A child will dream the minutiae of life, relate the sending in the morning, all innocent and dewy-eyed; astonished when the dream events turn true next day--or next one. She's watched then, for grandma will have contacted Temple, never doubt it; and after a time the child will dream the name of the one she had been Before. Then she'll be brought to Circle and trained to be one with the Dream. I know the way because Jake used to talk about his Mam, my gran'mam, who'd Dreamed a Dream and had the training and then left the Temple and who she'd been--for love, Jake said, and for stars. I've never dreamed the naming-Dream, being outworlder, even though witch-blood. I figure only the damned come to me--those who died unquiet or outside the love of the Holy; those who somehow lost their Name. I figure that, but I don't say it. I dream the dreams and I let them go. Sometimes they come back. Sometimes they come true. The first time I saw Her was dreamsight. She was in a port side bar--too coarse a place for Her to be--standing straight in her starry blue robe, with her breasts free and her face shining with power, black hair crackling lightning and spread around her like an aurora.
