And though my fingers itched for it, I did not bring out my lute that night and fill my small corner of the school with music. I even went so far as to slide my lute case underneath my bed, lest the mere sight of it fill the school with rumor. For several days I did little but study under Vashet. I ate alone and made no attempt to speak with anyone, as I was suddenly self-conscious of my language. Carceret kept her distance, but she was always there, watching me, her eyes flat and angry as a snake’s. I took advantage of Vashet’s excellent Aturan and asked a thousand questions that would have been too subtle for Tempi to understand. I waited three entire days until I asked her the question that had been slowly smoldering inside me since I’d climbed the foothill of the Stormwal. Personally, I thought this showed exceptional restraint. “Vashet,” I asked. “Do your people have stories of the Chandrian?” She looked at me, her normally expressive face gone suddenly impassive. “And what does this have to do with your hand-talk?”
