Shatter the Earth (Cassandra Palmer 10)

My heel hit a stair, causing me to sit down abruptly, and something about that seemed to alert the room that it had a visitor. Many of the cases that had been dark suddenly lit up, causing dozens of new scenes to bloom across every available surface. It was like watching a few hundred TVs switch on all at once, each tuned to different station.

And

, this time, the visuals were accompanied by surround sound.

“Lady?” Rhea’s concerned voice was distant, almost inaudible, and was immediately swallowed up by all the screaming.

Because the gladiators had given way to a burning city, a volcano spewing death in the background, ash flooding the air thick enough to make me gag. Women clutched their children and fled across a section of pillars, although I couldn’t tell if that was from the same scene or not. Meanwhile the floor had become a vast ocean, the churning waves wild enough to make me dizzy, and to cause me to clutch the stairs beneath me for balance.

It didn’t help.

It was like being inside a kaleidoscope of constantly changing colors and patterns, sounds and smells. Until I made the mistake of lingering on a single image a little too long. And, suddenly, I was somewhere else.

An ancient alleyway grew up around me, all terracotta brick buildings, dirt and flies. A gang of raggedy children with olive skin, masses of dark curls, and bright, mischievous eyes were playing outside a tiny temple that had been squashed in between an apartment block and a food stall. In front of it, some toga clad men were trying to kill a sheep on a small altar, only it wasn’t going well.

The sheep was struggling, wall-eyed and panicked, and sprayed urine all over one of the finely dressed ladies accompanying the men. The resulting commotion allowed the street kids to steal some sausages from the food stall, and I swear I could smell the sizzling fat. Along with the viscera from the now slaughtered sheep, its blood running down the altar stones to stain the street, and the sweat off the sausage vendor as he rushed past, chasing the little thieves with a club.

The image faded, but there was no respite, because there were plenty more to take its place. The ship I found myself on lurched and overturned, throwing me into the freezing waves. Lightening flashed, thunder boomed, and I heard the roar of the ocean as it closed over my head. And felt something huge and tentacle-like curl around my ankle, before jerking me down.

But instead of plunging to the depths, I landed in the middle of a dry as dust plain, with a mass of horses charging toward me, their numbers so huge that they shook the ground like an earthquake. The sight was terrifying, but the sound—the sound was horrible, so loud that I couldn’t think, so loud that I couldn’t breathe. I scrambled to my feet, preparing to run—

“Lady!” Rhea said, as I hit the side of the stairwell face first, and gripped the chilly stones in confusion.

I couldn’t answer her. I didn’t know where I was or who I was. Because the images weren’t just images anymore, not even realistic ones. They were me. I was living every scene that tore through me, as if it was something out of my own life.

One minute, I was a kid, running through a vineyard, my toes delighting in the cool, loamy soil beneath them, while the sunlight filtered through the vines to dapple my face; the next I was staring in disbelief at my brother, who had just shoved a knife into my belly over a woman, the pain of betrayal even worse than the physical anguish; the next I was a young man trying to impress a girl and ride an unruly horse, only to land on my ass while they both sniggered at me.

I tried to break free of what was starting to feel less like a trickle and more like a flood, using the brief moment of calm to pull back into myself. For an instant, I almost succeeded, coming around long enough to feel the rough surface of the wall underneath my fingertips, and to dig into it until they bled. It wasn’t enough.

The flood caught me, and I was swept away, into an abyss of memory and emotion.

I was a medieval knight jousting in a tiltyard, getting struck in the face and thrown from my horse with a mortal wound; I was a sailor’s wife, waiting with a heavy heart for a lover who was overdue, a hand on my pregnant belly; I was a guard at court, watching a nobleman’s son dance and flirt with the girl he was supposed to marry, while knowing I’d have him in my bed again that night.

And they just kept coming, like a vast ocean beating against me, ungovernable, implacable, merciless.

I was a woman caught by a witch catcher, a smile breaking over my face because he’d made a mistake this time and gotten the real thing; I was a sailor being beaten for some infraction, each heavy stroke of the lash making me more certain that they intended to flay me alive; I was a slave standing over the body of my master, a bloody cudgel in my hand, knowing this meant my death but laughing nonetheless, laughing until I couldn’t breathe; I was a father, my heart welling with pride at seeing a son come home from war, wreathed in glory; I was a mother, falling at the feet of a soldier who had informed me that mine never would . . .

And on and on and on. I’d never felt anything like it. I was sobbing, screaming, laughing, all at the same time, sounding and probably looking like a madwoman, but I couldn’t help it. For a moment, I was mad, drowning under more emotions than anyone could process, than anyone could bear.

And then it got worse.

“Lady! Lady!” Rhea said, and grabbed my arm.

I think she was trying to shift me out, because a tendril of the Pythian power swirled around me for a second, and the room briefly went fuzzy. But it broke a second later, dumping me back against the wall, which was bad. But her grip on my arm was worse—way worse.

It should have helped to ground me, and not just because it was the touch of a friend. But because a Pythia draws strength from her court, which acts the same as a witch’s coven. And, right then, Rhea was the only member of mine around.

But instead, it did the opposite, sending a surge of power through me so strong that it made me gasp, and it felt like the room breathed in along with me. The last, stubborn display cases, dark until now, suddenly lit up, their light eclipsing everything else. And if I’d thought the images were a flood before, I’d been wrong, so very, very wrong.

That had been a river, rushing against its banks, while this—

This was the ocean.

All of which poured into me at once.

I was a goldsmith, huddled in my basement, making fake jewels out of crystal and pigment, hoping to save my business; I was a smuggler, lantern in hand, dragging a boatload of wine onto a windswept beach; I was a thief, surprising the mistress of the house in the arms of her lover, and taking her jewel chest in return for my silence; I was a naked child, standing in the street as they piled my family’s bodies on a wagon, while a bird-faced man painted a red cross on our door—

The flood sped up, drowning me in memory, sending my body thrashing against the stones. Rhea screamed, yelling her head off for help that no one could give me. Because I wasn’t one person anymore, a small figure huddled against a wall. I was everyone, everywhere, to the point that I thought my head would explode.