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.’

‘And I’d expect you to say, “Don’t be half-witted, Mother; real dogs can’t talk. And Rohan’s a

she

, not a he.”’ She glared at whatever was calling itself her child.

‘You’re confused.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You’re doubting me just because I couldn’t remember the name of a

dog

?’

‘An animal you were inseparable from all your childhood. Or rather, Eithne was. I don’t know what you are, but you’re not my daughter.’

‘That’s ridiculous. The beating’s affected you. You’re not seeing things straight.’

‘You mean I’m not supposed to.’

‘Look at me; I’m your daughter. How can you disown me, Mother?’

‘Don’t call me that. All I see is a fraud.’

‘Sign the confession. Save us both.’

Serrah had ceased to believe in the illusion. ‘I deny you,’ she hissed.

The girl saw her expression. She began edging away. Serrah noticed that the door was slightly ajar.

They moved at the same time. Despite her aches, Serrah was faster. She caught the pretender by her arms. They struggled. Serrah loosed a hand, drew it back and delivered a hard slap across the girl’s face. A tingling sensation suffused her hand, like transient pins and needles.

‘You stupid

bitch

!’ the impostor wailed. Her voice was changing, dropping to a lower pitch.

Transfixed by what was happening, Serrah let go of her.

It was as though a seething swarm of golden bees covered the girl’s face. Then the myriad glimmering shards dispersed, flying out in all directions and dissolving.

A partial glamour, designed to enfold its host’s face, and in this instance imitate a dead child. Advanced magic, worth a small fortune.

When the dazzle cleared, Serrah was facing a stranger. A plain woman, not a girl, and quite different to her daughter. Only her build matched. She looked frightened.

Serrah lunged at her. She met a blow to the abdomen. It knocked the wind out of her and rekindled the fire of her earlier thrashing. Gasping, she went to her knees.

The woman was through the door in a flash, slamming it behind her. Serrah scrambled to it and started hammering with her fists. She raged and cursed until her hands were bloody and her voice gave out.

At some point her passion spent itself. She had sunk to the floor, and remained there. The door was bloodstained from her pounding.

Now she hugged her knees to her chest and gently rocked. And due to her masters’ deceit, grieved again. Physical brutality she might withstand. She didn’t think she could take much more of their artifice.

For some while she had been staring at the top of the door frame. The cross-beam projected like a narrow shelf. If her smock was torn into strips and wound together, the makeshift rope could be looped over it. Then she just had to tie a noose, haul herself up, wriggle her head in and let go. There wasn’t enough of a drop to snap her neck. It would be a slow choking. But even that seemed preferable to her present state.

Her trance was broken by noises outside the cell. They were coming for her again.

Serrah was halfway to standing when the door flew open. It framed one of the men who had beaten and threatened her. His expression was unreadable. Serrah backed away, meeting the bed.

The man took two faltering steps in her direction. He stopped, swayed, then fell head-first. A dagger jutted between his shoulder-blades.

There were other people outside. Serrah blinked at them, bewildered, as they spilled in. Their faces appeared blank at first. She thought it must be more glamours to cheat her, then saw they wore fabric masks, quite crudely made.

‘Who are you?’ she challenged.

‘Friends,’ one of them responded crisply. ‘Come on! We’ve no time!’

The thought that this might be her unit flashed through her mind. She soon realised it wasn’t. ‘Where are we -’

‘Out of here.’

He took her arm. She winced as they bundled her into the corridor.

There were four of them. One went ahead, one took the rear; the other two stuck by her. They began moving down a long, low-ceilinged passageway. It was badly lit and the men at front and back activated soft illumination glamours.

She asked again, ‘Who are you?’

‘We’ve a way to go before we’re out of here,’ her escort told her, ignoring the question, ‘and likely to meet opposition. Stay with us, keep moving.’

‘Give me a blade,’ she said.

‘You’re in no state.’

‘If I have to defend myself I’ll need it. You want me out of here, don’t you?’

After a brief hesitation he passed her a long-bladed knife. Its cold, firm gravitas reassured her.

‘Use it only if necessary,’ he cautioned. ‘

We’re

here to do the fighting.’

She shook loose their steadying hands and walked unaided. They said nothing but stayed close to her. Hobbling from her pains, Serrah had to work hard to keep pace.

They came to two bodies sprawled in their path; one a warder, the other wearing a paladin’s red tunic. That meant real trouble. If it was possible to be in more.

Stepping over the corpses, they warily approached a corner. Once round it they were in another passage, much like the first but shorter. Three more masked rescuers lurked at the end of it. Serrah’s group hurried to them, and she ached with the effort.

They were guarding the foot of a winding staircase. There was a quick, whispered consultation. Then together they started to ascend, weapons ready, with Serrah in the middle of the pack.

Five or six turns brought them to another level. This proved to be an axis of corridors, each following a point of the compass. All looked empty. The party continued climbing.