Safe Passage Through My

Dalish chucks a roll at him; he has to yank his goblet out of the way to keep it from being toppled, and the roll bounces twice before it reaches the edge of the table and falls into open air. A ghostly white hand catches it, brings it up to a face half-concealed by a drooping hat brim: Cole. Spirit-boy.“Thanks,” Krem says.Cole sniffs the roll, then hands it to him. “Horns pointing up. Holding that – holding them – not afraid of the death-eyes but of the nightmares that bring them down on friends; there is no hawk for him to hold onto, and words can’t bring them back.”Krem blinks. “I don’t speak spirit metaphors.”