Without warning, the nearest man swung his rope cosh at her. It cracked hard across her shoulder. She cried out and fell back. He moved in and lashed again, striking her just below the throat. Scrambling away from him, she kicked wildly, catching his shin. He cursed and backed off, hindering the other two.

Serrah rolled from the cot, landing heavily, and snatched the bucket. Ignoring the pain, she rose quickly, swinging it. The bucket raked the second man’s temple as he rushed in, knocking him senseless. But the first man had recovered. He landed a hefty punch to her stomach and she doubled over. The third man joined him and they rained blows on her. Serrah tried to ward them off with the pail, using it as both shield and weapon. A stinging rap across the knuckles broke her grip and sent it flying.

The man she had downed was on his feet again, adding his fury to the beating. She covered her head with her hands and retreated. But only a step or two took her to the tiny cell’s limit. She was trapped in the narrow space between bed and wall. It cramped her attackers and they had to take turns to swing at her. But that didn’t stop them delivering continuous punishment to her arms, legs and body.

Serrah half dived, half pitched sideways, onto the bed. That only made it easier for them. They set to with a will then, bent like men threshing corn, not speaking, dedicated to their work. She curled into a ball and suffered the storm.

When she was sure they would go on until they killed her, the beating stopped.

All she knew was pain. Every inch of her body was ablaze. The battering left her ears ringing and her vision blurred. She was bloodied, sweat-sheened, drifting on the rim of consciousness. Breathing hard, she flopped onto her back.

One of her tormentors loomed over her. He reached down and grasped the hem of her smock. With a violent jerk he yanked it up above her waist.

They laughed, jeered, made lecherous comments. Then they told her plainly and crudely what would happen if they had to come again. At the last, somebody threw the confession down on her.

They left, slamming the door.

Serrah coughed weakly, pain stabbing her ribs. Blood trickled from her nose and a corner of her mouth. It was agony to think, let alone move.

She passed an indefinite period of time immersed in an ocean of misery. Eventually nature took a hand and despite her injuries she fell into an exhausted slumber.

That gave the nightmares their chance to afflict her.

Leering faces and flaying bludgeons. The dungeon shrinking to crush her to pulp between its rigid walls. Her daughter sucked into a pitch black maelstrom, fingertips brushing Serrah’s as she strained to reach her. Dreams of fire and suffering and loss.

She woke with a start.

Blood had crusted on her face and arms, and bruises were already rising. She ached horribly, fit to vomit.

It seemed to her that the cell was even more dimly lit than before. And the silence was oppressive. Then an indefinable but not unfamiliar feeling dawned; that sixth sense which let her know when someone quietly appeared at her back. The tickle up her spine that said she wasn’t alone. Painfully, she struggled to a sitting position and blinked into the gloom.

Somebody else was in the cell. Standing by the door, quite still. Their features hard to make out.

‘Who’s there?’ Serrah called, her voice cracked, hoarse.

There was no answer, and the stranger didn’t move.

‘Show yourself!’

Still nothing. Serrah had a dread that it was her torturers back to do worse. Toying with her first, to heighten her fear or their pleasure. But no assault came, so she began the agony of standing.

She narrowly won the battle to get to her feet. When she moved, she shuffled like an arthritic old woman. As she approached the figure she realised it had its back to her. It wore a dark, full-length cloak, tightly gathered. There was a hint of blonde hair above the upturned collar.

Serrah challenged the intruder again. ‘Who are you?’ This time it was nearly a whisper.

The figure turned.

Reality crumbled. Shocked disbelief hit Serrah like a tidal wave. Her pain was forgotten. She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t move. What she saw made her distrust her sanity.

The apparition stretched out a hand and lightly touched her arm. Its caress was warm, solid. Real. There was no threat in it. Serrah fought to say something. No words came. She took in the other’s long, golden locks, hazel eyes, slightly plump, puppy-fat features. Her visitor smiled.

‘Mother,’ she said.

5

‘

Eithne?

’ Serrah whispered.

Her dead daughter’s grin widened.

Serrah had never been the fainting type. Now she felt ready to drop. ‘Eithne?’ she repeated.

‘Yes. Don’t be afraid.’

‘But…

how

? You’re -’

‘I’m more alive than I’ve ever been, Mother.’ The sunken sockets, the pallor, the drawn features had all gone. She was as she had been, before her descent and the final days. Her eyes sparkled. ‘I’ve come back to you.’

Serrah was aware that her arm was still being held. She felt the girl’s fingers pressing into her flesh. How could this be a spectre, a deceiving glamour? ‘Is it truly you?’ she asked.

‘It’s me, Mummy.’

Serrah wanted to believe so badly. She moved to embrace her daughter.

‘No,’ Eithne said, letting go of Serrah and stepping back. ‘It’d be painful at the moment, I’m too… delicate. I’ve only just…’ The smile was unwavering. ‘I’m feeling tender. Like you.’

Serrah remained with her arms outstretched, stunned at not being able to hold her child. For a moment, her grip on sanity seemed just as elusive. ‘I don’t understand any of this,’ she said.

‘All you have to understand is that I’m here. They brought me back.’

‘

Who?

How?’

‘The sorcerers of the imperial court, no less. You’ve no idea the kind of magic they command. Wonderful magic.’

‘You said you were in pain.’

‘Just some discomfort. It’ll pass. The coming back… it was like waking up, that’s all.’

Serrah had never heard of such a thing. ‘But they can’t -’

‘They can. They

did

.’

‘Why?’

‘For you. Us.’

‘Why would the highest-ranking concern themselves with us?’

‘Because of this situation you’ve got yourself into. They’re showing you a way out.’

‘I must be blind not to see it.’

‘Then look on me as a kind of reward.’

‘For what?’

‘For something you haven’t done yet.’

Serrah was sure she knew what that was, but asked anyway. ‘What do they expect from me?’

‘You have to do as they say, Mother. You have to confess.’

‘Eithne,’ Serrah replied, still feeling strange at mouthing the name after so long, ‘I have nothing to confess to. I didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘Does that matter?’

‘Yes.’

‘But does it matter if it means I can be reunited with you, that I can live out the life I lost?’

‘There wouldn’t be a life together if I confessed. I’d be locked away, or worse.’

‘They promised me they’d be merciful.’

‘You believe them?’

‘The fact that I’m here proves they’re serious about their side of the bargain.’

‘And if I don’t confess?’

Eithne’s expression grew troubled. ‘That would be bad for me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The spell they used to raise me is temporary. Unless they cast another that makes my state permanent, and soon…’

‘How soon?’

‘Hours.’

To have her back only to lose her again. Serrah felt her eyes filling. ‘That’s what they’re offering in exchange for my confession?’

‘Yes. They’ll let me live again.’

‘Doing it this way, it’s… beyond cruel.’

‘No, Mother! It’s a miracle. Don’t you see? They told me that at worst you’ll spend a short time in prison or a reeducation camp. Then we can be together again.’