And first there was the breathless, fluttering, near-fear moment when he was blinded and spun. Disorientation without actual threat—he knew they weren’t going to hurt him, and suddenly the disorientation was . . . well, he didn’t have a name for it. It made him feel excited, a thrill of anticipation of something good happening, and the dizziness called up the urge to do very silly things to make them laugh. Then there was standing there, in the dark, waiting to get his equilibrium back, while around him he heard breathing and giggles, and the scuff of feet on the floor. That was exciting, too—something was going to happen, and no matter what it was, the outcome was going to make no difference, so he was free to succeed or not. Free! It was like a sudden drink of strong wine! Suddenly his senses of hearing and smell seemed a thousand times more acute, his heart raced, but in a good way. For some strange reason, this was all terribly exciting in wonderful ways. Every other sense just came alive to the point that he almost didn’t need his eyes. And this was not his Mindspeaking ability; he was keeping that heavily shielded, as Dallen had taught him, because using it would be cheating. No . . . no, this was like working in the mine, in the near-dark, when you felt your way to your place in the seam, or felt your way out, when you listened as hard as you could to see if you could overhear something useful. And when you had to rely on everything except your eyes. Except this was all good. He could win the game and they would all laugh, or he could lose it and they would all laugh, and what he did simply didn’t matter, because no matter what happened, everyone would laugh. This was completely, totally good. He stood very, very still, listening. Waiting.

Then suddenly, he feinted in one direction, and as he heard the circle of youngsters scuttle to evade him, he whirled, and grabbed in the direction he had wanted to reach in the first place.

He caught an arm, and the owner stood stock still. It was female and covered in velvet, which didn’t help, since all the girls were wearing velvet. She was about Lydia’s height, but so was Saski. Before he had arrived, they had all been outside around a bonfire after having a mock fight with snowballs, so they all smelled faintly of woodsmoke. But he knew her by her breathing, and by the suppressed nervousness of her giggle.

“Saski,” he identified at once, and with a crow of laughter, the girl whipped the blindfold off his head.

“You cheated!” she accused playfully, her gray eyes dancing as she tossed her head. “You used some Herald thing! How could you possibly tell between me and Lydia?”