from claustrophobia, but I was getting really tired of those tunnels. I gripped his hand tighter, focused on our era and shifted.
This time the world melted around us slowly, like paint dissolving in water, bleeding away in slow drips. I normally don't feel the passing of years, just a weightless free fall that ends with me whenever I planned to be. I felt it this time. Reality rippled around us in a nauseating, frictionless, gravity-free waver. I was suddenly grateful I couldn't see, because what I could feel was terrifying: For a long moment, I was a tearing stream of dislocated atoms, consciousness ripped apart, with a body that was so elongated it neither began nor ended.
Then I snapped back into myself, only to have the whole process start again. There were snatches of conversation, a few notes of music and what sounded like another explosion or cave-in, all in quick succession, like someone flipping a radio too fast. And I finally realized what was happening. This trip wasn't one long jump, but a series of smaller hops, with us flashing in and out of other times as we slowly made our way back to our own.
I could feel time, and it was heavy, like swimming through molasses. Pushing through the centuries was like running a marathon. In the dark. With weights tied to my legs.
When we finally broke through, it felt like oxygen when drowning—shocking, unexpected, miraculous. I'd half expected to materialize underwater, but apparently we'd passed the flooded area, because I stumbled into a mostly dry wall. I sat down abruptly, tilting my head back, swallowing a relief so sharp it made me light-headed.
Pritkin crawled over to lean against the wall next to me. "Are you all right?"
"Stop asking me that," I said, then had to go very still to deal with the nausea. It felt like my stomach had been a couple seconds behind the rest of me, and when it caught up it wasn't happy to be there.
"I take it that's a yes."
I swallowed, still tasting dust, and told myself that throwing up would be very unprofessional. "Yeah. It's just…the learning curve can be a little rough."
After a few minutes of sitting quietly with my eyes closed, I managed to relax and start breathing evenly. "You don't have to do this," Pritkin said. "I could—"
"I couldn't shift out of here right now if my life depended on it," I said truthfully.
"Your power shouldn't fluctuate this greatly," he told me, and I could hear the puzzled frown in his voice.
"The power doesn't fluctuate. My ability to channel it does. The more tired I am, the harder it gets."
"But it shouldn't be this difficult," Pritkin repeated stubbornly. "My power doesn't—"
"Because it's yours!" Damn it, I didn't have the breath for one of our long, drawn-out arguments right now. "This isn't mine. I wasn't born with it. It's on loan, remember?"
The power hadn't originated with the Pythias, who had once been the priestesses of an ancient being calling himself Apollo. I'd met him exactly once, when he'd promised to train me. So far, he'd paid that promise the same amount of attention he had my objections over receiving the office in the first place: none. Unfortunately, I didn't have anywhere else to turn.
Unlike most Pythias, who had been trained for a decade or two on the ins and outs of their position, my intro to the office had lasted about thirty seconds—just long enough for the last incumbent to shove the power off on me before she died. And everyone else who might have given me a few pointers was under the control of the Circle.
We sat there for a while in silence. I eventually summoned the strength to pull off my shoes and toss my waterlogged socks against the far wall, where they landed with little splats. It didn't help much because I just had to put the wet shoes back on.
"Before you completed the ritual to become Pythia, your power controlled how and when it manifested," Pritkin said, as I dragged myself to my feet. I'd almost fallen asleep for the second time against his shoulder, wet clothes, hard floor and all. "Is that correct?"
"Yeah. I was only allowed in the driver's seat after I bought the car, so to speak." Which was better than getting thrown back to another century every time I turned around, to fix whatever was about to get messed up—usually without having a clue what it might be.