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out-of-synch with himself following his long dreaming. He absentmindedly touched a hand to a panel on the wall. A door slid aside, revealing a wide selection of attire, from skin-tight bodysuits with glittering metallic sheens to voluminous shirts and long gowns. Korlandril chose a green robe, tight at the waist and flared at the shoulders. He selected a broad belt without thought, his aesthetic instinct guiding his hands to a choice that matched his robe. As he cinched it around his waist, he walked barefoot across the rugs of the lounge area and joined Abrahasil in the dining quarters.
    “Six cycles,” Abrahasil said as Korlandril entered. The room was dominated by a long, narrow table extruding from one wall, between eight single-legged stools in a row on either side. Abrahasil sat at the far end. Korlandril saw that he had taken nothing to eat or drink.
    “Six cycles of what?” asked Korlandril, opening a crystal-windowed cabinet door. From within he pulled out a blue bottle and two silvered goblets.
    “No, drink for me, thank you,” said Abrahasil. Korlandril brought both cups to the table nonetheless, in case his mentor had a change of mind. He poured himself a generous helping of icevine juice, keenly aware of the dryness of his mouth and throat.
    “Six cycles have passed since the unveiling,” Abrahasil explained. “I was worried. You left in a hurry. Thirianna explained that you had a disagreement with Aradryan.”
    Korlandril sipped his drink, his thoughts of Aradryan fixed on distant memory, another part of him savouring the taste of the icevine with its immediate tang and warm afterglow, while yet another part of his consciousness watched Abrahasil carefully. Korlandril shifted the focus of his memory, replaying events from when Aradryan had returned, reminding himself of what had occurred. After remembering the argument, Korlandril felt the serpent in his gut writhing with anger, hissing and spitting at Aradryan’s words.
    “Calm yourself!” warned Abrahasil.
    “It was to calm myself that I went into my dreams,” Korlandril replied with annoyance. “Dreams you have disrupted.”
    “Six cycles is too long to wander in your mind,” said Abrahasil. “It is dangerous to indulge in such self-contemplation when treading the Path of the Artist. It can lead to clashes within your spirit—over-analysis of self, confliction between real observation and imagined memory. I have told you this before.”
    “I could not think of any other means to hold back the pain, except to return to those times with Aradryan that were more pleasant.”
    “You are an artist now, you must express your thoughts, not conceal them!” said Abrahasil. He leaned along the table and poured himself a drink. “What is the point of creating such great works as you are capable of if you are not going to learn the lessons that underpin them. The Path of the Artist is not about painting or sculpting, it is about controlling your means of expression, of filtering your influences and observations so that you can avoid falling prey to unfortunate stimuli. This argument with Aradryan is a fine example of what you must learn to deal with. You cannot just wander into your dreams and forget the real universe.”
    “You think I am juvenile?” said Korlandril, dispensing with all memories of Aradryan as he finished the cup of icevine juice.
    “Not juvenile, just rash,” said Abrahasil. “I have not trod the Path of Dreaming, so I do not know what solace it brings to you. I know that in retreating from your observations you are stepping back from the Path of the Artist. That cannot be healthy by any consideration.”
    Korlandril contemplated Abrahasil’s warning as he poured himself more drink. The agitated snake within writhed and clamoured for Korlandril’s attention and he washed away its nagging with more icevine, for a moment tuning every fibre of his spirit towards savouring the drink, driving away his darker thoughts with a tide