He dressed in the chill silence, pulling on his apprentice robes even though he no longer held that position. He made the bed, as all apprentices had to, with such precision that an inspection later would find the sheet crisp, the blanket folded, the pillow fluffed. He doubted he would sleep here again, but he saw no reason not to adhere to the rules. He hadn’t really slept here the night before. He had tried. But his door had opened countless times: Shaman coming in to report things they didn’t feel they could say in the meeting. Some had Visions of Kerde dying at the hands of a Fey with dark hair trailing down his back; others had Visions of the Triangle of Might forming across the land; and still others had Visions of Blood against Blood, instigated when Gift again set foot on Blue Isle. But those Visions were somehow expected. They didn’t disturb him like some of the legends did, the legends no one wanted to speak of before the other Shaman. Those who reported the legends insisted he not get out of bed, he not look at them.
