A lean figure came down a stairway built within the walls framing the gates, at first a shadowy blur through the layers and layers of crystal. He was a couple of inches taller than me, which put him at the next-best thing to seven feet, but he moved with a brisk, bustling sense of energy and purpose. He wore a dark robe that looked black at first, but as he emerged into the light, highlights showed it to be a deep purple. He carried a long pale wizard's staff in one weathered hand, and his hood covered up most of his face, except for part of an aquiline nose and a long chin covered in a grizzled beard.

He spoke to the Summer and Winter Sidhe alike in a language I didn't understand but they evidently did, giving instructions to Summer's medics. They took his orders with a kind of rigid, formal deference. He leaned over to scan each of the fallen closely, nodding at the medics after each, and they would immediately carry the wounded Sidhe in question back behind the wall, into what looked like a neat triage area.

"Rashid," I murmured, recognizing the man. "What is he doing here-"

I froze and stared up at the massive gates rising above us.

Rashid, a member of the Senior Council of the White Council of Wizards, had another title, the name he went by most often.

The Gatekeeper.

He finished with the last of the wounded, then turned and approached us with long, purposeful strides. He paused a few steps away and bowed to Mother Summer, who returned the gesture with a deep, formal nod of her head. Then he came the rest of the way to me, and I could see the gleam of a dark eye inside his hood. His smile was wide and warm, and he extended his hand to me. I took it and shook it, feeling a little overwhelmed.

"Well, well," he said. His voice was a deep, warm thing, marked with an accent that sounded vaguely British seasoned with plenty of more exotic spices. "I had hoped we would see your face again, Warden."

"Rashid," I replied. "Uh . . . we're . . . they're . . ."

The Gatekeeper's smile turned a bit rueful. "Ah, yes," he said. "They're impressive the first time, I suppose. Welcome, Warden Dresden, to the Outer Gates."

Chapter Thirty-four

"The Outer Gates aren't real," I said numbly. "They're a . . . They're supposed to be a metaphor."

Mother Summer smiled very faintly. "I'll leave mortal business to mortals," she said. "I'll be nearby, young wizard."

"Um," I said. "Thank you."

She nodded and walked away toward the wounded Sidhe.

"Well," the Gatekeeper said to me. He seemed . . . if not precisely cheerful, it was something that lived on the same block-positive, confident, and strong. "You've managed to travel a very long way from home."

"Mother Summer drove," I said.

"Ah," he said. "Still, I can't recall the last time a wizard of your age managed the trip, however it was done. You take after your mother."

I blinked. "You knew her?"

"Those of us who spend any amount of time walking the Ways tend to develop a certain amount of camaraderie. We would have dinner every so often, compare notes of our walks. And there were several of us who were friends of Ebenezar who . . . took it upon ourselves to watch over her."

I nodded, keeping my face as blank as I could. It was not general knowledge that Maggie LeFey had been Ebenezar's daughter. If Rashid knew, it was because my grandfather trusted him.

The fresh armored column of Sidhe began to move out, and as they did, horns began to call in the land beyond. Rashid turned his head toward them, listening as if to a spoken language, and the smile faded from his mouth.

"They're massing again," he said. "I have little time." He reached up and did something I'd seen him do only once before.

The Gatekeeper lowered his hood.

He had short hair that was still thick and gleamed silver, but his features were weathered, as if from long years under harsh sunlight. His skin was paler now, but there was still something of the desert on his skin. His face was long, his brows still dark and full. He had a double scar on his left eyebrow and cheek, two long lines that went straight down, a lot like mine, only deeper and thicker and all the way to his jawline, and they were much softer with long years of healing. Maybe he hadn't been as good at flinching as I was, because he'd lost the eye beneath the scar. One of his eyes was nearly black, it was so dark. The other had been replaced with . . .

I looked around me. Yes, definitely. The other eye had been replaced with the crystalline material that was identical to that which had been used to create the gates and the walls around them.

"Steel," I said.

"Pardon?" he asked.

"Your, uh, other eye. It was steel before."

"I'm sure it looked like steel," he said. "The disguise is necessary when I'm not here."

"Your job is so secret, your false eye gets a disguise?" I asked. "Guess I see why you miss Council meetings."

He inclined his head and ruffled his fingers through mussed, tousled hood-hair. "It can be quiet for years here, sometimes. And others . . ." He spread his hands. "But they need a good eye here to be sure that the things that must remain outside do not slip in unnoticed."

"Inside the wounded," I guessed. "Or returning troops. Or medics."

"You've become aware of the adversary," he said, his tone one of firm approval. "Excellent. I was certain your particular pursuits would get you killed long before you got a chance to learn."

"How can I help?" I asked him.

He leaned his head back and then a slow smile reasserted itself on his face. "I know something of the responsibilities you've chosen to take up," he said, "to say nothing of the problems you've created for yourself that you haven't found out about yet. And still, in the face of learning that our world spins out its days under siege, you offer to help me? I think you and I could be friends."

"Wait," I said. "What problems? I haven't been trying to create problems."

"Oh," he said, waving a hand. "You've danced about in the shadows at the edge of life now, young man. That's no small thing, to go into those shadows and come back again-you've no idea the kind of attention you've attracted."

"Oh," I said. "Good. Because the pace was starting to slow down so much that I was getting bored."

At that, Rashid tilted his head back and laughed. "Would you be offended if I called you Harry?"

"No. Because it's my name."

"Exactly," he said. "Harry, I know you have questions. I can field a very few before I go."