impatiently. “Can you heal him?
”
“It wouldn’t do any good,” Mal said gently. Should he be flattered that she thought him capable of that? He was too tired to feel flattered.
“You have got to stop making assumptions,” she replied with a sigh. “I do not have dominion over earth, Mal.”
“You’re a dryad...” he started.
“And do you see me throwing rocks around or making mountains move?” Scarlet asked scathingly. “Was I even slightly comfortable underground? Did I have any luck controlling dirt? Just because my roots are in earth doesn’t mean I don’t need air, or fire from the sun, or water from the rain. I don’t have any power over dirt or rocks, I make things grow.”
Mal scowled at her in confusion, trying to make sense of what she was trying to tell him.
“My dominion is life, Mal. I can bring Conall back, but it won’t do more than make him suffer needlessly and die again if he can’t also be healed.”