A Lie of Desert Red (Death Dreamer Legacy Book 2) by R.K. Hart

Author:R.K. Hart [Hart, R.K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pindika Press
Published: 2021-11-30T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter fifteen

Another One

The Sea Witch was never heard from again. Lyda closed her eyes against the echoes of Lorcan’s words; when she opened them once more, she realised she was underwater.

For a moment, she panicked; it had been so long since she had dreamed of her green rockpool that she had almost forgotten the details of it. Relief welled inside her, a mix of finding the dream she loved once more and triumph at having avoided the white place. She dove deep under the cool water, luxuriating in the feel of it on her skin. The rubbery seaweed caressed her sides as her hands began to search the seabed for shells.

She looked up at the glimmering green of the surface. Thoughts of the waking world – of the Matriarch’s Villa, the black ship, Maya, the Illarum, Lorcan, and the scissors – tried to push their way into the dream, but she pushed them straight back, keeping her mind blank, letting her anxious tension dissipate with the gentle current. She found a smooth pink scallop shell half-buried in the white sand and idly passed it from hand to hand, watching the light play above her.

A shadow crossed the surface.

Lyda blinked.

The shadow fell again and stayed this time, a shapeless dark atop the rippling water.

Lyda’s stomach twisted. There had never been a shadow in the dream before. She wrapped her fingers around the shell and twisted in the water, her feet pressing into the sand to push herself upwards.

Her head broke the surface. She’d never done that before, either, and she looked around, taking in the high roof of the cave and its mouth where the light streamed in. It seemed to look straight out onto the sea; she could hear the lapping of waves against the rock. The air was warm and the cave was made of a light, pleasant stone over which the afternoon sun rippled in shades of cream and gold, but something was wrong. Lyda could feel it: a malevolence, an intrusion, a threat hanging thickly on the salty air.

There was someone sitting on the side of rockpool, someone wearing a white cloak with a low hood, their face and figure entirely masked. Lyda sank instinctively below the water, leaving only her eyes and forehead above the surface. She sculled her arms to keep upright.

‘Tsk,’ the white-cloaked figure said. ‘So careless, to let your guard down. Tired, are you?’

The voice was high and girlish, and the menace in it sent a chill down Lyda’s spine. It sounded real, much more real than it should, more real than a twisted memory given form.

‘Uh-lie-dah,’ the woman said mockingly, tasting the name. ‘Lie-dah. Ly-da. Ah. Here we are. Little owl. Aih-lah. Ais-la? What stupid language is that? Peti oisu. Urgh, Brinnican. So many names you have, little dreamworker. Do you fit them all?’ She paused, and Lyda felt the pull of illae – not her own – through the dreamscape. ‘Ah, here we are. M’etoile. That was what your mother called you, did you know? As she was bleeding out, she called you by that name.

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