"I haven't seen him." She glanced at the scars again. "How did he work it?"
"How did who work what?"
"Oh, stop trying to be subtle! I had a feeling that Kerrel might arrange something for that voyage. He's not a man who takes his defeats lightly."
Trehearne told her briefly the story of Yann and the hounds. He finished, "I want to see Kerrel."
"You will!" Shairn's eyes sparkled. "And I want to be there when you do!"
The car swung around a curve and there on its great crag loomed the Silver Tower—Shairn's ancestral home, built by generations of Vardda men and women who had reached out with strong hands to grasp the stars.
For a time, with Shairn, he forgot about Kerrel and Torin and all the things that preyed upon his mind. He only knew that it was very good to be here. It was evening when he was again reminded of them. They were sitting in the gallery, sipping the sharp, cold wines, and Shairn said, "Are you happy, Michael?"
He remembered another time when she had asked that question—the night that Edri had walked away alone down the avenue of trees. He remembered Edri crying out in the dark against injustice, and instantly the old restlessness was back upon him.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I'm happy." He turned the wine-glass in his hands, brooding. "Shairn, could you get Edri out here? I'd like to see him."
He felt her stiffen and draw away and he thought that she was angry with him. He went on, "I didn't mean now. Tomorrow's time enough. But I—well, I want to talk to him."