Vysogota leaned over and examined it, squinting. ‘An elven mandala,’ he said soon after, raising his head. ‘The so-called blathan caerme, or garland of destiny: stylised oak blossom, bridewort and broom flowers. A tower being struck by lightning – a symbol of chaos and destruction, for the Old Races . . . And above the tower–’ ‘A swallow,’ Ciri completed. ‘Zireael. My name.’
