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feathers on top of his head, looked not unlike a catalyst himself—the Druid left his sunny garden, returning to the cool, darkened, peaceful confines of the infirmary.
    “Sun arise, Brother,” the
Theldara
said, entering the Waiting Chamber quietly, his brown robes brushing the stone floor with a soft, whispering sound.
    “S-sun arise, Healer,” stammered the young man, starting. He had been staring moodily out a window and had not heard the entry of the druid.
    “If you will walk this way with me,” continued the
Theldara
, his sharp, penetrating gaze taking in every aspect of the young catalyst from the unnatural pallor of his complexion to the chewed fingernails to the nervous preoccupation, “we will go to my private quarters, which are more comfortable, for our little talk.”
    The young man nodded and answered politely, but it was obvious to the Druid that he might have invited the catalyst to walk off a cliff and received the same vague response. They passed through the infirmary with its long rows of beds, the wood lovingly shaped into the image of cupped hands holding mattresses of sweet-smelling leaves and herbs, whose fragrant combination promoted sleep and relaxation. Here and there, a few patients rested, listening to prescribed music and concentrating their bodies’ energies on the healing process. The
Theldara
had a word for each as he passed, but he did not stop, leading his charge out of this area into another chamber, more closed off and private. In a sunny room whose walls were made of glass, a room filled with growing, living things, the Druid sat down upon a cushion of soft pine needles and invited his patient to do the same.
    The catalyst did so, plopping down upon it awkwardly. He was a tall young man, stoop-shouldered, with hands and feet that seemed too big for his body. He was carelessly dressed, his robes too short for his height. There were gray smudges of fatigue beneath the dull eyes. The Druid noticed all this without seeming to take any unusual interest in his patient, chatting all the time about the weather and inquiring if the catalyst would partake of a soothing tea.
    Having received a muttered acquiescence, the
Theldara
gestured and a sphere of steaming liquid obediently floated from the fire, filled two cups, and returned to its proper place. The Druid took one cautious sip of his tea, then casually caused the cup to float down to the table. The herbal concoction was intended to relax inhibitions and encouragefree talking. He watched carefully as the young man gulped his down thirstily, seemingly unmindful of the liquid’s heat and probably never even tasting it. Putting his cup down, the young man stared out one of the large glass windows.
    “I am very pleased we have this chance to visit, Brother Saryon,” said the Druid, motioning to the sphere to fill the young man’s cup again. “So often I see you young people only when you are sick. You are feeling well, are you not, Brother?”
    “I am fine, Healer,” said the young man, still staring out the window. “I came here only at the request of my Master.”
    “Yes, you seem well enough in body,” the
Theldara
said mildly, “but our bodies are merely shells for our minds. If the mind suffers, it harms the body.”
    “I am fine,” Saryon repeated somewhat impatiently. “A touch of insomnia …”
    “But I’m told you have been missing Evening Prayer, that you do not take your daily exercise, and you have been skipping meals.” The Druid was silent a moment, watching with expert eyes the tea begin to take effect. The stooped shoulders slumped, the eyelids drooped, the nervous hands slowly settled into the catalyst’s lap. “How old are you, Brother? Twenty-seven, twenty-eight?”
    “Twenty-five.”
    The Druid raised an eyebrow. Saryon nodded. “I was admitted to the Font at the age of twenty,” he said by way of explanation, most young men and women entering when they are twenty-one.
    “And what was the reason