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. "And you?" she asked. "Trugon. What would you
ask of me this time?"
She should have known it. Several seasons ago, the
scars had appeared overnight without cause, without
warning. For a year they had thickened slowly, hard as the
stone walls of our cottage, spreading until my entire body
was covered with a network of calluses. I could no longer
even tell my age. I was becoming more and more a
monstrosity, and no one could say why.
"Why. I would know why, my lady." It was always my
question. I had lost hope of her answering it.
Mother's gestures grew larger, wilder, and I would not
look at her. But when L'Indasha spoke again, my heart rose
and I listened fiercely.
"It's your father's doing," the lady said, a bunch of red
berries bright as blood against the corona of her hair.
"I have heard that much," I said, wincing as Mother
jostled me frantically. The pain drove into my shoulders,
and still I turned my eyes from her gestures. "I want all the
rest, Lady Yman. How it was his doing, and why."
The leaves crackled as the druidess stood and drifted to
the mouth of the cave. There was a bucket sitting there, no
doubt to catch rainwater, for it was half filled and glazed
with a thin shell of ice. With the palm of her hand, the
druidess broke the ice, lifted the container, and brought it
back to me, her long fingers ruddy and dripping with frigid
rain. She breathed and murmured over it for a moment.
I sat up, the heat flaring down my arms.
"Look into the cracked mirror, Trugon," she whispered,
kneeling beside me
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