anything before, but I’ve been having these dreams, the same
dream actually, over and over.” Quickly he described it, focus-
ing on his confusion about the dark-robed figure who spoke to
him. “I don’t see him clearly enough to be certain who he is,”
he explained carefully. “But he might be Allanon.”
Coil shrugged. “He might be anybody. It’s a dream, Par.
Dreams are always murky.”
“But I’ve had this same dream a dozen, maybe two dozen
times. I thought at first it was just the magic working on me,
but …” He stopped, biting his lip. “What if . . . ?” He
stopped again.
“What if what?”
“What if it isn’t just the magic? What if it’s an attempt by
Allanon-or someone-to send me a message of some sort?”
“A message to do what? To go traipsing off to the Hadeshom
or somewhere equally dangerous?” Coil shook his head. “I
wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. And I certainly wouldn’t
consider going.” He frowned. “You aren’t, are you? Consid-
ering going?”
“No,” Par answered at once. Not until I think about it, at
least, he amended silently, surprised at the admission.
“That’s a relief. We have enough problems as it is without
going off in search of dead Druids.” Coil obviously considered
the matter settled.
Par didn’t reply, choosing instead to poke at the fire with a
stray stick, nudging the embers this way and that. He was indeed
thinking about going, he realized. He hadn’t considered it seri-
ously before, but all of a sudden he had a need to know what
the dreams meant. It didn’t matter if they came from Allanon
or not. Some small voice inside him, some tiny bit of recogni-
tion, hinted that finding the source of the dreams might allow
him to discover something about himself and his use of the
magic. It bothered him that he was thinking like this, that he
was suddenly contemplating doing exactly what he had told him-
self he must not do right from the time the dreams had first
come to him. But that was no longer enough to deter him. There
was a history of dreams in the Ohmsford family and almost
always the dreams had a message.
“I just wish I was sure,” he murmured.
Coil was stretched out on his back now, eyes closed against
the firelight. “Sure about what?”
“The dreams,” he hedged. “About whether or not they were
sent.”
Coil snorted. “I’m sure enough for the both of us. There
aren’t any Druids. There aren’t any Shadowen either. There
aren’t any dark wraiths trying to send you messages in your
sleep. There’s just you, overworked and under-rested, dreaming
bits and pieces of the stories you sing about.”
Par lay back as well, pulling his blanket up about him. “I
suppose so,” he agreed, inwardly not agreeing at all.
Coil rolled over on his side, yawning. “Tonight, you’ll prob-
ably dream about floods and fishes, damp as it is.”
Par said nothing. He listened for a time to the sound of the
rain, staring up at the dark expanse of the canvas, catching the
flicker of the firelight against its damp surface.
“Maybe I’ll choose my own dream,” he said softly.
Then he was asleep.
He did dream that night, the first time in almost two weeks.
It was the dream he wanted, the dream of the dark-robed figure,
and it was as if he were able to reach out and bring it to him. It
seemed to come at once, to slip from the depths of his subcon-
scious the moment sleep came. He was shocked at its sudden-
ness, but didn’t wake. He saw the dark figure rise from the lake,
watched it come for him, vague yet faceless, so menacing that
he would have fled if he could. But the dream was master now
and would not let him. He heard himself asking why the dream
had been absent for so long, but there was no answer given. The
dark figure simply approached in silence, not speaking, not giv-
ing any indication of its purpose.
Then it came to a stop directly before him, a being that could