Standing on a hilltop overlooking what was left of Merlinshire. Merlin the Magnificent had led us there, out of the castle through a tunnel that led from the keep and under the moat. Merlin. A powerful wizard but chastened now, and worried. Like all of us, unable to ignore the grim reality of what we had just witnessed. The almost total annihilation of Loki's forces — Loki, the Norse god of destruction and mischief. The swift and sure murder of his son, the giant wolf Fenrir. The almost total destruction of King Camulos's forces, too. His murder. The triumph of weapons technology over bows and arrows, over the brute force of the trolls and the impossible size of a mythological creature.

Standing slightly behind Merlin were Etain, the half-elfin Irish princess, and her elfin mother, the queen, Goewynne. Homeless, driven from their kingdom, from Merlinshire. Father and husband, King Camulos, dead.

Etain. Golden hair, blue-eyes, lovely skin, dressed like a fairy tale Irish princess in a long and low-cut dress, now badly torn and blood-stained. Etain was genuine Irish-maiden charming but so much more. She was smart and curious and savvy and politically aware, definitely the daughter of the king. Now the daughter of a dead king. An exile.

And Goewynne, who was until that morning the benign and powerful co-ruler of Merlinshire. Goewynne might remind you of a society lady but without the pretentiousness, just the sophistication and graciousness, the deep awareness of her place. She was physically beautiful, with long, shiny black hair and pale blue eyes that now looked grey with sadness. Goewynne had been devoted to her husband.

Now Goewynne was a widow, face swollen and bruised from a Sennite's blow. Still, somehow, she managed to retain an air of royalty. I couldn't imagine the effort it must have taken for her to stand so tall when the ordered, peaceful society of Merlinshire had been destroyed, crushed by the technology of a more advanced and civilized society. That was a sad and sick irony.

Merlinshire had been a lovely port town of Ireland, at least the Everworld version of Ireland. Picturesque wharf, a park, houses built of limestone with thatch or slate roofs. Cobblestone streets busy little shops, even a cable car system. Now it was all gone. All gutted and burned, its citizens tortured, murdered, driven from their cozy homes.

Ireland. It was the nicest place we'd visited in Everworld so far. Home of the Tuatha De Danaan, sacred isle of The Daghdha. Except that The Daghdha was dead, killed by Ka Anor.

Still, even without the Father God, Everworld Ireland had thrived for two hundred and nine years in peace. Ever since the Peace Council had met at the Magh Tuireadh. Ever since the residents had chosen to follow Merlin's Way.

Ireland had thrived for over two hundred years until we showed up. Four kids from the Old World. Followed by Senna and her insane tribe, bringing weapons unlike any Everworld had ever seen and turning them against Ireland's people.

Four kids from a suburb north of Chicago, Illinois. Dressed in a bizarre and filthy assortment of clothing that had long since ceased to resemble anything from the Gap or Tommy Hilfiger.

There was David, our leader because he needed to be, because we needed him to be. The responsible one. The hero. The one still in possession of Sir Galahad's sword. Beaten and bloody and bruised but standing.

Jalil, our scientist, the voice of reason. The smartest. Brave, too. Ruthless, unsentimental and self-serving when he had to be — but utterly trustworthy. He'd saved my life on more than one occasion, at no small risk to himself. Now, his spirit broken by the public humiliation Senna had cruelly sentenced him to suffer. He stood stoically, staring directly in front of him.

And there was Christopher. He'd carried Etain from the castle, through the dark, dank stone tunnel and released her only when we'd reached the hilltop. Only moments before Christopher had been under Senna's spell, ready to betray us all, his gun aimed at my head. But he was free of Senna now. He was wounded and discouraged, but one of us again.

Finally, there was me. April O'Brien. Led from the castle by Goewynne, taken by the hand like a person in a trance, a person stunned and in shock. Led to the hillside, away from the scene of the crime.

April O'Brien. Pretty decent citizen, good in one world. Murderer in another. There were only four of us now because Senna was dead.