Although perplexed, I did what I had been asked to. So the priest led us into the holy of holies, in the centre of which an item was kept, a parchment scroll held by an large number of wax discs. Seventy-two sigils, the priest specified. Dinvahèbin, Bùce, and I stood silent as we watched the man performing in all solemnity and calm a complex ritual. He put next to the scroll a brass vessel, resting upon an adorned foundation, and filled it with clear water, although I had a mind it might be alcohol as well. Then he took off each of the sigils, one after another: each piece of wax was put upon his lips, almost a kiss, then he tossed it into the water of the brass vessel. As soon as the sigil touched the water surface, it was instantly burnt, until it disappeared completely, as though it fad
