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By Ann Maxwell

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She’ll not shame us ... ” A sudden wind flexed through the group, scattering flames and food. The drifsen howled in shrill counterpoint. Lhar turned to Syza automatically, realizing as he did that he had come to depend on her weather judgment. She stood with the air of one listening and waiting, her green eyes crystalline with concentration. “No,” she said, answering his unasked question. ” Kaffi, who had spent her life among the shifting moods of the plateau wind, agreed. “This edge of the plateau is too open.

A surge of fear from Syza swept through Lhar’s mind. He spun his taman on its heels, and lifted it into a full run within six strides. The khaner scattered like dust as Lhar swept through. Though Syza was not consciously sending, he could easily pick up and relay the details of her fear to T’Mero. *Salt-crazy taman has gone berserk. It was unharnessed, except for the nose rope. The rope broke. You can’t help. Too far away. * Lhar snapped the contact and concentrated on the job at hand. The drifsen were defending the drifs; Syza and Tokor were defending the pack taman.

She would be accustomed to making quick, accurate judgments. Or mainly accurate. More accurate, surely, that the average, psi-blind person could even hope for. Or even .... With an effort Lhar gathered his random thoughts. ” Silence. ” When Syza neither answered nor moved, Lhar reached into her mind. It was like clutching at fog—fatigue, confusion,, and an icy sense of teetering blindfolded at the edge of a chasm. The fatigue he could understand, and the confusion; they were related. But why the tension, the cold fear freezing energy out of her body?

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