He did not know why he stepped forward, toward that door. He did not know why he cried out in a tone that was not his, “ Open then, Child of the Snake!”
Boghaz let out a wailing shriek and crouched down in a corner, hiding his face. Ywain started up, astonished and suddenly pale. The door swung slowly back.
There was nothing behind it but darkness and a shadow. A shadow cloaked and hooded and so crouched in the lightless cabin that it was no more than the ghost of a shadow.
But it was there. And the man Carse, caught fast in the trap of his strange fate, recognized it for what it was.
It was fear, the ancient evil thing that crept among the grasses in the beginning, apart from life but watching it with eyes of cold wisdom, laughing its silent laughter, giving nothing but the bitter death.
It was the Serpent.
The primal ape in Carse wanted to run, to hide away. Every cell of his flesh recoiled, every instinct warned him.
But he did not run and there was an anger in him that grew until it blotted out the fear, blotted out Ywain and the others, everything but the wish to destroy utterly the creature crouching beyond the light.
His own anger—or something greater? Something born of a shame and an agony that he could never know?
A voice spoke to him out of the darkness, soft and sibilant.