Irian bows deeply, then raises his left hand above his head. He turns to face the sun, then makes a fist. He bows his head, eyes closed, then places his left hand on the formation.
“Dyeus Phater anni anni na,” he says and the ritual is complete.
Petroglyphs are carved into the ones shaped like altars, a riotous confusion of shapes layered on top of each other until they’re almost indecipherable. No recognizable planesign, but lightning bolts, crosses and spirals, stick figures and wavy lines, circles and fields of dots that almost seem to dance.
“The old gods,” Irian says when I ask him about it.
“I thought you worshipped the Northern and Southern Gods,” I say.
Kerrin rolls her eyes at us. “The last thing I need is another one of these conversations.” Her voice drips with teenage disd
