The innkeeper shrugged—a small, frightened motion. “Last time, old Morwenna was still alive. She spoke the Old Tongue. Said it wasn’t English, nor Welsh, nor any tongue of men. Said it was a door written sideways. A phrase that, if spoken aloud at the right window, lets in something that ought to stay out.”
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. danlwd fyltrshkn byw byw bray wyndwz
When dawn came, The Wanderer’s Rest was empty. The fire was ash. The napkin lay on the floor, blank as a skull. The innkeeper shrugged—a small, frightened motion
The glass softened. The lock on the casement snapped of its own accord. Said it wasn’t English, nor Welsh, nor any tongue of men