If there is speech in Nowhere; if there is a language used by the Dead; if the House of the Moon has a native tongue; then it must be Killasimi. If none of this is true, it is still not a language to be spoken in daylight. Each word breathes woe. Read it, as they say, and weep.
There is a prophecy of a master-carpenter who will resolve, unwisely, that the coffins he shapes are too beautiful to sully with corpses. He will steal trinkets from the dead, he will ask the help of smiths and jewellers, and day and night he will labour to shape something worthy of his work. At last he will tire of his task and offer his breath to the shape in the casket. When it accepts, it will rise from the coffin and pronounce itself King. It will rule by fear, or fear will destroy it. In either case, its maker will have no coffin and no grave, and his name will lost.