He looked down into a wide valley, another mountain range marking its farthest edge. The valley was waxen with snow, and drifts piled high against its dun restraining walls. A frozen river ran along it; a burnished mirror shot through with spindly cracks. But what caught his eye, what drew him, was a habitation. A small city had mushroomed at the valley’s base, and extended on either side of the river. Cutting through the buildings was a causeway, connecting the harbour with an extensive fortress at the town’s centre.

At one end of the valley, near a pass that formed its only entrance, there was an open plain. Descending rapidly, he saw the aftermath of mayhem there: many bodies, of men and horses, were scattered across the churned, muddy snow. Funeral pyres were burning. Prisoners sat huddled inside circles of spear-carriers, while groups of conquerors moved briskly about the battlefield, attending to the many tasks victory had brought them.

He was speeding along the length of the valley now, heading for the township and the castle it nurtured. Moving without deliberate volition, he flew above the port, where several ships were ablaze. Then a jumble of roofs passed beneath; thatched, wooden, tiled. There were streets, lanes, twisting alleys. Plenty of people were about, trudging dejectedly or herding the defeated. They carried loads, led cattle, pushed carts. Many simply wandered in a daze. But nobody saw him.

Ahead, the fortress loomed. He was moving so fast it looked as though he might be dashed against its colossal walls. But no sooner had the thought occurred than he began to slow.

The redoubt was rambling and multi-layered, the result of generations of over-building. It had a long terrace-cum-battlement situated high up as part of its frontage, and there was a single figure standing on it. At first, it was little more than a speck, but narrowing distance showed a man. Gazing at the view, his expression illegible, he had his hands laid upon the terrace’s stone wall. Physically, he was completely unremarkable, and the way he dressed lacked ostentation. Yet there was something astonishing about him.

He was near enough to spit at the man, should he have wanted to, and now hung motionless in front of him. At first, the man seemed unaware of his presence, as everybody else had been. Then some kind of awareness came into his face, and he turned his head to stare.

The man’s eyes were bottomless hollows.

He had no recollection of closing his own eyes. When he opened them again, he was somewhere else. The heights he’d ascended to before were nothing compared to this.

He floated in a starry firmament. The world lay far below, like an unfurled map, so large its edges curved away with distance. He saw all the realms there were, and the expanse of green-blue oceans separating them. One large, northernmost landmass drew his eye. Deep in its interior, something flashed. A pinprick. The flicker of a struck flint. It grew, a fleck of vivid crimson against russet. The stain spread, its tendrils seeping across the land, and into others. As it moved further, it flowed more rapidly. Whole segments of the terrain were coloured by it; regions, countries, continents.

The tide was red, like blood, or perhaps it was light. The qualities of both resided in it. Strands probed, joined with others, filled in to engulf another patch of brown or green. Its very progress seemed to add to its own momentum, as though a pillar supporting a temple roof had toppled and caused an entire row to fall, each one upon the next. But this was no temple. It was a world. A world being swallowed by blood and light.

Perhaps he should have felt bad about it.

He didn’t.

‘You saw the world drowning in blood and it seemed benevolent?’

‘That’s not exactly what I said.’

‘It’s near enough, Reeth. But the way you explain it, it doesn’t sound particularly benign.’

‘I didn’t say I understood what I saw. You asked me how I felt about it, and I told you.’

Serrah snuggled deeper into the warmth of their bed. The window was ajar and the dawn’s feeble, wintry light coloured the sky.

At last she said, ‘It has to be Zerreiss, doesn’t it? The man in your dream.’

‘He didn’t wear a label round his neck.’

‘But it’s logical, isn’t it? Everything you’ve described indicates it was the warlord you saw.’

‘You wouldn’t have taken him for that. I never set eyes on a man so…ordinary before. Not handsome, but not ugly. Not tall, not short; not thin or fat; neither old nor young. He was like a pot taken out of the kiln too soon. Just completely…commonplace.’

‘He doesn’t sound the way you expect a warlord to look.’

‘But that’s it. Despite his appearance, there was something…I don’t know, something about him that meant I didn’t doubt he was a leader. I can’t explain.’

‘And he saw you?’

‘It felt that way.’

‘How common is it to have people in your dreams recognise you, Reeth?’

‘I wouldn’t say he recognised me. He was aware of me, I think. And no, it never used to happen until these recent dreams, or visions, or whatever they are. In fact, these new ones are taking over. I hardly ever have the old visions anymore; the ones that seem to be about me as a child.’

‘Poor darling. Something new to torment you.’ Serrah rested her head against his chest. His arm came up to enfold her. ‘Could it be his doing? Zerreiss’s?’ she wondered. ‘Is he making it happen?’

Caldason shrugged. ‘Who knows what he’s capable of? But why should he?’

‘That’s anybody’s guess.’ She sat up again and stretched a hand to the clutter on a small table by the bed.

‘You’re restless.’

‘I’m surprised you’re not. If I had the sort of experiences you’re having I’d be in a complete state.’ She hefted a water bottle and drank. ‘Like some?’

He took it and quenched his own thirst. ‘I’m used to them. Though the new ones are a puzzle laid on a mystery.’

‘Right.’ Serrah straightened, business-like. ‘Let’s go through it.’

He sighed. ‘You think I haven’t, a thousand times?’

‘Two heads and all that. Humour me on this. You’ve been having these…let’s settle on visions, shall we, for want of a better word? You’ve been having them how long?’

‘Long as I can remember.’

‘And we’re agreed that what they show is you? Scenes from your early days, so to speak?’

He nodded. ‘It took me a long time to figure that out. Which makes me feel pretty stupid, frankly.’

‘You’re not stupid, Reeth.’ She leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek. ‘Anybody would be thrown by something like that.’

‘It was the last thing that occurred to me. That they were about me, I mean. Too close to it, I suppose.’

‘All right. I don’t imagine we’re going to get to the bottom of how these visions come to you. But maybe we could think about some of the things in them.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Who was the old man you kept seeing? Who was it that came close to killing you when your people were massacred, and how did that lead to your present part-immortal state?’

‘Yes, well, again I’ve thought about that a lot.’

‘And your birth, Reeth; the vision you had about coming into this world and your mother dying. Though I think you punish yourself about that unnecessarily. It’s not the child’s fault if their mother dies birthing them, you know.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘There’s no perhaps about it, my love. You can’t blame yourself for something that isn’t your doing. Believe me, I know. It’s a lesson I think I’ve learned about Eithne, though it’s taken me long enough.’ Caldason didn’t answer, so she carried on. ‘The old man was obviously a guardian of some sort. He risked himself to protect you. But why?’

‘That’s a bigger question than the how, isn’t it? Why am I being shown these things? What’s their purpose?’