But I would likely raise an alarm. Not to mention that for all I know, interfering could cut off the entire city’s water supply.
I walk slowly along one of the green canals, eyes still sharp for any unusual movement ahead despite what the Overseer said about her working alone down here. Sure enough, though, there’s nothing.
It’s almost ten minutes before I see the far wall. See the dark holes into which the toxic water vanishes. The white-lit canals don’t travel that far, instead trickling into small pools which seem to have some sort of drainage in their base.
I don’t look too closely. At some point, horror overcomes even morbid curiosity.
It’s harder, this time, stepping into the burning water. Knowing what it is like. Knowing what’s coming.
But I have no choice, so I do.
The pain climbs. Wraps its fingers around me, squeezing muscles, shortening breath.
And I slide into its violence once more.
LXII
I AM WEARY THE NEXT MORNING IN THE DIM, FOGGYpredawn chill, my skin oddly itchy as if I have been sleeping on nettles, but it does not matter next to the pulse echoing in the back of my mind. Perhaps a mile to the south, now. A faint but steady presence.
As we break camp, I feel better than I have in a long, long time.
“You seem in a good mood.” Lir makes the observation as we continue our journey eastward. The druid hasn’t given any indication he was aware of my absence last night. Nor, frustratingly, been willing to say a word about what I should expect today.
“I am looking forward to getting this done.”
“Hm. Do not be so eager to embrace this test.” A mildly worrying solemnity to his tone.
“Because it is dangerous?”
“Any test that matters is dangerous.” He hesitates. “And this one matters a lot, Deaglán.”
His lips thin abruptly, as if displeased at himself, and I can see he will say no more on the matter.
We walk for two hours. Dawn breaks ahead. The fog is burned away and the weak winter sun does its best to warm our faces. A small river wends its way beside us. The air is fresh and the moors ripple with the caress of an icy morning breeze.
Uncertain though I am about today, anxious about the war and desperate to rejoin my friends—I find myself taking a kind of peace from the journey. In part it is my father’s pulse trailing us, always just within range, settling me. And in part it is the journey itself. The beauty of these lands is different to the golden warmth of Suus. Less joyful, perhaps, but calmer as a result.Deeper. Just walking these paths seems to ease heart and mind and makes whatever I’m marching toward this morning just another obstacle to be overcome, not something to fear.
I could live here, I realise. Live here and call it home, and I would be happy.
Eventually we meet an overgrown road, centuries past disrepair, and beginto follow it. Around midday I spot a short column of stone rising by it, crumbling and covered in lichen. I frown as we approach, then pause and wipe some of the detritus from its surface.
“There are several along this way,” observes Lir disinterestedly.
“It’s a mile marker.” Caten has these along many of its outer roads. This one, though, is inscribed in Vetusian. “Seven miles from … Lapides Animarum?”
“You can read this language?” More interested now.
“A little.” I wipe away more accrued dirt, but there’s not much else remaining. “Lapides Animarum. Another name for Fornax?”
Lir thinks. “Seven miles,” he concurs, examining me thoughtfully.
We press on.
I see three more of the markers along the way—two of them little more than rubble—before we reach the top of yet another rise, and Lir stops. “We are here.”
I frown down at the valley sweeping away below us. It’s wide and long, wooded in some areas but dominated by a massive lake in its centre. Five miles across and at least double that to the far shore, dwarfing the one on which I’ve spent much of my time in this world. There are no crannogs, no signs of civilisation. Just glassy water reflecting the forests and hills surrounding.
“This is Fornax?”
