“I say we get some workmen in to knock through the wall,” Micum said after they’d managed to get lost yet again, this time in a dusty, cobweb-festooned passageway.

“That sounds like a fine idea, my friend. Let’s go back and see if Thero has had any inspirations.”

“And tell him about your dreams.”

“That, too.”

They had almost reached the junction of the passageway with another corridor when a dark figure glided across the opening in front of them in the gloom.

“Hello?” Micum called out, but there was no reply.

He and Seregil got to the turning in time to catch sight of the figure disappearing into the darkness beyond their lights’ glow. They hurried after it, only to have it suddenly turn to face them. They skidded to a halt, confronted by a pale man with his eyes gouged out. The blood staining his cheeks like tears looked black in the lightstones’ glow. So did his thin lips as he held out a hand, showing them the missing eyeballs.

“Milia trona?” The thing’s voice was like the whisper of dead leaves.

“Haln,” Seregil replied.

The specter grimaced, then threw the eyes at them. Seregil and Micum flinched back and when they looked again, the corridor was empty.

“I’m certainly getting my wish to see ghosts,” said Micum, looking around for the eyes. “Guess they went with him. What did he say to you? And what language was that?”

Seregil smiled humorlessly as they started off again. “He asked ‘Can you see?’ I said yes, which must have been the wrong answer, given his reaction. It was Middle Konic again, interestingly enough.”

“What’s so interesting about it? It was spoken here. It still is.”

“In a corrupted form. The ghosts speak it perfectly as it was during that period, a long time ago. Odd when there are so many other possibilities from other times, considering this is the place in the Three Lands that has been inhabited for the longest time.”

“Well, we haven’t met many. At least it wasn’t a dra’gorgos.”

Seregil arched a brow at him. “We have protection from those, not from ghosts.”

“Most ghosts aren’t likely to do us any harm.”

“It’s the exceptions that get you.”

“Any way to tell the difference?” asked Micum.

“Not that I know of, until it’s too late.” Seregil strode ahead into the darkness.

Thero was still in his tent when Seregil and Micum returned. Alec and Mika sat outside by a watch fire, eating something from bowls. Alec was wearing a loose tunic under his cloak; only a fresh bandage on his left hand was visible.

“You must be feeling better, talí,” said Seregil, bending down to kiss him on the top of the head.

“I am, considerably.”

“What’s for supper?” asked Micum.

Mika made a face. “Bean soup. I hate bean soup!” Then with a giggle, “It makes me fart.”