The carved-out curl of rock walls took shape and became Lorre’s small kitchen, a set of shelves, a kettle and a bottle of palm wine and a pile of colorful fruit. His home wavered, steadied, grew reassuringly perceptible. Magic-hewn cave-walls and window-openings bloomed; he knew where they were, and felt the landing in his bones.
His lungs filled. He let go of Gareth’s arm, put an unobtrusive hand on his driftwood table, straightened his shoulders. The stone lay cool against his toes, after the heat of the sand.
Gareth stood utterly still beside him and the table. Gazed at him wide-eyed, silenced, lips parted.
Lorre knew that look. Awe, amazement, stupefied reverence: he’d seen it all before.
He’d meant to stun the prince into a lack of further argument. He found, looking at Gareth’s f
