Shadows of the Scriptures

TEN: A Tower of Twigs

Lightning. Fountain of rocks. Feathers.

The Hand.

We will keep her.

Addie awoke in what she was certain was a pallet bed. She lay in it for ten beats, or for twenty, or an eternity. Of this she had no certainty. When vision came to her, she found herself staring quite blankly at a ceiling. Fingers of pale white light were spilled on it. When finally sound came, she heard the rush of what was unmistakably a river.

Her head turned on its own grant. Curtains. This room - room? - had curtains.

Velvet curtains, seafoam banners, fire, blood . . .

She felt for her Wolf. His paw unlatched the cellar door, and mageic flooded her soul.

Then light was ubiquitous. The shape of a man appeared out of the light, then the man himself. He was slouched on a chair besides the bed in black robes. Around his neck hung what looked to be a small, bleached conch shell. He had grey hair and grey eyes. He looked terribly young.

"River Orves doesn't run with blood yet, if that's what you're wondering." The man smiled. "For all their might, Ptirre is stupid as fuck."

"Who . . . are you?"

"That is your decisive first question? Very well then." The man got to his feet. "Normally, my answer to that question would be that I am a cobbler. But since we are not so different, you and I, I shall confide in you the truth. My name is Sadh Bornak and I am a Jen."

"Is this . . . a dream?"

The man who called himself Sadh walked over to the feet of her bed, laughing humorlessly. "Only you, I expect," said he, "can answer that question."

She could feel a residue of the night on her skin, thick as a binder of faerie sightings. Had it been the night afore, or a night gone nine maes? It did not matter.

". . . finest inn in Gorpal, dear man," a voice was saying. "If the room service hasn't been up to mark, we can put in a couple more squalls. That is inconsequential to us."