“We are borrowed things,” said the priest. “Our bodies decay, and our essence—well, magic is the stream that waters all things. It lends itself to us in life, and in death calls it back, and so the stream appears to rise and fall, but it never loses a single drop.” “But what of our minds?” pressed Rhy. “Our memories? What of us?” “We are a moment, Your Majesty. And moments pass.”
