"I've never wanted to be the hero," he defied her. Paragon was still cursing someone defiantly. He sounded drunken and rambling. Brashen turned his head, to stare at the ship. The yellow glow of firelight danced on his chopped face. What did this woman expect of him? There was nothing he could do to help the ship, nothing he could do to help anyone. "All I ever wanted to do was live my own life. And I'm having damn little success at that."

She laughed low. "Only because you keep standing back from it. And turning aside from it. And avoiding it." She shook her head. "Trell, Trell. Open your eyes. This horrible mess is your life. There is no sense in waiting for it to get better. Stop putting it off and live it." She laughed again. Her eyes and voice seemed to go afar. "Everyone thinks that courage is about facing death without flinching. But almost anyone can do that. Almost anyone can hold their breath and not scream for as long as it takes to die. True courage is facing life without flinching. I don't mean the times when the right path is hard, but glorious at the end. I'm talking about enduring the boredom, and the messiness, and the inconvenience of doing what is right." She cocked her head and considered him. "I think you can do that, Trell."

"Stop calling me that," he hissed. His surname was like salt in a wound.

She suddenly gripped his wrist. "No. You stop. Stop thinking you're the son your father disowned. You're not who he expected you to be; that doesn't mean you aren't somebody. Nor are you perfect. Stop using every mistake you make as an excuse to fail completely."

He jerked his wrist free of her grip. "Who are you, to speak to me of these things? What are you, to even know these things?" With chagrin, he finally realized the only possible source of her knowledge. Althea had been talking about him. How much had she told Amber? He looked in her face and knew. Althea had told her everything. Everything. He turned and walked swiftly away from her. He wished the darkness could completely swallow him.

"Brashen? Brashen!" She hissed out the call.

He kept walking.

"Where will you go, Trell?" It was a hoarse cry in the darkness. "Where will you go to get away from yourself?"

He didn't know. He couldn't answer.

THE SLIPPERS WERE RUINED WITH DAMP. MALTA FLUNG THEM INTO A CORner of her closet and took down a warm robe. Her night stroll had chilled her despite the mildness of the season. She took the dream-box down from its shelf. The gray powder she had hidden inside a larger bag of headache herbs. She fished it out and brushed the crumbles of herbs from the outer bag. A shiver of excitement ran over her as she tugged open the laced mouth. She up-ended it into the dream-box and shook it out carefully. A fine powder of dream dust hung glittering in the air. She sneezed violently, and hastily shut the lid of the box. The back of her throat felt odd, numb and yet warm. "Shake the box well, wait, and then open the box by the bedside," she instructed herself. As she crossed the room to her bed, she shook the box. She drew back the coverings of her bed, climbed in and then put the open box by her bed. With a puff, she blew out her candle and lay back on her pillows. She shut her eyes and waited.

Waited.

Anticipation was betraying her. She could not fall asleep. Resolutely, she kept her eyes closed. She tried to think sleepy thoughts.. When that failed, she focused her thoughts on Reyn. She found him much more attractive after Cerwin's disappointing performance. When Cerwin had taken her in his arms, he had seemed thin compared to Reyn's broad chest during his one stolen embrace. She considered it. Certainly, Reyn would not have missed a chance to steal a kiss. Her heart beat faster at the thought.

Reyn raised a storm of conflicting emotions in her. His gifts and attention made her feel important. His wealth was attractive, especially after a whole year of penury. Sometimes she did not mind his veiled face and gloved hands. They made him mysterious. She could look at him and imagine a handsome young man hidden beneath them. When he led her with such grace through intricate dance steps, she felt both his strength and his agility in his light touch upon her hand and back. Only occasionally did she wonder if his veil hid a warty visage with mis-shapen features.

When they were apart, her doubts assailed her. Even worse was the sympathy of her friends. One and all, they were certain he must be a monster. Half the time, Malta suspected they were just jealous of the gifts and attentions he showered on her. Maybe they just wanted him to be ugly, out of envy for her good fortune. Oh, she did not know what she felt or how she believed. Nor was she falling asleep. She had wasted the dream-box powder. Nothing had come out right. She tossed in her bed, both mind and body restless with longings she scarcely understood. She wished her father had come home to make everything right.

"I WANT TO COME OUT. WHY WON'T YOU HELP ME?»

"I can't. Please. Understand that I can't, and stop pleading with me." The imprisoned dragon was contemptuous. "You won't. You could, but you won't. All it would take is sunlight. Open the shutters and let in the sunlight. I would do the rest."

"I have told you. The chamber you are in is buried. Once, I am sure, there were great windows and shutters to open and close them. But the whole structure is buried now. Earth covers you, and trees grow in it. You are beneath a whole forested hillside."

"If you were truly my friend as you claim to be, you'd dig me out and free me. Please. I need to be free. Not just for my own sake, but for the sake of all my kind."

Reyn shifted in his bed, rucking up the covers. He felt he was not truly asleep, nor was he dreaming; yet he was not awake either. The dragon vision had become an almost nightly torment now. When he slept, the dragon looked into him, at him, and through him with great copper eyes the size of cartwheels. Her eyes spun, the colors whirling all about the great elliptical pupils. He could not look away from them, nor could he break free of the dream and wake up. She was imprisoned in her wizardwood cocoon, and he was imprisoned in her.

"You don't understand," he moaned in his sleep. "The shutters are buried, the dome is buried. Sun will never shine into that chamber again."

"Then open the great doors and drag me out. Put rollers beneath if you have to, and use teams of horses. Drag me out, I don't care how. Just deliver me to the sunlight."

He could not make her understand anything. "I can't. You are too big for one man to move alone, and no one would aid me. Even if I had many workers and teams of horses, it would do no good. That door will never open again. No one even knows how it originally opened. Besides, it is buried. Before we could open it, it would take scores of men working for months to move the dirt. Even then, I don't think the door could be opened. The structure is cracked and weakened. If the door was moved, I think the whole dome would give way. You would be buried more deeply than you are now."

"I do not care! Take the chance, open the door. I could help you discover how to do it." Her voice became seductive. "I could give you all the secrets of the city. All you would have to promise is that you would open the door."

Somewhere, his head moved against his sweat-dampened pillow in denial. "No. You would drown me in memories. It would do neither of us any good. That way lies madness for my kind. Do not even tempt me."

"Attack the door, then. Axes and hammers must make it give way. Let it fall on me if it must. Even if it collapsed and killed me, that would be more freedom than this. Reyn, Reyn, why don't you free me? If you were truly my friend, you would free me."

He writhed before her heart-stricken words. "I am your friend. I am. I long to free you, but I cannot do it alone. I must win others to my cause, first. Then we will find a way. Be patient, I pray you. Be patient."