“What is it?” Caeror slows, turns back to look at me.
“That hum in the air.” I rub at my ears. My hands are shaking.
“You recognise it?” He examines me curiously. “Where from?”
I lick my lips. “The Anguis attack I told you about. When I saw the pyramid that looked like Duat.”
I don’t want to go into it, and I think he sees that because despite his evident interest he just nods. “There’s no danger here,” he assures me gently. “Come on. We’re almost there.”
He moves on without waiting for an acknowledgement and I force myself after him. The air is suddenly thick, too heavy. Hot. Everything feels distant, vague. I’m light-headed.
We turn the corner, and the end of the passageway is in sight.
I stop, a few paces behind Caeror. Feet arrested. Eyes fixed on the door at the end of the corridor.
It’s made entirely of gold. Etched with hundreds of glyphs surrounding a dominating, intricately inscribed cross comprised of what looks like a crook and a flail, similar to the symbol on the amulet Caeror used to activate the Channel from Solivagus. The entire door seems to emanate its own warm, ethereal light that’s amplified by the polished black walls and floors.
And it flickers and fuzzes and blinks in and out of existence. A hundred times a second. Quivering and pulsing and dizzying to the eye.
Thrum.
I cannot move, cannot take my eyes off it. The glyphs around the cross are too small to make out from this distance, impossible to properly perceive as they shiver and shift and fade.
Thrum.
And even without seeing it, that sound. That low, pulsatingsound. I hear it too often in my nightmares not to recognise it. My hands begin to shake. I am there again. Frozen. Hopeless screams echo in my head. Stands coated in red. Thesmell. It hits me so suddenly and so hard that I don’t know what to do, how to react.
I am afraid, and though I know it is irrational, I do not know how to make it stop.
“Vis, you’re safe.” Caeror is peering at me. Deep brown eyes concerned. Brow furrowed. “It’s disorienting, first time. Breathe. Just breathe.”
I breathe, and breathe again. I am straining toward Estevan. Screams and blood and roiling dust and burning wreckage. Thousands dead and the certain knowledge that I am next. My heart pounds and I shake uncontrollably. It is a dream. A memory. But I cannot be sure. It feelsso real.
Thrum.
It is too much. Too much.
With a wordless cry, I flee.
XIII
MY EYES RELUCTANTLY OPEN TO A THATCHED ROOFand the steady patter of rain outside. Confusion for several seconds as I lie there, trying to sort through the chaos of memory and place myself at the end of it all. The village was attacked. Cian died. A searing pain in my stomach reminds me of the warrior’s spear finding its mark. The rawness of my lungs from the smoke. I crawled out the window, away from my pursuers and toward the forest, but I was so weak, losing so much blood.
Nothing, after that.
“Tá tú beo.” The voice comes from somewhere to my side; I find the energy to twist enough to see a blonde, lean woman sitting on the ground against the wall, watching me. She twitches at my movement. Wary.
I stare at her fuzzily. “You.” She’s the mother of the children. The one who slew the attacker. I groan and shudder as the memories come flooding back. I check my good arm. Sure enough, burns scar its length. Painful, but not crippling. A small mercy. “Where are we?”
“Ní thuigim.” She spreads her hands helplessly.
“Ah.” I look around. We’re in a hut; it’s small and crude, but undamaged. Outside, I think I can hear voices. I am on a straw mat covered with sheepskin, blankets made of soft animal pelt covering me. Cian’s symbol-covered rowan staff lies in the corner. There’s not much else to the place. “Not in the village anymore, I take it. Unless I’ve been asleep for a gods-damned long time.” I say it more to myself, to hear the sound of something I understand, than in the hopes she’ll respond. Predictably, she looks at me with confusion.
“Thank you,” I say eventually, putting as much gratitude into my tone as my pained state will allow. This, she seems to understand. She smiles uncertainly. Nods. “Go raibh maith agat.” Earnest. Returning the sentiment, I think.
“Go raibh maith agat,” I repeat carefully, trying to replicate the lilting sound of the language. It really does sound like Cymrian, even if I recognise none of the words.
She brightens. “Ceart! Ceart,” she says encouragingly. Her curls fall around her shoulders. Aside from the gold of her locks, she reminds me vaguely of Belli.
