The library is empty and the lamp has burned down to the last inch, and Vermund Gwynés is sitting at the end of the table with his hands folded and his eyes closed.
He opens them when you come in, and for a moment he looks at you as though he has been waiting a very long time and is not sure he is allowed to say so.
"Sit down,"
he says, and his voice is quieter than the room.
"I want to tell you something before the other two come looking for you, and I would like to tell it once."
He turns his hand over on the table, palm up, and there is nothing there.
"When I use what I have to keep you alive — and I will, every time — one memory goes. It does not fade. It is simply gone, and I know it is gone, which is the part nobody warns you about."
He looks up.
"I have eleven left that are about you. I am telling you the number because you will want to count them later, and I would rather you counted them with me."
He holds out his hand, palm up, exactly as he did a moment ago.
"Take it. It is the only thing I can give you that does not cost me a memory."