The Little Folk had known about the wyvern attack this morning. So she’d supposed that this little effigy, already falling apart under the torrent of rain, was another message of sorts. One just for her. Brannon’s temple on the coast had been rendered carefully—a clever little contraption of twigs and rocks to form the pillars and altar … And on the sacred rock in its center, they’d created a white stag from raw sheep’s wool, his mighty antlers no more than curling thorns. An order—where to go, what she needed to obtain. She was willing to listen, play along. Even if it had meant telling the
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