A statue of Letha herself stood in the center of the fountain. She appeared as a water-bearer, the river of Oblivion constantly flowing from the jug cradled in her arms. Cassandra never looked at the statue’s face. There was something about the Goddess’s expression that rattled her, sending shards of ice slicing down her spine. A vacancy, an absence that somehow lacked any hint of peace or tranquility. Like the face of an obliviate.
