As Vojtěch reached out, a sudden gust of wind swirled around him, and a voice—clear as crystal, yet distant as the echo of a mountain stream—spoke:
Vojtěch’s eyebrows furrowed. “Marký?” he muttered. In his village, “Marký” was the nickname of a mischievous boy who could climb any tree in a heartbeat. “And Slovák? I am Slovak, but I am not Marký.” woodman casting marky slovak