But previous visions had done little to reassure him. Again and again he had watched Kyle race across the flowing dunes of the northern rift, the voracious white bulk of hungry bones persuing him as he lured them toward Ji. Their long white teeth gnashed only inches from Kyle before he disappeared into the Gray Space. The sight always left John rattled and the sky above him darkened with storm clouds. After three days John had realized that it was better not to watch over Kyle, as much as he wanted to. Instead he concentrated on his own surroundings, attempting to bury his anxiety in the perfect interlacing of deep roots and fine threads of mycelia. John felt the miles stretching ahead of him; the stony forests of the Iron Heights slowly gave way to the sloping, tilled soil of the Bousim farmlands. Countless tiny seeds cracked open and pushed with infinite persistence through the rich soil, climbing towards the warmth of the spring sun. John relaxed in his saddle, moving in rhythm with his big tahldi’s gait.
