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draped with cloth against all the walls, and gathered up in the middle of the ceiling, supposedly to resemble a Shin’a’in tent. Firesong’s idea, and he couldn’t spoil Firesong’s pleasure by telling him it no more looked like the inside of a Shin’a’in tent than the Palace gardens looked like a Vale. It contained the chests that held his clothing, the few personal possessions that he had managed to accumulate, and a more comfortable bed than the pallet in the tent in the garden. He didn’t use the bed much, except to lie on and think.
    He pulled aside the cloth covering the windows on the outer wall, and looked out into the branches of the tree just outside. He found himself wondering if that story Firesong had heard was true—and if it was, how had it ended? In tragedy, or in happiness?
    And how could it matter to me, either way? Oh, I think too much.
    He turned back into the room, dropped the robe, and pulled out a shirt and breeches from the chest that held his clothing, pulling them on and trying to ignore the slightly odd cut. These were not Shin’a’in, and there was no getting around the fact. They would never feel exactly “right.”
    But it was clothing, and it worked very well; it didn’t matter if it felt like Shin’a’in clothing or not.
    He turned back to the window—
    And suddenly, out of nowhere, the fear came again. Not one of the stupid, personal fears, but something much, much greater. He clung to the windowsill with both hands as the sunlight turned as chill as a blizzard sweeping across the Plains, and his teeth chattered as he shook from head to toe, unable to move, scarcely able to draw a breath. His stomach clenched; his jaws locked on a cry of anguish. His heart thundered in his ears, and he wanted only to run, mad with terror, until he couldn’t run any farther.
    Something is wrong....
    Then, abruptly, the fear left him, gasping for breath, as it always did.
    But the message remained.
     
    Firesong sat under a crocus-patterned lantern in the gathering dusk, scratching the crest of his firebird. The bird weighed down his other arm, its eyes closed with pleasure, and Firesong’s eyes were distant as he concentrated on An’desha’s hesitant words.
    “... it was the same as the last time,” An’desha concluded, the memory of that terror calling up a chill all over again. “That’s three times now, and the circumstances I was in were different all three times.”
    Firesong nodded slowly, brushing a lock of white hair back behind his neck. The firebird slitted one sleepy eye in disapproval, until Firesong’s hand came back to scratch his crest again. “I don’t think this is coming from within you,” he said, as a night-blooming flower beside An’desha released perfume into the air. “I believe your own impression is right; there is a menace approaching that we are not yet aware of, and this feeling of fear of yours is a presentiment.”
    An‘desha sighed with relief; the first two times that this had happened, Firesong had been inclined to think it was nothing more than a delayed reaction to all that An’desha had been through. Still, he was troubled. “F-F-Falconsbane had no such prescience,” he stammered.
    Firesong only shrugged. “Falconsbane never wished to know the future,” he pointed out. “He assumed it would follow the course that he set. And you are not he; the Star-Eyed could well have granted you such a gift along with all else.”
    A very real possibility and, if so, it was yet another “gift” he wished that She would take back. His face must have reflected that thought since Firesong smiled slightly.
    “The most likely direction for threat is east, of course,” he continued. “This Empire that the Valdemarans fear so much is rich with mages; I think it likely that they will not end their conquest at the Hardorn border.”
    As An‘desha sat there dumbly, Firesong expanded his speculations. The Empire was a good prospect; the Adept was right