“Why do so few of the priests ever talk about Adonais in the right way, Mirnían?”
Mirnían seemed to forget his days-long silence. “What do you mean?”
“Do you not see? The curve of that mountain. The thunder of that waterfall.”
“Yes, I do.” Mirnían smiled for the first time in weeks. “It’s almost as if Adonais is here, present in these natural beauties.”
“If the chief priest knew him as he claimed to,” said Voran, thinking of Kalún’s mumbling of the prayers, “he would spend his days singing the wonders of his craft with the best poetry. Not try to call down fire from heaven by his will alone. You know, it’s all written down in the Old Tales. The priests in those stories were poets who sang from the tops of hills as the snow pelted their faces.”
The fire burned brightly in Voran’s chest
