The Enemy was on his knees, Drew lying half across his lap, limp and unresponsive. His skin had already begun to turn a cold blue color. He was never going to wake up again.

Call’s heart gave a dull thud of horror. He couldn’t seem to wrench his gaze away from the Enemy hunched over Drew’s body, his staff lying discarded on the floor beside him. His scarred hands raked through Drew’s hair, again and again. “My son,” he whispered. “My poor son.”

His son? Call thought. Drew is the Enemy of Death’s son?

Suddenly, the Enemy’s head jerked up. Even through the mask, Call could sense the glare of his eyes: They were bent on Call, and they were black with laserlike fury. “You,” he hissed. “You did this. You unleashed the elemental that killed my child.”

Call swallowed and backed up, but the Enemy was already rising, seizing his staff. He swung it toward Call, and Call stumbled, the beaker flying out of his hand to shatter on the floor. He went down on one knee, his bent leg screaming in pain. “I didn’t —” he began. “It was an accident —”

“Get up,” snarled the Enemy. “Get up, Callum Hunt, and face me.”

Slowly, Call rose to his feet and faced the silver-masked man across the room. Call was shaking all over, shaking from the pain in his legs and from the tension in his body, from fear and adrenaline and the thwarted desire to run. The Enemy’s face was set in a furious expression, his eyes glittering with rage and grief.

Call wanted to open his mouth, wanted to say something in his own defense, but there was nothing. Drew lay unmoving, still and vacant-eyed among the smashed remains of the glass container — he was dead, and it was Call’s fault. He couldn’t explain himself, couldn’t defend himself. He was facing the Enemy of Death, who had slain whole armies. He would hardly hesitate at one single boy.

Call’s hand slipped from Miri’s hilt. There was only one thing left to do.

Taking a deep breath, he got ready to die.

He hoped that Tamara and Aaron had made it past the Chaos-ridden, out the window, and back on the path toward the Magisterium.

He hoped that, since Havoc was Chaos-ridden, the Enemy wouldn’t be too hard on him for not being an evil zombie dog.

He hoped his dad wouldn’t be too mad at him for going to the Magisterium and getting killed, just the way he had always been warned he would.

He hoped Master Rufus wouldn’t give his spot to Jasper.

The mage was close enough that Call could feel the heat of his breathing, could see the twist of his narrow mouth, the glint of his eyes, and the tremors that ran through his whole body.

“If you’re going to kill me,” Call said, “go ahead. Do it.”

The mage raised his staff — and flung it aside. He dropped to his knees, his head bent, his whole posture one of supplication, as if he were begging Call for mercy. “Master, my Master,” he rasped. “Forgive me. I did not see.”

Call stared in confusion. What did he mean?

“This is a test. A test of my loyalty and commitment.” The Enemy took a ragged breath. It was clear that he was barely controlling himself through sheer force of will. “If you, my Master, decreed that Drew must die, then his death must be to a greater purpose.” The words seemed sliced out of his throat, as if it pained him to speak them. “Now I, too, have a personal stake in our quest. My Master is wise. As always, he is wise.”

“What?” Call said, his voice trembling. “I don’t understand. Your Master? Aren’t you the Enemy of Death?”

To Call’s utter shock, the mage raised his hands and drew off the silver mask, baring the face beneath it. It was a scarred face, an old, lined, weathered face. It was a strangely familiar face, but it was not the face of Constantine Madden.

“No, Callum Hunt. I am not the Enemy of Death,” he said. “You are.”

W-WHAT?” CALL GAPED. “Who are you? Why are you telling me this?”

“Because it is the truth,” said the mage, holding the silver mask in his hand. “You are Constantine Madden. And if you look at me closely, you will know my name as well.”

The mage was still kneeling at Call’s feet, his mouth beginning to twist into a bitter smile.

He’s insane, Call thought. He has to be. What he’s saying doesn’t make any sense.

But the familiarity of his face — Call had seen him before, at least in photographs.

“You’re Master Joseph,” Call said. “You taught the Enemy of Death.”

“I taught you,” said Master Joseph. “May I rise, Master?”

Call said nothing. I’m trapped, he thought. I’m trapped in here with an insane mage and a dead body.

Apparently taking this as permission, Master Joseph stood with some effort. “Drew said that your memories were gone, but I couldn’t believe it. I thought that when you saw me, when I told you the truth about yourself, you might recall something. No matter. You may not remember, but I assure you, Callum Hunt, the spark of life within you — the soul, if you will — all that animates the shell of your body belongs to Constantine Madden. The real Callum Hunt died as a mewling baby.”

“This is crazy,” Call said. “Things like that, they don’t happen. You can’t just swap souls.”

“True, I cannot,” said the mage. “But you can. If you will permit me, Master?”

He held out his hand. After a moment, Call realized that he was asking for permission to take Call’s hand in his.

Call knew he shouldn’t touch Master Joseph. Much of magic was communicated through touch: touching elements, drawing their power through you. But even though what Master Joseph was saying was insane, there was something in it that pulled at Call, something his mind couldn’t let go of.

Slowly, he held out his hand, and Master Joseph took it, wrapping his wide, scarred fingers around Call’s smaller ones.

“See,” he whispered, and an electric jolt went through Call. His vision whitened, and all of a sudden, it was like he was seeing scenes projected onto a massive screen in front of him.

He saw two armies facing off against each other on a vast plain. It was a mage war — explosions of fire, arrows of ice, and gusts of gale-force wind hurtled among the fighters. Call saw familiar faces: a much younger Master Rufus, a teenage Master Lemuel, Tamara’s mother and father, and, riding a fire elemental at the head of them all, Verity Torres. Chaos magic spilled darkly from her outstretched hands as she hurtled across the field.

Master Joseph rose up, a heavy object in his hand. It glittered the color of copper — it looked like a copper claw, fingers outstretched like talons. He gathered a burst of wind magic and sent it sailing through the air. It buried itself in Verity’s throat.

She fell backward, blood ribboning through the air, and the fire elemental she had been riding howled and reared back. A bolt of lightning shot from its claws — it struck Master Joseph and he fell, his silver mask dislodging to show his face beneath.

“It’s not Constantine!” cried a hoarse voice. Alastair Hunt’s voice. “It’s Master Joseph!”

The scene shifted. Master Joseph stood in a room made of scarlet marble. He was shouting at a group of cowering mages. “Where is he? I demand that you tell me what happened to him!”