was holding up the front of her robes to make a basket; on the pale cloth rested small pieces of darkness. Nicodemus picked up the Index and went to her.
“Clear sky, cold and windy,” she whispered as they squatted by the nearby wall. “Reminds me of the bright autumn days in the Highlands.” She had folded her legs so the nest of blackberries sat in her lap.
Nicodemus set down the Index and watched with single-minded anticipation as her dark fingers extracted a mound of berries and overturned them into his cupped hands.
“John will need some too,” he said.
On the other side of the cellar, the big man was curled up on Nicodemus’s cloak. Getting him to sleep that morning had been a struggle.
Shortly after Nicodemus had brought Deirdre and John back to the ruins, the big man’s wits had returned with a squall of terror and tears. At first, he had screamed every time Nicodemus had touched him. But eventually he let the younger man pull him into an embrace. Then John had begun to repeat the name “Devin…Devin…Devin…” over and over.
Nicodemus had wept with him until exhaustion pulled them both into sleep.
“I set several rabbit snares,” Deirdre whispered, feeding herself a berry between words. “With luck, evening will see us with dinner.” She searched Nicodemus’s face. “Now that we know more about the Chthonics, have you discovered anything about that dream you told me of—the one of Fellwroth surrounded by ivy and turtles? Any clue where the monster’s true body is now?”
Nicodemus shook his head. “I thought the body must be in a cave where the Spindle Bridge meets the mountain. There must be some connection to the ivy and hexagon patterns carved into the mountain face. But in the Chthonic visions, I saw that the cave into the mountain had disappearedafter the Spindle Bridge was built. And Shannon probed the rock before the bridge and found nothing. There must be some other connection. It’s frustrating. I can’t consult the ghosts again until tonight.”
He popped a blackberry into his mouth and stared down at the tattoos that covered his hands and forearms. It was strange to think about Garkex and the other night terrors being written across his body.
Deirdre was still studying him. “The dreams might not matter. We’ll be safe when we reach my goddess’s ark. When will you be ready to run to Gray’s Crossing?”
Nicodemus paused, a berry at his lips. “When I met the golem, it was coming up from Gray’s Crossing.”
He had told Deirdre about his strange dreams, his encounter with Fellwroth, and his dealings with the Chthonic ghost. But he had not told her what Fellwroth had said about the struggle between two factions—one demonic, one divine—to breed a Language Prime spellwright.
“Fellwroth must be watching Gray’s Crossing,” he continued. “He might anticipate our trying to reach your goddess’s ark.”
Deirdre shook her head; her raven hair gleamed even in the half-light. “A dozen armed devotees—two of them druids—guard the stone. And it’s well hidden; Fellwroth wouldn’t know where to find it.”
Her wide eyes widened; her dark cheeks flushed darker. “Nicodemus, we
are so close now. My goddess can sense you nearing. She longs to protect you.”
Nicodemus put the blackberry in his mouth and chewed it slowly. “Deirdre, who is your goddess?”
A soft smile curled her lips. “She is Boann of the Highlands, not a powerful deity, but a water goddess of unsurpassed beauty, a dweller of the secret brooks and streams that flow among the boulders and the heather.”
Nicodemus thought about what Fellwroth had told him. “Does she have many Imperials—those that look like us—in her service?”
“A few,” she said, eating another berry. “My family has done so for time out of mind. In the Lowlands, my cousins serve her. But you must understand that she is a Dralish deity. The Lornish occupy the Highlands still. Those of us holding to the old ways must hide—”
Nicodemus interrupted. “Does she direct your family as to whom they might marry?”
This made Deirdre’s eyebrows sink. “We never marry without her blessing.”
“Is she trying to produce a Language Prime spellwright?”
“Language Prime?”
“Maybe she called it the First Language. Have you heard of that?”
Deirdre only frowned.
“No, you haven’t. But did your goddess know that Typhon had crossed the ocean? Has she been struggling against him for long?”
“Nicodemus, what are you driving at?”
He looked down. “Nothing. Only thinking aloud.”
Fellwroth had said that those opposing the Disjunction—the Alliance of Divine Heretics—would kill Nicodemus on sight. But Nicodemus distrusted the monster. If the Alliance wanted