For the rest of the day, Adalon, Targesh and Simangee watched over their old tutor as he lay there on his bed, gripped by a nightmare that would not let go. Hours went by as the old tutor mumbled and shivered, his eyes screwed tightly shut. At one stage in that long afternoon, Moralon came by and stood in the doorway for some time. He held his game board, but his gaze was on Hoolgar as the old saur thrashed his arms in distress. Adalon watched with interest, for this was more engaged than he'd seen his uncle since he'd been saved from the dungeons of High Battilon. Moralon remained on the threshold of Hoolgar's room for some time, but eventually shuffled off without saying a word. Toward evening, as candlelight replaced the struggling light of day, Hoolgar sat bolt upright, eyes wide. He clutched at Adalon's arm. 'The A'ak . . . the A'ak!' he repeated hoarsely. Targesh took the Crested One's shoulders and eased him back to the bed. 'Hush,' Simangee said. 'Rest, Hoolgar. You're safe now.' Hoolgar mumbled a little, harsh words under his breath, then shook his head.
