Iricah slept soundly that night, but that would not have surprised her, even here in this terrible place. The horrors on this isle had taken their toll on her, that was certain. And there were times when she wasn’t sure how she would go on. But something else she reasoned to herself had given her the ability to push through. She knew what it was, and could even name it. It was paralysis. It was the numbness of who she had become. Since leaving Cillandar, she was immune. As if blessed in the temple mount. She was immune to a special kind of disease, one that damaged the heart, not the body.
But tonight was an exception. Tonight she felt. What she felt she didn’t know. But it was warm, and strong. It enveloped her entirely, and somewhere in the night, she awoke knowing the lines of a verse which she had never sung. Never heard. Yet, it was as sure to her as any nursery rhyme she had ever heard. And one thing Iricah knew, she never forgot a rhyme.
The Hero shall be duty bound
His weapon rests upon the ground
His enemies shall bring him down
And he will rise anew.
The Trickster’s tool provides the spark
Between the daylight and the dark
She will not pass until remark
And claim what she has lost.
Great Mother’s blood will play a part
Her enemies fear a noble heart
She will know when all will start
but when the time is end.
The Dying God is he who leaves
In search of knowledge that he needs
And when others fail he surely sees
The path that all must walk.
Iricah woke with a start. Sitting up she scattered ancient scrolls and maps around her. Next to her lay the others. Thrak laying on the floor like a lizard warming itself in the sun, only here it was cold, and cold air puffed out of his nostrils. Areia, whose eyes were open, even though she was sound asleep. Zy’an lay on his back, his hands across his chest. He looked still and serene as if he were meditating, not sleeping.
The others began to wake. None seemed as though they looked well rested, but still they all felt better than they had in days. Iricah watched as the lizardman woke and reached out in search of his favorite axe, Somebody.
“Your axe is under my foot, Master Thrak,” said Iricah. “On the ground.”
Thrak muttered a Thanksss. But a strange look had come over his face. He tilted his head sideways, giving that weird lizard befuddled look of his.
“His enemies shall bring him down?” said Areia for she too had a strange look upon her face.
“And he will rise anew,” finished Zy’an. “It appears as if we have all had the same dream.”
“Or perhaps, we all are having the same memory,” said Iricah.
Areia snickered. “Whatever brain orgy we just had together, let’s keep it to ourselves, shall we? This is almost as bad as the time the old mage became a woman.”