She passed an indefinite period of time immersed in an ocean of misery. Eventually nature took a hand and despite her injuries she fell into an exhausted slumber.
That gave the nightmares their chance to afflict her.
Leering faces and flaying bludgeons. The dungeon shrinking to crush her to pulp between its rigid walls. Her daughter sucked into a pitch black maelstrom, fingertips brushing Serrah’s as she strained to reach her. Dreams of fire and suffering and loss.
She woke with a start.
Blood had crusted on her face and arms, and bruises were already rising. She ached horribly, fit to vomit.
It seemed to her that the cell was even more dimly lit than before. And the silence was oppressive. Then an indefinable but not unfamiliar feeling dawned; that sixth sense which let her know when someone quietly appeared at her back. The tickle up her spine that said she wasn’t alone. Painfully, she struggled to a sitting position and blinked into the gloom.
Somebody else was in the cell. Standing by the door, quite still. Their features hard to make out.
‘Who’s there?’ Serrah called, her voice cracked, hoarse.
There was no answer, and the stranger didn’t move.
‘Show yourself!’
Still nothing. Serrah had a dread that it was her torturers back to do worse. Toying with her first, to heighten her fear or their pleasure. But no assault came, so she began the agony of standing.
She narrowly won the battle to get to her feet. When she moved, she shuffled like an arthritic old woman. As she approached the figure she realised it had its back to her. It wore a dark, full-length cloak, tightly gathered. There was a hint of blonde hair above the upturned collar.
Serrah challenged the intruder again. ‘Who are you?’ This time it was nearly a whisper.
The figure turned.
Reality crumbled. Shocked disbelief hit Serrah like a tidal wave. Her pain was forgotten. She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t move. What she saw made her distrust her sanity.
The apparition stretched out a hand and lightly touched her arm. Its caress was warm, solid. Real. There was no threat in it. Serrah fought to say something. No words came. She took in the other’s long, golden locks, hazel eyes, slightly plump, puppy-fat features. Her visitor smiled.
‘Mother,’ she said.
5
‘
Eithne?
’ Serrah whispered.
Her dead daughter’s grin widened.
Serrah had never been the fainting type. Now she felt ready to drop. ‘Eithne?’ she repeated.
‘Yes. Don’t be afraid.’
‘But…
how
? You’re -’
‘I’m more alive than I’ve ever been, Mother.’ The sunken sockets, the pallor, the drawn features had all gone. She was as she had been, before her descent and the final days. Her eyes sparkled. ‘I’ve come back to you.’
Serrah was aware that her arm was still being held. She felt the girl’s fingers pressing into her flesh. How could this be a spectre, a deceiving glamour? ‘Is it truly you?’ she asked.
‘It’s me, Mummy.’
Serrah wanted to believe so badly. She moved to embrace her daughter.
‘No,’ Eithne said, letting go of Serrah and stepping back. ‘It’d be painful at the moment, I’m too… delicate. I’ve only just…’ The smile was unwavering. ‘I’m feeling tender. Like you.’
Serrah remained with her arms outstretched, stunned at not being able to hold her child. For a moment, her grip on sanity seemed just as elusive. ‘I don’t understand any of this,’ she said.
‘All you have to understand is that I’m here. They brought me back.’
‘
Who?
How?’
‘The sorcerers of the imperial court, no less. You’ve no idea the kind of magic they command. Wonderful magic.’
‘You said you were in pain.’
‘Just some discomfort. It’ll pass. The coming back… it was like waking up, that’s all.’
Serrah had never heard of such a thing. ‘But they can’t -’
‘They can. They
did
.’
‘Why?’
‘For you. Us.’
‘Why would the highest-ranking concern themselves with us?’
‘Because of this situation you’ve got yourself into. They’re showing you a way out.’
‘I must be blind not to see it.’
‘Then look on me as a kind of reward.’
‘For what?’
‘For something you haven’t done yet.’
Serrah was sure she knew what that was, but asked anyway. ‘What do they expect from me?’
‘You have to do as they say, Mother. You have to confess.’
‘Eithne,’ Serrah replied, still feeling strange at mouthing the name after so long, ‘I have nothing to confess to. I didn’t do anything wrong.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘Yes.’
‘But does it matter if it means I can be reunited with you, that I can live out the life I lost?’
‘There wouldn’t be a life together if I confessed. I’d be locked away, or worse.’
‘They promised me they’d be merciful.’
‘You believe them?’
‘The fact that I’m here proves they’re serious about their side of the bargain.’
‘And if I don’t confess?’
Eithne’s expression grew troubled. ‘That would be bad for me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The spell they used to raise me is temporary. Unless they cast another that makes my state permanent, and soon…’
‘How soon?’
‘Hours.’
To have her back only to lose her again. Serrah felt her eyes filling. ‘That’s what they’re offering in exchange for my confession?’
‘Yes. They’ll let me live again.’
‘Doing it this way, it’s… beyond cruel.’
‘No, Mother! It’s a miracle. Don’t you see? They told me that at worst you’ll spend a short time in prison or a reeducation camp. Then we can be together again.’
A small part of Serrah’s mind marvelled at how she had so readily accepted talking with the dead. Her dead. If this wasn’t madness it would pass for it. ‘Eithne, I – ’
‘I forgive you.’
‘Forgive me?’
‘For when I was… ill. When you weren’t there for me.’
It was all the more wounding for being stated so matter-of-factly. Guilt knifed Serrah in the ribs. Her eyes were welling again. ‘I’m… I’m so sorry. I did my best. I tried so very hard to -’
Eithne raised a hand to still her. ‘I said I forgive you. But I don’t think I could again. Not if you don’t do this. Sign that confession, Mother.’
Serrah was taken aback by the severe tone in her daughter’s voice. It seemed out of character. Even in those terrible final weeks Eithne had been secretive rather than manipulative. Could her personality have been altered in some way? By the experience of death and rebirth? By some design on the Council’s part? ‘I need to gather myself, Eithne. I have to think about what you’re saying.’
‘What’s there to
think
about? My time’s running out, Mummy. You always did seesaw.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Just do it. Or do you want me to face death again?’
Something had been nagging Serrah, just beyond thought. It surfaced. ‘If resurrection really is possible,’ she said, ‘why haven’t they used it on Phosian? I mean, they couldn’t have, could they? Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.’
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ Eithne replied after a pause. She sounded defensive. ‘I think it might have something to do with the way a person died,’ she added as an afterthought.
‘A lethal wound, too much ramp; what’s the difference? Dead’s dead, isn’t it?’
‘I’m no expert on magic. I don’t
care
how they did it.’
Serrah played her hunch. ‘What do you think Rohan would have to say about this?’
‘What?’
‘Rohan. He’d have something to say, wouldn’t he?’
Eithne was obviously perplexed but trying to hide it. ‘I don’t -’
‘You do remember Rohan?’
‘Of course! But what’s he got to do with this?’
Serrah’s heart was sinking. But she would see it through. ‘I think his opinion’s important, don’t you? Humour me.’
Her daughter sighed. ‘I suppose… I suppose I’d expect him to say you were behaving foolishly by being so stubborn, and that you should do what’s best for both of us.’