The Pale Bonsai
The recitation is a mess, a stuttering heap of syllables that taste of copper and cold stone. "You have the tongue of a broken reed, boy," Chief Justice Aldous Whitmore said, his voice echoing off the damp vaulted ceiling of the High Court archive. He did not look at me. He looked at the dust motes dancing in the single beam of candlelight that pierced the gloom. "A defect in the lineage. A...
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