The sensation of walking through the Realm of the Dead was strange. Antomír remembered, but only dimly, that feet were supposed to connect to hard ground. Sometimes that ground, in life, was pebbly or sandy, and his feet would shift sideways as he tried to thrust them forward. He remembered how that used to annoy him, especially as a child, when playing games with his fellow children on the banks of Ghavan Isle. Now, his feet only seemed to make contact with the bristly-grassed earth—except it wasn’t grass or earth at all, but only a shadow of both. If he were not using all his powers of concentration (and they were no more well-honed than that of a drunken man), he might as well have been floating.
The landscape was equally pervious to the senses. There were suggestions of vast mountains
