"If you find that person, tell her to send me home," I reply finally.
"I shall," he said. "In the meantime, listen to me carefully. When asked, battle-witches always say they are from the edge of the world. You and I know differently. No one else can know."
"I'm sorry." It seems like the right thing to say. "I didn't know. I won't say anything to anyone." I want to ask him if he knows he's just a fictional character. By the look on his face, it's not a good time to point that out.
"And if you are asked by anyone, you are to tell them you were found on my side of the river. Do you understand?" His gaze is piercing, his face stony.
"I think so."
"You must know so. I will ensure you never return home if you admit the truth to anyone."
Things just got real a little too fast for me. I nod and then find my voice. "I understand." My heart is slamming into my chest, adrenaline racing through me as my instincts warn me of danger. It's hard to keep in mind that none of this is real when he looks like he's ready to stab me with a knife.
The intensity around him fades and the smile returns. "I have never found a new battle-witch. I am eager to learn how well you predict battles."
"Yeah." My head is feeling better from the food. My appetite has fled. "Me, too." It seems like the only safe answer and I start to retreat into my shell, the way I do around anyone else in the real world. I know the world of this book is dangerous. I'm starting to think it's dangerous to me. "Um, do you know how I'm supposed to predict battles?" I venture.
"My last battle-witch would look at her hand. When there was aught to share, she shared."
I glance down instinctively at my hands. To my surprise, there's something on my right palm, written sloppily in a maroon Sharpie.
"Can you see it?" I ask, holding out my palm to him.
"I cannot. What does it say?"
Maybe I am a battle-witch. How weird would that be? Squinting, I study the writing. It appears to be moving, scrolling like the ticker at the bottom of a news station. Beneath it is a digital clock marking days, hours, minutes, and seconds.
"There's some sort of countdown," I say, watching the seconds tick down. "What happens in about ten days?"
"The end of this thousand-year era," he replies.
"Is that good or bad?"
"It should be neither." He's rubbing his jaw, gaze growing distant. The tension is back in his frame, a sign I take as bad.