Within the Bone

XXIV. A Shattered Mind

Visions of ash and flame flickered behind her eyelids. For the first time in a thousand years, she felt the grip of oblivion easing and the crackle of power like the tang of ozone on her tongue. So close. So close I can taste it...

Her fingers twitched slightly, but could barely move. Someone had bound her hands carefully to prevent her from being able to gesture. The taste of power faded, replaced by the repulsive fabric of a gag. Her eyelids refused to open yet, weak from rebirth, so she slowly re-attuned to her senses.

"...how did they even enter? There was no way to open that fissure, no door," a man said in a rough, deep bass voice.

It took her almost a full minute to process what he was saying, the words a confusing corruption of a language she had once known well. It was disorienting to hear it butchered by an accent, but it was still discernible as the language she had given to her children. Drift? Has it been so long?

"The powers of heresy are considerable, Barend. Though I agree, it was quite the feat. The tattooed one seems incapable, but this one on the other hand..." The second speaker's grasp on the language was almost flawless, almost just as she remembered.

Something cold and sharp touched her cheek as he spoke. She didn't need to open her eyes to know it was a blade.

The one called Barend growled low in his chest. "I thought all these barbarians had markings and heresy. Here is one with no markings and the other with no heresy."

"Certainly strange. Perhaps foreigners as well? The tattooed one has a different accent." The blade moved from her cheek, slipping under her chin and lifting her head. "You may open your eyes, barbarian. I know you are awake."

"Mara!"

The sound of a young woman's voice, frightened and pained, sent a pang of heartache and anxiety through her. She opened her eyes as the man had instructed, realizing they ached from tears as she did so.

There were many men around, tall red-skinned behemoths with rows of stunted horns in their dark hair, wearing well-fashioned armor. All of them smelled like wet fur and woodsmoke, hints of soap mostly lost beneath the musk. The one holding the sword, however, was very different: lean almost to the point of lankiness with a catlike grace, with bright blue eyes and a charming smile. His skin was fair. "Mara is a pretty name," he said affably, as if he wasn't holding a blade beside her throat. The black of his armor was matte, designed not to give a hint of shine.

The blade in his hands was soaked in her power. She could feel it against her skin, cold and welcoming. More than that, it flowed through him. She felt a creeping revulsion as she stared at him, no question in her mind now of his source: one of the Deceiver's spawn had twisted him into something beyond the purely living.

"Shall we dispense with the gag?" he said. His smile was shark-like, never reaching those blue eyes. "If you go to cast a spell, I will kill you before you can finish it." Without waiting for a reply, he undid the gag.

Her mouth was dry after the fabric. It took her a few moments to wet her tongue enough to speak. "You chirp relatively well for a trained popinjay."

The effect of her perfect grasp on the tongue seemed to shock even him for a split second. His blue eyes narrowed. "Where did you learn to speak Imperial?" he demanded.

"I did not need to learn." She looked past him at the young woman thrashing against her bonds and felt a sudden surge of too many emotions all at once, followed by a swell of memories hitting like a tidal wave.

She had to close her eyes again, trying to center herself in the overwhelming rush of trauma. There was so much hurt and loneliness there, flowering outward like briar roses made of broken glass, enough to overpower even the grief of a dead world. It was visceral and intense: a heel grinding into a cheek, a brother's bitter words, a father's absence.