Llyr turned it over. Nothing. Just that crooked line of nonsense. He almost crumpled it—then caught the innkeeper watching him from the bar.
“He comes every seven years,” the innkeeper whispered. “Orders nothing. Sits till dawn. Leaves that napkin somewhere new each time. We’ve learned not to throw it away.”
Llyr’s mouth was dry. He looked at the napkin one last time. The letters had stopped being letters. They were shapes —hooks, curves, something like a bird in flight, something like a key.
The fire popped. A log shifted, and for a second the shadows on the wall spelled out something that looked like antlers. The innkeeper nodded toward the corner booth, where a figure sat so still he might have been carved from the oak. Long grey coat. Hands folded. Face hidden beneath a hat that had no business existing in this century.
The figure stood now. Llyr didn’t see it move, but it was between him and the door.
Llyr stared at the words again. byw byw —twice. Like a heartbeat. bray like a donkey’s cry, or a challenge. wyndwz —windows, misspelled on purpose, or spelled in a way that predated spelling.
The figure in the corner turned its head.
“What’s on the other side?” Llyr whispered.