“That is old magic,” you murmur, half to yourself and half to her. “I have not done it. The journey among the dead. The old heroes would do it to bring things back; their beloved, or wonderful things, or bounty, or... well, what did you bring back? Knowledge, I think. And now you’ll have to share it, even the bitter knowledge.”

Then your head lifts, and you notice, as if waking from an afternoon slumber or if suddenly startled from reverie, the shaking of bells. It does not do to speak of such things where anyone can hear, after all.