Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
And then as Merc continues ahead, my head turns on its own. I’m precisely aligned with the entry of the ruins, the two towering statues on either side degraded to the point where there’s no identifying what they once were, the main thoroughfare that leads down to the enormous central temple congested with crumbled—
Between one blink and the next, the gloaming and the decay are gone.
What replaces them are a vision of prosperity and grace.
All becomes bright and sunny, and suddenly, I see a painted wooden gate big as the mountains. The two panels are well fortified with copper bands and rivets that wink pink, and against a creamy background, there are rows of pictographs showing people wearing draped clothing offering alms to the poor, and tilling crops, and making mead, and reading books. And on either side of the entry, the statues repopulate and I see them as they once were. On the left is a beautiful woman, with long dark hair spilling down her draped gown, her face toward the ocean as if she’s greeting the rising sun.
On the right … a man in a high-collared sheath. And he’s looking at her with a dark expression—
Hide.
As the old familiar command blares in my head, the imaginary gate opens. The effect is so real, I hear the creak of the great hinges, feel the whoosh of air, smell scents of flowers and incense. On the other side? No ruins or crumbled statues, no partial buildings where only the strongest supports are still upright. Everything is pristine, the marble columns like beautiful trees with their ornate headers and bark of pictographs, the lane clear of debris, the structures solid and welcoming.
The goddess statue around which all is oriented gleams with beauty. She is standing with one foot slightly in front and the opposite hand stretched high over her head. Her hand is open, her palm flat, as if she’s receiving something from the heavens, her resplendent face staring out over her city to the sea.
But no one is inside the walls.
The streets are empty of pedestrians, and somehow, I know that all the buildings, homes, and temples are vacant as well.
This is … a mirage, and not just because my mind has imagined something. In fact, the vision has replaced reality—
“Sorrel, come on.”
Everything instantly disappears, and I jerk to attention. And I mean to go catch up to Merc, who’s a length ahead on his slow-poke horse.
That’s not what happens as I release the pressure on the reins and urge Lavante forward. Instead, my hands steer him in between the crumbling statues of the man and the woman. As we hit the chipped pavers of the lane, his hooves sound out and echo into the fallen blocks and degraded columns. The going is slow because he has to step over white marble tile piles that have fallen off roofs and exterior walls, and all the statues that have been knocked over and shattered into chunks and pieces. And then there’s the “cloth” I saw from farther away. The draping turns out to be some kind of frothy spun fiber, and there are pods of it, here and there—
Merc pulls up beside me, and I know he’s speaking, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. My mind is ricocheting between the present I am not feeling clear on and a past that I shouldn’t know anything about.
I’ve never been here before.
And yet I swear I have—
Merc pulls in front of me, blocking my way with his steed. His arm slashes in frustration, as he frowns at me and no doubt keeps yelling.
“I’m so sorry,” I cut in hoarsely. “I just had to see. This place is—”
The streaming attack comes out of everywhere.
Giant black spiders with bulbous hairy bodies and legs that terminate in red knobs flow out of crevices and corners in all directions. The wolf-sized insects are the stuff of terror in the gloaming, fast as a horse, numbered like a herd, their racing progress tapping over the paving stones. Red, angry eyes lock on us, and mouths with great black pincers open and hiss as they close in.
The first of the silk ropes shoots out and captures my waist. The next comes from the opposite direction and latches on to Lavante’s front leg.
As Merc swings his broadsword to avoid being captured, the horses panic and rear up, but it’s far, far too late. We’re caught fast, tied up in sticky balls of webbing that hinder hands and feet, bodies and hooves. The fact that our attackers keep our heads out and the horses’ nostrils free suggests they’ll hold us alive as they feed on our bodies.
And still the spiders keep coming, mounting roofs and swinging down from obelisk tips, the incessant sound of their scurrying process something that I will remember forever.