Hermes came back to himself choking on the smell of damp hay and horse dung.
And water. Cold water. Very cold water.
"Éirigh!" A voice snapped above him, sharp as the crack of a whip.
Something metallic clanged against the wooden stall post beside his head, and Hermes flinched instinctively, still clenching his glutes from Dante's ridiculous last instruction.
When he opened his eyes, a bucket clattered to the floor and a woman was standing over him…
A sturdy maid with wind-chapped cheeks, her hair tucked into a linen coif. She held the handle like a weapon, one brow arched in suspicion.
She was speaking in a language he didn't recognize—except…
He did.
Every word landed in his brain as if it had always been there. Early Middle Irish, rolling and rough at the edges, but as natural as breathing.
He knew her name. Sorcha. He knew because Heimon mac Cuan knew.
He was Heimon.
