The Distant Temple
Can a man taste the rot in a root before the fever takes the child? I stood in the damp earth of the quarry lake, the water black and still around my knees, the cold biting through my trousers. The year had refused winter, so the mud was merely wet, not frozen, and the smell of wet wool and stagnant water rose to meet me. I was looking for the valerian, the deep root that hummed with the...
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