Voices. Inside him. Words. Unknown words.
Images of words: that much he understood. Like looking at a strange alphabet. Like Aramaic. But not Aramaic, he had a rudimentary understanding of Aramaic.
Then Harry Danes smiled at the lie he'd just told himself. He had no such rudimentary understanding of Aramaic. He barely recognised it when it was written. But he could hazard an educated guess.
His smile warmed him, dissipated the torpor. He remembered Life, and Thinking, and pretty Tisha.
Yes, he could guess at language.
These images in his head. They were language.
But what language?