Emerahl wrenched herself out of the dream and opened her eyes. It had come to her nearly every night for the last month. Each time it was the same: the tower fell on her and she slowly suffocated under the rubble. If she let it run to its end she woke up feeling shaken and frightened, so she had started waking herself up as soon as it began.

After all, it’s going to wake me up anyway. I may as well do so on my terms.

Sighing, she rose and poured some water into a kettle and started a fire. The flames cast eerie shadows on the walls of the lighthouse—the most menacing being that of herself with hunched shoulders and mussed hair.

Old witch woman, she thought at the shadow. No wonder the villagers fear you.

She hadn’t seen any of them for several days. Occasionally she wondered if “little Rinnie” was still evading the clutches of her father and his cronies. Mostly she enjoyed the peace.

Then why these dreams? she asked herself. Taking a few dried leaves from a jar, she sprinkled them into a cup. The kettle whispered as the water grew hot. She linked her fingers together and considered the dream.

It was always the same. The details never varied. It was more like a memory dream than an ordinary dream, but she had no memories like it. She prided herself on her memory and that she had never suppressed any of her recollections of the past. Good or bad, she accepted them as part of who she was.

This dream had a purposeful feel to it. Something she had not felt for a long time. It reminded her of a…of a dream sent by a Dreamweaver!

This revelation sent a rare thrill of surprise through her. It was possible that a sorcerer had learned the skill, or even a priest, but something told her it was a Dreamweaver’s work.

But why send it? Had it been sent solely to her, or projected out to anyone sensitive enough to receive it? She drummed her fingers on her knees. The contents of a dream could be a clue to its origins. She considered the towers that she knew had existed in the past. None looked similar, but the dream tower could simply represent some other one. Or another building that had collapsed. She felt a chill run down her spine. Mirar had been killed when Juran, the leader of the Circlians, had destroyed Jarime’s Dreamweaver House and buried him in the rubble. It was said his body was crushed so badly he was barely recognizable.