Beneath Ceaseless Skies | Our Grandmother's Words by M.H. Ayinde
There was a horrible power in the Ishanis’ twisted words, something not of the gods at all. I did not know if it was the feather or the scroll, or perhaps the act of bringing the two together, but whatever was written by the white-clad outlander was taken from our minds. I wondered if he were an evil spirit, able to reach inside our heads and pluck the knowledge from within. But when I tried to tell my grandmother so at the cookfire that evening, I found I no longer knew how to put my feelings into words.
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