Perhaps he cried out at the sudden outward flowering of his senses. It was lost to him, carried on Northern winds and drowned out by the wanting souls of the dead and the living. And then something hauled on the reins of his mind, brought in skidding back to his body, where he found himself stooped, hands at his head. Gauntlets at his helm. How cold it was.

I knew it, he thought, distantly surprised to find a part of himself which sounded like himself inside his skull—and distantly not surprised at all. With a jolt, he realised the double-feedback he was getting where the armour or whatever it was met his shard. He spied on himself spying on himself and there was the awful potential to telescope too far out.

He hauled himself straight. (O'Treoraí. They won't lose their way. Neither will you.) I knew it, he said, his voice not moving through the black magic carapace.

Slowly, he took an experimental step. Reached for that old place, aimed to take leagues in his stride.