Trey chewed on a fist of fledge as he drifted into a sleep bordering on unconsciousness. His mother sat beside him and whispered in his ear, motherly things that he would only remember much, much later. She stroked his cheek, ran her fingertips across his closed eyelids with the subtlety of a breath of air, and when she was sure he slept, she stood and walked away.

TREY WANDERED THE nearby caves in his sleep, his mind distanced from his body through the influence of fledge. He took some control—he knew what was happening—but he did not steer where he went. There was nobody to touch upon, nothing to find, so he drifted into one large cave, passed down into a deep, dark lake filled with unknown things, forced through a hundred steps of solid rock, found himself in a smaller cave . . . and suddenly there was someone there he knew.

His mother.

She had not taken fledge before sleep, he was sure, though he had hardly been in a state to know. This was really her, her bodily self, not just her wandering mind. She noticed him suddenly, spinning around and smiling as his presence made itself felt.

Son, she said, and invisibly he smiled back.

What are you doing here, Mother? How did you get here? It’s dangerous; you should be back with me.

I thought I should let you sleep. And I want to set you free.

What do you mean?

There’s a long way to go yet. Trey. Distances to travel, days to work through. And already I’m a hindrance.

Mother . . .

I’ve been topside, son. It’s a wonderful place. And hateful. Wide-open spaces, and terribly confined outlooks. The people up there are so different, remember that. Some will love you for who you are, and some will cut your throat for a fistful of fledge. There’s no finer sight than seeing the sun sink behind the hills, but as it leaves, danger arrives in its wake. It’s backward up there, Trey. They live in the light and find safety in it; it’s the darkness they fear.

Why?

Because they never know what’s in it. We thought we did once son. That’s what pride does. It blinds you better than the dark.

Come back now, Mother. I’ll wake. We should go.

I am going, Trey. I love you. I’m proud of you, so proud. But I’m old and weak, and . . . and I don’t want to be the cause of your death. She was crying now, really crying, and in his sleep Trey could almost hear her sobs echoing through the caves.

Mother, I don’t know what—

Don’t follow me, son. Follow yourself. Always.