THE MANGLED STEEL vanishes. The field is blackness. I hear nothing but a distant whoosh.
If I am dead, then death is cold.
The darkness gives way to an emerging dream light, and I am on a rocky cliff over a vast sea. The wind lashes my face and I struggle to walk. My chest is bloody, my arms and legs weak, my face chapped and burned. I shiver, huddling into myself.
Is this the Dream again?
I don’t think so. Gone is the smoke-dark green of ancient Atlantis, the bitter lushness of the air, the raging fire, steep canyon slopes—the recurring scene that has been with me for years.
Now I feel salt water in the air, and my arm aches from the weight of . . . what?
I look down, forcing myself to see. My arms are tightly clutching an orb. But not like the two I know: not warm and golden like the Loculus of Invisibility, nor luminous and white like the Loculus of Flight.
It is dense and deeply blue, almost black. It will not hide me from an enemy or save me from a fall.
What good is it?
As I breathe I gain strength. I move faster. Someone is chasing me and gaining ground.
In the distance is a majestic building, shadowed by the setting sun. I am filled with joy. I have not seen it complete. A man is waiting there for me. He looks relieved to see me but fearful of whatever is behind me.
But as he steps forward, the earth shakes.
I stop.
He is running now, yelling to me. His arms are outstretched. But I do not let go. Despite the acrid smell arising from the earth, twining into my nostrils.
The stench of death.