“Ah, I see.”
“Do you know what you want?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Are you sure?”
The goddess rose before them, terrible in every aspect, blood streaming down her sides. In one hand she held the beehive-crown of the Great Kings of the Delta, in the other, a golden sword.
But Leonas is not sure. He wants me, the author, to make things come out right for him. Rip this out. Repair that. Make a happy ending.
Oh, friend Leonas, what is written is written. What is done is done. Even I cannot change very much of it.
Leonas tries to think back. The images are flipped by the wind. His brother, laughing, with a blue tongue, all the other courtiers, laughing, their tongues painted blue in imitation.
But there is something more. A creaking, wooden house overlooking a papyrus swamp. Reedland, he somehow k
