They arranged themselves, each wife standing before her pillar, torch held high. Jude stood at the center, facing the largest pillar behind them, which bore his own tokens, prayer scroll, broken knife, the queen's tear stone, the witch's symbol burned, a wormwood sample, a burnt seed, the map of the island shell, a scrap of the scroll promising that to kill gods, be gods, there were infants, the mark of binding. Twelve tokens writ into the rock.
The hum deepened. The pools glowed brighter. A voice formed in their minds, not molded by shape, but by thought, a composite of ten thousand rustling memories.
"You have come," it said. "To speak what endures amid oblivion."
Jude raised his voice. "We speak our names. We stand as witness. We are here."
A blast of air answered, cool and broad. The pools flared. Memories flooded: each wife saw early childhood, joys and pain, each named name. Jude saw first flame, first blood, first oath, first loss. First curse. First infant silence.
