The Choir-Mother was still coming apart inside him, one rewritten sentence at a time, when Ul'moreth spoke again.
|"THE First Tongue was also yours. Take it,"| the old teacher said quietly. |"A teacher who hoards what he knows is only a miser with a classroom."|
And he opened himself!
Golden-blue script poured off his dimmed hand and into Noah, a slow, steady stream of it. Everything this time, more than any lesson. Every Logos Ul'moreth had spoken in his Ages of dreaming. Every sentence, every paragraph, every grammar he had learned in that endless hall of light. How words joined. How sentences broke. How a whole Immensity could be read like a page, if one knew where to look.
He gave it freely. And Noah's Dreaming Human Origin took it in.
