Chapter 17

On, on I go, (open doors of time!

Open hospital doors!) The crush'd head I dress,

(Poor crazed hand tear not the bandage away,)

The neck of the cavalry-man with the bullet

Through and through I examine,

Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye,

Yet life struggles hard.

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—Walt Whitman, The Wound Dresser

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MIKHAIL

"Mikhail!"

I bolt upright, my sword drawn to smite the lizard at the door. I strike at the phantasm, but my sword clinks against the wall, knocking me onto my back until I realize I am dreaming. I press my hands into my face, my heart rattling against my chest.

"Máthair." I shiver uncontrollably, even though the dream has already faded. I can't remember anything about the woman who birthed me. She is a huge blank spot in my subconscious. Al……