he could tell, very much the man he had always been. Tracing his fingers along
the familiar, imperfect embroidery of his sleeves, he considered what he knew of
the topology of nonmortal spheres and Meridian, the realm of dreams where
ASkelon held sway. He thought about ASkelon as well and reflected that if there
were one entity-ASkelon hardly qualified as a man-who could both complicate and
resolve their problems, the Dream Lord was that entity.
He made the mistake, however, of thinking that because he felt like himself, he
was himself and slipped into rapid considerations as to which of the players
would be best for the part.
“That is not for you to decide,” the lion reminded Molin, baring its glistening
teeth. “ASkelon has already made his choice.”
“Tempus will not go.”
“Give him this, then.” Stormbringer laid a linen scarf across Molin’s
unwillingly outstretched hands.
The netherworld that was the gods’ universe fractured. Molin held the scarf to
his face for protection as the lion-head apparition became hard, dark pellets
that beat him into a dizzying backward spiral. The scream he had left frozen in
his throat tore loose and engulfed him.
“It’s over now; relax.”
A strong, long-fingered hand was wrapped around his wrist, pulling his hands
away from his face. The hard pellets were wind-driven raindrops. His hands,
Molin realized as he unclenched them, were empty. He was on his back-had fallen
from his horse.
“You’re back with us ordinary folk,” the woman told him as she yanked on his
cloak and twisted his torso until his shoulders were propped on a relatively dry