Nayan motioned toward the shimmering spectrum of dreamstone vials covering the shelves. “If it brings you a measure of peace to attend to her, then do, but not at the cost of the fruits of our labor. Our history is fraught, pockmarked by the scars of war and constant siege. A revisioning, as it were, is in order—but I cannot do it alone.”

Revisioning. A new vision. That was as good a name as any for dreamsmithing. “I know,” Venkat said. “I’m sorry.”

“I have no need of an apology.” Nayan sighed. “I merely wish to know that you are not losing focus. We are a partnership, Venkat, a team. If you cannot trust me, and I cannot trust you, how can we revision things for our people?”

Shame flooded Venkat. Why couldn’t Nayan have just yelled at him?

“All I want from you, my son, is the truth.”

Venkat groped for the dream elements on the table. He had to change the subject before that truth came barreling out. “Didn’t you say something about grief and sweetness?”

The trance slipped over him like a shining coat, and he vanished into its embrace. Eddies of color and feeling danced all around, and he wished he could stay like this always. Lost to the worlds, a compliant vessel for whatever new concept wished to come forth.

A thousand possibilities bloomed in his thoughts, but he let them all fall away like petals from a shedding flower and concentrated on the intersection of grief and sweetness. His hands traced the path his spirit laid out, trekking from the familiar, gutting devastation of his family’s deaths to a new image of Tanvi and Asha on Prithvi, eating too-big scoops of ice cream in a park with Asha’s mortal boyfriend, who sat outside the frame. That had never actually happened, of course, but it made no difference. The imagined conspiratorial smiles were sufficient fuel, and the swing of emotions drove his hands as he combined and sheared away.

All too soon, the trance released him, and he looked down, panting, to see a new section that glowed with promise. It featured a dawning sun and what looked like an assortment of variegated golden eggs. Many, many eggs, at least a couple thousand.

Eggs. Dreamsmithing never failed to astound him with what it could generate when he got out of the way and let the elements guide him.

“A fine symbol of renewal and hope,” Nayan remarked. “And this is why I have not yet filled you in. If you have expectations . . .”

“I wonder how many omelets that would make,” Venkat mused, still out of breath. “I bet they’d be delicious.”