“Go on,” Auraya said.

He leapt from her lap and scurried up Mairae’s arm to her shoulder. Auraya watched them walk away, smiling as the veez licked Mairae’s ear and caused her to flinch.

Soon afterward she heard footsteps. Leiard came around a corner and saw her. He smiled and lengthened his stride. As he reached the pavilion his eyes strayed to the statue of Chaia and his face froze for a moment, then his gaze returned to her.

“Auraya of the White,” he said formally.

“Dreamweaver Leiard,” she replied.

“It grows late,” he observed. “Will they decide today, do you think?”

She lifted one eyebrow at him. “I’ve never seen you anxious before.”

His lips twitched up at one corner. “It would be disappointing if we came so far only to have them reject the alliance.”

“Yes, it would, but perhaps it would only take a little more negotiation to persuade them.”

“Perhaps.”

He glanced at the statue again. She turned to regard it. If Chaia was watching, what did he make of Leiard? Were the gods bothered by the revelation that the Dreamweaver adviser to the White contained Mirar’s memories?

No, they probably knew all along, she realized. They would have warned me if Leiard was a danger.

But would they warn her if this put him in danger? Standing up, she moved out of the pavilion and began to stroll down the path. Leiard let out a long, quiet sigh of relief and fell into step beside her.

She felt a pang of annoyance at the sigh. It reminded her that, even if she managed to encourage tolerance for Dreamweavers among Circlians, he would never be comfortable around anything to do with the gods. That was to be expected. He had turned from the gods to become a Dreamweaver. When he died the gods would not take his soul. It would cease to exist. The thought pained her. I am immortal. I won’t ever meet him in the afterlife. It wouldn’t be so bad if he simply worshipped a different god. At least I’d know he still existed somewhere.

She shook her head. Why would someone reject the gods and their chance at eternity? She turned to regard him, and his eyebrows rose in query.

“What is it?”

“Why did you become a Dreamweaver, Leiard?”

He shrugged. “I don’t remember exactly,” he said. “Must have been the right decision at the time.”

“What did your family think—do you remember that?”

He frowned, then shook his head. “My parents are dead.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

Leiard made a dismissive gesture. “It was a long time ago, when I was young. I barely remember them.”

Auraya laughed. “When you were young? Leiard, you can’t be all that old. You’re the only person I know who seems to get younger every time we meet.”

“That’s because you’ve been growing up.”