ment face had a bluish tinge. Steadily he gazed at the bamboo pen, suspended by the silk thread, and now he muttered a strange gibberish more anguished than that of monkeys, or so Yuhan thought. She regretted the vanity that spawned the impulse to know the future. Nevertheless, curiosity eclipsed her uneasiness. It was foolish to be disturbed. Had she not always been without fear? Still she could not help but feel somewhat guilty, as though she were stealing fragrance or precious stones. Startled, she paused in her thoughts, for the bamboo pen was moving, though no human hand directed it. Old Visram gazed entranced as characters formed in the sand. And slowly his expression changed to one of horror. He sighed and groaned and rolled about as though he were possessed.
On Yuhan, too, the effect of the writing was magical. The old necromancer was afraid, afraid to speak because her future was concerned with affairs of the Court. No longer was the small room cold. Warm blood rushed through her veins. Her valor flamed anew. Her curiosity heightened. She shook the grotesque, shriveled, groveling old form on the ground before her. He was mumbling prayers.
"Can you read it?" she cried.
"Yes, yes," he rasped.
"Speak, what does it say?"
His inflamed eyes seemed to be bursting from their sockets, like snakes about to strike. With a shriek, he tore down the bamboo pen, and it was amazing how
strong was the silken thread, though probably it was
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