Nomi stood in the far corner of the building, and he could see that she was terrified. Her eyes were wide, the left one surrounded with a dark sheen of fresh blood, and she stared directly at him. How? her eyes asked. Ramus smiled because he could see excitement there as well.

“It wakes,” he said, “but I'm not sure how.”

“You've come all this way . . . ?”

“I don't think it was ever truly asleep,” he said. “Its body may be, but not its mind. That's alive. Dreaming of escape, perhaps, or locked in nightmares about never being freed, but it's always active. Always waiting.”

“Waiting for someone like you?” He nodded. “Someone like me.”

“I hear them,” Nomi said, and Ramus heard them too. Clicking, hooting, the Sentinels were climbing the sides of the building, using their long legs and arms to haul themselves up onto the roof. They sounded wilder than ever, but Ramus thought it was probably fear. They made noise because silence would allow them to think.

“Cut the sac,” Ramus said. “Put your knife in, Nomi, and let what's inside out.”

“It can't be that easy. After so long?”

“We can only try.” And the more Ramus thought about it, the simpler it became. The thing was trapped in there somehow, unable to break free of its own accord, but if someone willing to do the freeing came here, then why should it be difficult? This place was hidden from the rest of the land, protected by the Sentinels because of how simple it would be to wake.

“Nothing should sleep forever,” Ramus said, and he placed the tip of his knife against the hard, leathery sac.

Shapes appeared at the circular hole above the center of the room. Sentinels. They stared down with wide eyes and mouths hanging open, and for once they uttered nothing. They were looking at the thing with dreadful awe.

Ramus leaned on his knife and pushed it through.

Age hissed out from the fresh wound. He held his breath, but he felt the warm exhalation against his neck and chest.

Words from the parchments came back to him, strange phrases other than the stone-curse he had used so much. The shadow in his mind seemed to filter them and make one phrase stand out, and Ramus spoke it. He felt power throbbing through the knife and into his hands.

The Sentinels screamed. They sounded like children being slaughtered, and they carried on screaming as they scrabbled away across the roof and fell to the ground outside. Others took up their scream—a wailing lament that filled the room and raised the hairs on Ramus's neck and arms.

He pushed harder and tugged at the knife, cutting upward. He muttered that phrase again, but this time it felt redundant, its purpose already achieved.

More air hissed out, and it had a brownish tinge.

“Nomi?” he said.