Yes, but that wasn't the cause of his madness. In this case, his fae blood is why you see the impression, but his madness came from other sources. Sometimes the mind simply cannot cope. In his case, the blame lay with war. When he closed his eyes, that's all he saw. He wanted to sleep.
That was what he meant--he wanted to find sleep. Eternal sleep, if necessary. My brain was overly attuned to the word "darkness," reading something into it that wasn't there.
Brenin snorted, and I saw the door swing open as he'd managed to get his nails under the bottom and pull. He walked through into yet another corridor. After maybe twenty feet, he stopped, and I couldn't hear or smell anything, but the hairs on his back prickled, and a growl rippled through his flanks.
Do you feel that? Ioan asked.
Feel what? I said.
Concentrate.
I did, but picked up nothing. What is it?
We don't know. It's...
Ioan trailed off and then urged Brenin forward. The hound took it slow, no longer sniffing or pricking his ears but still straining for something, his deeper senses attuned for it as he took careful step after careful step. When his paw touched down on air, he jerked back. I saw broken floorboards. Intentionally broken, it seemed, pieces lying to the side as if someone had pried them off.
Brenin lowered his snout to the hole, his nose working, nostrils flared as he detected something that I couldn't catch. He inched closer, his muzzle dipping into the hole.
The voices came again, from deep in the building. I strained to listen. When I couldn't make out words, I let out a mental curse, and Brenin's head jerked up, startled. His one paw slid over the edge. He scrabbled to get his balance. A crack, as a floorboard gave way. His other front paw slid and then he fell, tumbling through. He didn't flail, didn't panic, just let out a snarl of annoyance before landing on solid ground, his legs bent to absorb the impact.
I'm sorry, I said. I'm really--
Brenin cut me short with a grunt, further annoyance, and I whispered another apology, but Ioan said, He's fine. Angry with himself for being startled and then for tumbling. But he's all right. A hound can take more damage than your human canines. And he's quite capable of finding his way out of this predicament.
Brenin chuffed in response. As he looked around, at first I saw only blackness. Then he blinked a few times, and with each blink the scene lightened, as if his receptors could use any pinprick of light.
We stood in a room. Seeing rough-hewn wooden walls, I couldn't suppress a mental shiver, my mind flying back to the vision of the cabin, Gabriel and I racing to shut it up against the melltithiwyd.
Brenin's gaze swung up to the hole in the ceiling. He circled and then hunkered down, muscles bunching, seeming to consider the likelihood he could reach the floor above.
I kept trying to see more of the room, until Ioan said, Brenin? Pause here, please. Liv wo
uld like to take a look around before you go.
No, I said. We aren't here to sightsee. I'm bad for that.
You aren't sightseeing. You sense something. Brenin? Look, please.
Brenin had already risen from his crouch and was walking to the wall. He sniffed at it. Old wood, rotting and ripe with some smell I couldn't quite catch. He did catch it, backing up quickly before turning away. Another wall zipped past as he swung his head. A wall like the first but--
Brenin stopped. There was something on this wall. Dark marks against that dark and rotted wood. He moved closer. Sniffed. Ioan gave a low Hmmm.
What is it? I asked.
Brenin backed away, and those marks came clear. It was writing on the wood. Three words, written over and over.
Beware the darkness.
I stiffened. Brenin gave a questioning grunt, and Ioan said, No, as much as I might like to leave it at that, I don't think we can. Liv? Please prepare yourself. Brenin was attempting to shield you from something, but I'm going to ask him to turn around now.
The hound did, and as he moved, I caught the smell he'd picked up earlier, enough that I realized what it was, and that prepared me, as he turned toward a corpse. A corpse ringed by melted candles.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The man lay in the fetal position in a circle of candles, all melted to puddles on the dirt floor. My first thought was ritual. A sacrifice of some kind. But then I saw the matches lying by his hand. Brenin gingerly stepped over the wax puddles and looked down.
It was a matchbox, rather than a book of matches. I would expect that, given how old the body appeared to be. Leathery skin stretched over a skull topped with dark blond hair, the rest of him seeming no more than a bag of bones encased in clothing.