The small face of the prophetess haunts my dreams. She taunts me—now speaking in the common tongue—that I am not worthy of my abilities. It should not be me. It should be Ellen. Then Ellen becomes the sacrifice, with her oval eyes filled with tears. I see her writhing in agony as Finn cuts her wrists and neck. Blood splutters from her. She tries to speak, but nothing more than a gurgle comes out. When I wake, Finn is crouched next to me. I think of him wielding a bloodied knife from my dream and struggle against my ropes. “Calm, Valta. I am not here to harm you,” he says. He lifts his hands, and I see there is no knife. “Here, I brought food.” He gestures to a wooden bowl filled with a sticky white goo. I regard it dubiously. “What is that?” “Sap from the falag tree. It tastes good, how you say... sweet?” I nod. “Let’s try this fala stuff then.” “Falag,” Finn corrects. He scoops some of the white goo out of the bowl with his hand.
