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smells of fodder and animals. One of the horses startled awake, and two others shifted uneasily in their pens as he passed. Feeling his way through the darkness, he located one of the stalls he’d cleaned out earlier. The horse was an old white mare, sweet and docile. She nickered softly as he piled the cleanest straw in one corner and buried himself in it.

    Gray, filtered light filled the inside of the barn. Horses stamped and buckets rattled. Eduin’s head throbbed and his mouth felt thick and sour. His shirt was mostly dry, but smelled of ale and vomit. He cleaned himself as best he could with handfuls of clean straw. The white mare watched him with gentle dark eyes as he hauled himself to his feet and went outside.
    Shivering, he turned to look back toward the heart of the city. Tall buildings and stately towers, the citadel of Hastur Castle, rose above the humbler dwellings. He thought of the life he had lost, of warm, bright rooms, the keen exhilaration of using his laran, of the intimacy and comradeship of the circle. Gone, gone forever.
    Compulsion roused, gnawed at him like a wild beast. Soon there would be nothing left of him. It would eat him up, heart and dreams and will. As if in response, thirst clawed his throat.
    Drink . . . ah, yes . . . murmured the seductive thought, drink and forget. . . .
    And wake to yet another morning of pounding in his head and bile in his mouth, drinking again as the compulsion pressed in on him, each bout longer and sicker, each time with less hope, to the shambling, sodden creature he had made of himself. This time there would be no gentle stranger to drag him in from the storm, no dream—
    No dream.
    He did not want to die. Especially, he did not want to die alone. He did not know what to do. He only knew that he could not continue the way he had before.
    The dream itself had vanished, swept away by the pulse and throb of pain. But he had dreamed it. That much he must believe, or he would surely go mad.
    Not for an instant did he believe the vision to be true. It was simply an illusion born out of his own inner longing. Saravio must have induced in him a state of extraordinary euphoria or suggestibility, having learned the technique during his training at Cedestri Tower. Perhaps the kirian played a part.
    The dream . . . and then the blessed space of freedom. He must find out how it had been done.

3
    E duin paused in front of the weathered door, one hand raised. It was folly to return, like a moth to a candle, but some deep, wordless impulse had defeated all reason, overridden all instinct for survival. Perhaps after so many years of having no hope, only the long dark descent into despair, he could not turn away from that single luminous memory of chieri dancing beneath the moons, of himself being one of them.
    Before Eduin could knock, however, the door swung open. Saravio stood there, hood slightly askew over his red hair, as if he had just pulled it on. He grabbed the front of Eduin’s jacket, still flecked with bits of straw, and pulled him inside.
    “Did they follow you?”
    “No one follows me.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Yes, I’m sure.” Stepping back, Eduin pulled Saravio’s hands away. “Do you think I wouldn’t know?”
    “Yes, of course. You would know.” Saravio’s posture softened. “Are you hungry?” he asked, as if Eduin had stepped out for a moment instead of the better part of four days.
    Saravio divided the heel of a loaf and gestured for Eduin to sit beside him on the pallet. Eduin bit into the bread, finding a dense, chewy interior beneath the stale crust. Ground nuts and some kind of pleasantly bitter seeds had been mixed into the dough. He knew from experience that such a mixture could keep a man going for a long time.
    Behind his eyes, the pressure nudged. Failed . . . you have failed . . .
    The two began talking, Eduin guardedly, searching for an opening. They spoke of inconsequential things, the coarseness of the nutbread, the weather