Kitabı oku: «The Demonata 6-10», sayfa 4

THE STUFF THAT HEROES ARE MADE OF

→ First impression — this place is infinitely different to the webby world of Lord Loss. Light blue in colour, it’s like something out of a Picasso painting, all cubes and weird angles. We’re in a valley of sorts. Narrow, jagged pillars of a weird blue substance rise high around us. I edge over to the nearest pillar and sniff, expecting the stench of sulphur. But it smells more like a piece of rotten fruit — a peach or pear maybe.

“Don’t touch it,” Beranabus says. “It’s probably not dangerous, but we don’t take chances here. The less physical contact we make, the better.”

“Where is this?” I ask.

“The Demonata’s universe, idiot,” Kernel snaps.

“I meant which part? I don’t know anything about the set-up here. Are there ten worlds, twenty, a thousand? Do they have names? Which one are we on?”

“Geography doesn’t work like that here,” Beranabus says, studying the pillars, eyes sharp. “The worlds and zones are constantly changing. There are many self-contained galaxies within the general demon universe. The stronger Demonata have the power to create their own realms or take over another demon’s and reshape it. We never know what we’re going to find when we cross.”

“Then how do you hunt?” I frown.

“We target specific demons. Realms might change, but demons don’t, except for the shape-shifters, and even they don’t change on the inside, where it counts. If we know a demon’s name, Kernel can locate it within minutes. If we don’t know, or if the demon doesn’t have a name, it’s more complicated. Each demon has a unique spiritual vibration.”

“Call it a demonic frequency,” Kernel chips in when I look blank. “Demons have souls, like humans, and they emit a certain type of wave which we can sense. Each demon’s soul is like a radio station, transmitting on an individual frequency. If we think a certain demon’s working on a window or tunnel, we can lock on to its signal and track it down.”

“It’s not easy,” Beranabus says, “especially if it’s a demon we’ve had no first-hand experience of, but we usually find what we’re looking for.”

Kernel points to one of the shorter pillars. “There.”

Beranabus squints. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Either you’re getting sharper or my eyes are getting worse,” Beranabus mutters, then raises a hand and sends a ball of energy shooting at the pillar. There’s a gentle glowing. A sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan. Then the pillar moves and an angular demon steps out of a crack.

Fear grabs hold and magic flares within me. I bring up my hands defensively, but Beranabus stops me with a high-spirited, “Rein in those horses, boy!” He faces the demon and smiles. “How do you feel about dying today?”

The demon makes a series of choking noises. The sounds don’t make sense to me, but Beranabus can decipher them. “No,” he says. “We’re not going to leave you alone. You know who we are and what we want. Now, do you have something to tell us or do we make life wickedly uncomfortable for you?”

The demon glares at Beranabus through a series of triangular eyes, but it looks more miserable than angry. It’s an odd creature, not really frightening in manner or appearance. It mutters something. Beranabus and Kernel share a glance. “You’re sure?” Kernel asks and the demon nods stiffly.

“Excellent,” Beranabus beams and cocks his head at Kernel. The bald teenager shuffles away a couple of metres, then starts moving his hands about in the air. It’s as if he’s sliding invisible blocks around.

“What’s happening?” I ask Beranabus quietly, not wanting to disturb Kernel.

“I’m opening a window,” Kernel answers before Beranabus can, an edge to his voice. “This is my speciality. I can see panels of light which are invisible to all others. When I slide certain panels together, windows form. I can get to anywhere in this universe – or ours – through them.”

“Where will this one lead?” I ask.

“You’ll find out soon,” Kernel says. “We’re going in search of prey. You want to kill demons, don’t you?”

“No. But let’s say I did. What about that one?” I point to the blue demon, which is edging back into the crack, becoming one with the landscape again.

“Not worth killing,” Beranabus says dismissively. “There are untold billions of demons. They’re all evil, but most can’t hurt us or cross to our world. That cretin doesn’t even dare leave this valley. It waits, hiding and surviving, doing precious little else.”

“What does it feed on?” I ask.

“Who knows,” Beranabus sniffs. “Maybe nothing. Most demons don’t need to eat and drink. Many do, but out of choice, not necessity.”

“Then why did we come here, if not to kill it?” I frown.

“Information,” Kernel says, looking around. “We’re like detectives with a team of snitches. We know where to find soft demons. We often come to places like this, rough up the locals, find out if anything foul is afoot — something usually is. Demons like that one might not do much, but they know things. Secrets are hard to keep in this universe. Word spreads quickly.”

“What’s the word now?” I ask, caught off guard. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t something like this.

“There’s a demon trying to possess a woman on Earth,” Beranabus says. “That happens all the time. It’s not a problem for us, though it’s bad for those involved. Some demons who can’t cross universes can establish a hold on the minds of humans. They manipulate them, send them mad, use them to create as much chaos as possible. We normally wouldn’t bother with small-scale melodramatics like this, but I want to break you in gently.”

Kernel grunts. “On my first mission we fought a pair of demons who had almost broken through to the centre of Moscow. They were two of the toughest I’ve ever faced. It was bloody and tight. That’s when I lost the tips of my fingers.” He stares at his left hand, the fingers flinching inwards as he relives the memory.

“Why couldn’t you replace them?” I ask. “You can do that with magic, right?”

“Normally. But the loss made little difference. I decided to leave them as they were. They remind me of the dangers we face, the fact that success isn’t a guarantee, that we can and will perish in this hell-hole eventually.”

“Here we go,” Beranabus says briskly. A purplish window has formed in front of Kernel. Beranabus walks up to it and steps through, not bothering to breathe on this one. Kernel curls his fingers into a fist, then relaxes his fingers and follows.

I look back in the direction of the blue demon, but I can’t see it now, even though I know the exact spot where it’s hiding. Shaking my head, I think, “This isn’t so bad. I can handle this.” But I know it’s a false start, that worse – much worse – is to come.

There’s a sound far overhead, from the meteor-sized demons in the sky. Fearful of being attacked while I’m alone, I rush to the window and push through after the others.

→ Fire! It’s all around me, fierce, intense, out of control. I feel the hair on my arms singe and know I have only seconds before I burst into flames. Total panic. I want to look for Beranabus and Kernel or scream for help, but my eyes and mouth shut automatically against the heat.

“Oh, for the love of…” Kernel tuts, taking hold of my arm and shaking it roughly. “This is ridiculous. He’s not fit for this. Send him back.”

“He’ll learn,” Beranabus says and then his lips are by my left ear. “Use magic to guide yourself.”

“It’s hell!” I moan, speaking out of the side of my mouth, keeping my eyes shut.

“One of many thousands of hells,” Beranabus grunts. “For every imaginative demon who constructs a terrifyingly original realm, there are scores who draw upon tired old human myths. Stop acting like a fool. You can already feel your magic responding to this, protecting you from the flames. You’d be burning to a crisp right now if not.”

I open one eye, then the other. Nothing to see but flames. Beranabus and Kernel are hard to spot among the flickering licks of yellow and red. Still hot, hotter than I should be able to bear. But magic’s humming away in the background, cooling me down, guarding my freckled flesh. Beranabus is right — it kicked in as soon as I set foot here, even as the hairs on my arms began to shrivel. I knew that – I could feel it – but fear made me panic.

“Where’s the demon?” I ask, trying to peer through the walls of fire. I look down and realise we’re truly in the middle of the flames — no floor. Nothing below, above or to the sides except fire.

“The flames are the demon,” Kernel says. “It’s a universal demon.”

“Am I supposed to know what that means?” I growl.

“Universal demons don’t just inhabit a galaxy of their own — they become it,” Beranabus explains. “This demon has a fascination with fire, so it became flames. Its whole zone – the demon itself – is made of fire.”

“But where does it start?” I ask. “Where does it end?”

“Nowhere,” Beranabus says. “This demon is its own self-contained and at the same time limitless realm. It’s like our universe — infinite.”

While I’m trying to make sense of that – I’ve always had problems thinking of a universe being infinite, never mind one single creature – the flames thicken around us. There’s a horrible shrieking sound, piercing and destructive. My eardrums and eyeballs should burst, but magic protects me instinctively. (Which is just as well, since I wouldn’t know where to start to control it!)

A shape forms amid the flames, gigantic and bulging, like the wizard’s fake head in The Wizard of Oz, only a hundred times bigger and more frightening, full of leaping shadows, sparks and flames.

The demon shrieks again. A huge, rough, fiery fist forms and smashes down on Beranabus. He waves an arm at the fist and slices through the flames. The edges of his beard singe, but he’s otherwise unharmed.

Another fist forms and tries to swat Kernel aside. He leaps high, somersaults over it, opens his mouth mid-leap and sucks in sharply. He inhales flames, face turning a pure, angry, painful white. The demon screams. Kernel lands, coughs, spins and leaps over another quickly formed fist.

Beranabus grabs handfuls of flames and rams them into his stomach. And I mean into — his hands pierce his own flesh. He’s stuffing his guts full of fire. The hands come out, the wall of his stomach unharmed. He grabs more flames and jams them in. Out — in. Out — in.

And what does the heroic Grubbs Grady do? I hang beside them, helpless and shivering, about as much use as a plastic toasting fork. I want to help, but I don’t know how. My magic isn’t strong enough. I don’t want to be here. This isn’t my fight.

Then, in the middle of the battle, the demon focuses on me. Two huge fists form on either side and slam towards me, to hammer me lifeless.

I throw myself to the floor. Except there isn’t a floor. Just flames. I don’t know how I’ve been hovering, but I’m not any more. I’m falling, like when Beranabus ripped me out of the plane, dropping like a sack of stones, quickly losing sight of the magician and his assistant.

“Help!” I scream.

“Help yourself,” Beranabus roars, then curses brutally.

I come to a stop. Relief evaporates moments later when I realise I haven’t been helped by Beranabus or Kernel — I’m being held in the middle of a giant hand of fire. The fingers close upon me. The heat’s unbearable. I feel my magic struggling, protesting, pleading with me to direct it, use it, fight back. But what can I do? How can I defeat a creature made of flames? It’s impossible. At least Lord Loss and his familiars were real targets. I could hit them. This is lunacy. We’re all going to perish, burnt to death by a demon the size of a universe.

I scream at the flames. The fingers stop, shudder, then tear apart. I fall again. I’m crying, taking no satisfaction out of destroying the hand because I’m sure another will form any second now, bigger, stronger, hotter.

Then Kernel is by my side. His eyes are sharp bright blue with rage. “Bloody amateur,” he sneers. “Bloody coward.”

“I can’t do it,” I babble. “I told you I couldn’t. I didn’t want to come here. Make me stop falling. Help me get–”

“Shut up, you worm!” Kernel shouts. “I should let you burn.” He laughs cruelly. “The hell with it. Your death would serve no purpose.” He darts away from me, angling down, moving much quicker than I’m falling. He becomes a speck, then stops. As I hurtle towards him, I see his hands moving, the way they did when he created the window to this universe.

When I’m maybe a hundred metres away, a dark green window forms. Kernel slides away from it and waves at me like a policeman directing traffic. I’m rushing towards the window. The flames peel away from me. The window gets bigger and bigger as I fall upon it. I just have time to worry about what will happen when I flash through and smash into the ground on the other side. Then I hit it and everything goes green.

A FACE FROM THE PAST

→ I land hard on the floor of Beranabus’s cave, but no bones shatter. Groaning, I pick myself up and look around. The fire has burnt out — only cold ashes remain. But torches glow on the walls, the flames kept alive by magic. Overhead the window hangs flat, two metres or so above me. A few moments later, as I’m edging clear of it on my hands and knees, it shimmers, then breaks apart and disappears.

I crawl to my bed and lie down, panting, heart still racing from my encounter with the fire demon, bones aching from the impact of the fall. I shut my eyes and shiver, then climb beneath the blanket for warmth.

Lying in the gloom and quiet. Thinking about the universe of the Demonata. My eyes open and tears wet my lashes. I’m ashamed. I acted like a gutless coward. What’s happened to me? I was braver than this when I faced Lord Loss. Scared, but I fought bravely. Why can’t I be that way now? For long hours I lie still, pondering, before falling into a troubled, restless, shame-tinged sleep.

→ No sign of Beranabus and Kernel when I wake. I worry about them for a few minutes, but then recall them saying time usually passes quicker here than in the universe of the Demonata. A fight which lasts an hour or two there can equate to days, weeks or even months here.

Rising stiffly, I explore the cave in search of food and water. I find ample supplies stacked in all corners, the food imperishable, the water carefully bottled. So I won’t starve or die of thirst. Not unless they’re gone for years…

The fire next. There are logs and chunks of turf nearby, but no matches or lighters. I try one of the torches, but they’re secured tight to the wall and I don’t want to break any off. I guess Beranabus and Kernel use magic to start the fire. Reluctant to disturb my inner powers, I attempt to ape cavemen and ignite the fire by rubbing sticks together, banging a couple of stones off each other, in search of an elusive first spark. But I quickly discover that I’m nowhere near as advanced as a caveman.

Sitting back, frowning at the logs. It’s not especially cold in the cave, but I want to light a fire regardless, more for the comfort of its crackling, natural flames than anything else. So, cautiously, I reach within myself and look for magic. But it withdraws as I come near. I sense the power, but it darts out of reach. I feel like it’s punishing me, annoyed that I didn’t use it to fight the demon. You can go stuff yourself if you think I’ll help you now! Make your own fire, coward!

Giving up, I grab a tin of beans, a fork and a can-opener, and return to my bed, where I eat the beans cold. Staring at the lifeless fire as I eat. Remembering the flames in the other universe and my cowardice. Trying to justify my actions. What was I meant to do? Suck in flames like Kernel? Jam them into my gut like Beranabus? If they’d shown me how, I could have. But they dropped me into it, no warnings or advice. Maybe I wasn’t really a coward, just ignorant.

Unable to convince myself. If we’d been fighting a demon master, I could plead inexperience. But Kernel said this was a lesser demon. Beranabus was starting me off lightly, testing me out on one of the meeker monsters. There can be no excuses.

I lurch to my feet. I’m getting out of here. I don’t want to be around when they return. I’ll hide my shame in the desert. Take off, let the sun roast me or the chill night air freeze me. Die alone and lost. No more worries or cares. Better off out of this mad game of werewolves, magic and demons.

I rush to the rope ladder and haul myself up, muscles pumping. Going so fast, I smack my skull on the roof of the cave when I get to the top. Wincing, I rub my head and retreat a couple of rungs, then look for the opening. I can’t find one. The rock appears to be solid. I run my fingers over it, searching for a crack or button, but there’s nothing. It must open by magic.

Descending sourly. Hating magic all the more. Why can’t I be an ordinary teen with normal problems? I never looked for magic. Wasn’t the least bit interested in it. So why did it pick on me? What the hell have I done to deserve this?

Back to my blanket. Glaring at the cold embers of the fire. Waiting impatiently for Beranabus and Kernel’s return. Half wishing I’d stayed in the Demonata’s universe and fried.

→ Time passes slowly, miserably. No way of telling if it’s day or night. When I’m not sleeping, I just sit and think, eat mechanically, or walk in circles around the cave. Go to the back and dig a hole when I need the toilet, then fill it in. Disgusted the first few times, but now it’s second nature. No biggie.

I often find myself wondering what’s happening in the other universe, wishing I could find the courage to go back, rejoin the fight and redeem myself. Playing out all manner of wild scenarios inside my head, in which I’m Grubbs Grady — superhero. I find Beranabus and Kernel in dire straits, backs against a fiery wall, at the mercy of the demon. It’s laughing evilly, about to finish them off. Then I lay into it and rip it to pieces. I shout at the startled Beranabus and Kernel, “You didn’t think I’d run away, did you? I just had to pop to the toilet.” They cheer as I kill the demon, then rush to clap my back, sing my praises, hail me as a saviour.

Nice dreams. But completely unconnected to reality. Because for all the wishing and make-believe, I don’t know how to open a window to the demon’s universe. And I’m certain, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that even if one materialised in front of me, I wouldn’t have the guts to step through. A hero only inside my head. In the real world I remain a coward.

→ Snapping out of a typically disturbed sleep. There are heavy, thumping noises. I think it’s Beranabus and Kernel returning or a demon breaking through. But when I look around there’s nothing in the cave. I frown, wondering if the noises were part of the dream. Listen for ages, sitting up. Silence.

I try to sleep again, but I’m too unsettled. So I walk around the cave for the millionth time. After a while I jog. Twenty laps, followed by push-ups, squats, more jogging. Shadow-punching as I run. Knocking hordes of imaginary monsters for six.

A series of short sprints. In better physical condition than I’ve been in a long time — maybe ever. Thinking about Loch and how approving he’d be if he could see me now. He was always pushing me to exercise more. Said I was a mountain of muscles which hadn’t been honed, that I could be truly ferocious if I pushed myself to my limits. But I never bothered. There was always something better to do with my time.

Not any more. This is how Olympians should train. Shut themselves off from the world in a musky, murky cave, with nothing else to do except exercise. Works wonders when it comes to concentration. If I ever get out of here, maybe that will be my true calling in life — coach to athletic stars. It would certainly beat the hell out of killing demons for a living!

→ Still exercising. I’ve been at it for hours, pausing only for periods of short rest and to eat. Sweating so much, I have to take my clothes off. Keeping only my boxers on, in case Beranabus and Kernel drop in without warning.

Suddenly — I hear the noises again. Three heavy thumps, a pause, three more. Then silence.

I come to a standstill, listening to the echoes of the thumps. They came from overhead — the closed entrance to the cave. With sudden hope in my heart, I race to the ladder and scurry to the top, where I wait a few seconds for more sounds. When there’s only silence, I roar, “Hello!” and listen again. Nothing.

Back to the bottom of the ladder. I look for something to strike the roof of the cave with, but there’s not much here. I go through the drawers of Beranabus’s table – the first time I’ve examined it – but there’s nothing except papers, pens and small knick-knacks. I note absentmindedly that the flowers are still blooming, fresh as ever.

Eventually I grab one of the longer logs from the wood pile and drag it up the ladder, then pound the roof with it, three times, a pause, then three more. I hold it by my side, trying to stifle my heavy breathing, so I can hear clearly, praying for a series of answering knocks. But there aren’t any.

I pound the roof again and again without reply. Eventually I give up and drop the log. I hang there a while longer, then climb down, dejected. Halfway to the floor I realise that if the noises were human-made, maybe the person has left. When there was no immediate answer, maybe he or she decided there was nobody home, that they’d try again later.

Back on the ground I drink half a bottle of water, go to the toilet, then return to the base of the ladder, pick up the log and climb again. At the top I settle back, get as comfortable as I can and wait, desperate to make contact with another human being.

→ Many hours later. My legs and arms ache from clinging to the ladder. Tired and irritated. Telling myself I’m wasting my time. The noises were probably a rockfall. I should climb down, get some sleep, then fill the hours with more exercise.

On the point of quitting when the noises come again — three resounding thumps, a pause, then three more, just like earlier. In a fit of excitement I raise the log — then drop it! Reacting swiftly, I grab for it, catch it and arc it upwards, slamming it hard into the roof of the cave, once, twice, three times. A short pause, then I hammer the roof again. Then, heart beating hard, I lower it and listen.

Nothing.

For several minutes I hang there, hopeful, awaiting an answer. But as the silence stretches I realise there’s not going to be one. Either the thuds are the result of an especially large animal or the rock overhead is too thick for the noises I make to carry to the other side. Perhaps they’re using magic to penetrate the rock sheet or maybe they have an especially large hammer.

Dejected, I descend, then make for bed and the escape of sleep. Even my nightmares are more welcome than the monotony of the cave.

→ More empty hours follow, the only distraction – apart from exercise – coming in the form of the thumping noises at regular intervals. I’m sure it’s a person – no animal could make the same sounds over and over – but with no way of contacting them, I lose interest and soon stop wondering who it might be. After a while I even start to ignore the thumps and barely notice them when they come.

Then, one day – or night – as I’m halfway through a four-minute sprint, a green window forms close to the remains of the fire and Kernel steps through. I come to a halt almost directly in front of him. He stares at me icily, casts a curious eye over my bare chest and legs, then goes to the fire and starts it with a single word.

As I’m pulling my clothes on, Beranabus appears. His beard is badly burnt and his hands are red, but otherwise he’s unharmed. “Been keeping the cave warm for us?” he says sneeringly.

“He didn’t even manage to get the fire going,” Kernel snorts.

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“Did you… the demon… is it…?” I mutter.

“All taken care of,” Beranabus says. “Quenched forever, its universe now a cold, lifeless expanse of space. Human saved, order restored, tragedy averted.”

“No thanks to you,” Kernel sniffs.

I ignore the insult. “How long were you in there?”

“No idea,” Beranabus says as the window behind him vanishes. “It felt like a day. What about here?”

“A couple of weeks. Maybe three.”

“That must have been boring.”

“Serves him right,” Kernel snaps, shooting me a disgusted look. “Running out like that… leaving us to deal with it ourselves…”

“It’s not like we had to struggle,” Beranabus murmurs, no idea that his kindness makes me feel worse than ever.

“He wasn’t to know that,” Kernel hisses. “He left us to fight alone. Didn’t stop to think if we might need him. Didn’t care.”

“That’s not true,” I say sullenly. “Yes, I ran. But I did care. I just couldn’t… it was too… I told you!” I cry. “I didn’t want to go. You made me.”

“Listen to him,” Kernel jeers. “He sounds like a five-year-old. I wouldn’t have thought someone his age and size could be so gutless. Maybe he–”

“Enough!” Beranabus barks. Sighing, he heads to his table and motions me to follow. He sits on an old wooden chair, stretches his legs out, cracks his knuckles above his head and yawns. Lowering his hands, he fiddles with some of the flowers, shuffles papers around, then takes a drawing out of one of the drawers and stares at it.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly.

“No,” he sighs. “It was my fault. I thought you were made of stronger stuff. I could see the fear in you and your reluctance to get involved. But given your background, I thought you’d shrug it off once faced with a demon, that you’d rise to the occasion like you did before.”

“It was different then,” I tell him. “I didn’t know what I was getting into the first time, and in Slawter I was trapped. I had no choice but to fight. I’ve had so many horrible nights since then, so many nightmares. I’m not just scared of demons now — I’m bloody terrified.”

“I understand,” Beranabus says. “I didn’t before, but I do now.” He studies the drawing again, then lays it aside. “I’m a poor judge of character. I’ve made mistakes before, taken children into the universe of the Demonata when they weren’t ready, lost them cheaply. But they’ve always been fighters. This is the first time I’ve taken someone who lacked the stomach for battle. It was a grave error on my part. I should have known better.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“No. I’m sad. You have such ability, it’s a shame to see it go to waste. But if the fighting instinct isn’t there, there’s no point moping. I thought you were a warrior. I was wrong. You don’t criticise a pony for not being a horse.”

He falls silent and looks around at the flowers on the table. I’m not sure I like his comparison. Never thought of myself as Grubbs Grady — pony! But I guess it’s appropriate. I might lack the guts to be a hero, but at least I’ve pride enough not to whinge when the truth is pointed out.

“What happens now?” I ask.

“Hmm?”

“I can’t fight. So what happens? Will you take me back? Set me loose in the desert? What?”

Beranabus frowns. “I can’t spare much time. You wouldn’t survive outside and it would be cruel to make you wait here indefinitely. I’ll take you to the nearest human outpost. You’ll have to make your own way from there. Once you get home, tell Dervish what happened. Ask him to help you work on your magic. Even if you can’t fight, you can watch for demons. Become a Disciple. I know you’d rather keep out of this completely, but you might make a difference. Do you think you could do that?”

“Sure,” I gush, delighted to be told I’m not entirely worthless. “I avoided magic because I thought if I learnt it, I’d have to fight demons. But if I just have to be a watchdog…”

“Good choice of words,” Kernel snorts.

“Now, now,” Beranabus tuts. “Let’s not be ungracious.”

Kernel spits into the fire. His spit sizzles, revealing more about his opinion of me than he could ever say with words.

“When do we leave?” I ask, eager to be out of here, free of this confining cave and Kernel’s scorn.

“Soon,” Beranabus promises. “I need to get some sleep, and eat when I wake, but after that we’ll depart.”

“Great,” I grin, turning away to let the elderly magician go to bed. Then I remember the noises and turn to tell him. “I forgot, somebody’s been…”

I come to a halt. Beranabus is leaning over, stroking the leaves of one of the flowers, smiling fondly at it. I can see the drawing he was looking at earlier. It’s a pencil sketch of a girl’s face. And though the paper is yellow and wrinkled with age, the face is shockingly familiar.

“Who’s that?” I croak. Beranabus looks up questioningly. I point a trembling finger at the drawing. “The girl — who is she?”

“Someone who died a very long time ago,” Beranabus says, touching the paper. “She sacrificed her life fighting the Demonata, to keep the world safe. An example to us all. Not that I’m trying to make you feel small. I didn’t mean–”

“There was a voice,” I interrupt, eyes fixed on the drawing. “At the cave in Carcery Vale. I didn’t mention it before — it didn’t seem to matter and there was so much else to tell you. But when I went to the cave, I heard a voice and saw a face in the rocks. It was alive. Even though it was in the rock, it could open its eyes and move its lips. It spoke to me.”

I pick up the drawing and study the girl’s face, the curve of her jaw, the eyes and mouth. “This is the girl from the cave. She called to me… warned me, I think, but I don’t know what of. She spoke in a different lan–”

“It can’t be!” Beranabus snaps, snatching the drawing back. “This girl has been dead for almost sixteen hundred years. You’re mistaken.”