Raj Ahten had endowments of wit from over a thousand men. He recalled every beat of his heart, remembered every word ever uttered to him. He visualized the woman now, at least the back of her head. A shapely young thing, in a hooded robe. Her long hair a deep brunette. She’d been next to a statue of gray stone. Once again, he felt an odd sensation—a peculiar muzziness of thought.

But—no, he suddenly realized. It could not have been a statue. The thing had moved. Yet when he’d passed it, he’d had the impression of stone.

He tried to recall the statue’s face, to imagine the thing he’d passed as living flesh. But he could not see it, could not visualize it. A statue of a boy—a faceless, plain-looking lad in a dirty robe.

They’d stood in the streets near where his pyromancer had been murdered.

But wait, Raj Ahten had it now—the scent. He recalled their smell. Held it in his mind. Yes, it was here in the woods. And he’d smelled it at the stable. The young man Raj Ahten had seen at the stable, minutes ago.

Raj Ahten could remember everything he’d seen in years. Now he tried to dredge up the lad’s face, to see him there in the stables.

Instead, he saw the image of a tree: a great tree in the heart of the wood at dusk, so vast that its swaying branches seemed to reach up and capture the stars.

It was so peaceful under that tree, watching it, that Raj Ahten raised his hands, felt the warmth of the starlight touching his own hands, penetrating them.

He longed to be that tree, swaying in the wind. Unmoved, unmovable. Nothing more than trunk and roots, reaching deep into the soil, tendrils of root tickled by the passing of countless worms. Breathing deep. The birds soaring through his limbs, nesting in the crooks of branches, pecking at grubs and mites that hid in the folds of his bark.

Raj Ahten stood, breath suspended, among the trees of the forest, looking down on his smaller brothers, tasting the wind that meandered slowly above him and through him. All cares ceasing. All hopes and aspirations fading. A tree, so peaceful and still.

Ah, to stand thus forever!

Fire blossomed in his trunk.

Raj Ahten opened his eyes. One of his flameweavers stood glaring at him, had prodded him with a hot finger.

“Milord, what are you doing? You’ve been standing here for five minutes!”

Raj Ahten drew a deep breath of surprise, looked at the trees around him, suddenly uneasy. “I . . . Gaborn is still here in the city,” Raj Ahten said. Yet he could not describe the boy, could not see his face. He concentrated, and saw in rapid succession a stone, a lonely mountain, a gorge.

Why can I not see his face? Raj Ahten wondered.