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“If thou grievest not for Sheveldar, it does not make thee a monster, either. But in grieving for a murderer, thou art not grieving for the monstrous. Thou grievest for the man who failed to reject the monstrous act.”

“Goodness,” she said. “I’m no Csaiveiso, but I’ve often found that warm milk before bed helps me sleep.” “Don’t listen to that milk nonsense,” the goblin man across the table said cheerfully. “My father swore by brandy.”

It was not uncommon for people to say more than they meant when talking to a Witness for the Dead. My teacher, Othala Pelovar, had said that it was because we were taught to listen, and that once you had learned to listen to the dead, the living posed no challenge. The elderly Witness for the Dead in Lohaiso said that…

I saw Zanarin wince pointedly at my voice, which was harsh and graveled thanks to my surviving the sessiva when it swept through Lohaiso during my prelacy there. It mostly did not bother me, except when someone like Zanarin made sure it did.”