“Aerlevsedi,” he said. “Say it.” “What?” Simmon said somewhere in the distant background. “Wind?” “Aerlevsedi,” Elodin repeated patiently, his dark eyes intent upon my face. “Aerlevsedi,” I said numbly. Elodin closed his eyes briefly, peacefully. As if he were trying to catch a faint strain of music wafting gently on a breeze. Unable to see his eyes, I began to drift. I looked back down toward the broken lute in my hands, but before my gaze wandered too far he caught my chin again, tilting my face up. His eyes caught mine. The numbness faded, but the storm still turned inside my head. Then
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