He runs a hand along the windowsill, unimpressed with the dead wood, the man-made structures, this cage of gods. But Amalia has called and the stars are silent now with Safrin's fall, and her prayer has reached its intended.
Vi does not walk to Amalia - he is simply there before her, sitting cross legged and barefoot opposite where she kneels. His fingers absently pluck at one of the sprigs of flowers left as an offering; immediately they bloom beneath his touch. "Twenty-one cycles of the sun you spend calling. And now you have a response, your inclination is to ask after the wellbeing of another?"
Something like a smile - something faint, something not quite there yet .
"She is very sick," he says. "The Spire is not intended for any but the Voice and her kind. It has gotten its claws deep into Safrin. She is infected by it. She suffers."
Vi does not walk to Amalia - he is simply there before her, sitting cross legged and barefoot opposite where she kneels. His fingers absently pluck at one of the sprigs of flowers left as an offering; immediately they bloom beneath his touch. "Twenty-one cycles of the sun you spend calling. And now you have a response, your inclination is to ask after the wellbeing of another?"
Something like a smile - something faint, something not quite there yet .
"She is very sick," he says. "The Spire is not intended for any but the Voice and her kind. It has gotten its claws deep into Safrin. She is infected by it. She suffers."
VI
