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. . .
And, beyond that, another voice, and yet
another, until I spun about dizzily, buffeted by voices, by
echoes, by wandering sound from centuries before. For not
only did the voices of Southlund and Coastlund mingle in
the darkness with a chorus of High Solamnic, but the
ancient ritual language seemed to change as I heard it,
traveling from voice to voice, each time its pronouncements
varying slightly until I realized that the last voices I had
heard were another language entirely and that I had
followed a passage of familiar words, familiar sounds, back
to a voice that was entirely alien, speaking a tongue as
remote as the Age of Might, as the distant and unattainable
constellations.
I WOULD KNOW WHY, said a young man's tortured voice.
YOU CAN FIND THE TRUTH, another voice said - softer, more familiar.
AND THE FINDING WILL MAKE THE PAST. . . UNCHANGEABLE.
I followed the familiar voice of the
druidess L'Indasha Yman, my shoulder brushing against
stone and a cool liquid draft of air rushing into my face,
telling me I had found a passage ... to somewhere else.
The voices were ahead of me now, ahead and behind,
contained, I suppose, by the narrow corridor. Some shouted
at me, some whispered, some vexed me with accents
curious and thoughts fragmentary. . . .
. . . SE THE FOR DRYHTNES NAMAN DEATHES THOLDE . . .
. . . HERE ON THE PLAINS, WHERE THE WIND ERASES THOUGHT. . .
. . . OUR MEDSIYN IS A STON THAT IS NO STON, AND A THYNG IN
KENDE AND NOT DIVERSE THYNGES, OF WHOM ALL METALLES BETH
MADE
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