Gamine's musical voice was not raised, yet it carried perfectly to my ears. "You seem wholly yourself again."
I didn't answer. What was there to say? Still, there seemed to be sympathy in the sharply-edged tones. "You will remember—perhaps too much—at the Dreamer's Keep."
"Gamine," I asked, "Who is Narayan?"
I saw the blue robes quiver a little; across from Gamine, I saw a curious flickering look pass across the face of the girl in the orange winged cloak. But Gamine's answer was perfectly even and disinterested. "The name is not familiar to me. Have you heard it, Cynara?"
The girl did not answer, only moved her dark head a little.
"I should know," I mused. But the name Cynara had touched another of those live wires within my mind. Narayan. Cynara. Cynara and Narayan! If I could only remember! Suddenly I turned. "Gamine—who are you?" Gamine sat quiet, eerily motionless on the tall horse. The robed figure seemed to blend into the starlit shadows around us. I had the sudden feeling of having re-lived this moment before, then the veiled shoulders twitched impatiently.
"Is this an inquisition?"
Rebuked, and stung by the arrogant voice, I touched my heel to my horse's flank and rode forward to rejoin Karamy. Gamine! The hell with Gamine!
For several minutes the road had been climbing, and now we topped the summit of a little rise and abruptly the trees came to an end. By tacit consent we all drew our horses to a walk. We stood atop the lip of a broad bowl of land, perhaps thirty miles across, filled to the brim with thick dark forest. Far out in this valley lay a cleared space, and in the center of that space lay a great tower; but not a slender and fairylike spire like the Towers of Rainbow City. This was a massive donjon thrusting heavy shoulders upward into the moon-washed sky.
The Keep of the Dreamers.