a sing-song language as meaningless as the ink marks. Illyra sensed the
beginnings of the spell and withdrew across time to the barracks in Sanctuary.
Walegrin had removed the cloth from the table and placed a charcoal stylus in
her hand without her sensing it. For a fleeting .moment she compared her copying
to the images still in her mind. . Then the image was gone and she was fully
back in the room, quietly watching Walegrin as he stared at the table.
‘Is it what you wanted?’ she asked softly.
Walegrin did not answer, but threw back his head in cynical laughter. ‘Ah, my
sister! Your mother’s people are clever. Their curse reaches back to the dawn of
time. Look at this!’
He pointed at the copied lines and obediently Illyra examined them closely.
‘They are not what you wanted?’
Walegrin took the card of Quicksilver and pointed to the lines of script that
delineated the waterfall. ‘These are the runes that have been used since Ilsig
attained her height, but this -‘ he traced a squiggle on the table, ‘this is
older than Ilsig. By Calisard, Vortheld, and a thousand gods of long dead
soldiers, how foolish I’ve been! For years I’ve chased the secret of Enlibar
steel and never realized that the formula would be as old as the ruins we found
it in.’
Illyra reached across the table and held his clenched fists between her palms.
‘Surely there are those who can read this? How different can one sort of writing
be from another?’ she asked with an illiterate’s innocence.
‘As different as the speech of the Raggah is from yours.’