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She drifted down again, into a pocket of the
dark, where she told herself that story—the
story—over and over.
Who she was, what she was, what she stood
to destroy should she yield to the near-
airlessness of the box, to the rising strain.
It wouldn’t matter, though. Once that collar
went around her neck, how long would it take
until the Valg prince within pried from her
everything Maeve wished to know? Violated
and delved into every inner barrier to mine
those vital secrets?
Cairn would begin again soon. It would be
wretched. And then the healers would return
with their sweet-smelling smoke, as they had
come these months, these years, however long
it had been.
But she’d seen beyond them, for an instant.
Had seen canvas fabric draped overhead,
rushes covered with woven rugs beneath their