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Danarion thought grimly. Why should he have given us that? In those days there were no hurts. The necklet hurt him now, wreathed as it was in invisible coils of deceit and corruption, and he quickened his pace. At a word from him the teasing birds drew away, hovering for a moment before they flitted to be lost in the foliage, and he rounded the last bend, which would take him to the edge of the forest and the city beyond.
    Halfway along he stopped. A corion lay across the path, blocking his way, its golden fur dappled in sunlight. It was spread-eagled luxuriously, its long-clawed limbs loose in the grass, its tressed tail curved along its back, the crest of green feathers on its head now lying like a shimmering cap to curl beneath its pointed ears and under its chin. Danarion hesitated, smiling, his heart suddenly lightened at the sight of the great beast so indolently at ease, so free from necessity or any care. The corion sighed, its huge ribs rising and falling, and opened one azure eye lazily. It sighed again ostentatiously, and the black tongue came out to explore the furred and feathered nose, revealing sharp white teeth. It yawned with a show of mild annoyance, and raised its head.
    â€œSo it is you, Danarion,” it said in a voice as rich and dark as the roots of the trees that dug deep beneath it. “I suppose that you want me to move so that you can get past me.”
    Danarion stepped up to it and bowed slightly. One did not fear a corion, but one did accord it respect and regard it with awe, speaking to it politely, for its dignity and self-possession demanded a certain manner of approach. Danarion had always wanted to put his arms around one and bury his face in its warm fur, but he had never been invited to do so and probably never would be.
    â€œI would not dream of disturbing you, Storn,” he replied. “I can go around you if you do not feel like rising.”
    â€œOf course I do not feel like rising,” Storn retorted, with a rumble of laughter. “But for you, sun-lord, I will rouse myself from this pleasant torpor. What a day it is!” The corion rippled easily onto its haunches and flexed its crumpled green wings. “I can never decide whether I like better the days of buds and smells or the time of the seed-fires. Are you going to council today?”
    â€œI am.”
    â€œI feel sorry for you. It is much too lovely a morning to do any thinking. I myself have just returned from Yantar, where I visited the high thorn groves. They are in bloom, and the hills are covered in white. Very pretty. The Gate was busy. Many people are coming to Danar to see the haeli trees in bud.” The corion suddenly cocked a knowing eye at Danarion, and the feathers on its head flared out. “You were away for a long time last autumn, and Janthis too. Can it be that there is a new world in the making?”
    Danarion shook his head, sadness once more filling him, his throat swelling with remorse. He answered as steadily as he could. “Unfortunately there is no new world about to burst forth in the All, Storn. Janthis and I were on Fallan.”
    â€œOh,” said Storn with disappointment. “Then I have no further interest in the matter.” The beast stifled another yawn. “No doubt Fallan is wondrous to the people who inhabit it, but I am content with Danar. What do you have in your hand?”
    Danarion rebuked Storn gently. “It is business for the council,” he said in a tone that clearly forbade another question.
    â€œAh,” Storn remarked. “I only mentioned it because it smells …” The feathers flattened and rose again and the tail curled tighter as the creature tried to select the right word to describe what its nostrils told it about the thing Danarion held so tightly.
    â€œIt smells … foreign.”
    â€œIt is indeed foreign,” Danarion finished, bowing once again. “I apologize for disturbing your rest, Storn. My