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There came an unfamiliar voice from the abyss, but Hector couldn’t understand anything it was saying. It had to be speaking Valgan, he figured, but it didn’t sound much like when he’d heard Asad speak it.

Garovel answered the voice, also in Valgan, probably.

Chergoa was kind enough to keep them informed. ‘Yeah, that’s definitely the Dry God,’ she said. ‘Garovel is attempting to explain our circumstances, along with who we are.’

Hector had about a thousand questions, but he certainly wasn’t going to interrupt.

‘Now he’s explaining what is presumably still going on outside. I’m not sure that’s wise, though. It might be better to take it slower and just--’

‘Mohssian?’ came the unfamiliar voice. ‘You speak Mohssian?’

‘YOU speak Mohssian?’ returned Garovel, sounding truly shocked.

‘Yes.’

‘When did you learn it?’ asked Chergoa.

‘When is when?’

‘...What?’

‘As a child, I learned. An inelegant language. Lazily structured. Full of hard noises.’ His accent was incredibly strong, but Hector had no trouble understanding him. Every word sounded quite deliberately chosen.

Emiliana decided to speak up. ‘How old are you now?’

‘I do not understand the question.’

‘Er...’ She took a second before trying again. ‘You just said that you have memories of your childhood. So do you know how much time has passed since then?’

‘No,’ he said flatly.

‘Oh,’ said Emiliana.

‘Time is not time,’ said the Dry God.

‘What does that mean?’ said Chergoa.

‘Everything. It means everything.’

No one had a response for that, apparently.

Garovel chose to change the subject. ‘Rasalased. That is your name, yes? Rasalased?’

‘Yes. No. It was. Once. Is it still? It should be. Yes. Time is not time.’

Hector was beginning to get the picture.