The stagecoach rattled over the cobbles of Farewell Square and finally came to a halt. Yoor stepped down into the heart of Old Varoonya. Stars were out in the sky, but the air was still warm and pleasant, a soft summer night. The smell of horses accompanied the clatter of wheels, the murmur of greetings and goodbyes.

Yoor looked around uncertainly. Magical lights shimmered all around the place, lining the doors and shingles of the surrounding inns. The colorful stitches in the velvet of the night welcomed him, gifting him with a tale of tangled secrets, with the enticing wink of a lounging beauty.

"Thank you," Yoor murmured. "But I am not sure about adornments any more."

Torly dropped the baggage at their feet and Yoor turned to her, his eyes full of questions and doubts. "Can I still hold on to the belief that I have built my life upon? My faith in the value of beauty and charming delights, of pleasures and amusements?"

Torly's gaze followed the glowing threads of rose and amber tracing the edge of the square. She leaned into Yoor, interlacing her fingers with his. "The people who put up these lights," she said earnestly, "did not suffer while doing it. They did not risk their lives, nor go down into darkness and danger." She squeezed his hand. "That is the crux. And the difference. This beauty is not grown from misery."

*

Torly had gone straight to her academy dormitory, to prove she still existed and belonged. So Yoor came home alone, and the bay balcony welcomed him with a night sky above and the colorful lights of river boats below.

But his bedroom threatened. Yoor knew very well what was in there.

He walked up slowly, his steps faltering. With grim determination, he laid his hand on the knob and pushed. A thin sickle moon looked in through the window, giving hardly any light at all. Fortunately, Yoor had brought a magical lantern that lit up the room with a soft, comforting glow.

Nevertheless. Yoor licked his lips as he put the lantern down and came to stand before his dressing table. He swallowed. And pulled open the drawer with one swift, decisive move.

The box was still there, as always. But it seemed hostile now, alien.

Hesitantly, Yoor reached in.

He raised his eyes to the mirror as he slowly laid the headpiece into his pearly hair. The diamond came to rest in the middle of his brow. Yoor flinched.

He looked at his own reflection. His velvety skin shimmered in hues of lavender and midnight blue, the sparkling diamond at the center cold and bright.

Yoor cringed, close to retching. With one quick move, he tore the diamond off his skin. The chain dangled off his fingers like a poisonous snake. Yoor held it as far away from his body as he could.

He watched it, with his arm outstretched, his breathing shallow.

It did nothing. It just hung there, as if harmless, or in wait. But the telltale glint was still there, cold and hard.

Carefully, Yoor pulled a linen pouch from his drawer.

The chain sank in obediently. It was at his command, after all.

Yoor let out a deep breath. Then he reached down and took one brooch after the other, every ring and chain and bracelet beneath his mirror. The pouch filled up.

Like a bag, Yoor thought. A lush, round bag, full of well-being and children. The smile returned to his face. And to his eyes, to the depth of his heart.

* * *

"Hello," Torly said to the palace scribe.

Waves of murmured conversation drifted across the great entrance hall, complemented by the subtle patter of a hundred interweaving footsteps. From the ornately carved cabin window, an imp winked mischievously down at Torly and a seductive elf bared his legs. With a conscious effort, Torly tore her gaze away from the elf's slender thigh and focused on the scribe, who was tapping his fingers against the wood, looking at her expectantly.

"I would like to know what it takes to have a new grouping participate in the Choosing," Torly began. "Does one need to register? How, or where? Is there a document that explains all the steps, right down to the day of the Choosing?"

The scribe looked up at her without making a reply.

The silence stretched.

At the bottom of the window, a troll sat on a wooden stone, pensively resting his chin in his hand. A motionless river wound around his feet.

Irresistibly drawn, Torly touched a fingertip to the silent stream.

The scribe dipped his brush into the ink.

"Will you leave me an address here, please?"

* * *

Lenoren was away, representing Yurvania at the Canopy gathering, and her daughter put the family home to good use in the meantime. The rainy season had started, and while a heavy downpour washed over the roofs and lanes of Old Varoonya, Nin cuddled on a heap of cushions with her friends and watched in awe as the wide, open valley of Shebbetin came to life in her parlor.

Yoor was not giving the youngsters the grand, metaphorical vision he would bring to the stage; but a humble, passionate tale, a personal account of where he had been and what had happened to him.

Nin saw Lhut laugh and Kaya slap a hand against the cart. Saw dead bodies being carried from a mine, and a hawk circling high up in a sky of gold. Children with hunched, bony shoulders were crouched fearfully over workbenches until the walls of their prison faded into the Snuggery courtyard, where Cahuan was hauling in a large barrel of water, her butterfly skin shimmering green and gold. A wrollic danced past, followed by a cooing Som full of colorful ribbons, and a wide-eyed little Quena.

Finally, Yoor's illusions began to fade. His voice grew quiet.

But Nin knew, beyond a doubt.

Yoor had come back for a reason.

This was her call, her quest. Now more than ever.

* * *

Yoor's legs twitched beneath the blanket.

}}} The mountains were fay. Yoor knew that. Even though they appeared to be just wide, open highlands covered in herbs and wildflowers. But Yoor felt the otherness deep inside.

The grass looked like grass, but it was weaving unknown patterns full of meaning, full of purpose and urgency. The blades were whispering to him as well as to the wind and the mountain, passing on messages. They told of Yoor, revealed his presence. Their rustle ran ahead up over the crest, giving away his secrets to whoever was waiting there, invisible, unknown, but aware of his coming.

Yoor moved up the hillside. The grass murmured soothingly. It consoled him now. Supported him, accompanied him. It was a friend. Was it not?

Yoor felt his heart beating. The sky above him was of a dark blue, so deep and wide it reverberated like an enormous glass bell, shivering with a faint, distant sound. An eldritch call, meant for Yoor. This was his summons.

He needed to get across the crest of the mountain. He knew that now. He had to reach the top, to see over the edge, to be with whatever was there on the other side.

Yoor pushed on up the slope. But his feet were getting heavier and heavier. They were pulled down by the earth, tied to the ground. Yoor lifted them up with enormous effort. His breath came raggedly.

A strong wind rose in his face. As he neared the ridge, it turned into a gale, nearly throwing him over, forcing him away, driving him back down the hillside. Yoor averted his face and pushed on against the storm, into the storm, shouldering his way up over the mountain crest.

All of a sudden, the wind stopped. Total stillness reigned.

Yoor stood on the edge, looking out over the glade beyond. He saw an elf, a prince, a young man of unearthly beauty, sit on a fallen tree and cry. His head was bent, crystal tears running down his cheek as his shoulders shook with sobs that could be seen but not heard, muffled in the utter silence of a soundless world.

The prince's feet rested on the dead body of a child. A girl covered in dust, with gray smears on her face, her clothes torn and grubby, showing a skin full of scars. Her legs sprawled out at unnatural angles. The string of a miner's basket wound around her shoulder. Rocks and debris were scattered all over her body, pressing into her chest, her hands, her hair. Into her face, which was adorned with a jewel. A clear, pure diamond, resting in the middle of her brow. {{{

Yoor woke with a start. The silence of night surrounded him, with only the thump of his heartbeat loud inside his chest. Yoor did not move. He kept his eyes closed.

Then he got up in one swift move and recreated the image from his dream. Again and again, he cast illusions into the darkness.

The prince, all graceful limbs and silky hair, his beautiful elven clothes flowing around him. Glistening tears running down his cheek.

The girl beneath his feet.

The mountains, the sky, the vastness. Stars shining down ancient light from immeasurable distance.

Grass, waving, whispering, telling. Being there, always.

The girl, waking up, howling a scream of rage and running off.

A jewel falling to the ground. Or into water, slowly sinking down into the depths.

Yoor did not feel time pass. He was lost in his illusions, making one rise after the other, letting them come, go, transform. Allowing himself to get carried away.

Slowly, the sky outside turned pale, then rosy.

Yoor smiled. The grass had calmed down. It was still swaying, waving, but it was grass. There was no more urgency in it, no threat, no dangerous message. It was still speaking to him, but quietly. Whispering a lullaby.

Yoor lay down on the floor, in the meadow of his illusions and closed his eyes, the green blades around him still waving placidly. Slowly, they began to fade.

Yoor's breathing had calmed. It was slow now, regular. With difficulty, Yoor pushed himself up on one elbow and crawled back into bed. He pulled his pillow over his head, and with it a darkness that let him sink into a deep, dreamless sleep.

*

The sun tickled Yoor's nose. Wafts of warm air floated in through the open window, bringing birdsong and the rustle of leaves along with it.

Yoor turned in bed, shifting his face toward the light and the voices of Varoonya. He was grateful for them after the uncanny silence, the soundless world of the crying prince. He kept his eyes closed for one more moment.

Then he reached out for paper and began to write. Notes on the scenes, on the sequence. On the music and the silence. The order in which things might appear. Or how they might change.

Yoor could see this coming. He could sense how this would be in a theater. How this was the raw beginning, the very first budding image, of what he would bring to the stage.