Rhynie, Aberdeenshire - c. 570 CE
Derelei was dying when the last descent returned.
Broichan found her in the workshop that had been her home for most of her life—surrounded by charcoal sketches, silver shavings, the gathered debris of a lifetime spent mapping what couldn't be seen. The fever had taken hold three days ago. By now everyone knew she wouldn't rise again.
"The deep journey," she said when he entered. Her voice was a whisper, but her eyes remained sharp. "Drust and Forcu. Did they return?"
"They're resting. The descent was successful." Broichan settled onto the bench beside her pallet. The workshop smelled of herbs and sweat and something else—the scent of a body preparing to release its occupant. "They went deeper than ever before. Drust says he touched something at the bottom. Something that spoke to him."
"Spoke?" A flicker of the old intensity crossed her face. "What did it say?"
"He couldn't put most of it into words. Pieces. Images. A sense of—" Broichan paused, remembering Drust's face when he emerged from the pool. Not frightened, but changed, as if he'd seen something that rearranged how he understood the world. "He said it felt like being noticed by something that had been waiting. Waiting longer than he could hold in his mind."
"Longer than memory."
"He used those words. Longer than memory." Broichan reached for her hand—thin now, bones sharp beneath papery skin. "He's writing it down. Everything he can rem…
